There is a small frog snuggled in the corner of the bathroom. He is grey and light brown, and the skin looks knotty. He has a big smile on his face. His tiny black eyes make his smile sweeter. His cute face makes me smile.
The next moment my smile falters, remembering a moment of dilemma in my life. I hate to admit that one of these innocent creatures exhaled his last breath, pinned on a wax tray, suffering a great deal so that I learn “science.” I hate even more to admit that I requested my father to involve in that awful act. Above all, I am sad that no one was there to point out that it is wrong to kill an innocent frog, like that. I don’t know how I managed to look at that animal dying on that cold wax tray spit open to reveal all the internal organs—his tiny heart beating in a wild beat to survive.
Over the open textbook demonstrating how to split open a frog, what I saw was a science specimen, not life.
That day, I learned a science lesson that never helped me in a significant way in the years to come. Today, I am deeply ashamed of my cold ignorance.