A forking tale
Everyone knows what a fork is. It has some prongs, you use it to stab and eat food. In my village, however, forks represented something more sacred. There are entire professions surrounding the making, appraisal, regulation and applications of forks. A fork may have 2 or 5 prongs, although the usual fork would have 3 or 4 instead. They may be made of silver, gold, platinum or aluminium. In a neighbouring village, a fork is commonly made of wood or plastic. We used to joke that they even had spoons with prongs and call it a “spork”. Some villagers called them savages for the heresies. Maybe this was our original sin.
The art of forkery is celebrated as a fundamental cornerstone of the village. Forkery used to be a prestigious and closely guarded knowledge. Priests trained in forking are known as forkers; distant villages call them forkists. There was a time when village chiefs or monarchs dictated everything to do with forks. The village has since grown significantly, so forkery became increasingly delegated and specialised, although it still had the prestige. Scholars defended this honourable tradition by studying its intricacies and proudly cultivated future forkers. As forks evolved to meet the needs of the village, wise forkers were elected as official fork-makers of the village.
As a kid, I never cared too much about forks. I know how to eat with a fork and rarely worried about being stabbed by one. Historically, a village was lucky to have their own forker, but nowadays forkers are smelted and forged en masse. I never thought that I’d be a forker, but the current of fate carried me into fork school. I felt so excited but also anxious: after all, forking is the knowledge of monarchs.
So I went through the process of training to be a professional forker. As a fork student, teachers and seniors told us that it is not enough to learn the correct usage of forks in all situations, ie what the Fork is. Our privilege demands that we also care about and fervently fight for what the Fork should be. In my senior year, I passed on this gospel to freshers believing that this was the whole point. I was not the best forking student but still managed to graduate.
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In fork school, I also did 6 or 7 forking internships before becoming a trainee forker and getting forking-qualified. My folks were quite proud and loudly announced this fact at every opportunity. “My son is a forker!” I would quietly nod with an embarrassed smile, knowing it takes decades to become a seasoned expert in the art of forking. When I left school, I transitioned from an experienced fork student to an entry-level forker.
At least it looked like my life was sorted. There was nothing to strive for or worry about. I would have a comfortable life as a forker. I would probably have continued doing it for a few decades before retiring, if not for the Forking Dispute.
It’s hard to describe what the Forking Dispute was. Sympathetic friends from afar called it a tragic insult of forkery. Some called it a historic fight for our village’s soul. Analysts and journalists tracked daily developments and wrote frequent predictions until the world no longer cared. Long story short, the whole thing spiraled out of a regular update to the specifications of forks, which inventively defined a fork as any utensil which may or may not have prongs. Fork experts warned that this was part of a conspiracy to introduce sporks and eventually replace forks with spoons. Others called it senseless fear-mongering discriminating against other utensils and holding on to outdated notions about the sanctity of forks. Villagers rumoured that certain fork-makers never cared about forks and secretly got rich from the underground spork trade through our village.
Of course, what actually happened involved a lot more violence than a diplomatic disagreement on the definition of utensils. It was so bad that many couldn’t bear the sight anymore and left for greener pastures. Others did not care enough, or could not afford to leave, or remained for various reasons. But I couldn’t remember much of those days now. I went through all stages of grief, including a delusional faith that perhaps there was still a war to be won despite the loss of a battle. Even if we couldn’t insist on what a fork is, at least we could try to remember what a fork used to mean and lament every monstrosity that calls itself a fork. Sometimes I wonder what was the point of learning to tell a silver fork apart from an aluminium one.
I still stayed in the village and worked as a forker for a while, before leaving the village thinking my life didn’t have to revolve around forks. If you show me a fork today and ask me to appraise its technical reflectivity, or which forks and how many to use for a particular occasion, maybe I could still come up with something, or maybe I could no longer. It is very difficult to admit that perhaps I’m no longer a forker, not that I ever accrued enough experience to be a good one. It was equally hard to imagine that one day I might have no choice but to certify a spoon as a compliant fork.
Obviously, the institution of forkery is still around. Many old friends are still forkers in the village. Some managed to break into forking in another village. I’m not sure why I didn’t join them but at least I found somewhere and a roof over my head. It’s smaller and calmer. Maybe one day I’ll learn to use the chopsticks like the local villagers.
