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the village elder takes a bowl of cold waterand kills a chicken over it, catching the chicken’s blood in the water. As he kills the chicken, he pronounces a curse over the bowl. The accused must drink the water. If he’s guilty, he will die in a matter of weeks. I’d never heard of this until Grandpa demanded my father perform the test right then and there.
    â€œDear Grandpa,” my father said, “remember we are talking only about a dead bird.”
    Grandpa seemed to soften a bit. “Well then, we should use the oil.” As Grandpa explained it, the second test of guilt or innocence involved dipping the finger of the accused into a pot of boiling oil. “We’ve done this many, many times,” Grandpa tried to reassure me, “and it always works. If you are innocent, the oil cannot harm you. But if you are guilty …” His voice trailed off.
    When my father hesitated, Grandpa pounded the table, pointed at him, and said, “You are our leader. It doesn’t matter that this is your son. You must do what’s right by the village.”
    I could tell by the look in my father’s eyes that I was in serious trouble. He was a fair man, but he was also a wise man. He would much rather have spanked me with a bamboo rod for something I hadn’t done than take the chance of having me severely burn my finger. Bruised bottoms heal much faster than deep-fried fingers. I don’t think he had any more faith than I did that the oil could prove one’s innocence, which led me to believe that he would go ahead and punish me to get this over with.
    Xao, I said to myself, you’d better do something now.
    In Hmong culture, children don’t address their elders unlessthey’re spoken to, but this was an extreme situation. “I agree, honorable Grandpa,” I said, “that the test of the boiling oil is the best way to prove my innocence.”
    My father looked shocked, and Grandpa seemed to calm down a bit. Both must have thought I was crazy.
    Before either could say a thing, I quickly added, “However, I have never seen the test of the oil, and neither have my friends. I want to make sure it works before I submit to it.” I looked straight at Grandpa. “Therefore, because we know you are completely innocent in this matter and you most certainly didn’t harm your own prize pheasant, I ask that you dip your finger in the oil first. Once I see that the oil cannot harm an innocent man, I will be next in line.”
    â€œHow dare you speak to me like that?” Grandpa screamed in response. “How dare you challenge me?”
    I’d only thought he was angry before. He began flailing his arms and yelling so that everyone in the entire village could hear him. “You are an insolent, lying, horrible little boy. I will show you what we do to children like you.”
    I ducked just a bit, anticipating the blows I thought were coming.
    â€œDear Grandpa,” my father interrupted, “I too have never seen the oil test. I would also like to know that it works before my son dips his finger into the pot. Would you be willing to do what he asks?”
    I could have sworn I saw just a hint of a smile at the corner of my father’s mouth.
    â€œWhat? How dare you ask such a thing of me?” Grandpawent on like that for a while, but pretty soon he saw that my father was serious. As angry as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to put his finger in boiling oil any more than I could.
    Eventually he backed down, grabbed his dead bird, and stormed out of our house just as angrily as he’d come in.
    I heard he and his sons ate that bird for dinner that night.
    Grandpa had tried to force me into making a false confession, but I’d turned the pressure right back around on him. Though I wouldn’t play poker for another thirty years, this was my first “all in” experience. I felt the pressure, and I might have buckled and