You Are What You Eat

The decision to not eat meat was – for me – not difficult. For many years, I ate very little meat. When I did eat it, I generally avoided doing so in the company of others. They tended to be a bit “put off” by the method that I used to “prepare” it for consumption. I could never eat any sort of meat without first examining it very closely. I would then remove every element of “other” that the meat possessed. All fat, all skin, all veins… Perhaps it was my mind’s way of trying to “de-animalize” it. If cleaned enough, it might seem as if I weren’t eating a creature at all.

This approach was often quite irritating to those close to me. It’s amazing how little tolerance people have, really… I can remember quite a few occasions that I would glance up from my breakfast plate to find multiple sets of eyes fixed upon me, all framed by raised eyebrows. Looking down at my plate, I would regard the bacon – the meat portions neatly stacked to one side, the fat pieces deposited to the side of the plate, ready for disposal. Nothing that warranted the expressions on their faces, in my opinion. Neither were the sandwiches that I had to completely deconstruct in order to “clean” the chicken breast (quite difficult when driving, let me assure you…) or the fact that a burger or piece of chicken had to be immediately discarded should I bite into it and encounter a vein or any other evidence of the “meatiness” of it.

When I finally made the decision to officially “not eat meat,” it was as if a weight had lifted from my shoulders. Ahhh… my mind sighed. Finally. It was the natural course of action, and it seemed odd that I had not taken the position sooner. At the time of my choice, I also made a decision to continue to eat seafood. As someone who spends quite a lot of time caring for my body – through both diet and exercise - I could not calculate a method of replacing the health benefits of fish with any other food source. It has not, however, been easy. I find myself thinking of seafood – and fish – in much the same way that I previously thought of meat. With each bite that enters my mouth, I imagine the flesh in its living state. I imagine the creature – alive. Not pleasant, as you might imagine.

This internal struggle has recently grown much worse. Last weekend, I saw a film at the Milwaukee Film Festival that very nearly put me over the edge. It is called Our Daily Bread, and I must insist that everyone in the world watch it. The film documents the modern food manufacturing industry. This is – to say the least – enlightening. If you’d like me to elaborate, I’ll add the word “horrifying.” The film takes place in Europe – no doubt because the footage would never be allowed to be taken in this country. Rest assured, however, that the processes are the same.

While I can handle the way that the produce/growing industry has modernized, and can even find it quite interesting, I find the lack of sensitivity in the animal industry absolutely deplorable. What does it say about humanity that we can “turn ourselves off” to the sadness in throwing live baby chicks into the garbage because they are so newly hatched that they’re not yet able to stand? I can only hope that the rest of the theater felt the same sense of fury/shock/rage as they watched chicks (and later chickens) thrown unto (LITERALLY) assembly belts and then propelled through chutes into assorted vessels. These same chicks would spend the rest of their lives either in tiny cages or in one big room, waiting for death. On a daily basis, staff would sort through them to remove the inevitable dead bodies.

That was only the beginning…. The film documented the processing of commercial beef and pork, as well. Then there was the part with the fish…. the part that I felt a personal responsibility for. If I eat it, it will continue to happen. I am the reason for the death of those creatures. The thought has hung over me – persistently – for days.

There is – I believe – a time or place in which the consumption of other living creatures could be justified. Some animals, for example, are not even biologically capable of surviving on a vegetarian diet. Humans are not one of those animals. Perhaps the fact that humans have the capability of devising sustainable diets that have a purely beneficial effect on the world is some sort of test? Are we being offered the chance to prove ourselves?

Then there is the question of economy. I would not condemn a young child to a death from starvation by declaring that an animal’s life needed to be spared. There are certainly modern day countries in which it would – even now – be impossible for the people (as a whole) to consume an entirely vegetarian diet. There is no justification for it in my life, however. I live in a time and place of “food prosperity.” I have access to so much – even so many “meat substitutes” – that eating creatures can only be out of a direct desire to do so. So there it is… I now need to either accept the guilt/burden of taking these lives, or I need to determine the best/healthiest diet that I can have without taking more than my share.

I fervently hope that this blog has not created a resolve within you – the reader – to avoid Our Daily Bread at all costs. Regardless of what your personal decision is, I believe that everyone has the responsibility to understand the full impact of their choices. That – again – is part of what separates us from animals.

For more information about the film: http://www.ourdailybread.at/jart/projects/utb/website.jart?rel=en

Generations

Recently, I find that I’ve been quite a lot of thought to the concept of “aging.” This is common – I believe – for someone of my age. I am an adult with adult parents who have elderly parents. When confronted with the generations of genetic influence, it would be nearly impossible to avoid noticing the advancement of time and the effect that it has.

The dramatic effects of aging are perhaps most startling in my Grandmother C, from my father’s side. This is most likely a direct result of the dramatic contrast of her life now, compared to her life “then.” She has always been an incredibly independent woman, living without a husband for the length of my personal memories. In the past couple of years, her health has weakened. Last year she suffered a major stroke, and now – in her early 90s – she resides in a nursing home.

The loss of control has been a heavy blow to my grandmother, who – in her previous life - never answered to anyone. There is no “light at the end” of the tunnel that she now travels and – like many who find themselves in nursing homes – she has settled into a depression that is relieved only when momentarily displaced by desperation. This desperation generally takes the form of “wanting out.” Her children, including my father, do their best to oblige. As often as they can, they take her out to lunch; out to dinner; out for a visit; etc. This is how it came about that Grandma came for a visit the last time I visited my parents.

Last week, J and I traveled to Sparta to help my father in his apple orchard. My father’s plan was to bring Grandma out in the morning: I could “visit” (“monitor”) her while sorting apples in the garage. Modification of the plan was necessary when it was discovered that my Uncle W had taken Grandma for the morning, but he agreed to bring her to the house rather than back to the nursing home. The two arrived mid-morning; Grandma tiny and swathed in five sweaters to ward off the chilly 80-degree weather.

Grandma was seated in a chair inside the garage. When seated, her short stature combined with the chair location to give her a lovely view of either a) the John Deere Gator or b) our feet. She morosely pondered both. Noticing this, I offered to relocate her, but she was reticent. It appears to be a genetic quality, this refusal to better conditions in small ways if one is unhappy with the larger condition. I’ve noticed the predilection for it in myself but – fortunately – work to overcome it. Grandma had no such inclination.

For some time, we worked with the apples while Grandma – for the most part – ignored the activities. Things continued along these lines until my father took it upon himself to leave the garage in order to go make lunch. This was disturbing for my grandmother. In a quivery voice, she asked if he had “left her.” I had to bend over to hear her each time she spoke. No, I assured her, he had merely gone inside to make some lunch. Was she hungry? I asked. She glumly settled her head into her hands, indicating with a head shake that she was not. A few moments later, she asked again about his whereabouts. Once again, I reminded her that he was preparing lunch. Did she need to go inside? I asked. She threw herself as deeply into the chair as she could (this was – actually – not very far) and, with obvious frustration, stated that she didn’t know what “she was supposed to do.” It was clear that this statement reflected more than a simple walk over to the house.

Moments later, she gazed in the direction of the garage door. “I wish I knew where David went…” she declared mournfully, in her small voice.

The entire experience was both sad and amusing. Sad because we were bearing witness to an undeniable decline, amusing because we needed it to be. How else could we mentally handle such evidence of our own mortality? It truly is amazing how the end of our lives replicate the beginnings, how our needs increase as quickly as our abilities fade. It is becoming more and more clear to me that the most important thing in life is who you choose to live it with. Gazing at my grandmother, I know that – should I be fortunate enough to live as long as she – I want to be surrounded by people who can remember what I was/am inside, and I want that remembrance to be powerful enough to translate into their loving treatment of me when I am dependent upon them.

For now, for my grandmother, I am limited in what I can do. We must each prepare ourselves for our eventual decline on our own; must each decide how we will accept the inevitable. Observing my grandmother has taught me this: When someone you care for is struggling, when they have reached a point that their needs will forevermore exceed their capabilities, it is a consolation to be able to “do” for them, to be able to ease their burden – even in small ways. That is a gift that I will give to others. When it is my time, I will accept the offerings of my loved ones. The acceptance of their care, of their affection, will be a testament to the value that I place on them.

If anyone – however – seats me in chair behind a John Deere Gator, leaving me trapped behind the garish green and yellow monstrosity, there will be HELL to pay.