Sunday, May 10, 2009

Sheep: Confessions of a meat eater 5




Why did I ever eat sheep?

On occasions, I got to see sheep in the countryside, and I enjoyed following them around. They make the cutest sound, and the babies are a joy to watch as they playfully frolic where ever and whenever they get a chance. These gentle and docile animals would never harm a human being, and their warm, soft fur is heavenly to touch. They are occupied with eating grass and other green leaves, however the black pellets they poop are not smelly. In a group, they stick together and follow the leader, but one or two teenagers always tend to stray.

As a child, I knew sheep were raised for wool and food, and I derived no pleasure in seeing one killed. The animal screamed in fear and pain, its eyes budged out of their sockets, and there was blood spewing everywhere. Really gross. But then it gets worst as the process of taking the animal apart started. Raising sheep was uncommon where I grew up, and its flesh was more expensive than that of a cow. Lamb and mutton were delicacies, and although I was taught to desire them, I never really did.

Interestingly, most non-vegetarian parents object to their young children witnessing the slaughter of animals. This objection betrays a sensitivity present in parents and children alike. Maybe parents are afraid the violence might leave a harmful impression on children, who may grow to revel or abhor violence. Are non-vegetarian parents more scared of the latter outcome?

Why did I eat flesh for twenty-four years? Was it because I physically enjoyed eating meat? Cooked flesh, flavored in a hundred different ways, can be tasty. The odor of some meat dishes can also be pleasurable. The general opinion at the time was that eating meat not only helped to develop stronger muscles and bones, it was actually essential for survival.

There were psychological reasons for eating flesh as well. Take for example, the power over animals implicit in the act of eating flesh. For people at the bottom rung of the social scale, this boost in self esteem can be important, especially for women, minorities, children, the poor. You may not be able to enjoy the life of those above you, but at least you are not as bad off as the poor animals you are eating. In other words, you pick yourself up by putting others down.

Why did I do that? I've come to accept that almost all human behavior is conditional and situational. Under the conditions I was placed, and in the situation I was in, I did what was expected of me. I was socially conditioned and psychologically programmed to eat creatures I felt a natural affiliation toward, and the consequences for nonconformity as a child includedridicule and physical abuse. So, I towed the line and played sheep.

Children and teens eat flesh because as dependents they may not have a choice. But as adults, we continue to put our minds to sleep, and blindly follow one idea or another, this leader or that preacher. Deconstructing years of programming and abuse requires a critical mind, a willingness to question authority, and the courage to stand out from the crowd. Why was I able to do this while many others cannot or are unwilling to do so?

Can a sensitivity toward all life be taught, or is the propensity toward nonconformity an innate trait?

Milk Dud: Confessions of a meat eater 4




I grew up in the third world, and as an infant, I was raised exclusively on cow's milk. Although there was fresh organic milk available from free range cows, the imported, powered form was considered better, and this is what I was fed. Over time, I was introduced to solid food, mostly fruits, nuts and vegetables. Later still, I was fed various meats, but it took many years to acquire a taste for meat. In the meantime, throughout childhood, I hated mom's food, and she ended up feeding me milk from a bottle with a nipple.

I drank milk this way until I was probably seven or eight years old. Mom gave it to me because I refused to eat solid food, with the exception of bread of course. I love bread. And biscuits. Umm. I grew up on toasted bread, buttered biscuits and tea. Typically, I had bread and tea for breakfast, snacked on fruit all day, and ate biscuits and tea for dinner. But my staple diet was powered milk in a bottle.

One day, my maternal uncle, Satro, came to visit. He saw me relaxing comfortably with my milk and lost it. "He's still drinking milk from a bottle?" Satro grabbed the bottle from my mouth and smashed the glass into the trash. Then he went and broke all the other bottles in the kitchen. I was so upset that it was the end of my powered milk days. After that, I drank milk from a glass, though not nearly as often. Occasionally, I drank chocolate milk, peanut butter shakes, and banana-flavored milk, and happiness was the rare can of sweetened condensed milk.

At 15 years of age, I migrated with my family to the USA and gained access to cheese and milk chocolate. I was ignorant of the fact that the milk in America is factory farmed, and quite unnatural. By that time, dairy products was causing me frequent bowel movements, but it took years to figure out I was suffering from a decrease in lactase that occurs after childhood. This decrease is genetically programmed.

Among Asian populations it is almost 100%, among American Indians it is 80%, and among blacks it is 70%; however, among American Caucasians the prevalence of lactase deficiency is only 20%. Among Asian populations, the symptoms of deficiency (intolerance) occur around the age of 5, among Blacks and Mexican-Americans by the age of 10, and among the Finnish by age 20. However, lactase deficiency is not the same as lactose intolerance. Persons with milder deficiencies of lactase often have no symptoms after the ingestion of milk, and even persons with moderate deficiencies may not have symptoms.

As an Asian, I was probably laco sensitive from age 10, but suffered from dairy consumption in ignorance and silence. As a teen, it became increasingly obvious that I had developed a sensitivity to milk products, and I tried to limit my consumption. Occasionally, I gorged on butter, cheese, ice cream, or chocolate, and regreted the stomach aches afterward. But acceptance of lacto sensitivity did not come easy since it meant having to give up many cherished pleasures. And even after I adopted the philosophy of non-violence and vegetarianism at age 24, I continued to consume dairy for a year. Not until I discovered animal rights a year later did I become vegan. I loved cows, and after learning the truth, I didn't want to enslave them and take calves away from mothers. At 25, I became vegan and I haven't eaten in a non-vegetarian restaurant since.

My lactose intolerance is really severe. A few years ago, I got into the terrible habit of drinking coffee. But whenever I ordered a soy latte, the tiny amount of remaining milk in the coffee press would result in pure torture for me - 10 trips to the restroom, starting 10 minutes after ingestion. Ditto for Indian vegetarian restaurants where many dishes are made with butter or yogurt.

Looking back, lactose intolerance made being vegan easier for me. I may have liked milk, but it didn't like me. Yet, this sensitivity remains the greatest challenge in eating out for me, since many vegetarian restaurants are unclear about their dairy ingredients. I'm grateful though. Twenty years ago, soy substitutes were rare and hard to find, but now I can buy chocolate soy milk, soy ice cream, soy cheese, you name it, at the local supermarket. Yea.

Don't Be a Goat: Confessions of a meat eater 3




Growing up, I usually usually spent a month or more of summer vacation visiting my paternal grandparent's village, located on an eight-mile island in the middle of a muddy river. It was here that I learned the expression, "Don't be a goat."

I was called a goat many times, and knew it meant being obstinate and unwilling to compromise. But I was not offended.

All children are naturally idealistic, and I was no exception. I just happened to remain a goat all my life. After all, if you believed strongly in your principles, why would you ever change them? It didn't make sense to me. I felt that if someone planned on changing their principles, then whatever they say would be hypocritical. Since I held on to mine, being a goat was alright by me, and even though I ate goat meat on rare occasions, I became curious in learning about and meeting a fellow obstinate creature.

One summer in the village, I got a chance to meet my namesake firsthand. I must have been around seven years or so. Johnny, my dad's elder brother, had a brown, male with huge horns. I was probably a foot taller that the goat, but I was standing on two legs and it remained on all four. Besides, I was a miniature kid andthe mature fellow far outweighed me.

It stood majestically, tied to a stake on the roadside, happily chewing away on green leaves on a nearby shrub. After watching it for a while, I decided to move it down the road, closer to my grandparents house so I could watch it in the shade. I untied the knot, pulled up the stake, and tugged on the rope tied around the goat's neck. "Come on, let's go," I said as I stood in the back and on the rope. The ram kept on nibblingcalmly and completely ignored me. I pulled harder, but the animal refused to budge. I used all my strength, and strained with all my might before Ifinally got him to give me some attention.

But it was not the kind of attention I was seeking.

I had made the ram upset. Its eyes and nostrils flared and it lowered its head in preparation to ram me. Now I was the one on the rope. The goat was pulling me along as it backed up. I got so scared, I dropped the rope and ran. It chased me a few yards, then returned to grazing. My uncle was upset because his animal was no longer tethered, but I was too scared to do anything about it. I learned to leave goats alone and respected them a lot more after that.

At home, since goat meat was expensive, it was hardly served. At weddings and other special occasions, goat meat was usually available, but for whatever reason, I hated the taste of it and hardly ate my comrades.

Digging Chicks: Confessions of a meat eater 2




As a child, I occasionally visited a maternal great-grandmother in the countryside. Nani lived in a small hut, behind her son's big house and store. I stayed in the big house and visited Nani from time to time. She loved company and would immediately set about making one of my favorite dishes, roasted plantains and corn. At close to 90 years old, her eyesight was poor and the vegetables were often burned beyond recognition, but I ate them happily and listened to her stories.

Nani had few possessions and was willing to share it with everyone. I rarely took advantage of her, but when I was around eight or so, on a quick trip to the countryside with my maternal grandmother, I noticed Nani had a whole brood of yellow, new born chicks. They were so small and cute, and I fell in love with them immediately. Of course, Nani, bless her heart, gave me a bunch of baby chickens to take back to the city. I was overwhelmed that she trusted me with the lives of these fragile creatures. I never had any pets before and was overjoyed at having such priceless gifts.

I took eight beautiful creatures carefully home and surprised mom. She was not keen on the idea, but I promised to take full responsibility for the chicks' care, and to keep the yard clean. Which I did. I loved my pets. I spent all my allowance on good grain and changed their water constantly. The chicks were all fun and I loved watching them run around before and after school. I felt very grown up taking care of them, and as they grew bigger, I built larger cages for them to sleep in at night. I got to know each one as they slowly changed into teens, and became more serious and competitive. They never pecked me, and still followed me around. With loving care, over six months or so, the small yellow chicks grew in beautiful tall white hens, and became a source of pride for the family. Everyone commented on how strong and healthy the hens looked.

Of course, visitors' next comment would be, "Those chickens would be great to eat." This drove fear into my heart and caused no end of stress. I would beg mom daily to respect my wishes and not to let anything happen to my beloved chicks. Which she did to a point. She didn't kill them, as she did others, but she did allow them to be killed. After all, who kept chickens as pets? I certainly did, and must have developed some sensitivity towards animals as a result. I never once saw the chicks as food, and this may have carried over into other areas of thinking regarding animals.

At the back of my mind, I must have known what was coming. It was a shock nevertheless.

One day, I came home from school and found my father's brother had killed four of my precious chickens. He kept parts for himself and gave mom some. I'm not sure what I ate that day or the next, but it was certainly not my pets. I was devastated for weeks. I was so upset, I felt like running away. I disliked that uncle ever since, and never fully forgave mom either. Me and the remaining chickens suffered our loss. I waited for the inevitable and soon they were gone as well. I gave up raising chickens and my mom was happy to see the cages go.

This episode cause dehumanization on so many levels. I understood and felt responsible for the killings, and as an eight-year old, resolved never to be a part of this process again. I quickly realized that I was helpless to do anything about what happened, and what was happening on a daily basis all around me. I was, and remain, the only vegetarian among thousands of relatives on all sides. As a psychological survival mechanism, that child was forced to develop detachment from chickens and many other creatures. With each passing day, I became less human(e).

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I was allowed to keep my chicks. Would I have become a vegetarian sooner? I separated from my family at eighteen, in part to get away from the daily onslaught of meat. I chose to live with roomates and friends instead, who first of all, ate a whole lot less than my obese family, and who, when they did get around to eating, it was almost always at a restaurant or take-out, since cooking was a rare occurrence. Like mom, I was no fan of fish, cow, goat or sheep. I preferred chicken, well done. For six years, while not actually considering myself vegetarian, I ordered spaghetti with marinara sauce, and ate Spanish rice, beans and plantains.

But after that trauma at eight, it took decades to break down the wall of indifference I had constructed to chicks. And it took a lot more than just time for me to finally be able see chicks as my friends again. Not just food. The six years of mostly being away from family was a period of vocational, philosophical and spiritual exploration, during which time I experimented with various raw fruit and nut diets, and fasted for days.

All these efforts eventually paid off, and one fine day I was able to make the leap. Thankfully, I see friends in all chicks now, as well as in all other creatures on our beautiful planet.

Joyless Eating: Confessions of a meat eater 1



I ate meat for 24 years. There! I admitted it. I did, I did, I did. But during many of these years I did so reluctantly. Moreover, eating for me was more or less a chore until I became a vegan.

You see, as a child, I hated mom's cooking. I did not like her food in part because it always contained meat, and I felt that the meat was often undercooked. I hated the taste of rawish meat.

I hated mom's cooking also because she hated it too, and she hated to cook in general. It was strange, because mom cooked beef and fish for the family, even though she did not eat it herself. Her dietary restrictions was based on religious tradition (cow), and personal preference (fish). After she learned that fish eat people who drown in the river, she decided they were not for her.

Well, as a child, I must have picked up on this right away to get out of eating altogether. The contradictions were too glaring for me to ignore. Hey, if she didn't eat it, why was she forcing me to eat it? "Mom, I want what you are having only, and you can let the rest of the family eat that other stuff you made." Hey, you know, this just may well have been the origin of that infamous critical outlook of mine. You think?

Unfortunately, mom did not take kindly to me adopting her diet, and as a result, a large part of my childhood was spent fighting mom and her contradictions. It was pure hell, let me tell you. We fought over every meal, with her standing over me with a whip, me in tears for hours, and eventually throwing up in my plate, which occurred far too many times in my life. When it did, she would force me to eat from the part of the plate without vomit.

When I said I hated mom's food, I wasn't kidding. Eating was torture for me. Literally, every day.

Mom only liked chicken. Buying live chickens from the market was a weekly routine. When she got home, mom would be rushed for time since she needed to kill the chicken, boil the creature to remove its feathers, chop it up, and then cook it. There are few things in the world worst smelling that boiled chicken, and I usually flee the house to get away from that smell. Her chopping of the bird would lead to bits of flesh and blood splattering everywhere. Disgusting to children and adults alike.

When I was seven or so, mom started to force me to kill the live chickens she brought at the market. This was the most detestable thing I've ever done in my entire life. I could not bring myself to look at a harmless, active creature and then decide to take its life. But killing was men's work, and cooking was hers.

More fighting with mom resulted in me holding down the creature, and attempting to cut its neck with a blunt knife, but making little effort. All the while, I would be bawling. As I was watching fear increase in the creature's eyes, hearing its sad cry, feeling its body react to death, and seeing life ebb from its severed head, I felt I was dying along with it. Sometimes I got halfway and stopped after collapsing in tears. Someone else had to finish the killing while the creature screamed in pain. After a few times of this horror, I must have convinced mom, and thankfully she never asked me to perform this unbearable task again. She either did it herself or asked another brother.

Having said that, at times, I will admit to having enjoyed the smell and taste of burnt flesh. But I did not really seek bbq or any other form of meat out. I hated most prepared food. I enjoyed fruits and nuts, and I often ate fruit as a whole meal. Anything to avoid fighting with mom over eating her food.