The Poetry, Essays and Personal Journals of Larry L. Dill
The Veganist:
Struggles on a Road Less Traveled
By Deborah Gaddy
(Editors note: Deborah Gaddy and I were discussing the fact that after the
word Vegan was coined in the 1940s to indicate total vegetarianism, there was still no adequate word for a person who wants to be a vegan but is not quite there yet. We decided on the word "veganist" as a working term for that quest. -- lld)
Part One
Growing up in Western North Carolina in a small town in the fifties was picture-perfect--little white house on main street, lawn in front with maples and roses, garden in back, attached garage, one car (not used much because we walked to the store, the P.O., church, and school, on the sidewalks that lined both sides of the tree-lined streets)--not the vision that most might have of a mountain girl coming from a long line of hog farmers in the South. The fact is, one of my earliest memories is walking along the furrows of black rich dirt dropping quartered potatoes in the ground, following my parents' instructions for the first planting in the backyard vegetable garden.
One of the most obvious things to me now is that meat was absent from our table most of the time--only on special occasions such as Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter--and those events were feasts provided by both of my grandmothers. My parents, being the young couple struggling to make ends meet, meat was a luxury that began to appear only at Sunday dinner when I grew old enough to notice, and vegetables were present in abundance and the center of main meals, rather than something offered to compliment a meat dish.
Not only were vegetables a necessity for economic reasons in our household, but were highly valued and ever present because of my mother's conscientiousness and belief in the best nutrition for her and her family. From very early on, even before I came along she was constantly reading and doing research on the details and benefits of good nutrition. She even went to cooking school to learn how to prepare delicious dishes for us, and I remember going with her as a toddler to her graduation at the local school auditorium where she was honored as first prize winner of the best tasting dish.
So, it's no wonder that I grew up loving vegetables--sneaking a carrot from the frig into my crib for nap time and at bedtime just to chew on; tip-toeing into the kitchen after Sunday dinner and drinking the "pot liqueur" from the pot from which the spinach had been cooked; jumping for joy when my mother told me she was fixing my favorite Sunday meal--a whole head of steamed cauliflower with cheese melted on top. To this day I still love these things, and was probably the only kid in the neighborhood that truly loved spinach, and not because of Popeye.
I also learned to keep these things to myself. Kids can be cruel if you're even a little bit different, but adults can be outright rude and vicious, defending themselves as if they have been insulted or even attacked by you and your untraditional food preferences--even your own family.
I'll never forget the first encounter I had with my family in what appeared to them as a sudden shift in my philosophy and traditional eating habits. I was in my twenties living on a farm about two hours away, and had come home to the traditional Thanksgiving spread that my grandmother had worked so hard to prepare for us. She typically had two meats to offer--on this occasion roast beef and turkey--and all the side dishes that she could manage to crowd onto the dining room table. It was always a site to behold in its abundance, and even better that it could be eaten.
After grace, plates were passed and we all proceeded to dive into the joys of grandmother's home-cooked masterpieces. I decided it would be best to avoid drawing any attention to my private decision of several months before to not eat any meat, and just help myself to the many vegetable and fruit dishes, thinking that no one would notice. That was my first mistake--my grandmother noticed before the first bites were even taken. I could feel her hard looks from across the table, and later after dinner, could hear her frantic whispers to my grandfather in the den, thinking she was out of earshot, "What is wrong with her?! She didn't touch the meat!! Did she not like it?! These were her favorites!!! Do you think there's something wrong?!!"
I don't know if my grandfather said anything--I could not have heard it anyway--my grandmother's heart was broken because of my radical behavior--and now mine was broken because I didn't see this coming and would never want to hurt my grandmother's feelings for anything. I knew she didn't know or understand the years of circumstances and influences that had brought me to this point--my work right after college in the nursing home as a nursing assistant, observing that the families of the patients that I cared for, and even the nursing staff seemed to accept conditions such as arteriosclerosis as a natural stage in the aging process, as well as all afflictions that came with it--heart disease, dementia, stroke. I began to question that assumption. Here I was, living in a community that for the most part viewed these diseases as a normal part of aging. How can this be, I thought. I knew people well into their eighties and nineties who were quite active and sharp-minded--including a few members of my own family.
Another circumstance that shaped my decision about meat--actually clinched it for me--occurred on that farm that a friend and I were leasing at the time for a mere $100.00 per month. The landlord, a veterinarian in Connecticut, raised cattle on the 250-acre pastureland, hiring a local farmer to look after them. There were a dozen or so Hereford cows and one "bookkeeper" ,as Perdie, the caretaker, referred to the bull. After the cows had calves, we would expect Perdie to arrive not too long after with trucks and trailers and several helping hands. The calves would be herded, loaded, and taken to market. One would think that would be the end of it, but little did we know.
For at least two weeks following, the cows would ball day and night, calling for their babies, pleading for them to come to mama. If you think you can get accustomed to this, then think again. Sleep was impossible. This was not the gentle lowing of cows in the valley, but the desperate cries of a mother for her baby--the persistent cries in the night for a loss she cannot understand. I began thinking hard on this in the middle of the night--not angry because they were keeping me awake, but heartbroken that this was just routine procedure in our world. After all, people don't buy calves for pets.
Thus, my introduction to the rocky road of being a vegetarian began with my family, and in my naivete, thought that it would end there. After all, this was a personal choice, like religion, or even as simple as choosing a favorite color for clothing or a pair of shoes. Little did I know.
The Question
Being the "Irish-o-file" that I am, I was so uplifted to be reading about George Bernard Shaw, one of my literary favorites, being interviewed and asked the question that all vegetarians get in one form or another.
"Are you vegetarian for your health?" the man implored.
"No," Shaw quipped, "For the animals' health."
Now I can't help but think of all the difficulty he must have faced in a time and culture that was so centered around meat and potatoes--but then, what did he care? He was old enough and wise enough at that point to know that he was doing the right thing for himself, and quick enough to respond with a humorous, but poignant answer.
My answers to "the question" have been varied down through the years--evolving from the health reasons from my nursing home experience to the vision still in my head of violence imposed on an innocent creature, just when I happened to drive by a scene of a neighboring farm and see what looked like a human being splayed and hanging, tied from top and bottom to two cross poles, the body split from sternum to scrotum. What I had witnessed at the time was a typical hog slaughter by my farming neighbors, but in that brief moment before I realized what was really happening, I saw it for what it really was--the savage slaughter of a creature at the hands of his keepers who had fed and sheltered him in the good life he had supposedly had on the farm.
In answering "the question" I would proceed to give my reasons and start to tell the related story, only to see my inquisitors' eyes glaze over as they would turn and start talking to the person beside them. Vegetarianism is not a topic for dinner conversation. It needs to be added to the forbidden topics your mother told you about--sex, politics, and religion--off limits in any social situation. Oh, to be as quick-witted as Shaw.
The most awkward situation that I can remember in dealing with "the question" actually happened fairly recently, and I'm still trying to figure this one out. I was at a business luncheon at a mountain lodge with representatives from the community (I'm in my mid-fifties, back in the home town of my childhood). A young mother who is a local social services counselor is seated across from me with her two children. The waitress is taking drink orders, and I ask her if there are vegetarian choices on the buffet--just routine for me, learned over the years to allow me to make certain choices ahead of time, just in case all I can order is ice tea. I see the dark glance and wince. I know the question is coming, but it doesn't right away. Only after we have our plates filled and have re-seated does she look up and say,
"Why do you not eat meat?"
"Well, in my younger days I was living on a farm and cattle were raised there by my landlord. The calves were taken from their mothers and sold to market for slaughter, and I just never got over it. I just can't eat beef, or any other meat for that matter, because there are other choices we have that don't involve the killing of animals."
Her lip curled and she looked as if she were smelling something foul. "Well, I hate cows myself--our house is surrounded by them. That's what my husband does--raises cattle. But I hate them," she says while chewing on a chunk of steak, "The smell, the mess, I hate it!"
"Well, I guess you can sort of understand where I'm coming from?"
I excuse myself to refill my ice tea, and bring the pitcher back to refill others. She's gone--taken her plate and her children to another table--safe and away from one who is strange and may be evil, because meat is not eaten or even endured, because it is the way of life in this place and how could you?!!!
…to be continued
New Hope Journal Home Page
Complete Site Index
larrydill@newhopejournal.com
www.newhopejournal.com
copyright 2007 by Larry L. Dill
Austin, Texas circa 1995.