The Vegan Files
My teenaged niece has expressed interest in learning about the vegan lifestyle. As honored as I feel, I’m not sure I even knew that being a vegan is a lifestyle.
I recommended a book. I told her about some websites. But it turns out that she wants to know more about the reasons that I’ve committed myself to such a “difficult” way of life. I am flattered that I’ve made such an impression, but I find myself at a total loss for what to tell her.
When we were together at a church event a few weeks ago, I told her a little bit about what factory farms do to chickens. She just stared at me, clearly horrified. The experience gave me chills.
It’s true that just out of sight are the bloody slaughterhouses that bring us our steaks, burgers and chicken. It’s true that nursing calves are routinely separated from their mothers, that cows are kept pregnant constantly to make more beef and dairy cattle. It’s true that it’s all about money.
Yes, I want my niece to know about these things, but this is not how I want to explain why I am a vegan. She thinks that it must be so hard to give up things like Big Macs, beef tacos, cheese and ice cream. But I don’t want her to think that doing the right thing means making painful dietary sacrifices. On the contrary, I want her to see that, for me, being a vegan is an act of love.
At work this morning, I overheard a conversation between two young ladies that went something like this:
“Are you still on that vegan diet regimen?”
“Yes! And it’s been a whole week!”
I grinned and kept walking. There it goes again, I thought, the association of vegans with martyrdom and exceptional will power. If only they knew how easy it is, I thought, as I heated up my lunch of veggie dogs smothered in soy cheese.
Later in the day, we held a going away celebration for a retiring coworker. An enormous sheet cake covered in billows of whipped cream was presented. I was offered a slice by several people and I declined each time. No one can believe that I have the fortitude to resist cake. Should I blow my cover and tell them that some of Duncan Hines’ cake mixes and frostings are vegan? Should I let them keep thinking that I have the superhuman power to avoid sugar? Or should I let them in on the secret that Oreos are vegan and so are the heavenly oatmeal raisin cookies sold by Trader Joe’s?
Last year, I stayed away from the company’s Thanksgiving pot luck, knowing that it would be very uncomfortable having everyone comment on the fact that I wasn’t eating. This year, I plan to attend. Now that I’ve been there for a while, many of my coworkers know that I’m a vegan. I don’t think anyone will bat an eye when I show up with my own food in a little plastic container. I will spoon it out onto a plate, grab a drink and sit down to eat with my fellow employees. And I will undoubtedly endure a chorus of “Ooo, what’s that? I didn’t see that on the buffet.” That, mes amis, is tofu with mushrooms. If you dare make a face, I will recount the gory details of where your drumstick and white meat came from and make you barf.
Sigh. This is definitely not the idea that I want to relay to my young niece. She might go vegan one of these days, or perhaps she won’t. If she does, she’ll have plenty of time to experience the prejudice, the stares, the incredulity and the explanations that vegans are called upon to give over and over and over again.
For now, however, I’d like her to know that for those of us who love this planet, for those of us who love our bodies, for those of us who have an ounce of compassion, for those of us who give a damn, being a vegan is the only rational choice in an increasingly insane world.
Tomorrow: Certain food combinations are just disgusting!