On my Amicable Breakup with Vegetarianism

If you could have dinner with any person, living or dead, who would it be and why?

I think a person’s answer to that question can say a great deal about them. For me without a doubt, I would choose my great grandmother, Annie Green Devine. She lived her life in the deep woods of South Carolina, under trees that stretched to the heavens and in tune with an Earth that provided harvest after life-giving harvest. She was born in 1901 and passed on in 1979 so our lifetimes weren’t able to overlap. Most of her childhood is a mystery to me except that her father was a mean man and that she also went by the name Sadie (it was custom for people during that time in the country to have more than one name). She was a child of the winter, born in January (a Capricorn woman) and she stood barely over five feet. From what I gather, her personality was much more commanding than her frame and so was her love.

She was a juxtaposition to my great grandfather Jacob Devine, who was always described as a tall, quiet, and gentle man. After a long day’s work, he often rested in his chair with his tobacco pipe, his children and grandchildren scuffling over who could sit on his royal knees. Together they brought up eight children and three of their grandchildren (the first two children were from Jacob’s first wife also named Annie, who sadly passed away during childbirth). While Jacob provided for the family through farming, carpentry, and railroad construction, Annie reigned as the queen of her domestic domain. She sparked fire to wood every morning to light their country stove, her gifted hands laboring in love, even after a stroke left one of her hands immobile. Annie’s culinary repertoire included the great, big cakes she made every Christmas with dried fruits, nuts, and spices. She fried cornbread in cast iron skillets, rice on Sundays, and always made a separate portion of food if cooking with onions because my grandmother didn’t like onions as a child.

As my great-grandparents had a farm, they of course had animals that they raised and eventually slaughtered for food. A chicken dinner was a special occasion and it began with Annie’s hands. She would grab a fated chicken by its neck and go on to borrow its life. Hot water removed the feathers quite easily and from there it was time for the cooking. Her fried chicken was a ceremony for those who were blessed.

Annie & Jacob - Resilience & Grace. Royalty on the Homestead. St. Stephen, South Carolina

A little over eight years ago, I took my last bite of chicken for what would be a very long time. It was a part of a mild two piece combo from Popeyes. As I ate the crispy skin of the chicken and arrived at the flesh of the animal, seeing its fragile bones, it became very unappetizing. I had recently tried out being vegan for one month with a roommate and was feeling increasingly uneasy with consuming animal products. Veganism grew more and more compelling after learning about the ethical horrors of factory farming, the environmental impact of factory farming, and the health benefits of a plant based diet. I failed to finish the piece of meat and for eight years that would be the last time I ate chicken, beef, pork, or any other meat of a land animal. (For this essay, I classify meat as any flesh of a land animal).

It was a short period of time later, after eating the last slice of frozen Texas toast garlic bread in my freezer, I went vegan. Seeing all the videos explaining speciesism and reading convincing statistic after statistic, it felt exhilarating knowing something as simple as not eating animals or anything that came from an animal could have such a transformative impact on our world. My heart felt full in this state of perceived consciousness. My plates inspired me and it felt truly blissful believing that I had saved a life at every meal and that no living being had to die or suffer to feed me.

Like many vegans, I wanted to spread this message of kindness and compassion to as many souls as I could. I volunteered with PETA on a few occasions, passing out pamphlets on my university’s campus to educate others on factory farms and how to go vegan. I memorized facts and moral arguments surrounding meat consumption like holy scripture to share (sometimes graciously, sometimes vehemently) with friends, family, and strangers on the Internet. I convinced family members to switch from cow’s milk to plant milk and tirelessly touted the health benefits of veganism the best I could. To this day, one of my proudest culinary moments is cooking crispy fried tofu and vegan Southern-style baked macaroni and cheese for my aunts, all over the age of 60, and having them ask for seconds.

Being a member of the vegan movement was exhilarating and I believed more than anything that veganism was the future. No matter what it took, I was committed to saving lives and doing what I thought was best for our planet. Even after realizing that gluten was the culprit of many digestive issues and menstrual cycle issues I had been having (and had sort of always had), I was undeterred about adding another item to my list of dietary untouchables. I became acquainted with gluten free substitutes and went on to avoid many of the gluten based meat alternatives I depended on as a college student.

That change was around two years into my vegan journey. Although very committed to being a vegan for life, I was no longer an evangelical vegan. I don’t know if there was a shift or more so a gradual fading of the onus of needing to convert others. There was also a new sensation that began to creep. It began to feel as if there was a spiky wire being wrapped around me and the plates I sat down to eat. I slowly admitted to myself that the number of foods I was unable to eat did feel rather encaging. Worse than encaging, I started to feel anxious around food. Even when eating at home, it was as if there was an underlying, irrepressible panic as to what I would be able to eat next. I would experience only a temporary relief when eating before the understated anxious feeling returned again, buzzing quietly like an electric current in the background.

My third year of veganism was my last year of university and that spring I braced myself for many life changes. The final few months of university were a culmination of memories, goodbyes, and ten to twenty-five page essays. I remember one late night I ordered veggie sushi to my campus studio apartment and the restaurant had snuck a few containers of spicy mayo in my bag. I looked at the little tubs of the creamy orange concoction and lifted the lid, smelling the sauce. Before I knew it, I was dunking a veggie roll in the little cup and didn’t feel bad about it. There was no logic I could come across as to why it would be better to waste it than eat it which was a stark contrast to the early days of my veganism. Without question, I would have thrown the tubs away. According to my moral logic at the time, the spicy mayo would have been a product of animal cruelty due to the egg yolks in traditional mayonnaise and simply not food.

I kept this transgression a secret with myself as well as the mounting feeling that just maybe I wasn’t going to be a vegan for much longer. A new chapter was around the corner and that coming fall I was preparing to move to Spain as an English teaching language assistant. Spain amongst many things, morphed into an escape to a new diet and I reflected on my exit, daydreaming about trying the famous tortilla de patata for the first time (a skillet style omelette). My first day in the sleepy pueblo blanco that became my home, I took my first trip to Mercadona, Spain’s promised land or in other words, one of the most widespread supermarkets in the country. I selected a frozen gluten free four cheese pizza, a pack of lonchas de queso de cabra (goat cheese slices), and a tortilla de patata con cebolla, and threw them in my basket with immense relief. I made it to the other side and relaxed into the feeling of my food world opening up again.

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My first year residing in Spain was on its Southern cerulean coasts. Although happy to be eating eggs and dairy, I sensed fish and seafood were on the horizon and a month or two later, they were occasionally on my plate. I remember using my broken Spanish at the time to explain my pescatarian diet. At Christmas time especially, the famous jamón ibérico is abundant in Spain. I politely rejected any offerings of the delicacy to more than a few confused stares. After listening to me explain that I didn’t eat meat during my assigned school’s Christmas party, one of my colleagues raised her shoulders in shock saying, “Pero es solo jamon” - “It’s only ham.”

My new diet felt aligned with who I was and I was content. As meat free year after meat free year passed, it felt like another badge was being pinned on an invisible sash. I still refrained from eating meat for many of the reasons that I went vegan. As time passed, if it came up that I hadn’t eaten meat in five, six, seven, eight years the reactions of others felt satisfying in a strange way. Some saw it as peculiar, some saw me with a halo. Towards the end, I just began to see it as a habit that I didn’t feel a need to change.

I imagine the idea of one’s diet feeling aligned to one’s identity may sound like a strange concept to some. Perhaps, because so much of what we eat or don’t eat, is deeply personal. The intimacy of how we eat can become intertwined with who we are or at least who we represent ourselves as. Additionally, in many ways, at least for the first years of our lives, we have little choice in the foods that become our normal. One recent evening in Tokyo in a conveyor belt sushi restaurant, I remember watching a little boy’s excitement as his sashimi journeyed to him. His chopsticks danced over each piece of fish as he took large and satisfying bites. A little while later, a beautifully arranged sushi platter came to him and his father. There was a sense of comfort in the mutual enjoyment of their shared meal that felt familiar to me.

Peanut butter is to Nutella is to Marmite is to Kewpie. It’s almost existential to think about the geographical roll of the dice that make up the fabric of our childhoods. I suppose taking the time to reflect on how one chooses to nourish themselves entering into adulthood can become a sort of rebellion. I think that was the case for me. I have no doubt that my heart was in the right place during the last eight years I abstained from eating meat. Engaging in food critically and consciously has certainly added more depth and perspective to the way I see our world. Seeking justice for issues in a food system seriously out of sync with nature is a worthwhile and necessary thing. Climate destruction from monocropping and farm pollution, exploited laborers in dangerous working conditions, animals being treated as a product and not beings deserving of peace and care. I believe we are owed a food system that is cleansed of capitalistic corporate greed. As dietary choices are incredibly personal, I have learned it is best to refrain from having stark views on what someone eats. Nonetheless, I do feel confident in saying that anything painting itself as the one and only answer to a variety of complex world issues is something to take with many grains of salt. Especially if that thing requires rigid and dogmatic adherence of individuals above dynamic and balanced solutions that are reflective of humanity and our history as a whole.

These days, I am feeling most passionate about exploring what nourishment means to me and being open to what my body wants for me, be it tofu or steak. I’m also feeling passionate about eating in a way that mimics the cycles of nature. For me this means trying to incorporate more local, whole foods as well as accepting that nowhere on this planet is there life without death; including meatless and vegan diets (yes, I felt bamboozled too). And if there is no life without death, what can we do to better respect the Earth and her creation? How can we create a just and intentional food system for all? How can we honor the cycles and the lives that we borrow that intertwine with our bodies’ cells and lend themselves to our purpose on this planet?

I have been eating meat for almost two months now and it’s been both weird and pleasurable. My first meal with meat was pollo a la brasa con arroz y habichuelas (Peruvian style roasted chicken with rice and green beans). The well-seasoned, juicy meat felt foreign as it gave way against my teeth. I felt uncomfortable seeing the reminders of the life that I was borrowing just as I did during that final two piece meal I had from Popeyes many years ago. Only some days before that, I came down with the first real meat cravings I had had since my time without. The sort of cravings that make your teeth feel restless. I wanted nothing more than rotisserie chicken and a peppercorn steak cooked in butter. I felt confused and scared. I turned to watching hours of YouTube videos by those who had decided to reincorporate meat in their diet and even joined a “Recovering Vegans and Vegetarians” group on Facebook (funny, I know). So many of our journeys were reflected in one another and I softened into the idea that nothing was forcing me to stay meatless forever. At the end of my herbivorous journey, there was no longer passion but only a stationary relationship sustained by habit as well as notions that equate duration with success. I had to choose my heart over my ego.

My dietary breakup elucidates that who I am right now is different from who I was last month and that will be different from who I am next spring. During the past eight years, I have escaped from at least three dozen cocoons. My feet have touched eight different countries. My heart has been wounded and regenerated itself at least a few times. I have met the palpability of death in winter and from this I have understood why the birds sing each spring. Life is a montage of seasons. Seasons of harvest, seasons of solitude, seasons of transformation. In this season, I am expanding in a way that cannot be contained and just maybe my diet is reflecting yet another metamorphosis. Like my great-grandmother Annie, I am arriving as myself, and I am doing so with passion or not at all.