Mothers for Meatlessness

My thirteen-year-old daughter Sophie is a dyed-in-the-wool lifelong vegetarian, occasional vegan, and budding animal rights activist. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her that as a result of this latter interest she’d be the butt of a lot of jokes in her lifetime, but she found out on her own not long ago when she joined the PETA Street Team and discovered a section of the organization’s website devoted to “come backs” for miscellaneous insults she might encounter.

The thing about animal rights is that the topic draws criticism not only from the people who would prefer to wear fur in peace, but also from the leftiest of lefties, who get infuriated over people raising a ruckus about factory farming and cruel shampoo when the world is plagued by war, homelessness, child abuse, and environmental devastation.

I know that buying free-range eggs, in the whole scope of planetary problems, is a rather small drop in the bucket. But I’m quietly thrilled that my daughter is expressing a commitment to and a passion for something with more substance than lipgloss. There are more than enough issues out there for everyone, after all, and involvement with one often leads to another. For example, she just finished reading A Civil Action, the real-life legal thriller about the toxic waste dumping in Woburn, Massachusetts. She loved it, despite (and because of) having to swallow a bitter pill of indignation over the omnipotence of corporate giants and the fallibility of our justice system.

I myself converted to vegetarianism because, put simply, I could. With almost no effort, I am able to do something that’s better for the planet, that eliminates the possibility of contributing to unethical livestock practices, all the doing something that’s healthy for me. So many other things I should do, but I can’t or I don’t, but vegetarianism is just so easy I can’t turn down the potential good karma it represents.

The day I went vegetarian still sticks in my mind. It wasn’t long after the ice had gone out on North Center Lake, and the blinding spring sun bounced off the water and flooded through the west windows of our old Victorian house. I was upstairs folding laundry while baby Sophie helped by pulling the tidy stacks off the couch when I wasn’t looking. Somewhere in the middle of this tiresome game, my attention turned to the television in the other room. I caught a short snippet of a PBS documentary showing a man drinking warm blood from the neck of a freshly beheaded snake, and I said, “That’s it.”

I can see now that my reasoning was pretty loose, and I also recall feeling pretty sheepish about subsisting primarily on bread and noodles for the first couple of meatless years (“For vegetarians, we don’t seem to eat very many vegetables,” I remember saying). I didn’t care for tofu back then, and couldn’t stand legumes. I’d grown up on hamburgers, tuna fish, and hot dish, and it took years to orient my palate toward broader horizons.

Meanwhile, we decided to raise Sophie vegetarian, and her siblings, too, as they came along. Once in a while, people would prod us about what might happen when our kids got a little older. “Aren’t you worried that once they have the chance they’re going to go off the deep end—you know, gorge themselves on hot dogs and Big Macs?”
In truth, I wasn’t worried at all. I figured that eventually they’d have to make their own choice anyway, and what they ate when they came of age would have little bearing on me. As it happened, when their dad and I split up, he married an omnivore and gave up vegetarianism. Perfect opportunity for the kids to start scarfing down sausage and buffalo wings. But the years have unwound and they haven’t chosen to do so. At thirteen, eleven, and eight, they’re wholehearted herbivores, and for reasons of their own.

Which, as I said, can sometimes be cause for humor, intended or not. Sophie was at the mall recently, celebrating a friend’s birthday. All of the girls ordered Asian at the food court. Sophie was the only one who didn’t get chicken, and she had to explain to one of the girls who didn’t know her that she’s a vegetarian, has been her whole life. “Really?” asked the girl, with sincerity, concern, and an extended fork. “Would you like to try my chicken?”