Whenever I follow my parents on their weekly grocery run, they always seem to pick up some kind of meat: mostly chicken, sometimes beef, and their favorite, seafood, on occasion. Although meat seems to be a constant part of our diet, even glancing at raw chicken or cow or lamb or fish or shrimp or any flesh of an animal in the refrigerated portion of the store and then in my mom’s or dad’s hands initiates this subconsciously unpleasant, sickening feeling that I can’t seem to brush off. The raw meat in the flesh-- pun intended-- actually reminds me for a second or two that this pink, icky slice was an actual animal. How could anyone bare to cut up, mutilate and cook up that dead animal? I wouldn’t be able to. I can’t even touch the thing. Yet, every time I do see my parents grab and purchase these once-living-and-now-dead-and-soon-to-be-cooked meat, I don’t do anything to stop them. Perhaps, I make one comment about it like “Why do we always have to buy meat?” but it’s only a half-hearted attempt and is brushed away by my parents. Later on, I eat the animal-of-the-day, sometimes with guilt and remorse and other times with none, sometimes with disgust and little enjoyment and other times with contentment and pleasure. Why is that?
Just like David Foster Wallace briefly mentions, my feelings towards the animal on my plate depend on if I choose to acknowledge and be conscious of the fact that I am indeed devouring an animal-- a living creature that I have probably seen at least one time (if not multiple times) in my life. More simply put, if I actually consider that I am about to feast on some innocent, murdered animal, I obviously will feel ashamed and hesitant. Otherwise, I would happily enjoy my meal just like usual.
I actually have a story to prove my point. Driving along in Iceland, my family was tired and hungry, just trying to find somewhere to eat in the middle of nowhere. See, in Iceland, they don’t have any fast food chains lined up along the highway every mile or so. Instead, each restaurant is unique and, unfortunately, closes at ridiculously early hours. Anyways, my dad decided to take us to this restaurant alongside this small barn owned by the same restaurant. In the front, there was this dainty sign with just a giant picture of a black-and-white cow. Before we entered the restaurant, we also saw the alive, happy animals that were soon to be dinner and you see through their eyes that they had no idea. Some diners even had the audacity to come up to their dinner, just to say hi and pet them and comfort them before they ate them. Normally, my sister and I would run up to the adorable animals and pet them to death. On that day, we decided to relinquish ourselves and not actually pet them to death because their future was death and we were contributing to their slaughters by being customers to the restaurant and by perhaps eating their former friends. But we decided not to. As I was glancing the menu, I kept picturing the animals I had seen only seconds earlier. Instead of going along with my normal burger, I was stuck with a plain, bland salad. My guilt had transformed me into a vegetarian for the night-- even though I am no fan of vegetables. Perhaps if I cooked my meals and went shopping by myself and etcetera, I would be a vegetarian, afraid of hurting any animal by cooking them alive or dead. All of these ordeals-- shopping and preparing and cooking my own meals-- are very likely to happen some time in the future. Either I get over my guilt (unlikely) or I become a vegetarian when I’m older (more likely).
Just like David Foster Wallace briefly mentions, my feelings towards the animal on my plate depend on if I choose to acknowledge and be conscious of the fact that I am indeed devouring an animal-- a living creature that I have probably seen at least one time (if not multiple times) in my life. More simply put, if I actually consider that I am about to feast on some innocent, murdered animal, I obviously will feel ashamed and hesitant. Otherwise, I would happily enjoy my meal just like usual.
I actually have a story to prove my point. Driving along in Iceland, my family was tired and hungry, just trying to find somewhere to eat in the middle of nowhere. See, in Iceland, they don’t have any fast food chains lined up along the highway every mile or so. Instead, each restaurant is unique and, unfortunately, closes at ridiculously early hours. Anyways, my dad decided to take us to this restaurant alongside this small barn owned by the same restaurant. In the front, there was this dainty sign with just a giant picture of a black-and-white cow. Before we entered the restaurant, we also saw the alive, happy animals that were soon to be dinner and you see through their eyes that they had no idea. Some diners even had the audacity to come up to their dinner, just to say hi and pet them and comfort them before they ate them. Normally, my sister and I would run up to the adorable animals and pet them to death. On that day, we decided to relinquish ourselves and not actually pet them to death because their future was death and we were contributing to their slaughters by being customers to the restaurant and by perhaps eating their former friends. But we decided not to. As I was glancing the menu, I kept picturing the animals I had seen only seconds earlier. Instead of going along with my normal burger, I was stuck with a plain, bland salad. My guilt had transformed me into a vegetarian for the night-- even though I am no fan of vegetables. Perhaps if I cooked my meals and went shopping by myself and etcetera, I would be a vegetarian, afraid of hurting any animal by cooking them alive or dead. All of these ordeals-- shopping and preparing and cooking my own meals-- are very likely to happen some time in the future. Either I get over my guilt (unlikely) or I become a vegetarian when I’m older (more likely).
Comments
Post a Comment