What I Want for 2012.

If I had the power to create exactly what I want for 2012, I would like to see politicians, corporate executives, and others in positions of power and influence follow their conscience and not their lust for power or their wallets.

I would like to see environmentalists actually giving a shit about the environment by not supporting the very industry with the largest carbon footprint. If you are eating factory-farmed meat, fish, eggs, or dairy, you are not an environmentalist. Period.

I would like to see elephants roaming wild, not prodded by bull hooks, whipped with chains, beaten into unnatural positions, and forced to perform for our “amusement.”

I would like to see whales swimming in the ocean, peaceful, and singing, without murderous hunters chasing them with torpedo boats, trying to kill them by the thousands so some Japanese man can get an erection.

I would like to see horses running wild across the plains, not cooped up in a stall no bigger than they are, pregnant, hooked up to machines extracting their urine for a drug called Premarin, or rounded up by helicopter, exhausted and scared, and exported to Canada or Mexico for slaughter, or confined to a carriage 16 hours a day in freezing winter or scorching summer, worked until they collapse.

I would like to see less religious zealotry in politics, the judicial system, and the public arena. Antiquated ideas about morality, especially from a book filled with genocide, subrogation of women, infanticide, slavery, rape, incest, murder, intolerance, and animal sacrifice, need to be replaced with reason, critical thinking, and empathy. Isn’t it time we evolved past bigotry, sexual discrimination, women subservient to men, false piety, religious litmus tests, and hatred? Are 2,000 year old ideas really how we want to decide our future?

I would like to see more compassion. Compassion for each other, the planet, and the animals. As long as we continue to take life, from capital punishment to what’s on our dinner plate, from hunting animals into extinction like the Black Rhino, or continuing to overpopulate the planet, we are surely devising our own ultimate extinction as we destroy the climate and use up what is left of our resources.

I would like to see rabbits, foxes, leopards, and minks allowed to wear their own fur, to not be anally electrocuted and skinned alive for ridiculous Haute Couture. Faux is fab!

I would like to see companies stop poisoning, blinding, and killing hundreds of thousands of dogs, cats, primates, mice, rats, pigs, and rabbits in order to test out their oven cleaners, mascaras, dish soap, detergents, and other toxic chemicals. I would like to see companies stop forcing chimps to inhale toxic fumes, force-feeding dogs pesticides, and rubbing corrosive chemicals into the eyes of rabbits.

I would like to see more responsible pet ownership and less backyard breeding, abuse, and neglect, leading to the euthanasia of over 4 million shelter animals.

I would like to see fewer people with hands clasped in fruitless prayer, or reaching for a hand out, or raised in anger against their neighbor, and instead working with those hands to make this a better world for all.

I would like to see less superstition and more reason. The sooner we stop looking to something mystical to save us and start looking to ourselves for the solution, the better off we will be.

I would like to see fewer reality shows showing women as mindless media whores or baby-making machines and instead encourage girls to be strong, independent, curious, contrary, and fierce; to stand on their own two feet and to reach for the stars.

I would like to see fathers encouraging their daughters to be confident, to build up their self-esteem, and remind them that it’s okay to be smart and strong and that a man does not make her worthy; that her worth is already inside her.

I would like to be confident enough to let it all hang out and stop worrying about the number on the scale, counting calories, and thinking no one will love me unless I’m skinny.

I would like to figure out the next chapter of my life – to find my purpose – and pursue it with passion and certitude instead of floundering and feeling lost.

I would like to take more risks, to not be afraid to try something completely unorthodox, even if I fail at it.

I would like to stop worrying that I have squandered my potential and wasted 20 years of my life.

I would like to stop feeling “less than” and start feeling “good enough.”

I would like more people to turn their headlights on in the fog and rain (What? Did you think they’d all be Earth-shatteringly important?).

I would like to be less jaded about the future of our country, the level of incivility in politics, the educational system’s apparent lack of actual education, and people in general. 

These are some of the things that I would like to see happen in 2012. I may want more next year. 

Thirteen

Almost thirteen and leaving behind the awkward “tween” years. Gone would be the teasing cry, “Four Eyes!” No more bulky glasses with the thick lenses or worries about being “blind” without them or getting them knocked off my face in P.E. No more red marks on my nose or fogged up glasses coming in from the cold. I’ve worn glasses for so long I can’t remember what my face looks like without them. Every picture in the house shows me bespectacled.

The day has arrived. Contact lenses! The doctor arrives wearing his usual white coat, brown polyester pants that match his thick, wavy hair, and bulky striped tie. He hitches his pants up and sits on his stool next to me. The wheels squeak as he inches closer, the soles of his shoes skidding on the floor. His breath is stale – did he forget to brush? It’s hot on my face as he checks my eyes and inserts the contacts. How do they feel? Weird. Itchy. Blinking. They don’t hurt. Where’s the mirror?

I want to see….

Oh, no, I gasp. Is that me? It can’t be. Who is this person? This is not the face I remember when I was 7 B.G. (before glasses). I start to cry. My eyes look small and squinty, now red from crying. My nose looks so big, my face blotchy, and my chin, with that stupid dimple in the middle that I hate, looks magnified.

I feel so ugly.

The tears keep coming, faster now like a tidal wave. “What’s wrong?” my mother asks. “I’m ugly,” I gulp in reply. Who is this person? My crying irritates my mother. “You’re embarrassing me,” she hisses. “Who’d you expect to see?” she asks. “Someone pretty,” I sob. “But you are pretty,” she says. “You have to say that because you’re my mother,” I moan. It’s hopeless. She’ll never understand.

I stand in front of the mirror until I can take it no longer. The tears have ebbed, but the feelings of despair and disappointment remain. What do I do now? How am I supposed to go to school on Monday? What names will they call me now?

A lifetime of self-doubt born on that day.

Who am I?

Not Here

I look into your eyes, but all I see is emptiness and contempt.

I look into your eyes, wondering when you stopped loving me and started loving someone else.

I hold your hand, but gone is the gentleness that once stroked my hair and touched my face.

I hold your hand, wishing for you to wipe away my tears, but you simply brush me away.

I kiss your lips, but they are cold to the touch and tight with regret.

I kiss your lips, but am stung by their bitterness, like a slap to my face.

I hear your voice, but all of the sweet words are gone, replaced with knocks and put downs.

I hear your voice, a voice that once brought me joy now brings me sorrow and pain.

I hold you in my arms, but you hug me like a stranger who you just met.

I hold you in my arms, but no one hugs me back.

I am alone, but I am free.

Quiet Time

The house is warm, too damn warm.

            Borderline inferno-hot.

            Nothing stirs in the silent

            house except for the soft hum

            of the motor in the old

            brown recliner that tilts back

            to a sitting position.

            The room’s still air matches her

            quiet desperation at

            growing old and forgetful.

She sits perched on her recliner

            like she has done so many times

            before today. Book in hand,

            she squints her eyes and tilts the

            book towards the light so that

            she can read the tiny print.

Soft chuckles escape her lips

            as she reads. Her feet moving

            up and down as if she is

            keeping time with the story

            she is reading. I wonder

            what bad guy she is quietly

            pursuing from the comfort

            of her recliner and warm house.

Her kitty cat is nearby.

            Curled into a ball on the

            ottoman that’s near her feet,

            unaware of the chase that

            seems to be unfolding on the

            pages in the book in the

            hands of her faithful owner.

            Soft purrs waft up into the

            still room, breaking the silence. 

Veg Out

I’ve always said, well, maybe not always, but recently, that there are three topics that can always start an argument: What god you believe in (or don’t), what political party you vote for, and what foods you eat (specifically meat eaters versus vegetarians).

For some reason, when people learn that I’m vegan, one of two statements follows: “Where do you get your protein?” or “Yeah, gee, you know, I don’t really eat that much meat.” I find both amusing for very different reasons. The protein thing is funny because I used to be one of those people asking that very question of my vegan friend twelve years ago. Once I got educated (or VEGucated, if you will. Okay, I stole that from Marisa Miller Wolfson.), I realized how silly the question is. A lot of mammals are herbivores. Think of cows. They weigh hundreds of pounds. Clearly, they get everything they need from plant foods. At least they would if they were allowed to graze on actual grass and not confined to dirty feedlots, eating a soy bean and corn diet, or worse, the brains of dead friends. (Hello, Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy? One order of Mad Cow Disease, please.).

It seems so obvious now, but for a long time I was clueless. Self-imposed stupidity. Sometimes it is easier to bury your head in the sand than acknowledge what is really going on and changing your habits, especially when it comes to factory farming and slaughterhouses. I avoided those images for a very long time. It’s easy to convince yourself that it’s not really happening or that it’s just that one slaughterhouse. There’s something disconnected about the way we view the food on our plates and the animals on a farm. We use creative words to describe things in a way that makes them easier to eat – chop, crispy, bacon, steak, drumstick. We learn as kids to place cows, pigs, and chickens in one category; dogs, cats, horses in another. One group we eat and wear, the others we don’t.

The “I don’t eat much meat” statement is obviously a knee-jerk reaction to my eating no animals. The funny part is when they start listing all the “not much meat” they actually eat. “I eat a burger every once in a while, you know, maybe once or twice a week. Fish, too, but just salmon. And shrimp – are they considered fish? Oh, and crab. I love crab. Chicken, but just a couple of times a week. But that’s about it. Oh, and bacon. I loooooove bacon. Who doesn’t love bacon, right? The Divine Swine……” It’s usually around this point that their voice trails off and they stop talking and the awkward silence settles in until someone clears their throat and starts talking about something neutral, like the war in Iraq.

There is something freeing about living your values. I like knowing that something hasn’t died for my appetite. I attended a dinner recently for a local dog and cat rescue. There wasn’t one vegetarian, let alone vegan, item on the menu. When I mentioned it to one of the organizers, she just looked at me with a confused expression on her face. I asked her if she thought it was odd that we’re trying to save one animal while eating another. She didn’t. “Cows and chickens don’t live in our homes, so why should we try to rescue them?” Um, well, I wasn’t suggesting that we should go out and rescue all of them necessarily, just not serve them at a benefit for animals. It’d be like wearing leather at an anti-fur rally. She wasn’t getting it and made a hasty exit, far, far away from me.

People get defensive for no apparent reason. It is odd how a simple acknowledgment, like “I’m vegan,” causes people to get their backs up and feel the need to explain (justify?) their eating habits. I got into a heated debate (argument really) with a good friend over this very issue. The most unfortunate part of the conversation was that it took place in my car in the middle of a long, five-hour drive. You can’t really go anywhere in a Prius, even if you’re not speeding down the highway. Our “discussion” centered around milk and cheese and how she could “never give up cheese” and “what’s the big deal anyway?” it’s just milk and it’s not like any cows die or anything, right? Um…. well, no!!! When I started to explain that dairy cows are repeatedly impregnated and male calves are sold for veal, she emptied both barrels. Her reaction was damn near nuclear. 

Talking to her, with her in that state, was next to impossible. She was throwing out wild assertions like “dairy cows aren’t slaughtered for meat” and “cows can lactate for three years.” I kept repeating “that’s not true,” which only made her scream, “IT IS TRUE!” Even when I reminded her of a meat recall in California in which downed dairy cows made it into the human food supply as hamburger for the school lunch program and the fact that we humans (mammals, like cows) can’t lactate for three years unless we become pregnant again, she kept on yelling that I was wrong.  

She then accused me of having an agenda. An agenda? Yes, a (gasp!) vegan agenda to make everyone stop eating animals. “It’s impossible!!” She shrieked. Her suggestion was to make their life “better” before we murder them. Oh, great idea. Who defines “better?” Us or the animals? I’m thinking the pig has a vested interest in how that conversation goes. As for an agenda, I don’t have one, but if I did, stopping the senseless deaths of 100 billion animals worldwide each year sounds like a pretty awesome agenda to have. Sign. Me. Up! Second, I don’t expect Eskimos, living on a frozen tundra, to grow broccoli and make tofu. I’m not an idiot. Third, what about the “agenda” of the meat, dairy, and egg industries? How many “happy asparagus” commercials do you see on TV? How many “Got hummus” mustaches adorn the upper lip of celebrities in magazines? When have you ever seen, “Tofu. It’s what’s for dinner,” on a billboard? Yeah. My big agenda. Hold on while I get the Kale lobbyist on the phone. Oh, that’s right. There isn’t one.

I still talk about veganism (clearly). I “bake and release” as I like to call it (keeps me from Hoovering up a dozen cupcakes and I can dispel myths about vegan foods). I share news stories about animal abuse and factory farms with friends on Facebook. I espouse the health benefits whenever nutrition comes up. Occasionally, I pick fights with people wearing T-shirts that say, “I like animals… on my plate.” I challenge the idea that dogs and cats are the only animals that shouldn’t be slaughtered. There are, of course, some people that you just can’t reach. People who raise animals and then kill them will not be moved to change based on compassion. 

We each have our own path in life and have to follow our inner ethical compass. For me, that means living as compassionate a life as possible. Am I perfect? Hardly. But, as the brilliant activist and author Colleen Patrick-Goudreau said, “Don’t do nothing because you can’t do everything. Do something. Anything.” This is my anything.