On Being That Dreaded V-Word

No, not virgin.

"Emmy has become a vegetarian," my mother explains from across the dinner table, as she points to the broccoli quiche. She says this like I have become a butterfly.

"Oh," my grandmother says and nods. She acknowledges this like I have become a butterfly.

Somewhere around 3 months in, it became comfortable to refer to myself as a vegetarian. Less time than that just seemed pretentious, especially since it started from a New Years Eve resolutionesque whim with my sister. We decided on a year, and left some things unspecified.

(DIGRESSION:
Seafood, for instance. I used it as a tentative crutch, making the transfer to tofu and seitan easier. Of course, now that the rest of the meat is gone, the few times I do end up eating seafood leave me feeling weird. Now, having read about the environmental problems with gathering seafood, I can start phasing it out completely. Did you know it's been predicted that we'll run out of certain types of seafood within our lifetime, due to such extensive farming? So I read.)

Having such a label on you is interesting. Because, of course, the connotation goes far beyond a simple dietary abstinence. As one journeys into this world of new eating rules, one also unwittingly picks up an assemblage of assumptions that tack on to one's meat-free plate.

Hippie! Tree-Hugger! Extremist Terrorist-Coddling Pot-Smoking Most-Likely-Gay God-Hating Liberal!*

Of course, people don't really say these things--not usually, anyway. But it doesn't mean you don't see it in their eyes when they pull it out of you, as many people will. Ordering the fettuccine alfredo and trying as inconspicuously as possible to ask for no chicken, you smile tepidly and look out the window, but then it happens, as you knew it would:

"Are you a vegetarian?"

"Oh," you say. "Uh, yeah."

"Oh," they say. Because you're the kid the city changed. You've metamorphosed. Into a butterfly. Or maybe a moth.

I don't blame these reactions, really. I used to do the same thing, have the same flash of thoughts. But on the other side of the equation, it looks different. I'm not going home at night to burn American flags. I'm just not eating turkey anymore.

Of course, there's also the pugnacious fringe population of non-vegetarians, the militants who look both enthusiastic and wild when they see your plate is free of chicken. "So," they begin, "I see you're a vegetarian. Why?" This question is electrically charged, and it makes me groan inwardly. Not because I find the debate useless, but because someone has just tagged me as the enemy, and the goal is now to win the ensuing argument. This person doesn't honestly want to understand my position - this person wants to skewer me with counterarguments.

There is usually such a feeling of active hostility mixed with enjoyment in that question - "Why?" - that I can't help but feel offensive by not making them more comfortable. I am so careful that I'm likely to pad my explanation with "Well-You-Know"s and "I-Mean.."s.

What if I'm a vegetarian because I'm looking out for my heart? Or I don't eat enough vegetables to begin with? It seems so illogical to be feisty with someone who's abstaining from something. Imagine saying, "So, you're a virgin. Why's that?" or "That last piece of chocolate cake - I see you're not eating it. Are you trying to call me fat? Don't you think it's a bit hypocritical to drink hot chocolate and not eat chocolate cake?"

Of course, my persuasion does lean a bit toward a source of ethics. I like the idea of ending as few lives as possible in order to sustain my own. If I can eat tofu instead of beef, all the better. I can also point you toward the health benefits and the environmental costs. I can do all of these things. But more than likely I'll just be eating my broccoli quiche in silence. So how did you, my friend, get to be so offended?

...

Oh, hell. Maybe I just ought to go all out. Next dinner I go to, I'm bringing charts and graphs.


*I'm sure Bill O'Reilly has said this at some point.