Unity: Evolution’s Gonna Come

How many bumper stickers do you wear? Are you supporting your cause, or your ego?

As a lifelong leftist/progressive/democrat/liberal, one of the things I find impressive about the right is its ability to get things done. They establish a position and—whether reflecting corporate self-interest, partially (or totally) fabricated justifications, overt political opportunism or hypocritical religious sloganeering—the base falls in line. No debate, no questions, no “Hey, what if we tried…?” Just set the agenda and make it happen.

The left, on the other hand, is the party of “Hey, guys, slow down; let’s talk this through.” We’re the party of hair-splitting, discussion, and examining every source. The right sees black and white, makes a decision and moves. The left sees shades of grey everywhere, and can’t take a step without examining the nuances and myriad potential consequences of any given action.

Why all this political stuff? To be honest, it’s just an overly lengthy setup to my basic premise: More bumper stickers means not enough progress.

Think about the last car you saw with a dozen or so bumper stickers on it. You know the ones—Free Tibet. Well-behaved women rarely make history. U.S. government out of my uterus. I’m a ____ and I vote. Practice meaningless acts of random kindness. Never doubt that a small group of concerned people can change the world—in fact, blah blah blah. And, of course, that deathless classic, It will be a great day when our schools have all the money they need and the Air Force has to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber.

You don’t even have to read them to make an educated guess; if there’s more than two or three bumper stickers on it, odds are strong that it’s a liberal’s car.

On the other hand/side: Bush-Cheney. Boom. That’s it. Sure, sometimes you’ll see two; 2000 and 2004. The right doesn’t have millions of diverse slogans because it doesn’t need them. It has millions of supporters who aren’t slowing down to discuss, debate and harangue every single issue to death before it reaches a vote. They just put their faith in their Lord and their leaders and push forward.

So, again, why all this political stuff in an animal-based blog; what is this, Animal Farm?

No, it’s not; it’s just an overly lengthy attempt to draw a parallel between vegetarians and vegans. Long story short: We’re all in the same gang. If we want to tear down vegetarians who don’t meet our standards because they eat fish, or pick apart someone’s vegan principles (for example, I refer to the term/indictment, “muffin vegan,” made popular by Kris Carr and flung by innumerable holier-than-thou plantcentrics) because he’s not doing it the way we think he should, all we’re doing is making it harder for omnivores to contemplate taking a step towards the goal we’re generally aiming toward.

Labels just get in the way. If I say I’m “vegan” but make a meat exception every couple of months, do I have to hand in my card and start over from scratch? No; I’m a grownup. I’m not reporting to anyone. Next time you comment on someone’s insufficient commitment to a dietary principle, ask yourself: Do you think they should be reporting to you? If you had to hand in your form to the vegan authorities, would it read perfectly?

Let’s say it would—where does that get you? Nobody’s getting any gold stars here; we’re all just trying to make healthy, morally sound decisions about what we eat. If your reward is doing it better than other people, well, fine; but geez, keep it to yourself, okay? Instead of making it harder for everyone by being critical, try making it easier for people to get closer to your lofty level by supporting, rather than critiquing. Offer information, not dogma.

Factions fighting on the same side can be as detrimental to progress as opposing factions. So, why help the other side? If you’re a vegan, and your fellow vegan co-worker has a piece of sheet cake at an office party, don’t trash-talk her afterward. That just makes vegans look like judgmental snobs; who wants to join that party?

If your primary concern is the way people think about you, then fine—keep bolstering your self-esteem by sniping at people who don’t measure up to your standards. A random post on some blog won’t change your perspective.

But if you actually care about “the cause” (i.e., the actual reasons you’re choosing not to eat animals, and why you believe people shouldn’t, in general), then keep in mind how many bumper stickers you’re sporting, and what they say about your dietary choice. Are they fun? Are they snide? Are there too many of them for anyone to even approach you without being intimidated—or combative?

In conclusion: Let those who are without animals or animal products in their lives cast the first stone. If you’re not fully walking the talk you talk, shut your mouth and keep walking with the people who are heading in your general direction. We’ll get there a lot more quickly that way—and there’ll be more of us at the finish line. I hope there’ll be enough gold stars for everyone.

Freedom of Choice: Just Watch What you Choose

Why do people’s choices mean so much to other people?

I didn’t get a cell phone for a long time. I disliked them. (I still do.) They turned public places (buses, record stores) into people’s private phone booths, turning anyone nearby into an inadvertent audience.

Pay phones, a cheap convenience we all shared, have disappeared, in favor of an expensive convenience everyone has to have. They’ve extended the work day, shrinking the barriers between home and office, between leisure time and productive time—and, by extension, raised the bar of workplace expectations to even more unreasonable heights.

So I didn’t want a cell phone. But I learned, over the years, that almost everyone I knew wanted me to have one. No matter how often I pointed out that I was able to manage a successful social life without one, the response was the same: “But it would be easier,” “But you could do [this],” “But I could reach you [there]”—“Look, you should just get one.”

One friend was baffled when I got a GPS gadget. “You can do all that on an iPhone,” she pointed out. “Sure,” I said, “but I only have to buy this once.” (The annual cost of a cell phone was another strike.)

I finally broke down; we moved, and were without a land line, so pragmatism won out. But now, the discussion has shifted to Facebook. I don’t dislike Facebook; I just don’t care about it. I do have a page (not under my own name), which I check every month or so. I accepted a handful of friends and family early on, and I’m all set. Anyone I want to be in touch with, I’m in touch with via other means. The world keeps turning.

And yet, the discussion goes on. “But I could send you [that],” “But you could see [grade school playmate]’s kids,” “But you could read what my horoscope says today”—“Look, you should just be on Facebook.”

But I don’t want to be, and, without meaning to come off as disingenuously anachronistic or Luddite-ish, I find it odd and unsettling that friends and family take this as a kind of stubborn, groundlessly contrarian stance. The gist of the situation is that I’m not interested in Facebook, and they are. One of us must be wrong. Right?

I mention this because I keep seeing parallels with the way I eat. As a 93% vegan (a term I just invented, meaning “vegan in general, with infrequent exceptions for special occasions and/or extenuating circumstances”), I eat differently from most people I know. This wouldn’t seem to be a big deal, and yet, it often is. Again, let me stress that I’m not trying to be disingenuous, but surely, what I eat, or don’t, is pretty low on anyone’s list of hot-button issues, objectively speaking.

But, of course, it isn’t. And the reason why it raises such hackles, and turns discussions into debates at the drop of a drop of soy milk, is both fascinating and frustrating.

Where I stand on other peoples’ dietary choices is based on one thing: how much I care about them. If some schmoe at the airport wants to wash down his food court pepper steak with a Cinabon, that’s all him. But if a good friend or family member is eating unhealthily, well, then, I start to care. What I do about it is, of course, the next step.

I’m not the type to lecture, admonish or evangelize on behalf of the informed choices I’ve made. In general, I try to stick to answering questions—when asked—and picking up on the subject if someone else brings it up. But I’ve learned that simply stating facts can come across as contentious; articulating a perspective grounded in scientific study can be seen as elitist; answering a question without couching it in layers of “I agree, but,” or “Sure, but I’m not talking about you,” or “Of course, I respect your dentist’s opinion,” can sound snobbish.

What we eat, and how, and why, are clearly deeply-held emotional choices for the majority of people. It’s difficult to hold a civilized, balanced and dispassionate conversation on the topic, because when both sides know they’re right, there’s no middle ground in which to explore the overlap or intersection of ideas, nor is there room to philosophically explore and critically evaluate the roots of one another’s convictions.

It’s great that everyone has an uncle or a grandfather who ate bacon sandwiches every day and lived to be ninety-nine. But the fact is, we also all know someone who died too young, of heart disease, diabetes or cancer. If you loved that person, and could talk to that person now, wouldn’t you want to find a way to share the things you’ve learned?

And the people who researched these questions and tested their findings and wrote books to share them with other people—if those people all fell over dead tomorrow, it wouldn’t change the way I look at my diet.

This is partly because I know it takes more than a handful of people to make a valid sample, and also because my choice isn’t based only on my own health. The environmental, social and economic effects of the animal farming industry are, in themselves, more than enough reason to take a step back and at least consider dialing down the amount of animals one eats in a week, or a year.

But it’s hard to say these things to people. Because, to return to the cell phone evangelists and Facebook converts I mentioned earlier, people are more comfortable when you make the choices they’ve made. If you choose differently from me, it means that one of us is wrong.

And who likes to feel like they’ve been wrong all this time? Especially when it means accepting the possibility that a huge American industry (in which even schools and hospitals are complicit, if more passively) has shaped your understanding of nutrition based on preserving its own longevity and health, and not yours at all?

To conclude, I’d like to ask anyone reading this to consider the choices they’ve made. If you’re a vegetarian or a vegan, how do you talk to meat-eaters about their choices? If you’re an omnivore, how do you talk to herbivores about their choices?

Are you asking—because you want to know? Or are you telling—because you already know?