Porkopolis
In the South, where I grew up, pork is a vegetable. Actually, it’s used as a “seasoning,” but so commonly that it’s almost impossible to find salad without bacon, greens without fatback, white beans free of pinkish shreds of ham. It was difficult for me, then, when I decided to become a vegetarian.
The decision itself, made for the usual reasons of health, ethics and ecological conservation, was easy; putting it into practice, however, was another matter. At every restaurant, every school lunch, every church potluck, every family gathering, there was meat—in the entrée, the sides, the condiments. I suspected even innocent-seeming pie crusts of secretly harboring lard.
Eventually I worked out a system: I brought my own lunches to school, asked servers about the broth used in the soup of the day, avoided the usual suspects of beans and greens. This system worked well enough in public, but at home, I faced the challenge of respecting my parents and harmoniously sharing meals with them. They were excellent cooks, both of them, and I had always enjoyed the country-fried steaks, burgers and ribs they’d served to me for so many years—how could I now say
“no” to those delicacies without angering or inconveniencing them, or, worse, hurting their feelings?
I couldn’t. And so, I backslid. I’d manage to live a pure, meatless life for a few weeks, subsisting on pasta and salads. Then, Dad would grill an especially juicy teriyaki-marinated flank steak, look at me hopefully, and offer a slice—and I would accept. I’d mend my ways, steam rice and stir-fry snow peas with mushrooms . . . and crumble at the first whiff of the Thanksgiving turkey roasting in the oven and the proud smile on my mother’s face. My noble goals, it seemed, were doomed.
But then, I found a role model, one who demonstrated to me that I could live without meat and still be a functioning member of society, eschew my parents’ pork chops and fried chicken without giving offense. I wish I could say that I was inspired by one of history’s great artists like Leonardo da Vinci, or a leader and inventor like Benjamin Franklin, but no. My inspiration was Lisa Simpson.
Let me pause here to acknowledge how absurd it is to be inspired by an animated sitcom character, albeit one as smart and together as Lisa. Yet it was the very absurdity of feeling, somehow, moved by
Lisa’s resolve and strength of character, her refusal to compromise her beliefs, that convinced me I could follow her example. In the pivotal episode, Lisa is tortured by visions of the lamb whose chops provide her family’s dinner. “Please, Lisa, don’t eat me!” the imaginary lamb implores her. She is moved by ethics, yet almost breaks her resolution when Homer prepares a pig roast and is hurt by his daughter’s refusal to partake. Like me, Lisa is torn between her convictions and her fear of disappointing her father (not to mention the undeniable deliciousness of pork). But she manages to explain her beliefs to Homer and show him that her rejection of meat is not a rejection of him—that she can share his table and his love while still living according to her principles.
Again, I admit—as inspirations go, this one is a little ridiculous. No imaginary lamb-conscience spoke to me, and unlike Lisa, I was not able to celebrate my vegetarian lifestyle by triumphantly singing with
Quickie-Mart manager Apu and guest stars Paul and Linda McCartney. But seeing the very obstacles that stymied me being overcome by a yellow-skinned, spiky-haired caricature was so silly that my difficulties, too, seemed silly. “Well heck,” I thought, “if Lisa Simpson—a cartoon character, for heaven’s sake— can stick to her guns, then so can I.”
So I did. I told my parents that I had decided to really commit myself to vegetarianism, that this was not a passing phase, that I was not judging or seeking to convert them, but that this was simply something I had decided for myself. They agreed, perhaps a
