Why I Became a Vegan-Feminist

And why I no longer “shut up” about it.

At age 12, I was at my father’s house for the weekend. We gathered around the table for dinner; I don’t remember what the side dishes were, but the main course was some form of sausage. I’d had sausage plenty of times before, but this one looked different. My father never allowed me to question my food.

“Shut up, sit down, and finish your plate.”

I began to eat the strange-colored sausage, and my father’s grin grew wide. “Do you like it?” He asked; his wicked smile tugged at the corners of his eyes. I nodded slightly and continued chewing. “It’s deer meat.” He giggled. I spit it out on the table and ran to my room crying.

I sobbed until I nearly threw up; I rocked myself back and forth in the corner of my bedroom. I couldn’t believe that I had eaten a non-conventionally eaten animal. Then I realized that I had ingested the main three animals a million times before; I felt the guilt rise from my stomach to my heart. I doubled over in pain; I couldn’t believe what I had been doing.

My father barged in an hour later. He looked down at me on the floor, my clothes drenched in tear stains. “You eat other animals all the time. You’re being ridiculous.” He was right. I decided right there that I would be a vegetarian, even though I didn’t know that term yet.

Unfortunately, I struggled to stay vegetarian. My father was vehemently against it and wouldn’t make food I would eat. If I wanted to be vegetarian, I had to buy my ingredients and cook for myself. At 12, I had no cooking skills and no money. I earned a few bucks from doing chores, and I was able to buy Kraft mac and cheese. I lived off the stuff. That’s all I ate at his house. If I didn’t have money or he refused to take me to the store, I starved myself and allowed his shouting to be my dinner.

In addition to the struggle at Dad’s, my middle school best friend would often invite me over for dinner. I had trouble vouching for myself and fighting for what I believed in. Her mom made boiled pig flesh most of the time, and I didn’t know how to say no. I quietly picked at the dead animal on my dish and tried my best to be polite.

I shut up, sat down, and finished my plate.

Around this time, I became aware that I was going to be a woman someday. I noticed how I had different rules in school than the boys, especially pertaining to my clothing. I remember being yelled at that my shorts were too short or my tank top’s sleeves were too thin. I also remember how weird it was that my principal was seemingly obsessed with what I was wearing rather than what I was learning. I was top of my class, but all Mr. Principal wanted to talk to me about were my shorts from Justice.

Two years after the deer flesh incident, my father took us to a petting zoo. In the middle of the pens, there was a pregnant cow chained to a small, wooden stage. A bucket beneath her swollen and bulging udder, and a sign that said, “Hi, I’m Daisy! Milk me!” There was a pile of manure behind her. She had no access to food or water.

My father spotted her the moment we stepped into the zoo. He dragged me by my arm; my heels kicked up patches of grass and dirt. Once we got to Daisy, I reached out my trembling hands and petted her side softly. It was August, and the sun was directly overhead, beating on her black and white spots. I was sweating, and I knew she was hot, too. I began to cry as I looked into her exhausted eyes.

“Milk her.” My father commanded. I stared up at him with my teary eyes. The tears streamed from my eyes and pooled in my mouth. I told him I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. “We’re not leaving until you do.” He barked. I cried harder. He looked down at me. “I guess I’ll let the owner know we’re staying overnight,” he said over his shoulder as he was walking towards the main entrance. I shouted at him, my response broken by hiccups and sobs.

I cringed at the idea of touching someone in that way. I didn’t want to harm her. Have you ever milked a cow? It’s not a pleasant experience. It’s not a natural behavior. Humans aren’t meant to interfere with animals in that way. Milk is breast milk; it’s for babies. Cat’s milk is for baby cats, horse’s milk is for baby horses, human’s milk is for baby humans, and cow’s milk is for baby cows.

He came back to me and Daisy. I stared at the pink teats quivering, bobbing up and down like buoys in the ocean. The glands and veins protruded, and each teat was swollen and engorged. I couldn’t look. I couldn’t do this to an animal. How degrading, how humiliating… how disgusting.

My father grabbed my wrist and forced my hand onto her. I was trembling nauseously. The teat felt like a thick, felt-covered balloon filled with hot pudding - like a fidget toy that would never sell. I’ll remember that squish for the rest of my life. The smell of Daisy’s feces hung heavy in the hot summer air. I pulled down on her teat, and the smallest amount of milk came shooting out. She yelped in pain and started moving her head in all directions. I had hurt her. The sun was getting to her. She was thirsty and hungry. She was alone and humiliated. Everyone had failed her that day and for her entire life. Looking back, so did I.

I began crying even louder; other families had already been watching, but now they were staring. My father was laughing at me. I petted her side and begged for her forgiveness. I felt like a monster. He laughed the whole way home. From that point on, I didn’t go back to his house unless I was forced or threatened to.

My mother’s house wasn’t much better. I lived off of cereal and meat-free spaghetti. I had to work at the local Dairy Queen to be able to buy my own groceries the minute I turned 15.

The problems between me and my parents were very intense, and they no longer wanted me around. My grandma picked me up with loving arms; they even painted the spare bedroom my favorite color (at the time) - sunshine yellow.

At Grandma’s, I was able to be vegetarian; I was able to be whatever I wanted - as long as I was happy, safe, and polite. My Pa would take me to Target and buy me vegan and vegetarian TV dinners. At this time, I didn’t know why someone would be vegan; I thought it was for health reasons, but I enjoyed the few vegan meals I tried.

During your teenage years, you begin to understand the world around you in ways you never considered before. I was a pretty girl, but I always looked young. That didn’t stop grown men from hollering at me when I was 15. I began to learn about liberal feminism and quickly agreed with all of the points. At 15, you want to please everybody, and you desperately want to fit in. I was incapable of evaluating moral philosophies on my own and was unable to understand the depths of what I was agreeing to on the surface. I quickly began calling myself a liberal feminist and spoke up against the injustices within the female student body in my high school.

I also began to reflect on the day I met Daisy. I looked into the dairy industry after putting it off for so long. Turns out, cows don't magically make milk, and their suffering is beyond comprehension. I was disgusted with myself after seeing the torment, abuse, rape, slaughter, and other terrible feats these cows are forced through. I couldn’t believe what I was unknowingly contributing to, so I stopped. From that point on, I’ve been vegan.

I swore the rest of the animal products off without even looking into it. I knew that if the dairy industry and meat industry were horror shows, the other animal industries wouldn’t be any better, and I was right. I became vegan and never looked back. I refuse to be a part of avoidable suffering.

Just before my 16th birthday, my mother wanted me back at her house, but again, there wasn’t much I could eat. So, I used my minimum wage paycheck to buy more vegan TV dinners and almond milk (there weren’t many options in 2016). I stopped at nothing. This continued cruelty from those around me was why I evolved into the confident Vegan-Feminist that I am today.

I experienced sexual and domestic violence in my late teen years. I went to the police many times over the course of several years, but not until it was too late. I was too scared to speak out while it was happening, like many victims. When I finally did disclose my abuse on a semi-public scale, I faced daily rape threats, stalking, harassment, and even my family and friends received backlash, too. I had to start my whole life over again after one of my assailants attempted to break into my home years after his last attack. In fear for my life, I stayed silent, went off the grid, and moved away from a life I once knew for twenty years. Now, the only fear I have is the fear of not experiencing another moment of my life, so here I am.

Now that I can speak up for myself and for what I know is right, I no longer stop talking about it. I don’t care if I’m seen as a crazy or annoying Vegan-Feminist; the only people who think that are so far removed from compassion that they can’t think straight. I have been told to shut up and sit down for twenty years. No more. Never again.

Life couldn’t be crueler to non-human animals or women if it tried. We all say we love animals, yet less than 5% of the United States population lives a vegan lifestyle. We all say we support women, yet less than 1% of rapes lead to a federal conviction. We humans who can follow this lifestyle and philosophy have a moral obligation to do so. With vegan options available at all major grocery stores, even the low-cost ones, the viable excuses are growing smaller and smaller.

If a 15-year-old with a tumultuous living situation can make it happen, so can you. If you can read this blog, you can be vegan. You may not like it, but it’s the truth.

Bullshit isn’t vegan, and I won’t stand for it.