Break...

Do you ever have a dream where you find an extra room in your house that you'd never discovered before? That's the only sort of recurring dream I think I have: I am walking around my house - or the house in my dream - and I discover an indoor swimming pool. Imagine the delight! Somebody had been maintaining it all those years, too. It would be equally amazing if if I discovered a secret stash of time that no one else knew about.

If I found a stingy genie who would only grant me one wish for my personal life, it would be for every day of my life to last for 48-hours. There is just too much to do this summer between various freelance jobs, regular writing assignments, taking care of my mother and son, Chicago VeganMania and trying to make sure that my house and yard don't become complete embarrassments. Every day is simply buckling under the weight of what is on my plate. There is also the small matter of a manuscript that I dearly love that desperately needs my attention. I need to give any spare time to this. So I am making the executive decision to take a little break here. It was causing me so much guilt and unhappiness that I was not updating but I simply don't have the time. I will resume when my son goes back to school at the end August. Maybe I'll be back sooner, though, if I can discover that extra 24-hours.

Smooches to all! Enjoy your summer and I will talk to you soon!

Camp!

Now that my son is out of school for the summer, my mind naturally turns to one thing: camp. When I think of camp, it is a swirling sensory experience: it smells like bug spray, mildew-y bathrooms and plastic bottles of hyper-sweet juice drink. It looks like daddy longlegs and idolized teenaged counselors wearing terry cloth sweatbands. It sounds like garbled, buzzing announcements over the loudspeakers, singing the disturbingly violent Little Bunny FooFoo complete with hand gestures en mass, mosquitoes everywhere. It tastes like airy vanilla-fudge swirl ice milk in the little plastic cartons with the tabs that lifted up, crispy-skinned toasted marshmallows with gooey insides. It feels like pointy plants brushing against your leg that may or may not be poison ivy, terry cloth (the fabric of my youth), Band-Aids on my elbows and knees.

When I was growing up, like many North Americans, I experienced both day camp and overnight camp. Both were pretty much Machiavellian affairs, especially as soon as the thrill of weaving misshapen pot-holders and Ojo de Dios with sticks and yarn wore off and we grew bored, then started setting our sights on each other. There was always someone who would hyperventilate at the sight of any sort of winged creature, someone who would glumly hand the counselor a note from her mother that she was not allowed to swim until a full hour after lunch, someone who melted into a heap of human heat-stroke as soon as she stepped off the bus, someone who permanently had zinc oxide affixed to her nose. There were top tier campers, too, of course, the ones who bronzed rather than burned, who would optimistically spring from the tire swings over the lake with the gangly athletic grace they took as a birthright while the rest of us only knew painful belly flops. The mass of the us were sandwiched between these bookends, relatively content for the most part. Within the micro-climate that was camp, though, things could turn on a dime and an unfortunate camper who sat in the wrong "permanently saved" bus seat or who was identified as the source of the "weird smell" could find herself sitting at the picnic table with the bug-phobic, overprotected, heat-addled outer edge. That was an omnipresent threat in the Lord of the Flies environment that was summer camp. Anything goes and anything went.

Despite this, I look back with fondness, perhaps born more of nostalgia than of genuinely good feelings. At the first camp I went to, I was on the Yellow Triangle bus that picked me up on the end of Romona Road. The bus driver looked like a migraine in human form, her patience already ripped to shreds at 8:30 in the morning by thirty or so squealing, singing campers. Every day after camp, we elbowed and jostled one another to find that correct color and shape combination lest we be whisked off to the hinterlands and a bus lot where we'd almost certainly starve to death overnight. There was also the seat wrangling: who sat with whom, who got the window seat, who had to sit in the back of the bus with the seat with the rusty coil poking up. Camp was a lot to negotiate with just the politics around the bus ride. The Yellow Triangle bus was a little universe unto itself where I learned about negotiation, alliances, hierarchies. It is not surprising that as camp is part of the American experience, so, too, is reality television. One important life lesson that day camp helped to instill in me: if you don't like what you see around you, create a new reality altogether. Plugging into something else is always an option. I sat wherever I wanted.

If the bus was a human behavioral petrie dish on wheels, the actual campgrounds were the laboratory where it all played out. That first day of camp, the impossibly huge mass of us was divvied up among roaming counselors with clipboards. We wanted the pretty one, the athletic one with the pom-pom socks, the one who seemed the most like our fantasy babysitter. We crossed our collective fingers that the one with the thick glasses, flushed cheeks and Ace bandage around her knee would not call our names because then it was over: all her charges were dweebs by association. The truth was that even if you were assigned to the pretty, cool counselor, you were still subject to the vagaries of intense social maneuvering. I was content to fly under the radar with my ragtag mix of Wilmette school district friends: smily Laura with the corkscrew curls, Fee with the goofy-serious mien, skinny Annie, always ready to belt out a show tune whether the timing was appropriate or not. My friends made camp bearable and even fun, which leads to another important life lesson I took away from camp: I never did make a really great pot holder, but I did learn that quality wins over quantity every time.

At day camp, we had treacherous relay races against other groups, we played catch the flag, we wore broken safety vests while canoeing in the lake, we checked each other for ticks with nervous hearts, and we took occasional field trips to fetid, unpleasant and crowded places that escape my memory except for those few details. Lunch was brown-bagged, soggy and with stink lines emanating. Still, the Yellow Triangle bus returned me home at 3:00 or so and I was no worse for the wear. The next day I was fresh and recharged, waiting with my mom at the end of the block for the Yellow Triangle bus with the poor, migraine-y driver again.

Overnight camp was a more challenging, complicated affair as it coincided with junior high and the terrain that came with it. I went to two overnight camps. The first one was called Camp Watervliet, and it featured horseback riding in a verdant Michigan setting. We didn't realize that we'd be woken by a very energetic, bugle-toting counselor playing a mean-spirited Reveille right outside our musty cabins at six in the morning. We groaned like the teenagers we were transitioning into and thumped out of our bunk beds, heads in our hands to brush and saddle the horses. Bleary-eyed at dawn, I never did learn how to properly saddle a horse. The first week or two, those of us from the North Shore of Chicago wrote heart-wrenching letters to our mothers like we were saucer-eyed Amnesty International poster children: do have any idea what they do to us here?!

Once the shock of the rude awakening wore off a bit, Camp Watervliet settled into a nice place to be. There were horses to ride, guitars to strum, arrows to aim at an archery board affixed to a tree. We had a canteen set up twice a week that our parents dutifully sent us money to strip bare, full of the Hostess and Lay products we were suffering shaking withdrawal from since we left home. There was an annual play that we performed for a neighboring camp: the first year, it was The Hobbit, and we had to audition and everything. I was shocked when I was originally cast as Bilbo Baggins but I gave up the role to a blonde alpha girl named from Florida who reeeeally wanted the role. I took on the part of Gollum instead, a much juicier role actually, and I properly chewed up the scenery with my interpretation of his uniquely tortured psyche. After two summers there, I jumped ship to Camp Chi, a Jewish overnight camp in Wisconsin, and my days at the relative simplicity of of Camp Watervliet took on a halcyon glow: Camp Chi was a hard-core, raging pheromone seventh grade torture camp set in the woods. We didn't need a homicidal psychopath like Jason: we had other campers.

For one thing, for the first time in my life, I was now going to a co-ed camp. While just the year before at Camp Watervliet some girls brought stuffed animals and cried from homesickness, the girls here were wearing lip gloss and mascara, big combs in their back pockets, Ralph Lauren polo shirts tucked into their shorts. For another thing, there was a small but dedicated army of mean girls from a different school district who made it their business to torment who wasn't from theirs and I only had one other friend there so my alliance was pretty puny. To compound everything, this was the summer my body decided to start menstruating, perhaps spurred on by the close quarters in my cabin. So I had to buy "time of the month products" at the canteen, which meant that the goings-on with my uterus was soon public knowledge even though I carried my products back to the cabin in a brown paper bag like I had just bought a Hustler or something. The mean girls had spies everywhere, of course. They probably had the staple of daddy longlegs working for them.

These same girls tormented their European counselor so viciously that she flew back to Norway after a week. They were grounded for any number of infractions, so after they drew all over their cabin with markers, they went wilding: rampaging through the kitchen, letting the horses loose, running like tortured POW escapees into town when they were the ones who's been actually holding the camp hostage. Sadly, they weren't all sent home. Sadly, their parents were even called. The camp management collectively shrugged their shoulders and some guy with a Jewfro who perpetually wore tennis shorts made an executive decision to give them more freedom. Their reign of terror continued: we would continue to wake every morning to find they'd tossed our training bras up a tree and scrawled threats and insults on our cabin door in black Magic Marker. God, they were evil. Imagine the worst of junior high without disciplinary measures, grades or even the ability to go home at the end of the day. That was Camp Chi in a nutshell. Oh, and throw some mosquitoes and bloodthirsty ticks into the mix. Needless to say, I ran off the bus when we finally returned home and if memory serves, I actually kissed the parking lot pavement. I don't think I was ever so happy to see my family.

So it is with all this baggage in mind that I still decided to send my son to day camp for four hours twice a week. It's managed by clean-scrubbed young college students and it all seems pretty innocuous so far. It looks to be causing a minimum of psychological damage. At the very least, well, I know he'll survive. I did.

Blah blah blah...

It's summer, so my son is home from school and under my care but for four hours twice a week. My mother is living with us now, too. I've got deadlines breathing down my neck. I will be back soon. Just not quite yet. In the meantime, if anyone has a line on a cloning machine, I'd love to hear about it. Thanks and hugs to you lovely people.

Exploitation + Objectification = Conklin Farms. (In other words, business as usual.)

I love Mercy For Animals. They are tirelessly committed advocates who create a staggering amount of impressive output every year. They don't resort to shock tactics or insults to get their message across and they present dignified, forward-thinking and honest communications to the public. In this world where PeTA and their human circus of yodeling naked ladies have come to represent vegans, I am deeply grateful for MFA and their consistently thoughtful approach.

This is not a critique of them or their very brave work. I think that if people would truly listen, the only honest conclusion to draw from their work is that those who care about animals should stop eating them. Of course, people will interpret MFA's investigations how they want, though.

Interpretation is everything. This is something that I've become keenly aware of in the aftermath of various exposés that bring the horrors of industrial farming to the public, and it was really brought home by the now-notorious Conklin Farms undercover investigation. I should say that I have not watched the footage and I very much doubt that I will ever be able to do so. (My optimism is tenuous sometimes and I need to safeguard it the best I can.) What I noticed was, counter-intuitively, that the loudest, most seemingly outraged condemnations of the practices at Conklin have been from self-identified omnivores. If you go to message boards and read responses to articles, it becomes very clear that there are many who don't want the vegans to direct the discussion here. The idea put forth is that the demented worker who horribly abused those young cows was just that: demented. He should be removed from society. And, yes, Conklin should also pay for allowing this individual to do what he did, they should be fined and maybe they should be shut down.

The problem with this line of thinking is that it construes the violence as a series of isolated incidents that occurred in a sort of unique bubble of its own. Bringing the perpetrators to justice - which absolutely should be done - also gives the outraged a false sense of security that the "bad guys" are out of commission. What does this then mean? It means that omnivores can continue eating their turkey burgers, omelets and whipped cream coffee drink confections without a whiff of guilt by association. The psycho has been locked up. There is a problem, though: the animal products industries are constructed on a shared model of exploitation. Once you can say "what's yours is mine," meaning the milk, the eggs, the flesh that came from another, you are participating in a system that is firmly anchored in oppression. This is not to say that the people who work in animal agriculture are all deranged sadists torturing animals with crowbars. People tend to point to the exceptions, the idyllic little family farms with the red barns we have in our collective psyche, and convince themselves that this is the norm. It is not. Simply put, these quaint farms with the red barns cannot produce what the masses demand. The concentrated feeding operations and their practices are, instead, the norm, and they are the natural conclusion of getting demand for animal products met. (I should also point out that the sweet little farms that produce animal products are also built on a foundation of exploitation, just one that is less overtly abusive.)

Far more often than people would like to believe, the journey from farm (farm used in the loosest sense possible in the vast majority of cases) to plate or glass is steeped in harrowing, unjustifiable violence simply because of what it is. I mean harrowing, unjustifiable violence on top of that regular ol' violence that is inflicted whenever there is a desire for something that doesn't just happily hop on our plates, squirt milk into our glasses and otherwise gladly surrender her body for our cravings.

The process through which we make peace with the inherent injustice of how we treat non-humans occurs because of objectification, the largely unconscious fragmentation system through which sentient beings are turned into objects. It is easier for the mind to integrate the misuse of objects than the abuse of living beings. Through this process, individuation collapses: all cows, all hens become a single entity to be turned into product. Those who are in power have their interests interpreted as a natural right rather a personal desire. When our interests require the subjugation of another, objectification makes the acquiring of what we want that much easier. How do we begin to fragment living birds into deep-fried pieces inside a bucket, cows into hamburgers with ketchup and onions in a paper sack? They were not individual living beings: they were moving objects created to be segmented and formed into patties. The omnivores who are angered at Conklin Farms are denying or not understanding something very fundamental to animal agriculture, that it is intrinsically violent at its core. Again, it is violent because it is based on the notion that what's yours is mine. I understand people are saying, Yes, we want to eat our meat and drink our milk. Being cruel along the line, though, is unacceptable. The whole concept of taking from another when it's unnecessary and causes harm is, at the very least, ethically problematic. The abuser was just a short detour on that same path, and the people who don't want to change their eating practices are reluctant to admit that animal agriculture is based on exploitation that easily turns violent, even before the gruesome end. If they admit it and do not change their ways then they are accepting culpability. Again, fragmentation. It is easier to accept that a handful lunatics are running loose than that the very system of objectification breeds a culture of violent lunacy.

Why would the industries abuse the animals beyond what is necessary to turn cows into milk machines? Don't they need healthy suppliers? Why expend that energy when it's not necessary? Because they have been driven to insanity by the industry and because they can.

Violence associated with objectification is not isolated to non-human animals, of course. Look at the Nanking Massacre. Look at the concentration camps. The people were going to be killed, did they have to be raped, experimented upon, brutalized along the way? There is an insanity that accompanies institutionalized violence. Historically, where there is pervasive objectification, there is a terrifying violence that goes beyond the standard practice. We have a term for this: war crimes. This also shows our willful fragmentation. There is the accepted violence of war, and then there is "unnecessary" violence. This is the stuff that makes us uncomfortable. Rape, torture, brutal beatings, pillaging communities, enslavement. With objectification, this becomes standard practice because with objectification, any brutality becomes acceptable. When omnivores are decrying Conklin Farms, they fail to acknowledge the essential objectification, and thus the essential violence, of animal agriculture.

I believe that our job as animal advocates is to supplement the important exposés with the message that taking what doesn't belong to us is an intrinsically exploitative practice, and that the threat of violence (again, beyond what is accepted as necessary) naturally accompanies such a mentality. I am not expecting people to drop all animal products tomorrow. I am not expecting people to even reduce their consumption. But I am also not willing to be complicit in a lie: in the most diplomatic but honest way possible, I will tell people that when there is exploitation and objectification, our minds fragmentize and madness is just a heartbeat away. Where there is madness, violence is right around the corner. Anything else is a myth.

The Pleaser's Guide to Pissing People Off

It happened. You went and pissed someone off.

He may or may not think that you're a selfish, egotistical jerk. She may or may not think that you're a rude, thoughtless dolt. Oh, this person may or may not be thinking it, all right.

Despite this, I am reasonably certain that I can assure you all or most of the following: you will not be stabbed in the shower; squirrels and children alike will not heckle you as soon as you step outdoors; your heart will not rot from within because of your irredeemable vileness; the sun will not shrivel and dissolve into a sticky, boiling sludge because of all the international venom directed at you; there is no life-sized voodoo doll of your person with giant pins stuck all over it; your entire town will probably not turn their backs upon you in one collective, community-wide snub. If you are someone who likes to please, and those of us homo sapiens who are not sociopathic narcissists have this survival instinct to a greater or lesser extent, it can feel pretty cataclysmic sometimes when you know you've pissed someone off. Depending on the sort of home you grew up in, you might think that you can control the outcome of situations if only you avoid stepping on any toes. Don't talk to Mom before she's has her first cup of coffee; don't mumble around Dad. The problem is that you can't control most outcomes and in life, toes will be trod upon, intentionally and inadvertently. Sometimes the right thing to do is apologize. Sometimes, though, you will be expected to even if you didn't do anything wrong. Or you did do something "wrong" but it wasn't really wrong because it was was well-intentioned, honest or unavoidable. This guide is for those times.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assert that it's kind of good that you want to please. Kindness and sensitivity are good qualities. At the very least, society would be pretty unpleasant to live in if we all just lived by our own whims. You may have noticed something about those who don't care about pleasing others: they can be very unlikeable. This is the sort of person who lacks empathy and compassion, who, if you were to say, "Hmm, you know, it rather hurts me when you try to run me over with your car," would say, "Really? Too bad because I enjoyed that and so I'm going to continue," as he gleefully puts the car in reverse to plow you over from a different direction. Not literally but figuratively. You are not this kind of person, despite the fact that someone might currently be pissed at you. The person who is pissed at you might make you feel like you tried to run him over with your car because, frankly, it might feel that way to him. You didn't. (Right? If you did, go loiter somewhere else.) What's an emotionally thin-skinned person to do when your natural instinct is to throw yourself on the ground and beg for forgiveness?

Give yourself a time-out

Take a moment. Let the feeling wash over you. The fear in the pit of your stomach, the jitteriness. You're scared of it? I understand. Still, sit with it without judgment. Give it a name: scared, nervous, rejected. The feeling gets worse if you try to ignore it or push it away. Feel it and release it. The reality of the situation is that it's not so awful, right? No rhinoceros is chasing you with steam coming out of his flared nostrils. You're likely feeling fear; the problem pleasers have is that of proportion. We take pissing people off to be much more monumental than it probably needs to be. So take a time-out before you respond.

Keep things in perspective

Was what you did really that bad? Was it intentionally hurtful? If it was, did it need to be said or done? Is it the end of the world? Remember that rhinoceros from above? I read something from a Buddhist monk once where he said that the height of suffering and pain is self-absorption. This is to say that when you lack perspective and connection, everything is life or death. We're uncentered. The fact of the matter is that the world keeps spinning. The sun rises and sets every day, even if your friend Nancy has been distant and the librarian gave you a dirty look for some inexplicable reason. Life goes on. Your monkey mind will chatter all kinds of nonsense into your ears if you let it. Instead, breathe in, breathe out...

Act as-if

Think of the most carefree person you know, the one who seems to skip everywhere she goes, is quick to laugh, lives with an infectious joie de vivre. Let's call her Didi. Imitate her. When you have pissed someone off and it's not really your fault but your stomach still hurts and your throat is all dry, imitate Didi. What does it feel like inside to be Didi? Kind of awesome, right? Even if it is all an illusion, even if Didi is hopped up on happy pills and punches her pillows at night, imitate the illusion.

Talk it out

Call a neutral friend, one who is supportive of you but also honest. Ask if you could have a little bit of her time while you talk through an issue with her. If she's a real friend, she'll be honored that you care about her opinion. Try to present the situation with fairness and as much honesty as you can muster. Chances are, you'll feel at least 63 times better after talking to a friend. You'll have perspective; your burden will be lighter.

Be gentle with yourself

The pleaser's natural impulse often is to add to the pile-on. "He's right! I am a no good, self-centered loudmouth. He forgot to add that I am also impatient and worthless. Let me add that to the list." Somehow we have the notion that beating ourselves up is necessary, even purifying. It's not. It's just adding an extra coat of pain that you don't need. Why not turn that desire to please inward a little? Be gentle and kind to yourself. Don't accept meanness, least of all from yourself. Give yourself an extra iced tea, take a walk after dinner, go to the beach. A little gentleness goes a long way.

Write it out

Writing out your feelings can be very cathartic. Allow yourself to write without editing, without your inner-critic. Just write it out, warts and all, and tear it up or burn it. Imagine your worries dissolving as the paper disappears.

Do not apologize!

If you have clarity that you did nothing wrong, please don't apologize. Even if you're just apologizing to get someone off your back, it causes harm to your self-esteem (and gives a bully a sense of victory) if you apologize for something you didn't do wrong. It sucks to say, "I'm sorry you feel that way," but sometimes that's the best you can do. Apologizing when you didn't do anything wrong is like apologizing for existing. Be kind, be compassionate, but don't do it!

Ask questions and learn

Is there something to take away from the experience? Are you gravitating toward people who demand apologies a lot? Are you someone who miscommunicates a lot and creates misunderstandings? What could you have done different? What could you do different in the future? Calm your mind and see what emerges.

To sum up: if you did something wrong, apologize, If you didn't, don't. In any case, the world will keep spinning, gravity will still be in effect, and no angry mob is likely going to chase you out of town with flaming sticks.

It's time to move on.

The PETA Effect

"Are you one of those PETA people?"

If you've done outreach for any length of time, this question will be familiar to you. It's usually accompanied with defensive body language and a frown. I'm sure that it sounds strange when I assure the people asking me that I probably dislike PETA every bit as much as they do, if not more. People are a lot more receptive once they hear this. This is because of what I've come to call the PETA Effect.

When you have small enough numbers and your goal is to spur a dialogue that motivates people into adopting major internal and external shifts, it helps to be at the top of your game. As vegans, we're supposed to be shining examples of excellence from head-to-toe but not too much because then the scale tips more toward "goody two-shoes sitcom parent from the 1950s" and that's just annoying. Vegan ambassadors are supposed to be great examples but the problem is that we're all, you know, human. As such, we all have areas of weakness. I know that sarcasm is my default coping mechanism, I'm quick to anger and my husband has told me many times that I could use a smidge more patience. Realizing that perfection is both unattainable and undesirable, I strive to just do better than my worst instincts would dictate if they were in the driver's seat. I do occasionally just hand my wild-eyed, unreasonable, sort-of-insane self the keys while my better self happily takes a break in the passenger's seat but it's rare these days. She's a maniac behind the wheel and I always end up having to apologize for her. She was not created from too many plant antioxidants or Morrissey albums: she is part of me with or without my veganism.

It's estimated that vegans in the United States are currently rocking out at one percent of the total population. While it makes my pulse quicken just a little to think of that many vegans in one place - imagine how much fun we would have swapping ghoulish tales of communal family Thanksgiving meals! - it still, really, is pretty paltry given that it can only mean that non-vegans are at about 99% of the population. There are scant few of us despite the exceptionally big splash we have made on the world at large, which is very encouraging, of course. Vegans are referenced in popular culture, are brought up in every day conversation, are a tiny demographic given a disproportionate amount of consideration by big business. Much of this is due to PETA's long shadow, but it is also because we're a dynamic, vibrant community of movers-and-shakers. We're culture builders, small but mighty. What other subcultures are given as much consideration? Do origami enthusiasts have so much influence on popular culture and public discourse? LaRouchians? Wiccans? Vegans are uniquely both apart from and of the larger communities in which we live and we leave our mark on these communities in countless ways: on menus, in public policy debates, on library shelves. Given this, and given that people in general have very short attention spans, whatever is said loudest is usually what is remembered. Thus, I would like to suggest that PETA's promotion machine just take a little retreat somewhere. Maybe they can go to Vermont or northern California for a long weekend, maybe even a week. While there, they can meditate until their last "go naked!" Tourette's Syndrome-like impulse has been purged from their minds, do team building exercises that do not include brainstorming novel ways to piss off herbivores and big game hunters alike, and come back when they're not spewing out an endless stream of random nonsense like the proverbial crazy guy on the park bench. Would that be too much to ask? They can learn to take deep cleansing breaths whenever they feel the urge to put up a billboard with an ill-conceived, sophomoric double entendre. They can learn to do finger mudras instead of hitting the send button whenever it's time to send out the latest Sexiest Vegetarian Alive contest press release. They can learn to visualize successful, creative and meaningful campaigns that don't involve shaming or exploitation. They will leave Vermont or northern California refreshed, revived, ready to use their millions effectively.

A woman can dream.

The problem with PETA is that they put the wild-eyed, unreasonable, sort-of-insane person in the driver's seat way too much of the time and the rest of the world's vegans are expected to apologize for this. Apologize for this while never apologizing for our own passionately held values. For every smart, creative and truly helpful campaign PETA creates, there are dozens more they release into the world screeching like fireworks, like feral, poop-flinging, misanthropic banshees. "Look at me! Listen to me! I don't even know what I have to say but I want you to listen to it! Look: boobies! Go veg, you disgusting, fat schlub! Aaaah!!! Vegetables will make you skinny! Booooobies!" Anything clever or useful gets buried under a barrage of ridiculous stunts. Why is this? Because somewhere along the line, like that self-centered jerk you broke up with as soon as you developed common sense, PETA decided that what works best for them is not only in their best interest, it is their main decisive interest. And what works best for PETA is to get their name in front of the public: it is not to save the most animals, to challenge prevailing attitudes, to create a less violent world. If it were, they wouldn't use lowest common denominator tactics (roughly 60% boobies, 30% insults, and 10% messaging of unidentifiable purpose) that cause so many people to reject their message immediately because they cannot abide the delivery. The ethical argument is handily on their side but because they use such abrasive, abusive tactics, they lose that clear advantage and place themselves instead on the side of bullies and tyrants. If other vegans are painted by the same brush by the public at large as PETA, and we are, so be it.

To the public mind, PETA represents the views of all vegans, thus we are always needing to undue their damage example after example. We inherit the burden of proving to the omnivorous world, as if they weren't already resistant to the idea of reevaluating their own privileges, that even though we are a mere one percent of the population, PETA does not speak for all of us or our values. We are not all feral, poop-flinging, misanthropic banshees. I have a dear friend who is Catholic: do I assume that she is bombing clinics and stalking abortion providers in her spare time? No, because she's not. The issue is that there are many, many more Catholics than vegans so even though the behavior of a few might create some presumptuous beliefs about Catholics, there are enough of them that they are perceived as unique, specific individuals. We don't have this same luxury as vegans.

This is not to say that we should all walk in lockstep. The more of us who can reflect to the world that we are unique individuals with diverse opinions and interests, the better. What PETA's doing is not this, though. They are in a truly bizarre position of being perceived as "radicals" while what they're really doing is reinforcing much of the status quo (fat people suck, they are stupid and lazy) and pushing for welfare reforms that are not too far removed from the prevailing attitudes. PETA is so predictable and lazy thinking with their attention-seeking escapades, usually the very antithesis of anything clever and penetrating, that they have created a white noise that they need to shriek ever louder above in order to be heard. And with their publicity seeking, they have also strategically painted themselves in the corner, unable to generate interest in nuanced, effective campaigns. This is entirely their fault. Consumption of animals is not lower than it was in 1980, when PETA was founded. This says to me that PETA, as probably the most well-known animal advocacy organization alongside HSUS, should be reevaluating their strategies.

I understand that a good many dedicated, hard-working people with heartfelt convictions work for PETA. They came to PETA to work on behalf of animals, to try to improve their lives. The beast that PETA has become, though, is different than the sum of its parts. Over the years, PETA has become a mirror through which we see all our cultural prejudices, obsessions and superficialities reflected back at us, just with a twist of vegetarianism. It is not PETA's fault that we live in a dumbed-down, misogynist and shallow culture: it is their fault that they adopt these same values with their outreach instead of trying to create an altogether new paradigm. Yes, they get media. Is this always good? If it makes people think that vegans are a bunch of flaky, half-crazed bullies, then my answer would have to be no. If their tactics were crude and mean-spirited but effectively managed to save a lot of animals' lives, I would have to evaluate that. With the prominent message one of shaming and exploitation rather than one that both challenges and encourages, they do not get much mileage past the initial attention they generate. This is a huge waste of a lot of money, time and dedication.

The PETA Effect has come into existence because they have cynically decided to not only accept the terms dictated by the worst aspects of the mainstream world, but to be a part of it. Instead of questioning misogyny, they wallow in it. Instead of thoughtful, insightful analysis, they have women citing statistics while stripping on camera. Instead of rejecting the notion that we all need to be young, slim, and, more often than not, surgically enhanced to be attractive, they embrace it fully, and they also tell us that objectification for the "cause" is a worthy endeavor. They tell a nation already deeply battered by this message that if you are not young, slim and conventionally attractive, you are worthless and disgusting. What does this have to do with compassion to animals? How does this improve a battery chicken's life? How does this make the skeptical public more receptive to questioning their values? It doesn't.

So, please, PETA, take a little retreat. You deserve it! The media will still be here when you return, I promise. Then you can try something new, something truly shocking for PETA: challenge the deeper privileges and attitudes that set the stage for exploitation, disconnection and violence. Can you imagine what you could accomplish with your budget and dedication? Maybe then you'll realize your potential and the PETA Effect will actually come to mean something else, something positive and powerfully forward-thinking. Until then, PETA, please remember the rest of us and keep the lunatic out of the driver's seat.

To My Son on Mother's Day, 2010...

My sweet boy,

This is one crazy planet.

You know all about the galaxies and solar systems and you share with me amazing new facts about obscure space-related trivia every day, that, honestly, I'm not always listening all that well to because I've got a million other thoughts that seem to always be bubbling over on the front burners. But that's not all. I know that your brain and spirit are nearly bursting with enthusiasm for what's out there: nebulas (oh, my goodness, they are actual star nurseries!) and the unfathomable vastness of space and black holes. It's just that thinking about space has always made me feel a little queasy in much the same way that I feel when I contemplate the idea of eternity. That when I die, I could very well be gone forever, registering no more than the merest of blips in the universe, if that. Space makes me think of death, of an incomprehensible, limitless, unearthly place, of the ultimate black hole. This might be why I blank out when you talk about space, my sweet boy: it scares me. Death scares me to, well, death. What gets to me the most, I guess, is how much I love this life. I love sitting here and drinking tea, writing in our sun room in this sweet home our family created together. I love the cardinals singing outside now that it's springtime and watching you skip down the street, your hair whooshing. I love your father and how much he still adores me, despite knowing what a mess I am. I love my amazing friends and your little smudgy nose and the way our little lilac bush scents the whole back yard. I am not ready to be sucked into that void or melt away into a pile of bones. The idea that I'd never hold your hand or hear you laugh again, ahh, it's just too much. Loving so much can be bittersweet sometimes.

How can I put this? We humans are a bunch of colossal fuck-ups. Okay, don't say that word. We're screw-ups. As you and you friends run on the playground at school, oil is gushing out onto the Gulf of Mexico, a thick black pool of unctuous, stinky poison shooting out. Aquatic birds, fish, gone. As you draw me pictures of the space ship you created in your mind, your beloved whales with their enormous hearts, dazzlingly bright dolphins and elderly sea turtles that successfully dodged tiger sharks succumb to the volcanic deluge of crude oil. This is why we don't watch the news; I can't bear to let you see, with your pure, trusting heart, what we foolish grownups have wrought yet again. The world is going to worm its way into your awareness, though, and then I fear that you'll hate me for being part of it. After more than a year without one, we have a car again. Although this car takes you on day trips to the forest where you go on UFO crash site explorations and weekends away to Michigan with friends, this car also means that we're officially more a Part of the Problem than we were before. Life is full of compromises, that's a cliché you'll hear a lot in your lifetime. Isn't that lousy? I'm not so keen on these sort of compromises. They feel like lies, like a slow, settling cynicism. Being an idealist will break your heart sometimes, not at all once but bit by bit, guitar strings being snapped. The beauty of it is, though, is that really, to survive with your spirit intact, it's simple to just re-string, next time with more resilient, supple strings.

What the hell am I talking about?

I guess that this is part of life, reconciling the kindheartedness and vitality and impossible beauty with the child abuse and cancer and sea lions covered in oil. Is this why we think we need to suffer to succeed, to internalize the drama of this endless conflict? When I just return to the breath as countless gurus have patiently reminded us or get to the calm feeling behind the knot in my stomach, I am forced to return to this very moment, and the scale tips in favor of beauty again or least it all becomes much more bearable. This exquisite life, this irredeemably flawed world: somehow, it snaps together. Trust me. You have to work at it sometimes, but the act of allowing these two powerfully dichotomous parts to coexist, or at least accepting that they do, will help to bring you peace of mind. Go with the flow, as they say, but make waves where you need to in order to live your truth. Life doesn't need to be hard, though. Please remind yourself this: life doesn't need to be hard. Self-created suffering will not bring you redemption. Self-created suffering will bring you, yeah, you guessed it...suffering. Wisdom, too, once you break the cycle.

Back before you were born, I worked at an animal shelter for five years. I would see the absolute lowest forms of humanity - the people who would set cats on fire and fight dogs for fun and profit - alongside the very best, the pinnacle of humanity. These are the people who would be outside in the middle of January trying to rescue strays on the streets, the ones who seemed to radiate with kindness. For every person who would call the city to file a complaint about the senior citizen who was giving bread crumbs to the pigeons, there was a person collecting the bread crumbs. For every monster who would fight a dog, there was a person who wanted to adopt that dog, no matter if he was missing an eye, how scarred his muzzle was. The dogs and cats themselves were peerless teachers. The dog who'd been kept chained outside all his life, frost-bitten and malnourished, he would still wag his tail when a stranger would walk into the kennel. He'd known only the smallest measure of kindness, maybe none at all, but he still saw the best in us. I saw cats who'd been set on fire, rubbing their raw skin against the wire cage, purring with delight at seeing a person come into the room. (One stranger returns my smile with a dirty look, doesn't thank me for holding open the door, and I am ready to write off all of humanity: I'm still learning about optimism, grace and forgiveness from the shelter animals.) I think that the world is a forgiving place, too: humanity has just got to stop committing acts that require so much forgiveness so much of the time.

Kindness, patience, lightness: I'm working on it, my sweet boy.

You, on the other hand, will walk up to strangers and hand them dandelions. You will tell children at school who are being mean to you that you just want to be friends. The part of me that has been so hurt by the world wants to scream, "Don't do that! Do not give anyone the power to reject you," because I can't stand the thought of anyone trampling your kindhearted, trusting nature. I have worked very hard to become more thick-skinned, less vulnerable to others. I have failed miserably. I see your wide open heart and I wince in recognition and as your mother because all I want to do is protect it. I am learning to trust that beneath it all, you can bounce back from rejection, that you will find others who will happily accept your dandelions, your friendship. You are resilient and strong and still compassionate. You are teaching me, like the animals in the shelter, that we can be all of the above.

I started this letter thinking that I could share some wisdom but I just realized that you are the one teaching me. There are agonies in this world, really, really horrible things. There is tremendous beauty, grace. You can survive the former and I hope you will continue to seek out the latter, a plant reaching toward the sun. Yes, oil is pouring into the ocean and it's going to take a lot of work but we'll fix it, somehow. Somehow. We all are imperfect, even you, with your gorgeous dark eyes, your angelic profile. We all make compromises, even you with your pure spirit. It's part of being a fully realized person. Just keep reaching toward the sun, my sweet boy.

I love you,

Mom