Note: I am reblogging this in honor of World Awareness Day on December 1st.
This piece of commentary was previously aired on This Way Out, the LGBTQ news and culture syndicate headquartered in Los Angeles and published in The Huffington Post.
Every now and then comes that rare book that brings your life rushing back to you. How To Survive A Plague: The Inside Story of How Citizens and Science Tamed AIDS by David France (Knopf 2016) is one such book.
The book chronicles the AIDS epidemic from the early 1980s – when the mysterious “gay cancer” started appearing — to 1995 when hard-won advancements in research and pharmaceuticals made AIDS a virus that people lived with rather than a disease that people died from.
It was an epidemic of massive proportions. As France writes:
“When the calendar turned to 1991, 100,000 Americans were dead from AIDS, twice as many as had perished in Vietnam.”
The book chronicles the scientific developments, the entwined politics, and medical breakthroughs in the AIDS epidemic. AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome) is a chronic infectious condition that is caused by the underlying human immunodeficiency virus known as HIV. The book also chronicles the human toll which is staggering.I came out in 1981 and while the devastation France writes about was not my world, it was very close to my experience.
In my book Tea Leaves, a memoir of mothers and daughters (Bella Books, 2012), I write about how volunteering at an AIDS hospice helped me to care for my mother when she became terminally ill:
“The only caregiving I had done at that point was tending to an old cat and reading poetry to the patients at an AIDS hospice, called Betak, that was in our neighborhood. A friend of ours, who was a harpist, had started a volunteer arts program for the patients. She played the harp, [my partner] Barbara came and brought her drum sometimes, and I read poetry. These were poor people—mostly African American men—who were in the advanced stages of AIDS and close to death. The experience let me see how fast the disease could move.”
In those days, the women’s community (what we then called the lesbian and feminist community) was mostly separate from the gay male community. Understandably, gay men and lesbians had our differences. But there was infighting in every group. Rebellion was in the air, and sometimes we took our hostilities out on each other.
Still, gay men and lesbians were also allies and friends (something that is reflected in France’s writing).
I’ll always remember the time my partner and I took a bus to Washington D.C. with the guys from ACT-UP (the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power, an international activist group that is still in existence) from Philadelphia to Washington D.C. to protest for reproductive rights. The women then went to protest with ACT-UP at AIDS-related protests. Remember the die-ins in the streets?
One thing that lesbians and gay men had in common was that we lived in a world that was hostile to us. At that time, many gay men and lesbians were in the closet because we were vilified by society and in danger of losing our employment, families, housing and, in more than a few instances, our lives.
AIDS activism necessitated coming out of the closet. Hate crimes against us skyrocketed.
There is much in this book that I did not know, even though I lived through the era. In 1986, in protest of the Bowers v. Hardwick ruling of the US Supreme Court (which upheld a Georgia law criminalizing sodomy – a decision that was overturned in 2003), about 1,000 angry people protested in a small park across from the legendary Stonewall Inn in New York City, where the modern gay rights movement was born after a series of riots that started after a routine police raid of the bar.
At that same time, Ronald Reagan (then president) and the President of France François Mitterrand were celebrating the anniversary of the gift of the Statue of Liberty.
“’Did you hear that Lady Liberty has AIDS?” the comedian [Bob Hope] cracked to the three hundred guests. “Nobody knows if she got it from the mouth of the Hudson or the Staten Island Ferry.’”
“There was a scattering of groans. Mitterand and his wife looked appalled. But not the Reagans. The first lady, a year after the death of her friend Rock Hudson, the brunt of this joke, smiled affectionately. The president threw his head back and roared.”
How to Survive A Plague is told in stories, including the author’s own story. This is apt because the gay rights movement was full of stories and — because of the epidemic — most of those stories were cut short.
Almost every June, my partner and I would be part of the New York Pride Parade and every year we would pause for an official moment to honor our dead. The silence was cavernous.
This silence extended to entire communities. A gay male friend, amazed when his test came back negative, told me that most of his address book was crossed out. He would walk around the “gayborhood” in Center City Philadelphia surrounded by the haunting places where his friends used to live.
And we were all so young then.
When I turned the last page of How To Survive A Plague, I concluded that this is a very well-done book about a history that is important in its own right. The plague years also represent an important part of the American experience. And an understanding of this history is imperative to the future of the LGBT movement.
Click here to read about Have You Seen This Man The Castro Poems of Karl Tierney edited by his literary executor Jim Cory
For those of you in the Los Angeles U.S. area I wanted to let you know about this event:
To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
This year my partner and I will be celebrating Thanksliving. In the past two years, we have gone vegan and reinvented our traditions.
Recently, I watched the film Gather on Netflix. Gather is a film about the growing movement among Native Americans to reclaim their health through food sovereignty. I highly recommend it. Toward the end of the documentary a young Native American woman points out that Thanksgiving is an American cultural holiday that lies about the past and celebrates white supremacy and colonization. No one can dispute that fact.
When I did a quick search on the historic origins of Thanksgiving, I read (from mainstream sources) that nothing we learned about Thanksgiving is true.
We are living and eating a lie. Thanksgiving is a tradition that is based on suffering. Added to the suffering of the Native people, is the suffering of the people (mostly women), many of whom still think that they have to make the perfect dinner.
The suffering of the turkey is also undeniable. In many households, the carcass is displayed on the table. In Buddhism and other spiritual traditions, it is taught that oppression is something that hurts the oppressor as much as the oppressed.
So this year it is my hope that all beings take a pause and think before they become gluttons for punishment.
Thanksgiving also has a strong association as a tradition where family comes together.
This is something that we are incorporating into our Thanksliving celebration. My partner is planning to veganize several recipes that she remembers her mother making.
There is no reason to eat suffering, to perpetuate lies, or to engage with our own self-destruction.
Remember, change is constant and people do change.
May all beings be free.
–Namaste–
To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
Recently, I went to The Cow Sanctuary in Bridgeton, NJ, to see our cow friend Sacred who went there to live. A farm animal sanctuary — where the animals are properly cared for — is a safe place where animals can live out their natural lives. As we found out in our friendship with Sacred, dairy cows are routinely sent to slaughter after they are done being milked. All other farm animals are slaughtered also. Farm animals — including eggs which could grow into farm animals if they were allowed to live — are part of the Western diet which is very bad for humans also.
So what’s bad for the animals is bad for the humans.
At The Cow Sanctuary, every animal had a story of how she or he got there — which I found fascinating.
Sacred came from a teaching dairy farm (where she had lots of student friends) so she was very social with Helga, the Sanctuary Owner, and the other animals. One of the other cows, who was rescued from a factory farm, did not want any contact with humans. Helga was very respectful of this. One of the pigs was rescued from a zoo and her next stop was the slaughter house but someone stepped in.
Here are some photos that I took when we visited:
Sacred and Barbara and her other team of human animals and the other cows in the background.Sacred makes a new friend!Sacred explores her new home.Two friends at once!I’m ready for my closeup!I wonder what the ground smells like today?This is where I like to sleep.
This morning I took part in a really nice Unitarian Universalist tradition service that talked about the Jain tradition — an ancient Buddhist tradition that is thriving in India and other parts of the world. During the service, I read a reflection about the first time I learned about the Jains and what my impressions were. I remarked that the most amazing thing to me was that the Jains were obviously happy people. In the midst of a world with so many unhappy people, I reflect that “it is a radical act to be happy.”
The YouTube video of the reflection is below and the text is below that. I hope the work has some meaning for you.
Good morning
When I first learned about the Jains, an ancient Buddhist religion in India that is thriving, I was intrigued.
Despite that my mother was named Jane (and at times referred to me as a little Jane-ette) and despite that my yoga and qigong teacher is named Jane, I am not a Jain.
I am a practicing Buddhist, but not a card-carrying Buddhist meaning that I don’t belong to any Buddhist organizations. But I am a member of the Unitarian Universalists. And when the UUs asked me to choose a root religion, I selected Buddhism. That is the spiritual tradition that feels most natural to me. This may be because I was raised secular.
I’m a Unitarian Universalist because this congregation, in particular, was so welcoming to me and my partner Barbara. Since becoming a Unitarian Universalist, I am more open and more knowledgeable about many religions – whereas before I tended to lump religions together and dismiss them.
For the past two-years, I’ve adhered to a plant-based diet for health reasons. The health results have been quite remarkable. Before that, my partner and I were thinking about going vegan out of compassion for the animals and the planet, but it took me having a health crisis to make the switch. This way of eating fits my life – especially since so many Buddhists are plant-based and so many people who follow a plant-based lifestyle are also Buddhist. Veganism is driven by kindness and compassion for all animals including human animals which we all are.
The world is changing. I was delighted when I found out about the UU Animal Ministry which supports the inherent worth and dignity of all beings.
So, when I first learned about the Jains, I was quite interested in their dietary habits. I wouldn’t describe them as vegan because the Jains come from a different part of the world where they have a different relationship to animals and plants than the people in the West. However, I would describe them as vegan-ish.
Mostly, what I remember from my first learning about the Jains is that they come across as happy people. In my experience, there is a strong connection between diet and happiness. As I was telling my partner, the fact that the Jains are so happy is, in itself, fascinating. In a world full of miserable people who treat each other, themselves, the other animals, and the earth so badly, it is a revolutionary act to be happy.
One of my Buddhist mantras is that I wish everybody the true roots of happiness because if people are truly happy, then they don’t have to oppress others to feel good about themselves.
I also wish for beings everywhere to wake up and be free.
–Namaste
To learn more about my recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
The following is an excerpt from my novel Cinnamon: a dairy cow’s path (and her farmer’s) to freedom
Ainsley knocked on the door of the ramshackle house. There was no answer.
“Looks like she’s not there,” shrugged Ainsley. “I forgot our bag of treats. I’m going back to the pickup.”
The largest cow I have ever seen, stuck her head over the fence and mooed softly at me. I moved closer to the wooden fence and put my hand out to stroke her furry nose. We were about the same height. Her hair was longer than any of my cows. Its glossy sheen reflected the sun.
I had heard that most cows would naturally have horns. Milking cows were dehorned at birth. I never did it – even though I did see it on my parent’s farm. When I was young, I once saw a farmhand take a saw and cut the horns off a spindly legged heifer. I felt very sad and ran home to ask Papa why they did it. He replied that they did it because it always had been done.
Someone had forgotten to dehorn this cow when she was a calf – or maybe they thought it would be a novelty to have a cow with horns.
“I see you found Beatrice, or maybe she found you,” said a smiling woman with high cheekbones who came up behind me. She had short blunt cut sandy brown hair. The ends of her hair brushed the collar of her red and black checked flannel shirt. There was something arresting about her. She had the radiant look of someone who was at peace with herself.
“You must be Helga,” I said, smiling back.
“Yes,” replied Helga. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you came in, but I was in the back feeding the pigs.”
I smiled when she said ‘pigs.’ There were pigs here.
“I can’t wait to meet them,” I commented.
Beatrice was sniffing my palm. She seemed to be expecting something.
My partner went back to the pickup, I said. “We left our bag of treats in the truck.”
“Treats are good,” said Helga. “Let’s get in my truck to go into the sanctuary. Then we’ll swing around to get your partner. We’ll visit the cows first and then the pigs.”
“Sounds good,” I replied.
Beatrice snorted as I pulled my hand away.
“Beatrice is a Brahman cow,” Helga told me as she heaved the gearshift of her green pickup. The truck was a model that dated back probably two decades. Old-style locks jutted from metal doors.
“She’s larger than most. Everybody thinks that Brahman cows are enormous but the females, on average, are just the same size as the Holstein. Obviously, she’s a little bigger than the rest,” pointed out Helga.
We picked up Ainsley in our silver pickup parked on the shoulder of the road in front of Helga’s house. Introductions were made. Helga explained to Ainsley that we had been talking about Beatrice, the Brahman cow, who greeted me.
Helga motioned with her arm and pointed to Beatrice. The cow had turned away from the fence and was trotting toward us.
“She’s very affectionate,” remarked Helga. I just fed her, so it’s more than treats that she wants.
“Wait a minute,” said Ainsley, “I brought something for her.”
Ainsley reached into a large vinyl bag, rummaged around, and produced a burlap bag full of sliced apples.
I was squished in the middle of the front seat in the cab.
“Go ahead,” said Ainsley, drawing back so I could reach my arm out the window.
Beatrice’s lips were cool and moist against my flat hand as she nibbled on the apple slices.
Two months after Mama had died, I was still moping around the house. The farm no longer interested me. I couldn’t go into the pasture, and I couldn’t open my mail. The mail was mostly bills anyway.
I had told Ainsley about the cow sanctuary months ago when Candace had first told me about it. Ainsley said nothing at the time – I took this as a comment about Candace. But apparently Ainsley had enough of my moping around after Mama’s passing and insisted that we take a day trip to the cow sanctuary.
I agreed, although inwardly I groaned and thought, Not more cows.
I had been curious about the sanctuary – but mostly I came because Ainsley suggested it. Ainsley had given up on job hunting and seemed happier.
Now that we were here, I was glad we had come. It was only a two-hour drive south of our farm, but it felt like a different world. There was a feeling of peace at the sanctuary, and it evoked another emotion in me that I couldn’t yet identify. I just knew that it felt expansive. I had the feeling of being larger than myself – and of being at peace in the world.
Plus, I really liked Helga.
“Most people think of bulls when they hear about Brahman cattle. Normally, I don’t like to use the word ‘cattle’ because it sounds so impersonal and it’s almost as bad as ‘livestock.’ These cows aren’t livestock. None should be. The cows who live here have their own personalities. They’re as unique as people. They’re like pets to me, but — really — they’re more than that. They’re beings.”
I nodded along with Ainsley.
A silence hung in the air indicating that it was our turn to talk. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but Helga broke it.
“So, tell me what brought you here?”
She stopped talking. Awkwardness hung in the air. There was so much that I could tell her, that it had all started with Cinnamon spying on me – or how I had nursed Spice back to health only to realize that she would be sent to slaughter in a few years. I couldn’t tell Helga that I thought Cinnamon was trying to talk to me. Helga might think I was crazy. I had just met her and didn’t want her to think I was irrational. I could tell Helga that I was here because nothing made sense any more since my Mama had passed. But if I told Helga that, I might break down crying and I didn’t know her well enough to risk looking like a mess. There were many things, I could say about why we were here. But I knew with a sinking sensation that at the bottom of things, I was a traditional dairy farmer. I was the enemy.
“Oh, we just needed a change of scenery,” answered Ainsley breezily. “Plus, we’re going vegan, and we heard about what you are doing, so here we are. I was wondering, Beatrice is so unusual – where did she come from?”
I looked at Ainsley lovingly — and gratefully.
“There’s a Hindu cow sanctuary about an hour away that’s going out of business. The owner is retiring so he sent his cows to live at several different sanctuaries. It was hard to break up the herd but at least they are safe, and Beatrice seems to like it here.”
“I’ve heard that Hindus worship cows,” I said.
Yes, many Hindus do worship cows. They consider cows the sacred caregiver. As I see it, the cow is the sacred feminine. Strict Hindus don’t eat meat or animal products. They are essentially vegans even if they don’t call it that. Of course, strict Hindus also oppose the rights of women – which doesn’t make sense.”
Ainsley and I both nodded.
“But they are right when it comes to the sacredness of cows. You’ve heard the saying ‘Holy Cow!’ – well that goes back to the cattle cults in Northern Africa. You may have heard of the goddess Hathor in ancient Egypt. She was often represented as a cow and there is evidence that she was worshipped for nearly 3,000 years.”
There was silence in the cab as Helga navigated the ruts of the pasture. As we lurched in our seats, I looked out the window. There were clumps of cows here and there, standing together. Some stood close – flicking each other with their tails — the way that Cinnamon and Spice did.
There were two mama cows standing side by side with their calves at the far end of the field. “The mother cows and their calves like to keep their distance,” said Helga as she followed my gaze. “I guess they feel like they are in their own little world.”
“Are there just female cows here or do you have male cows, too?” interjected Ainsley.
Helga laughed. It was the kind of laugh that filled the air with the sound of chimes. It was the kind of laugh that was genuine. Even her laughter was serene. She seemed to love what she did. I tried to imagine her doing something else but couldn’t.
“We call male cows bulls. Sometimes they are called steers – but that sounds too much like a steakhouse. We don’t have bulls yet, but we might have some soon. I got a call from an older farmer who wants to give me two mama cows and their male calves – who, of course, will grow into bulls. Before I take them, I have to build a fence in the pasture to keep the bulls and the cows separate.”
Achoo. I sneezed.
“I don’t have a cold,” I said after I had wiped my nose on a tissue that Ainsley magically presented to me. “But sometimes I have allergies. But I have noticed in the past month since I’ve given up dairy that my allergies are much better.”
“Dairy does tend to make people have excess mucus – not to mention what the hormones do. There are natural hormones in dairy – lactating mothers produce estrogen – plus most cows have unnatural hormones injected into them to make them grow bigger and give more milk.
I’m surprised that more people haven’t wised up. Eating dairy isn’t only supporting the industry that kills cows. It hurts people too.”
I nodded.
“Sometimes, the tree mold is bad here,” continued Helga. “We’ll stay away from the forest – but you can see it at the back of the pasture.”
I turned my head and looked in the direction where she was pointing.
“But I don’t see a fence in front of the trees,” I said.
“That’s because the forest is part of the pasture,” responded Helga. “The cows like to go back there and sit in the shade – especially when we have a hot day.”
I kept looking.
“I see several shadows that look like cows!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, that’s probably Robin and Cindy. Those are the ones who like to sit under the trees closest to the clearing. Unlike most Holsteins – which are black and white – Robin and Cindy are mostly black. That’s why they looked like shadows to you.”
Helga certainly knew her cows.
“It sounds like all of the cows in your herd have names,” remarked Ainsley.
“Of course, they do,” responded Helga. If they don’t have names when they come here, I give them names and I tell them that they are safe here and are going to live out their natural life spans. A cow can live from fifteen to twenty years. I’ve even heard of some that are older than that when they die.”
Helga sounded like she was reassuring herself that they could live longer. I imagined that she had certain special cows that she was especially fond of. A cow was a big pet to get attached to and fifteen to twenty years – I’d heard that some cows even live longer when they’re allowed to — was a long time.
I smiled reassuringly. I didn’t have a chance to speak since Helga kept on speaking after her pause.
“We’ve been here long enough that several cows have died of old age. And the other cows, particularly the ones those close to the deceased, mourn their dead like people do. I’ve seen cows shed tears, bellow, and search for their loved ones. When I worked on a dairy farm, I saw cows grieve for their calves for days. Boy calves on dairy farms are taken away and turned into veal. The mamas are also separated from their female calves. The mama cows have to go right back to milking, and their babies are brought up to be milked right after they get pregnant for the first time. It’s a barbaric system. One day I couldn’t do it anymore, so I quit. And here I am.”
I said nothing. I was feeling very guilty. First, I was wondering how many cows I had sent away to an early demise. We had always kept the cows until they were about five – because the slaughterhouses paid more for the younger ones. This meant that I had sent away more than I could count who were at least ten years away from the age they would die of natural causes — if they had been allowed to live.
Of course, this practice had started before I was an adult and in charge. Mama and Papa had sent the cows away after three milking cycles – just as their parents had done. At the thought of my parents who had died recently, I swallowed a sob.
A wave a guilt washed over me again. Despite that I was hurting, I had taken many lives. Despite that I wanted things to be different, I still felt guilty. I felt guilty because I was guilty. I had been complicit in many deaths – I had personally made the decision and signed the contracts for the cows to be sent away – for a price. I had blood on my hands.
As the sole living representative of generations of dairy farmers, I was even more complicit.
For a moment as this guilt enveloped me, I felt like I was drowning. Like a drowning person, I felt helpless. What was I going to do!? I felt so guilty that I could’ve screamed. I could have demanded that we leave the sanctuary – I could have defended the actions of Papa and Mama and their parents before them. I could’ve spent the ride home defending my right to the land and to continue to do things as they always had been done.
Instead, I decided to come clean. There was something about this place that demanded honesty and I knew I would feel better if I told the truth.
I saw that Ainsley was going to say something and come to my rescue again.
This was noble but unnecessary. I could come to my own rescue.
“I should tell you,” I confessed to Helga, “that I’m a dairy farmer – a conventional dairy farmer. I ran – run – a farm that’s been in my family for generations.”
I watched Helga’s eyes narrow as I talked. I knew she would be suspicious of me. After all, I was the enemy. But I kept talking. I told her about my cows Cinnamon and her friend Spice – how I suspected that Cinnamon was trying to talk to me and how I realized after nursing Spice back to health that I had only saved her to send her to slaughter in a few years. I didn’t care anymore if she thought that I was crazy. I told her that Mama had died—that Papa had died a few years ago, that I was an only child, and that nothing made sense anymore. When I told Helga this, I didn’t break down. I only suppressed a few sobs.
When I told Helga that I was unhappy, she looked at me very sadly.
She gave me a few moments to collect myself and then started asking me some very specific questions. I told her that my farm was a small one – twenty acres.
“How many cows do you have?” she asked.
“Forty-five,” I said, “oh, I mean thirty.”
Fifteen cows had been sent away, but I tended not to think about it. Actually, I had tried to block the knowledge of this out of my mind. But the cows were old enough to be sent away to be slaughtered, and I had needed the money, so they went. Even though the slaughterhouse sent the trucks at the dead of night, it had still happened.
I felt very guilty.
When Helga asked me if the land had been passed down to me and if it was paid for free and clear, I nodded.
“There’s no reason to feel bad about the past,” said Helga sadly.
“We all have regrets. But if you just feel bad about what’s been done, then you’re stuck in those feelings, and you can’t move forward.”
Helga smiled at me sadly. I took a breath and tried to smile back, but I found myself tearing up.
Helga took a breath with me. We sat in silence.
Ainsley was silent too.
“You can do this,” said Helga after a few moments of silence had passed. “You can change things. You can make life better for the cows and for yourself. It will be easier than you think it will be.”
I nodded.
The only thing I didn’t tell her was that Mama had left me some money. It wasn’t a lot. But my parents had always been frugal so there was more than I thought there would be. There was enough to provide me with a buffer so that I could make a change. I didn’t tell Helga this, because I thought it bad form to talk about inheriting money. To many, it was a sore spot. Someone else got what they thought they deserved or there was nothing when they thought there would be something. But I never thought about the future in terms of inheriting money. I didn’t expect my parents to die — and I hadn’t wanted my parents to die.
Suddenly I knew what the sensation was that I had been feeling – the expansiveness. It wasn’t the size of the land or the azure sky above us. It wasn’t that this was my favorite time of year – with the leaves starting to turn and the crickets singing.
The expansiveness I felt was freedom. The cows were going to live out their natural lifetimes – they were going to live for as long as God intended. This opened the future for me too. I would have a purpose and that purpose was to stop the killing – or at least part of it. Maybe it was small, but it was something.
I took a deep breath and smelled hope.
To learn more about The Cow Sanctuary, click here.
To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
I knew that I went to The Cow Sanctuary in Bridgeton NJ that I was going to a special place. But I had no idea how liberated I would feel. Maybe it’s the Buddhist chanting, but I felt an immense sense of freedom on this land where animals are sent to live where they are well cared for and where they can live out their natural lives.
Each animal has a story — our cow friend Sacred came from a teaching dairy farm (and had contact with the high school students) so she was very social with human animals and other animals. One of the pigs came from a zoo. Another dairy cow came from a factory farm and she abhors any contact with humans.
All of the animals would have been slaughtered if they were not rescued and sent to live at the sanctuary.
As Helga, who owns and operates The Cow Sanctuary, pointed out — every dairy cow is sent to be slaughtered after the farm is done milking her. (The cows are forcibly impregnated so that they will produce milk.) She emphasized that there is no such thing as an “Ethical” dairy.
Helga began her journey to creating her sanctuary as a dairy famer. When she found out that the dairy cows are routinely slaughtered after they are done being milked (usually after about three years) she could no longer be part of the industry.
You can visit her site and read more about her story here.
Here are some videos and photos that I took on our day at The Cow Sanctuary.
Here are some more photographs of the animals that I met at The Cow Sanctuary:
Helga and Barbara
Before I met Helga I included her as a character in my novel Cinnamon. My partner Barbara had been to The Cow Sanctuary and told me about meeting Helga.
Click here to read the chapter where Helga is mentioned.
Here are a few more videos of The Cow Sanctuary.
To learn more about my most recently published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
There’s a ton of reasons to go vegan. I went vegan for my health, for the animals, and for the planet.
in the looking glass — at The Cow Sanctuary
As an member of the LGBTQ community, I belong to a group that is encouraged to internalize oppression in the form of food and other addictive substances. (Think of the standard gay brunch and also of the alcohol companies that have historically underwritten Pride events). In my experience, there is a connection between food addictions and alcohol and drug addictions.
Since going plant-based, some of the most interesting research I’ve heard about is on how healthy plant-based diets can work to eliminate all addictions.
In the past five years, since the death of my father, I’ve also done some research of my paternal line — which is quite depressing and scary with people dying in their forties from conditions relating to heart disease and addictions.
These days, staying healthy is how I feed my rebellious soul. It may be a daily practice, but I am doing it.
So this year in honor of National Vegan Day, which really is everyday, I am bringing you links to my top vegan posts. Enjoy!
Janet Mason, author 