People often ask why I do not eat meat. I can never think of a concise answer, because I have many reasons, not all of them easy to explain. Often I just give the one that will satisfy the most people, even though it explains the least: I refrain from taking life as part of my practice of Buddhism.
It started in the fall of my sixteenth year, when my mother found an excellent deal on chicken leg quarters at the IGA supermarket. Growing up impoverished in the Taiwanese south had given her a strong frugal streak, so she bought enough chicken to fill up the entire freezer.
As my mother hated cooking, she worked out an ingenious scheme for expediting weeknight supper. Each weekend, she would broil as many chicken leg quarters as would fit in the oven, dice them up, and keep them in the refrigerator, ready for use.
I did not--and do not--begrudge my mother for saving money or time. After a month of bland, chewy broiled chicken, however, I was ready to snap. Raised in Chinese fashion, I harbored no notion of asking my mother to vary the menu. So I started making ramen for myself when I got home from school, arguing that I was too hungry to wait, then skipping dinner to study (and/or play MUDs).
Once soccer season arrived, though, I regularly made it home later than my parents and could no longer use hunger as an excuse to make my own meals. So I came up with a reason that I thought would pass the filial piety test: vegetarianism.
It did not impress my parents.
My mother, perhaps more perceptive than I gave her credit, insisted that I hated her cooking. There was no fighting her on that one. My father calmly explained that I could not possibly get enough protein to survive his PT regimen and varsity soccer without eating meat. I, with the stubbornness I inherited from him and perhaps a bit of teenage defiance, insisted that I most certainly could.
I did some research on nutrition and presented it to my father. He remained unconvinced. I kept a journal of what I ate for several days, demonstrating that I got plenty of protein. This annoyed him, but he knew too much biology to argue that protein from meat was qualitatively different from the protein in other foods. Reluctantly, he allowed me to continue, convinced that I would grow out of the phase soon enough.
Ironically, I might not have stuck to vegetarianism if my father had just let it alone from the start. The fact that I fought him (amicably) over the issue and won meant a lot to me, and thereafter my diet represented one of the few areas I controlled in my highly regimented life.
As the years passed, I often considered eating meat again--and at times have done so in limited capacities. I have a strong aversion to habits that do not serve any purpose, and make regular audits of my habits in order to eliminate or change unnecessary ones. My vegetarianism has survived several such audits, emerging at last with renewed conviction.
It started in the fall of my sixteenth year, when my mother found an excellent deal on chicken leg quarters at the IGA supermarket. Growing up impoverished in the Taiwanese south had given her a strong frugal streak, so she bought enough chicken to fill up the entire freezer.
As my mother hated cooking, she worked out an ingenious scheme for expediting weeknight supper. Each weekend, she would broil as many chicken leg quarters as would fit in the oven, dice them up, and keep them in the refrigerator, ready for use.
I did not--and do not--begrudge my mother for saving money or time. After a month of bland, chewy broiled chicken, however, I was ready to snap. Raised in Chinese fashion, I harbored no notion of asking my mother to vary the menu. So I started making ramen for myself when I got home from school, arguing that I was too hungry to wait, then skipping dinner to study (and/or play MUDs).
Once soccer season arrived, though, I regularly made it home later than my parents and could no longer use hunger as an excuse to make my own meals. So I came up with a reason that I thought would pass the filial piety test: vegetarianism.
It did not impress my parents.
My mother, perhaps more perceptive than I gave her credit, insisted that I hated her cooking. There was no fighting her on that one. My father calmly explained that I could not possibly get enough protein to survive his PT regimen and varsity soccer without eating meat. I, with the stubbornness I inherited from him and perhaps a bit of teenage defiance, insisted that I most certainly could.
I did some research on nutrition and presented it to my father. He remained unconvinced. I kept a journal of what I ate for several days, demonstrating that I got plenty of protein. This annoyed him, but he knew too much biology to argue that protein from meat was qualitatively different from the protein in other foods. Reluctantly, he allowed me to continue, convinced that I would grow out of the phase soon enough.
Ironically, I might not have stuck to vegetarianism if my father had just let it alone from the start. The fact that I fought him (amicably) over the issue and won meant a lot to me, and thereafter my diet represented one of the few areas I controlled in my highly regimented life.
As the years passed, I often considered eating meat again--and at times have done so in limited capacities. I have a strong aversion to habits that do not serve any purpose, and make regular audits of my habits in order to eliminate or change unnecessary ones. My vegetarianism has survived several such audits, emerging at last with renewed conviction.
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