Tag: health

Ramblings from your favorite three-dollar bill

Laura Wild1 Comment

One of the less encouraging things that happened to me this year was when I got fired from my first writing internship. It had been an unpaid internship, and I’m not sure if that fact made my dismissal more painful or less. The position was at a quirky little agency in Portland where I was tasked with sourcing content for a new literary database, the eventual use for which I am still unclear. Naturally I was about as gung ho as any intern could be; I was stoked about shadowing an author of such apparent caliber, and every time I heard my then-boss drop a big name in the business I became more convinced that he was not a human, but a literary deity. Unfortunately, as I have found to be true before, my first impression was misguided. I held the position for about three weeks, for which I had uprooted my entire life, until suddenly one morning I was called into my superior’s office (a sick treehouse-like writing oasis) and sent on my way with an obviously repurposed Starbucks gift card.

 

This, of course, was shortly after I had begun working as a barista. In all fairness I had already come to terms with the fact that my position was not very rewarding for me anyway, and I guess my boss agreed that it was unfair to keep me on any longer. That I respected, but he also told me that if I had only had about ten years’ experience under my belt I would have been much more useful to the agency. I’m sure I don’t need to detail the irony of that statement. Alas, since I was in the fragile position of being a lone sojourner in a new city I had no choice but to look at the positive. I was happy that this internship had at least brought me to Portland, where for the first time I felt like I was more or less home.

 

I lived in the attic of a house that I shared with several other dudes in Alberta Arts district. I loved the area and rent was cheap, so I went for it without giving it too much thought. I spent my first Christmas away from home exchanging white elephant gifts with my roommates, and everything was just dandy until the perpetual rains of the Northwest produced a multitude of insect refugees that decided to hunker down in my attic. At first it was just an ant here or there, but little did I know my abode was soon to become a winter wonderland for microscopic squatters that would leave the scent of citronella ant guts lingering in my nose for months to come.

 

By March I had ants sharing my bed with me. From the windows to the wall, they could be found in every nook and cranny of my room. Ants manifested two of my space heaters to the point that they no longer worked. The worst part of it all was that my very lifestyle enabled their presence, and though I wasn’t opposed to using traps and poison to get rid of them, I was simply up against too many. Seasonal affective disorder had never felt like such a tangible illness and soon enough the madness had me tearing off the plastic around my draftiest window, the one with tiny cracks all around the edges, just to let a little light in. I think this was a turning point for the ants; were they really living in my room or in my head? I still can’t say for sure.

 

Luckily cannabis is legal in Oregon, and it can’t be surprising that a river rat like myself has been known to indulge in the substance from time to time. But was it coincidence that these six-legged fiends somehow seemed to show up every time I opened my window to cheef a quick bowl? I think not. I became convinced that those little fuckers were drawn to the aroma of a good dank herb just as much as anybody. They knew that a rainy day off for me meant a time of rich abundance for their colony, and so they eagerly awaited the mass of crumbs that fell from my bed like a feast every time they got a whiff of that botanical kryptonite. It was a vicious cycle; my frequent binges were their greatest and most reliable source of food.

 

A saga that is so comical in hindsight was at the time a small devastation to the fantasy I had envisioned for myself in the City of Roses. I had landed in Oregon during one of the coldest and rainiest winters in years, failed at a job that I considered to be a shoe-in to the NW writing scene and was subsequently displaced from my home by an army of tiny vermin. Always a sucker for drama, I can’t say I don’t at least appreciate the poetic value of my misfortune, but it’s taken me a while to get to this point. Ten months ago I made my last blog post, and since that time I have been struggling to find my way through this enduring creative dry spell. Last month my neglected website descended into domain purgatory and I nearly lost all of its content. I am beyond happy to have it back in working order, and though my stories may be less compelling than I had hoped, I feel lucky that I still have the opportunity to release them into the wild. The fact that my closest friends and family take the time to keep up with me on my journey makes me feel as validated as any readership could, and I’m just so thankful for you.

 

As I sit in my cozy gypsy caravan in the snow flecked foothills of Mt. Rainier, I feel more at peace than I have all year. I don’t know how I managed to score a life partner like the one who built this home with me, but every day that I wake up next to her I know I am doing A-okay. I am currently without a permanent residence, unemployed and unable to start school until next year. I am absolutely dripping in privilege, and the last thing I want to do is let these precious few months go to waste. Do I batten down the hatches and travel up and down the west coast? Write that novel that has been occupying the whole left side of my brain? Roll a few dubies down by the river? I only know what I’m definitely not going to do, and that is to let shame and insecurity get in the way of being my true self. In this time of corruption and uncertainty we can do nothing but assert our humanity, and I have found no feeling to be as liberating as giving in to my imperfections, hopefully finding the humor in them.

 

So much more easily said than done, the road to self-acceptance extends far beyond my vision and I’m sure I’ll be traveling it for some time. The past few months have been a whirlwind of both anticipation for the new life I am building and the reflection of the fast, fleeting summer I leave in my wake. I am no longer a lone sojourner in a new city but one half of a partnership that seems to grow stronger and more powerful by the day. It’s never been so easy to share everything that I have. Jenny possesses the same bold sweetness of that 12 year old girl I befriended ten years ago, but now holds in her presence a mysterious wisdom and poise that is both terrifying and electrifying. I did it, I got mushy and sentimental, but I’ve honestly never felt more entitled to it. Just the other day we were perched up on our rooftop patio in the prime real estate area of King’s Heights, where we were parked for the night above a city that seemed a hell of a lot smaller than it used to. It was one of the many times in my life that I became aware of the fact that I have everything in the world; that knowledge has so far been my best defense against the inevitable lows of adulthood.

The gray matter of veganism.

Laura Wild1 Comment

I always enjoyed consuming animal products. Though it’s been over five years since I’ve eaten any meat, I can’t deny that I don’t sometimes crave it, and I continue to occasionally consume animal by-products. The reasons I chose to eat more ethically are pretty standard;  I love animals, I’m horrified by factory farming, and think I’m healthier without eating meat. However, over the years I’ve also realized that simply not buying animal products is not a particularly effective way to end animal suffering, especially without being mindful of the numerous other ways I contribute to the meat industry. Recently I’ve begun to embrace a less rigid approach to veganism and I not only feel healthier but feel that my lifestyle is more sustainable, and in many ways has a greater impact on the lives of animals.

Like sexuality, spirituality or anything else one uses to identify themselves, dietary choices are not always something that can be easily explained. For me, being vegetarian is built on the basis of flexibility, and it seems to be working pretty well. It wasn’t always that way. When I first gave up meat I was happy to condemn everyone from ranchers to hunters and fisherman, but I still gladly consumed dairy products as my primary source of protein. I was in denial of the realities of the commercial dairy industry, and was somehow able to justify supporting it while I pointed my finger at other people. Since then my views have evolved, and I’ve come to accept that advocating a meat-free diet may not be the most practical way to support ethical consumerism.

In my experience I have found that some meat-eaters tend to view my lifestyle as privileged, and they aren’t necessarily wrong. When I look at the veg community in the Pacific North West, for example, I see a white-washed group of upper middle class liberals who are devoted to a strict brand of veganism that is not always welcoming to outsiders. A youtube search for vegan recipes brings up a multitude of videos made by urban stay-at-home moms, a demographic that only a small percentage of Americans can relate to. Do I condemn this group of people for their unbending and sometimes unattainable dietary choices? Not at all, I think it’s wonderful that some people have the resources to be healthy vegans and raise vegan families, but I do acknowledge that this is not the reality for many of us. Even I have trouble attaining the nutrient-rich vegetarian diet that I strive for, and I live a block away from Whole Foods. But it is not just the logistics of adopting a completely plant based diet that I struggle with, it is the elitism.

After volunteering on WiMo dairy farm, I was lucky to be able to eat all of the organic milk, eggs, cheese and yogurt that I wanted. While the conditions on the farm were not perfect (as I’ve detailed in some of my older posts) they were so much better than the norm. These cows were valued for more than the milk that they provided, and that made a world of difference. In Boulder, CO, raw milk is a hot commodity, and that is exactly where we sold the majority of our dairy products. Even with the support of the community, it’s important to note that the work required to maintain such an environment is not always economical; the farm I lived on never made a profit for their efforts, and barely broke even. When making a profit is the primary goal of a farm, the ethical standards start to drop significantly. As you can see in the picture above, mass-production dairy feedlots provide a very different reality for animals. As I saw first hand when I rode my bike by the Caballo Dairy in New Mexico, the abuse of veal calves is such standard practice on commercial dairies that farmers don’t even attempt to hide it from the public.

Do I think everybody is ready to embrace raw dairy products from ethical family farms? Though I wish it were the case, I have to say no; not when milk shares start at $20 a gallon. Until there is money to be made in the ethical agricultural business, it seems like it will continue to be an industry only for the elite. In my search for commercial dairies that don’t use veal calves, my results were just as depressing. My goal was to provide a list of cruelty-free brands of milk that are readily available, but I’m sad to say that none of the major commercial brands I researched made the cut. Without readily available cruelty-free dairy options and as most Americans continue to consider dairy to be a staple of their diet, one begins to wonder how best to conquer the high demand for cheap animal products. Instead of trying to find ways around supporting an industry that will always value efficiency over the health of animals, maybe we need to focus less on what we eat and more on where it comes from.

If not being able to give up your favorite foods is what’s keeping you from going veg, by all means, don’t give them up! Maybe you can’t give up your Toblerones and Hershey’s kisses but you’re ready to replace your hormone infused dairy milk with a much healthier plant-based alternative. Maybe you can’t give up any dairy products, but you can support a local farm by buying their pasture-raised beef. This method may not be perfect, but I still think it is a big step in the right direction. It is disconcerting to see two groups of people that are on such polar opposite sides of this issue. Can’t we all agree that supporting small businesses is better than giving all of our money to huge corporations? If so, then buying local is the first step.

If you love animals and you want to make a difference, do whatever you can to reduce your impact on their lives and, more specifically, their deaths. If that means you still enjoy the occasional steak or burger, don’t let that stop you from advocating for animal rights. If you think that confining calves in small cages and forcing them to stay immobile is wrong, take a stand against buying veal. Support ethical farms whenever you can, even if that means buying your steak from them; this part just may be the key to seriously changing the factory farming industry for good. It is up to us to define what the future will look like for livestock animals, and while a vegan world may not be on the nearest horizon, I think that a more ethical, free-range agriculture may be.

 

Redefining Paradise: An Intimate Look at the Life of a Dairy Cow

Laura Wild3 Comments

Whenever I shop at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, I see cartons of milk that depict happy cows roaming in vast, green pastures. Up until recently, the stamp of approval from the FDA reading “certified organic” had always been enough to convince me that I shouldn’t feel guilty about the industry that I was supporting.  After getting the chance to spend time with the animals who provide the literal “cream of the crop” to health conscience, white collar consumers, I began to redefine what the best case scenario truly means. I went on a quest to find out where all of these happy cows lived, but after a few months of searching I was only able to find a select few.

Not unlike many of the decisions I have made in my life, deciding to take another break from school to work on a raw dairy farm was an impulsive choice. With an intense love for animals and very little understanding of my impact on their lives, I decided it was time to immerse myself in a business that I relied on every day. While I haven’t eaten meat of any kind for almost 5 years, I still consume milk and eggs. The same brutal videos of factory farms and slaughter houses that drove me to become a vegetarian also drove me to seek the truth about the dairy industry, particularly the side that sells non-GMO and grass fed products.

My first week on a small acreage farm in Berthoud, Colorado, was a dream. I got a glimpse into the lives of animals who were obviously cherished and appreciated, and whose comfort and health was valued above their milk production. Each cow was affectionately named and had their own distinct personality, and I couldn’t help but fall in love with their simple, shameless innocence. They weren’t afraid of humans in the least, and quickly warmed up to me and accepted me into their herd. Each day we became more and more comfortable with each other, to the point that they would approach me for affection and attention on their own. It soon became evident that these animals were less like the other livestock on the farm – consisting of almost 100 free range ducks and chickens – and more like companion animals. These cows were more dynamic and intelligent than I had ever imagined, and those qualities paired with the fact that they were innately gentle and docile made them some of the most peaceful animals I had ever encountered.

However, as soon as I became aware that their quality of life was much better than the vast majority of livestock in America, I also became aware that even cows that are treated with respect and kindness are still far from living in paradise. The reality is that it is incredibly expensive to treat animals humanely, and unfortunately we live in a world where the value of innocence is much lower than the demand for affordable animal products.

Though local anesthetic is used for all of the procedures that are absolutely necessary for the cows on this particular farm, such as dehorning, I will say that the process is still very difficult to witness. The owners of the raw dairy would spend thousands of dollars to treat any injuries or illnesses that their cows acquire, but there is no denying that bovine medicine seems like something out of the civil war era. It isn’t pretty, and I think most farmers would agree that it isn’t ideal. One of the most common and most troubling practices on the farm is the separation of mother and calf. This usually happens after the babies are completely weaned off of their mothers, but it is still heartbreaking to listen to them call to each other for days after they are separated. This practice has been the most difficult thing for me to justify to myself.

Yet in commercial dairy, the treatment is so much worse. The meticulous cleaning regimen we use twice a day to wash the cow’s udders with human grade iodine is simply not practical on large scale diaries. Instead, the udders are rubbed with a flammable grease and all of the dirty hairs are burned off of their skin without anesthetic. This is not the worst case scenario, either, but common practice. Dehorning is always done without anesthetic, too, and calves are taken away from their mothers immediately after birth, after which the male calfs are often raised as veal. These are details that I had never wanted to believe before, but after seeing how brutal even a small family owned farm can be, I have no trouble believing what goes on in mass-production lots.

In the end, a life that includes some of the unfortunate practices that I have seen on the farm is still much better than the alternative. I wish I knew how to fix all of the things that do not seem right to me, but I just don’t have the answers. If humans are going to continue to use animals for our own benefit, then our relationship with them can never truly be altruistic. Unfortunately, I can’t suggest that everybody I know become vegan and believe that anybody actually will. It is simply too much to ask, and not a very realistic way to reduce animal suffering, anyway.

Still, I believe it is helpful to be aware of our impact on animals. If we can’t support small, family owned farms every time we buy animal products, we can at least try to decrease the amount of money we invest in commercially produced animal products. Because I ate meat for most of my life without thinking twice about where it came from, I can sympathize with anybody who doesn’t even want to acknowledge the reality of factory farming. But if anything is ever going to change, we simply have to confront the moral implications of consuming large quantities of meat and dairy, especially. Animals are not commodities, they are living beings. It is time that we cherish all animal life, and not just when it is most convenient to us.