CW: Mention of rape

A few years ago, a friend told me to start “living up to all the feminist shit” that I write about. We were drinking vodka martinis in a hotel bar in downtown Chicago—bracing for a chilly night out—when she started begging me to dump my then-boyfriend. She didn’t even know that he enjoyed hurting me during sex or that I couldn’t even brush my teeth before running errands without arousing suspicions of infidelity. She just knew I wasn’t happy and that she didn’t like the guy. Two months later, after saving up thousands of dollars and asking my folks if I could crash with them for a while, I broke up with him.  

Much to the chagrin of my physically and emotionally abusive ex, I’ve always been outspoken when it comes to the rights of women and girls. Even when I didn’t feel like I could stand up for myself, I advocated for other women and non-binary people through my writing, my social media platforms, and my conversations with friends and family. But since leaving my ex, I’ve made up for lost time when it comes to “living up to all the feminist shit.” I quit my job and pursued writing full time, writing about things like college sexual assault and how Western feminists can help non-Western feminists without fetishizing them. I marched to protect Planned Parenthood. I drove across the country by myself—twice. I helped my sister deliver her youngest daughter, and I moved to Los Angeles with less than $400 to my name. Hell, just last week I even yelled back at a street harasser.

But of all the “feminist shit” I’ve done in the past three years, going vegan takes the cruelty-free cake. Nothing else has empowered me to set healthy boundaries and call out sexist bullshit like extending my circle of compassion to farmed animals.

Hear me out.

I know that a white woman making this kind of statement, perhaps especially in Trump’s America, might be upsetting—and I get that. Historically, the feminism of white women has been far from intersectional. Many white women voted for Trump, and reportedly less than half of white women voters in the U.S. believe Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s allegations of sexual assault against Brett Kavanaugh. It’s also true that, although I started switching to veganism while living in a remote pocket of southeast Missouri, I now live in southern California, where affordable vegan food is widely accessible. But I think it’s a valid point that needs to be made, and women of color have been expressing similar sentiments for decades. In fact, vegan feminists like Angela Davis and Audre Lorde inspired me to stop eating meat back in 2016.

Nothing else has empowered me to set healthy boundaries and call out sexist bullshit like extending my circle of compassion to farmed animals.
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As a lesbian woman of color, author, poet, womanist, and vegan, Audre Lorde knew better than perhaps anyone that intersectional feminism extends beyond the scope of human female rights. In her own words, “There is no such thing as a single-issue struggle, because we do not live single-issue lives.” And while liberation icon Angela Davis hasn’t always spoken out on her vegan lifestyle, that’s changing more and more these days. As Davis reportedly said a few years ago during the 27th Annual Empowering Women of Color Conference, “I think it’s the right time to talk about it because it is a part of a revolutionary perspective—how can we not only discover more compassionate relations with human beings, but how can we develop compassionate relations with the other creatures with whom we share this planet.”

While going vegetarian, and for nearly a year afterwards, I thought being vegetarian was enough. But after learning about the many ways female farmed animals are brutalized just so humans can eat cheese pizza and omelets, I ditched dairy and eggs too. As someone who was raped quietly by their partner in a bed—who was pushed, pinned, and choked but never punched, kicked, or cut—I realized I could no longer participate in a system that enables consumers to absolve their guilt by minimizing someone else’s suffering. Pain is pain, and there is no acceptable way to hurt, forcibly dominate, or exploit someone.  

The idea that exploiting some animals for their milk, meat, and eggs is acceptable, while other animals are meant to be pets or to live in the wild, is the same sort of logic that sexism, misogyny, classism, homophobia, biphobia, transphobia, xenophobia, islamophobia, racism, ableism, and every other form of discrimination are based on. “Dominance functions best in a culture of disconnections and fragmentations,” as Carol Adams put it in The Sexual Politics of Meat: A Vegetarian Feminist Critical Theory. “Feminism recognizes connections.” Factory farming is not just harming animals; it is destroying the planet, exploiting the poor and communities of color, creating a public health crisis through the negative effects of animal-based foods, and quite literally feeding a worldwide culture of toxic masculinity.

Around the world, societies feminize compassion and masculinize eating meat. As Adams explained in The Sexual Politics of Meat, “Meat becomes a symbol for what is not seen but is always there—patriarchal control of animals and of language.” Indeed, during the 2016 election cycle, Donald Trump was criticized in headline after headline for treating women “like pieces of meat.” But well-intentioned or not, this sort of language only further promotes the idea that some bodies deserve to experience violence while others don’t. As Adams told Bustle back in 2016, “By challenging oppression on both sides of the species line, by saying that animals matter, too, and so we won’t eat them, we are also saying anyone who is compared to an animal matters and is due equal treatment.”

There’s also an undeniable link between animal abuse and violence against women. A survey of women in domestic violence shelters found that 71 percent had partners who had abused or threatened to abuse companion animals, and recent studies show that slaughterhouse work can lead to domestic violence, social withdrawal, anxiety, drug and alcohol abuse, and PTSD. A 2009 study by criminologist Amy Fitzgerald found that, in comparison with other industries, slaughterhouse employment increased total arrest rates, including arrests for rape and other violent crimes. According to PTSD Journal, “These employees are hired to kill animals, such as pigs and cows, that are largely gentle creatures. Carrying out this action requires workers to disconnect from what they are doing and from the creature standing before them.” That desensitization makes it easier for them to be desensitized to other forms of violence, such as domestic abuse.

Like every group of humans that has ever been labeled “other” or “less than,” farmed animals are used, bullied, and killed simply because society has deemed them undeserving of our love or concern, their bodily autonomy and desire for a happy life somehow “different.” It’s exactly why I feel like feminists have a special responsibility to stand up for all animals—we should be able to empathize with victims of violence our society silences.

Around the world, societies feminize compassion and masculinize eating meat.
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The meat, dairy, and egg industries profit off female reproductive systems, and billions of baby animals are separated from their mothers each year so we can drink their mothers’ milk instead. Starting at around 12 months of age, cows living at dairy factory farms are forcibly impregnated through artificial insemination, over and over again until the cows are too exhausted to go on, at which point they’re sent to slaughter. And when cows living at dairy factory farms give birth to male calves, those babies are taken from their mothers–who visibly grieve–and sold for veal.

Sadly, the egg industry isn’t any better, even if you stick with “free-range” eggs. “Free-range” hens are still debeaked, crammed into sheds, and pushed to lay up to 500 eggs annually. Just like caged hens, “free-range” chickens will never see their mothers or play in a pasture.

I never anticipated that “living up to all the feminist shit” would include going vegan, but eschewing animal products is one of the most feminist things I’ve ever done. It doesn’t undo all the times that family members, co-workers, “friends,” or boyfriends did things to my body that I didn’t want them to do. And it doesn’t change the fact that I spent years in an abusive relationship. But it is incredibly empowering to know that I’m not contributing to an industry that profits from abusing innocent bodies and exploiting the female reproductive system. No matter what kind of day I’m having, I know that I’m making a difference.

Being vegan has been easier than I expected. I’ve found that it’s completely possible to eat vegan for a week with only $20, and all my favorite recipes can be veganized. Plus, vegan options are common at most restaurants these days, and I still get to frequent some of my favorite fast-food chains, like Taco Bell, Subway, and White Castle. And most food banks offer a variety of plant-based staples, like rice, beans, soy milk, pasta, and canned veggies. But simply cutting back on animal products also helps animals, the environment, and human health.

Perhaps most importantly, going vegan has taught me a vital lesson about self-love: When you extend your circle of compassion to every single sentient being on Earth, it becomes easier and easier to stand up for yourself. It’s impossible to foster the belief that farmed animals deserve to live happy lives, free of deprivation, abuse, and harassment, without also acknowledging that you deserve the same. Rejecting the concept that some animals deserve peace, while others deserve pain, pushes you to value and protect your own well-being—whether that means leaving an unhealthy relationship, prioritizing self-care, or telling a street harasser to piss off.

“I tell my kids, if you have self-control, you have everything,” says Melanie, the innkeeper at our B&B in Fairbanks, Alaska. “It applies to any situation, whether it’s with a wild animal, a school bully, me and their dad. Self-control… it will serve them well anywhere.”

A few days later, my husband and I are sitting in the Denali National Park Visitors’ Center, watching a wildlife safety video. Home to grizzly bears, moose, and caribou, among other creatures, the park is one of the few places remaining in the U.S. where humans are intruders—and need to behave accordingly.

We like to hike, but we’ve never encountered anything larger than deer in the wild, so we’ve been leaning toward exploring Denali behind the protective steel and glass of our rental car. But just in case we feel like wimps once we’re out in the forest, we decide to watch the video so we can make a last-minute call. The trails are open year-round, after all; we can always stoke our bravery later.

Four guides narrate the 30-minute video, structured as a list of do’s and don’ts. The tips for bears in particular are enlightening:

• Minimize surprises—make noise to announce your presence
• Suppress any scents so you don’t attract bears—no fragrances, all food in bear-proof packs
• Stay vigilant: When stopping, choose sites with good visibility. Have everyone in your group face a slightly different direction, so you can see anything approaching
• Bears are curious, and their behavior is contextual; you never want to provoke or set precedent (e.g., don’t keep food in or near your tent—then they’ll think tents equal food)
• Keep bear spray close—you don’t want to be fumbling for it in a crucial moment. Make sure you know how to use it before you head out
• If you do come upon a bear and it spots you, don’t run! (That could trigger the bear’s predatory chase drive.) Back away if possible, but don’t turn your back on the bear. If you can’t retreat, stand your ground and put your arms over your head to look as large as possible
• If the bear attacks, lie in the fetal position, cover your head and neck

As the video wrapped up all the different ways hikers and campers could get in trouble, one of the youthful park rangers offered a final thought: “Don’t be afraid to go out and explore!”

Despite this encouragement, we ultimately opted to stick to our original plan. We drove to Mile 30 and back on Denali’s main road on two consecutive days: the first in afternoon sunshine, the second in morning mist and light rain. On both occasions, the weather revealed different shades of the mountains and valleys, and a variety of animals came out to greet us: bald eagles, caribou, and yes—two grizzly bears. The afternoon bear sidled down the mountain and crossed the road, less than 30 feet from our car; the morning bear stayed up on the hillside, munching on the brush. We snapped a few pictures, the gargantuan beasts transformed into mere specks on our smartphone cameras. We continued on our way, enclosed and safe.

But something about the situation rattled me, and it took me a few days to understand just what exactly it was.

I acknowledged that when I go hiking at home in New England, I am seeking out silence, as well as the opportunity to clear my mind. The recommendations for Denali—being loud and constantly on high alert—seemed in direct opposition to what I’ve always pursued when I hit the trail. I hike to relax, and this type of endeavor was vigilant — maybe even tense.

In fact, I thought, if I wanted to be constantly on the lookout and poised for a potential attack, I’d just stay home and continue my usual, “commuting on public transportation” and “woman walking alone in the city,” routines.

But something about the situation rattled me, and it took me a few days to understand just what exactly it was.
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Suddenly I realized that those safety tips from the National Park Service video weren’t so different from what I learned in a self-defense class a few years back.

• Stay constantly alert! Don’t wear earbuds or talk on your phone. Know your surroundings at all times.
• When going out, look large: Practice safety in numbers
• Dress conservatively, watch how much skin you’re showing—you don’t want to trigger a prey drive
• Yell and make noise so others know you’re in trouble
• If you’re going to carry pepper spray, make sure you know how to use it. Otherwise it could be grabbed and used against you!

And it then hit me—do we regard men the same way we regard wild animals?

I thought of Mike Pence, who refuses to dine or be alone with any woman who isn’t his wife. Louis C.K.’s compulsions. School dress codes that make sure girls don’t distract boys. The string of assaults against women in my former Boston neighborhood — conducted over repeated years by the alleged same assailant — which terrorized residents so much that the local community center provided the aforementioned self-defense classes free of charge.

I thought of the flood of #MeToo stories, encompassing friends and strangers, famous men and everyday men. My own stories, my friends’ stories. In every case, the proprieties of respect and social mores fall away and the feral urges dominate the experience (and headlines). That sense of unpredictability, that succumbing to animal nature, sets the foundation for repeated indignities—and worse.

He can’t be controlled. You need to be smart. (You need to take that self-defense class!)

Boys will be boys—it’s in their nature.   

Don’t tempt him or be a tease—he can’t help it.

Do we regard men the same way we regard wild animals?
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We took a red eye home from Anchorage and promptly fell asleep. When we were somewhere over the Midwest, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford started her testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee. Jet-lagged and bleary-eyed, I watched a video recording of her opening statement later that evening. She was composed, with self control.

I watched Justice Kavanaugh, raging and roaring; Lindsay Graham, red-faced and sputtering; both as volatile as creatures disturbed in the wild. And I suppose they were—here was an interloper daring to call out how they roamed their habitat. In both her statement and replies, Dr. Ford refused to continue the narrative that they had no self control.

Of course, this narrative won’t go away quietly—cultural mores built over millennia don’t just course correct or even adapt immediately. Just this month, for example, the Atlantic gave Newt Gingrich a lengthy (and often bizarre) profile, opening the story with its subject stomping around in a zoo and featuring choice quotes comparing all of human nature to the animal kingdom. Photos show him grinning alongside menacing dinosaur skulls and petting giant turtles.

“It’s not viciousness, it’s natural,” he chides after the reporter pushes back. Later in the story, citing a 2016 speech Gingrich gave to the Heritage Foundation, our president is compared to (what else?) a grizzly bear—specifically, the ferocious bear in the movie The Revenant: “He will walk over, bite your face off, and sit on you.”

Here was an interloper daring to call out how they roamed their habitat.
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But for those of us who have never wielded power — who have never been regarded (or permitted to be regarded) as wild or ferocious — we know by default that there are other ways of moving through the world.

For those millions of us who have always been held to a higher standard — who have never had the privilege to unleash any “wild” tendencies — we know collectively what’s possible. That we all can do better. That the narrative of “nature dictates violence” has to stop. In short — that we all can exercise self control.  

Two days after we returned home, my husband and I drove up to Plum Island for a hike through the nature preserve. The sun was high and the salt marshes spread as far as the eye could see. It was quite a departure from Denali—mostly flat without a predator in sight.

But at a certain point, I got ahead of Andy on the boardwalk trail, and saw a solo man a few feet away. The wind rustled through the brush that flanked the narrow pathway. It was just him and me as we approached each other. He could be a bear, I thought, or he could be a crane.

And just like that, all senses were firing.

I took a deep breath. Self control, I thought, and hoped it would be enough.

I wondered if he had even an inkling of the same thought.

“Hello,” I said as we made eye contact.

“Beautiful day,” he said, and we continued our opposite ways.