Personal Galaxy

We settled in softly for a little Sunday afternoon couch camping. She had chosen a documentary about Antarctica because “it has penguins, Daddy. And you know penguins are my most favorite.” I knew that, but what I didn’t know was that it was about all the creatures in that frozen outpost, and the food chains that sustain them. Food chains. Food. Predators and prey.

The disjointed words of the tag line failed to coalesce as the music rose dramatically and the camera focused on a lone penguin, gliding naïvely through the watery universe. When the angle switched from a side view to one of soft, white underbelly, I knew what was about to happen. But, it was too late. A seal, rendered as little more than a sharp-toothed missile, darted into the frame and snatched the unsuspecting victim.

There was a short struggle and a long trail of blood. My child practically jumped into my lap, her tears a direct accusation. I couldn’t turn the television off quickly enough and the carnage passed, images lingering on retina struggling to process. She eventually calmed down, climbed down, and then stared with glazed eyes at the cartoon hastily replacing the blood sport. When this too ended, she just sat there.

I started to talk, but was silenced with a look. She began to speak, slowly at first. It was ostensibly directed toward me, but mostly because there was no one else present, “Does that happen all the time?” I, as calmly as possible, answered, “It’s the natural world, my love. That’s the way seals stay alive, eating fish and the occasional penguin.”

“Seals eat meat, then,” she went on. It wasn’t a question, but rather a statement, “Penguins are meat.” Her eyes were again red and wet, but the look on her face was no longer that mix of heartbreak and fear. It was her logical face, the thinking posture I had seen so many times before.

“And is there always that much blood? Does the penguin feel pain?” One tentative yes answered both. “When I eat meat, then, is there blood? Does the cow feel pain?” Another nuanced affirmative from me and she sat back hard on the couch, disappearing partially among pillows that seemed suddenly large again for the first time in months, cradling the familiar pink bear who had gotten her through tough times like this. I wanted to speak, but thought better. Something was happening here. I wasn’t sure what, but I knew it belonged to her and her alone. I was naught but observer now, certainly not a participant.

It wasn’t long, though the moment seemed to stretch. Several times she appeared about to speak, but stopped. I could practically see the synapses firing, the engrams being laid. An idea was percolating. A star was spawning fitfully within her personal galaxy. I waited some more. When she spoke again, it wasn’t another question. It was a statement, as resolute as any philosophy, “I don’t think I can eat meat any more.” And there it was.

“Are you sure, baby? Tell me why.” I knew why, but I had to make sure that she knew. “I can’t cause pain like that. I just can’t.” The tears came again. I hugged her and said, “Okay, let’s talk about it tomorrow, when we’ve both calmed down.” We didn’t speak again through the whole bedtime routine. She went to sleep without the usual fuss, without so much as another word, in fact. Through it all, a faraway gaze hovered beneath her furrowed brow. I don’t think either of us slept well that night.

Over Cheerios, this new little person explained in painstaking detail the rights and wrongs of the world as she saw it. Now, she didn’t expect me to stop eating meat. She knew bacon and hamburgers still tasted great, but for her, they were wrong. For her. She emphasized it almost condescendingly. I stifled a smile, for this was obviously serious business. Instead, I marveled, watching a new part of her consciousness emerging fresh with every syllable.

We discussed the pertinent health and growth issues. I explained that this meant she’d have to be careful to supplement her diet. It wasn’t going to mean pasta every night in place of healthy meals. We would have to plan this and she would have to be mature and vigilant to make it actually happen. “I know. I’m ready. I know.” Finally, I had to hit her with the last bombshell, the ultimate test of her resolve, “You also know that this means no more sushi.” The record scratched abruptly.

I might as well have slapped her in the face. This child loves a good piece of fatty tuna better than she does most people. More contortive furrowing of that delicate brow quickly followed. Three spoonfuls drew out the syrupy silence before she ventured a wry smile, betraying the world-weariness of yet another lesson learned in that moment, “Well, what do you call a vegetarian who eats sushi? Because, you know, I heard fish don’t feel pain anyway.”