Katie Tarter on her failed attempt to be a vegan
Viva la Vegan!
Story and photos by Katie Tarter, 18, a senior at Tucson High Magnet School
After spending the holidays of 2008 stuffing my face with rich, delicious foods, I felt as bloated as a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. My love for good food had led me to struggle with my weight for years, and so that New Year’s, I decided to change things. One afternoon, I wandered into Borders looking for a few Christmas-clearance weight-loss books. Most seemed like gimmicks, but one caught my eye because instead of obsessing about ways to burn fat, it talked about becoming healthier by cutting out dairy and meat. Basically, it told me to be vegan.
Though I didn’t buy the book, I took some of its ideas to heart, and three days later, after searching the web for exactly what veganism entailed (and stumbling onto a few horrifying videos taken from factory farms), I announced to my mother that starting January 1st, I would be going vegan.
She thought I was nuts, but only insisted that I make sure to get all the proper protein and nutrients. Her confusion was understandable. I’d been an avid fan of the five Cs my entire life: Chocolate, Chicken, Cheese, Chinese takeout, and Cereal. But she sighed and let me take charge of the grocery shopping so I could tailor it to my new needs.
That first grocery trip, we bought three packages of fake meats, five canisters of oatmeal, two half-gallons of soymilk, and about six pounds of black, seedless grapes. For the first few weeks, I loved my new lifestyle. My insides had never felt healthier and after a surprisingly smooth colon cleanse, I felt full of energy. It was the first time I’d ever felt a real difference in the way my body was working. I was breathing just a little bit easier and got tired a lot less. I thought I was doing great—so what if I had to avoid a few of my old staples? I lost fifteen pounds, and I didn’t miss chicken anymore.
But I realize now that I wasn’t a true vegan. Though I was happy with my soy and tofu and fruits, it was only because I was able to cheat on the side; if I accidentally ate something that had eggs or milk in it (like candy bars or bread) I didn’t beat myself up. I told myself, “Whoops! Forgot to ask for no Parmesan on this pasta! Oh well—I shouldn’t waste this food!”
As I became more and more immersed in the vegan community, I realized that I wasn’t really a true vegan. My “true” vegan friends were so passionate about stopping animal cruelty. I ate beef substitutes one second, then turned around and snatched up a brownie the next. I began to wonder why it mattered so much that I was “cheating.” The only thing worse than the though of suffering animals was the Look my friends gave me when they saw me snacking on a little gluten-based candy—the Look said, “You call yourself vegan? Try again, vegetarian.” I vowed to suck it up and take my conversion seriously.
But between the hectic hours of homework, rising extra early for a trip to the gym before a 45-minute commute to school by city bus, and my new part-time job, I had no time to cook something vegan-friendly at the end of a long day. I realized that being healthy took a lot of time. I found myself drinking bowls of green tea and eating nothing but oatmeal and grapes out of lack of interest in anything else. I was even starting to hate soymilk because it became thick and creamy overnight and had to be shaken each morning, reminding me of some kind of rotting cream. I had always been a picky eater and without the time to really put an effort into my veganism, I found my food options, and my energy, dwindling.
Eating—such a major component of my life, my family gatherings, and my identity—had turned into a daunting task. Why would I want to eat rubbery chicken substitutes when the real stuff was sitting right next to it in the chilled bins of the grocery store? Why would I want to eat wheat crackers when I could grab a box of goldfish or sour cream and onion potato chips? And really, why would I want to cook my dinner when I was such a master of the microwave? I realized that I loved being a non-vegan because it brought me closer to my family, like when my mom and I would sit in the car with soft-serve ice-cream and listen to NPR, or when we would bring home a club from Beyond Bread and split it in front of Star Trek re-runs.
Veganism began to feel like a frustrating trap. No matter what I tried I couldn’t make it fit into a lifestyle I’d established nearly ten years before that revolved around cartons of teriyaki chicken and chef Boyardee warmed in the microwave. I didn’t have the patience or time to change everything for veganism, and veganism wasn’t going to change for me.
I promised myself I’d suck it up for the rest of the year, and that I’d quit if I couldn’t make it work by December. I dreaded facing down the Marching Band season in the fall, where there’d be piles of pizza, nachos, Chick-A -Fil-A, and boxes of honeyed granola—all a constant temptation at games and competitions.
I didn’t survive the month of June before temptation won out.
As I opened the fridge one hot afternoon, I paused, entranced by the dairy compartment. A block of fluorescent orange the size of a building brick sat beneath the clear sliding door. Wrapped in protective purple and black plastic, unopened, fresh from the store. My mom had done the shopping, and without me to guide her through the aisles and the grocery list, she didn’t realize what she was bringing into the house. My mother had brought home the one kind of cheese I’d ever truly been addicted to: Extra. Sharp. Cheddar.
In my head, my inner omnivore drooled.
Sliding open the clear door to the cheese compartment, I took in hand the cold slab of forbidden deliciousness. It was heavy.
I grabbed a knife, stabbed it through the plastic, and tore into that brick like a ravenous wolf, all the while hollering through the house, “Mom! I’m not vegan anymore!” I cut out a huge corner and sank my teeth into the soft, chewy stuff. It was better than I remembered.
I tried to be an honest vegan. I failed with gusto.
I guess I realized that sometimes failure makes a bigger impact on your life than success. Veganism didn’t work for me this time around because I failed to fall in love with it. But I also succeeded at it—because if veganism, at its core, is about being more conscious, that’s exactly what my experience gave me. I became overwhelmingly conscious of the fact that, in the end, soy is healthy, and being healthy just doesn’t work for me.
