I Know What You're Thinking But Don't

         I’ve been a vegan since I was ten. No, my parents didn’t raise me on a raw food diet while living on an Ashram in Southern California. I’m from the East Coast, and each of my parents consumes meat, milk and other animal products. Now you’re probably going to ask why I’m a vegan and how I became a vegan and remark on just how “awesome” me being a vegan is, even though neither of us could care less. (If you’re truly interested, I was an impressionable fifth grader who lived in Washington, DC - far too close in proximity to PETA billboards of factory farms, although I’m not a PETA member.) While I’m not especially passionate about the cause, my choice in diet has been beneficial. Through elementary school, I continued to grow normally - except taller and without the cholesterol issues that plagued every other female member of my family.
         But my veganism has caused two main issues in my life, neither of which involve my health or the diet itself, and each issue stems from two entirely different sort of people.
         First, there are those who love to fixate on what I eat. These are mostly the jerks I’ve dated, ones who find my veganism to be some sort of defect that I need to be cured of. Sometimes they even find it endearing, in a Harry Meets Sally sort of way. One long-term boyfriend told me he fell in love with me after I ordered a grilled cheese without the cheese because it reminded me of that one movie, you know, the one with Billy Crystal and that one blonde actress. I had never seen it, but I nodded my head femininely anyway.
         And maybe being compared to a RomCom star would be neat, but it just comes off as condescending and certainly not ideal first date material. What I do or do not eat certainly doesn’t define me as a person, (my name isn’t “Kaitlin-the-vegan,” so you can stop with the introductions as such), and it especially does not represent something I need to be saved from. I am a woman, but far from a damsel in distress.
         And thus, this circle of jerks also sometimes extends beyond those boys into those who believe I am simply beyond saving. Instead, they make the forced effort to make me aware that they are somehow superior in their meat-eating habits. Unfortunately, this isn’t so effective in the way they perceive it to be. I don’t mind people who eat meat. (In fact, I’ve found I don’t get along very well with most other vegans.) And because I fail to conform to their stereotype of self-righteous vegan, they’ve fallen into the trap themselves - only in a slightly poorer light, quickly labeling as “self-righteous meat-eater who feels the need to secure his own masculinity by eating dead flesh that he did not hunt himself.”
         But there’s also the second set of people whose reaction are notable. The nicer ones, the ones to which I don’t want to be a burden.
         No, really, I don’t. Please don’t make me any food. I know you think my choices in diet are ridiculous, you’re trying to be accommodating...
         But don’t. It’ll take you a lot of time, and it probably won’t be vegan anyway.
         It happens more than you’d think. I can’t count the number of times someone has made me a cake, or a plate of macaroni. “Oh, I was careful we didn’t use any butter,” they’ll say. But they forgot about the eggs. Or the cream. Sometimes even the meat. An awkward realization for the both of us.
         I know you have the best intentions (most of the time), which only makes it worse. Don’t apologize! But better yet - don’t make the food in the first place.
         I know I’m the guest and everything, but I can bring my own food. Isn’t that what people should do anyway? I mean, you’re the one cleaning the dishes and everything.
         So just don’t worry about it - seriously. I’ll just feel awkward and smile while pushing the food around on my plate uncomfortably. You’ll probably catch on after a few minutes and then it’ll just get more awkward at which point I’ll pretend to take a bite. Worse yet, you’ll probably feel totally resentful that you went out to Trader Joe’s this morning to buy this shit; it’s certainly too healthy-looking for your family to consume and here I am, the vegan, refusing to eat it.
         What I wanted to say was that I’m not a monster. Really, I promise. I just don’t eat certain foods, and I like to cook for myself, and that’s all. It’d just be nice if you could respect that... Maybe...
         I know I’m a girl and everything but think of my diet as the ultimate embodiment of rugged American invidualism. Just as our forebears fed themselves, I’ll depend on myself for the food, thank you very much. Imagine me as as the strong, silent type who likes to eat in peace. Isn’t that the ideal women anyway? (Yes, minus the strong part, of course.) No need to fill the silence with your pithy “pro” or “anti” vegan comments. If you think I’m just being a bitch, imagine me commenting at every meal about your food choices. “Uh, is that toast? Well I’m strongly in favor of poppy-seed bagels!” So please, let me chew (or not chew) in peace. And, I’ll do the same for you.