one cold chicago morning
I’ve attended one vigil. It happened on a cold Chicago morning. The Save Movement has been leading vigils for years with the goal of bearing witness, offering comfort and leading our world to a more compassionate place.
My reasons for attending were simple. I want to be a better activist, better able to amplify the voices of both nonhumans and humans.
You can think about numbers (or, you can at least try – math has never been my strong suit). Billions of sentient, feeling, curious and brave animals are slaughtered every day so that humans can consume their bodies, and the products that come from those genetically engineered, mutilated, used-up bodies.
But what does that mean?
Looking into the eyes of a pig who, an hour from now, will be dead gave me a new sense of this meaning. The pigs on the truck waiting to go into the slaughterhouse were all different – some had clearly given up, their eyes lifeless and tired. Some were yelling and fighting, not willing to give up just yet.
To every creature their own life is very dear.
I thought about the relationships between the animals. Siblings were likely on the transport truck together. For some, was the suffering made even worse because they were afraid for their families? Or, was it a small amount of comfort to have your brother next to you?
I also thought about the lives these individuals had led up until this point. I guessed their ages to be around 6 months. Babies. And, in all likelihood this was their first exposure to fresh air and the wind. (I am the daughter of a lawyer, so I deal in logic and pragmatism. As 99% of “meat” in our food chain comes from factory farms, there is only a miniscule chance that these animals once frolicked in the sun and wallowed in mud holes.)
As I spent time with the pigs I wept. I thought about my friends at Uplands PEAK Sanctuary in Freedom, Indiana who are the same – every bit as bright, inquisitive, and valuable as the beings on this horror truck. Isaac, who has mobility issues because his body was bred to be someone’s dinner, but who thrives with individualized care and love. Erica, who flops over on her side for a belly rub every time one of us comes near. And Hank. Hank, the small piglet who took a flying leap off a transport truck last winter and hit the jackpot, now spending his days rooting in the soil and napping with his friends.
I also thought about my Stellaluna at home, my best friend. Most of us can relate to the deep and abiding love for a canine companion. Luna wakes up each morning excited to be alive, to see what comes next. She gets tangible, profound joy from a breeze full of mysterious smells. Lu has taught me about being honest and true and positive. She is one of the most beautiful souls I know.
In the ways that matter, Luna is no different from the nameless individuals waiting to go inside Park Packing.
And I wept for humanity. I cried for our species which has worked so hard to become disconnected, teaching our children that this is acceptable. Believing ourselves that this is normal, natural and necessary.
This is not normal, natural nor necessary.
After spending about an hour with the animals we spent some time on a busy nearby intersection with signs. How strange would it be to have a slaughterhouse in your neighborhood? On your commute to work? One of our goals was to increase awareness and plant some seeds. The multiple honks from passerby suggest that we were successful.
[Side note: A new friend and I also found a cat and debated about the appropriate mode of rescue. It was a helpful distraction, and we ultimately decided to leave the savvy city kitty where he was (we were told he and his friends are fed by nearby workers) with two plates of fresh food.]
When the truck backed up to the slaughterhouse we returned to our previous location. I hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to watch my new friends loaded off the truck: the small girl with the brown face who’d been resting among her friends just minutes before; the pig with the eye injury; those beings so desperate for the water and the kindness we’d happily provided.
I realized partway through the process that the front portion of the expansive truck contained goats. For some reason, I totally lost it. I mean, I wasn’t in great shape before, but this seemed like too much. WHO THE FUCK EATS A GOAT IN 2018? Goats are sweet and gregarious. Their little noses were sticking out through the holes in the metal truck, searching the air. I saw my friend Benny, not nameless automatons.
We sang, and we chanted – to the animals and to the workers. We spoke in English and in Spanish. I cried once again for the people inside, doing the dirty work. The people without other viable job opportunities for whom this is a way of life. Slaughterhouse work is one of the most dangerous (physically and mentally) types of employment.
When you spend your days slashing throats, what do you take home with you?
What we do to these beautiful, feeling individuals we do to ourselves. I believe we are seeing the output of this violent and corrupt system throughout our country and our world.
Over the years I’ve been fortunate to be able to help bunches of animals in various ways. Today though, for these animals, there was nothing I could do. I thought to myself, “If I had $200 could I offer it in exchange for a goat? Would that even be right?”
Whatever the word is that describes the feeling beyond helplessness is what I felt.
Near the end of the process, as the final group of goats was being offloaded and led into the facility to be killed, I saw one worker strike a goat with a long object. Without thought, I screamed. And, my heart broke. In this animal’s final moments this is how you are going to treat him? Really? Marching him to slaughter isn’t enough?
I had to walk across the street for a few minutes and cry, while hugging a tree. The perfect hippie, bleeding heart, liberal response if ever there was one.
At this point though, I want to say something about the workers. They are not to blame; often slaughterhouse workers are undocumented humans with incredibly limited job prospects. They want to support their families and make a living, like we all do. There is enough blame to pass around, and the majority of it needs to go to the institutions and the system all of us have been born into.
I was incredibly impressed by the organization that brought us together – Chicago Animal Save. Over the years as an activist I’ve been a part of a number of protests and events. The CAS activists were a diverse group there for the animals AND the humans being brutalized by this system. Intersectionality at its most profound.
At the top of this post I included a picture of Luna very intentionally. Again, I couldn’t help but think about her throughout this experience. If you saw dogs being brutalized what would you think? Why are pigs and dogs treated so differently?
Things won’t change until we consumers make different, more mindful and compassionate choices.
I won’t forget the individuals I met on that early, dark, cold Chicago morning. They didn’t want to die.
We can do better.
