Stop Naming the Animals

origin story of a hesitant herbivore

I’ll be honest, I avoid talking about this shit. Which is probably why I need to. The most common “how long” question I get is almost always followed up with the “why”. I’ll get to that shortly but for now, let’s go back to rural Texas.

I’m fourteen years old and stepping out of my grandfather’s pickup into the scorching Texas sun to go open the paddock gate so he can pull through with the trailer. We’re in North Zulch, an unincorporated town just outside Madisonville. Don’t worry, nobody has ever heard of either of them. It’s so hot that I use a corner of my shirt to wrap my hand around the gate bolt so it won’t burn my palm as I slide it back. My grandfather slowly rolled his old Chevy forward, leaving me behind as he headed towards the pasture’s silage. Like moths to a flame, dozens of curious cows saunter towards my grandpa’s truck as I latch the gate shut. We’re here to take a couple cows to auction later that same day

a reproduced memory via MidJourney

.Grandpa was always gentle with the farm animals. I don’t even think he owned a cattle prod. I made my way across the pasture towards my grandad as he stepped out of the truck, the cows were vocal about how happy they were to see him. As I got closer I could feel the bass from all the moo’ing vibrating from the ground. Grandpa grabbed a feed bag from the truck bed and a bristle brush that he tucked into his back pocket. He dumped pellets into a trough, turned over a water bin and refilled it with a nearby hose as the cows lined up to eat. I guess by today’s standards these would be “free range” but this is what my grandparents knew. 

Ya see, in the summertime when school was out, my parents would send my sisters and I to either the family farm where my dad’s parents lived or they’d send us to my mom’s family in California. I get it, summer camps are expensive. As a kid I preferred California, not for any reason other than the brutal Texas heat. But the farm summers had their perks. For one, I loved spending time with my grandparents in the countryside. What city folk might dismiss as a ‘redneck’ lifestyle, I saw my grandparents Mary and Eddie as cunning, self-sufficient, and in-tune with nature. My grandma Mary could cook a four star meal for a small army and sew anything you could imagine. Despite the treacherous Texas heat, she had a thriving vegetable garden. My grandfather Eddie was a true cowboy and carpenter by trade. I enjoyed walking the fence line with him at night where the only light were the stars above us and an occasional cherry red glow from his Marlboro. I also loved working with all the animals, blowing up fireworks, shooting soda cans off the fence posts, driving ATVs through the mud, and the massive bonfires we’d build just to burn hours later. California didn’t offer any of that.

Eddie pulling Mary in a Radio Flyer wagon after their wedding

Grandpa was petting a large steer with the bristle brush. I watched its massive head lean into my grandad lovingly as he gently led it to the trailer’s chute. I slammed the paddock shut behind it. “WATCH YOUR HAND, SON!” he said while quickly yanking my arm away from the gate. Not a millisecond later the cow kicked the chute gate so hard it made my ears ring.

When we got to the auction yard, which was a tin roofed building surrounded by animal pens and used cars, Papa would tell me to go check out the vintage cars for sale while he handled the trailer. He’d say stuff like “They don’t let kids back here. Go see if you can find me a Mercedes” followed by a wink. As excited as I was to look at old cars whose next stop was the junkyard, I’d later realize he didn’t want me seeing our animals get auctioned. My grandma named every animal on our farm and once as she was bottle feeding newborn kids (goats), I overheard my grandpa say “Damnit Mary, I wish you’d stop naming the animals”. It wasn’t that he didn’t want them to have names but identity made it harder when it was their time to go. He’d find me whenever the auction was done and treat me to Cici’s Pizza Buffet in town. If you know, you know.

Flash forward to 2011. A few years prior I’d lost my mom and moved to California with nothing but a dream of working in production. By sheer luck, I’d gotten a job right away as a production assistant, then director’s assistant, and so on as I slowly clawed my way up the Hollywood ladder. I don’t care what department you work in, production is tough by nature. High stress environments with long hours, little pay and even less sleep. Twelve hour work days were standard, fourteen or fifteen hours depending on the director or studio. Lunch for me was inhaling a burger and slamming a soda. When I was off work, dinner was usually from a drive-thru and the next day would start all over with a Red Bull and bagel for breakfast. Producers making millions a year had nearly identical diets to mine. So while I knew it was mostly junk, I didn’t think much of what I was consuming. Whatever you could eat, whenever you could eat it. Meat and dairy were dietary cornerstones. I’m from the generation that grew up on beef and pork propaganda while athletes and celebrities convinced us we needed to consume more milk. Even Michael Bay, who I’d later work alongside, got his start directing a Got Milk campaign. 

My new life in Hollywood had started to take a toll on me. I suffered serious acid reflux. I carried antacids in my pocket and popped them like mints. It got so bad I was waking up in the middle of the night vomiting bile. I felt awful most of the time, so I went to my doctor specifically to talk to him about acid reflux. Without any conversation about diet or lifestyle, he diagnosed me with GERD, wrote me a prescription for glorified Prilosec, and sent me home. While the medicine helped, it was something I had to take everyday and it felt like a bandaid, not a solution. 

I’d been vegetarian for a couple months in 2011, prior to meeting Michelle, who had been vegan for years. She suggested I try veganism. All the stereotypes ran through my head- eating lettuce and bird seed, wearing Birkenstocks, ceasing the use of deodorant, protesting literally everything and having obnoxiously preachy bumper stickers on my car. No sir, not this Texas born-and-raised grandson of a cowboy. I was a meat-and-potatoes man who grilled fajitas so notorious, the marinade was shared with me under strict conditions of secrecy. But then again, my condition was debilitating. 

Fuck it, I’ll try veganism for a couple weeks and I can always go back if I want.

Not only did my GERD disappear overnight, I noticed lots of overall health improvements. I slept better, was generally in a better mood, increased libido (fellas..) and the most notable positive outcome was I started to cook more. I had to pay attention to what I was eating instead of mindlessly shoveling junk into my face. For the first time in my life, I took a serious interest in food. 

Food is such a personal choice and I respect that, trust me I am not here to convert anyone. BUT when people ask me why I’m vegan, I have to ask considering the deforestation for animal agriculture,rampant cruelty,exploitation of employees, or your own personal health- why the fuck aren’t you?

Me & Grandma Mary