From文雄爸爸，這麼好的文章一定要跟大家分享~~ ______________________________________________________________________________ 之前我大學同學寄過我這篇故事的英文版 (我將其附於本信的最下方), 之後我就試著尋 找其中文翻譯以和大家分享. 皇天不負苦心人, 經過一段時間的努力, 我終於找到了 (不過我個人有對該篇翻譯做了小 小的修改. 未經原譯者同意, 真是抱歉.) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 一位豬農的故事 以下故事是 John·Robbins （約翰·羅賓斯）《食物革命》（THE FOOD RE VOLUTION） 一書中的一章（THE PIG FARMER）。這是一個真實的故事，述說他和一位豬農和其家人間 的感人故事。 “他說：「我做了」，他的淚滑過臉頰。這淚觸動我的心，讓我謙卑。我先前認為這位男 子毫無人類感情，但他在陌生人前哭了。我先前認為這位男子鐵石心腸，但其實他有很深 的感情。我錯得多離譜啊。”...... 有一天在愛荷華州我碰上了一位男士 - -我用男士這個詞，坦率的說，只是因為禮貌上的 關係，因為當時我並非這麼看他的。他擁有並管理一個他所謂的“豬肉生產工廠”。我卻 稱它為奧斯維斯豬集中營。 豬場的條件很嚴酷。每頭豬被關在籠子裏，籠子僅比豬的身體大一點點，籠子一層一層疊 起來，共有三層。籠子的兩邊和底部都是鋼條板，這樣上層和中層籠子裏的豬們的排泄物 就通過鋼條板的空隙掉到下一層的豬身上。這個噩夢的主人大概至少有240磅左右，但是 他給人更深刻的印象還是，他似乎是水泥做的。他的舉止投足像一堵磚牆那樣呆板和毫無 生氣。 讓人更不舒服的是，他的說話只是嘟噥，他發的聲聽上去都大同小異，沒有什麼好聽的。 看到他的死板和他總體的面相，我突發奇想，我的結論是，他會那樣，只是因為那個早上 他還沒有時間做該做的瑜伽運動。 但是我不想暴露我對他本人，或他的養豬場的看法。因為我當時是個便衣，走訪屠宰場和 飼養場去瞭解現代的肉類生產工廠。我的汽車保險桿上沒貼口號貼紙，從我的衣著和髮型 也看不出我跟當地普通人有什麼不同。 我跟這位農場主一板一眼的說，我是個搞畜牧研究的。我問他是否在意跟我講幾分鐘話， 這樣我就能學到他具有的知識。他嘟囔了幾句。我聽不懂具體是什麼話，但是明白他的意 思是我可以問問題，而且他可以帶我參觀。 我對這種境況感覺不痛快。這種感覺在進入他的豬場後，仍然揮之不去。其實讓我更痛苦 的是那種令人無法忍受的震撼的嗅覺經驗。豬場裏面，蒸發著由動物的排泄物發出來的氨 氣、硫化氫和別的有毒氣體。動物的糞便，似乎在裏面堆積太久了。 這種惡臭讓我受不了，動物一定也覺得如此。感知氣味的細胞叫做篩細胞。豬跟狗一樣， 在它們的鼻子裏的這種細胞差不多是人類的200倍。在自然環境裏，牠們能用鼻子翻土覓 食，嗅出地下的根莖類。 只要有任何機會，它們絕不會在自己的窩裏排泄。儘管它們有一個很不公正的名聲，它們 實際上是很乾淨的動物。 但是在這裏，它們根本接觸不到大地。它們的鼻子被自己的，還有跟它們一樣不幸的同類 的排泄物因堆積在一起所發出的，被放大上千倍的，不可思議的惡臭所包圍。 我在那裡只待了幾分鐘，就想奪門而出。但是那些豬形同囚犯，幾乎寸步難移，還被強迫 聞那種惡臭，每週七天全天候。我敢保證，它們絕對沒有節假日。 經營這個地方的人，我姑且送了他這個詞吧，“好心”地回答了我很多問題，大多是關於 他用何藥品來對付現今在工廠式豬場裏常見的豬病。 有一頭豬發出一聲較大的嚎叫，他突然在一個籠子上威脅性的踢了一腳，引起了很大的“ 噹啷”聲，在整個豬場產生了很大的迴響，讓很多的豬們大聲號哭。這樣的行為，真的對 他的形象毫無幫助。 我的難受越來越難掩飾，所以我想我應該告訴他我對他的養豬場的看法，但是我又想到了 一個更好的辦法。很明顯，跟這樣一個人爭執是沒用的。 差不多15分鐘以後，我看夠了，就準備離開。我確定他也很高興打發我走。但是有一件事 情發生了，這件事永遠改變了我，也改變了他的一生。 事情的起始是他的妻子從他家的農場屋出來，誠懇的邀請我留下來吃晚飯。 農場主在他老婆說話的時候，一臉的苦相。但是他轉向我，忠實的說：“那個婆娘讓你留 下吃飯。”順便說，他總是叫他妻子“那個婆娘”，讓我覺得，他大概沒跟上今日在我們 國家流行的女權思想吧。 我不知道你是否做過什麼在當時完全不知道為何要做的事。時至今日，我還不知為何我當 時說可以，說我很高興留下來吃飯。 我真的留了下來，不過我沒吃他們端上來的豬肉。我的藉口是，我的醫生擔心我的膽固醇 。我沒說我吃素，而且我的膽固醇是125。 我努力做一個禮貌得體的晚餐客人。我沒說任何可能引起我們分歧的話。 這夫妻倆（還有他們的兩個兒子當時也在場）對我很好，給我晚飯吃。我漸漸的看的很清 楚，他們以他們的方式招待我，而且還算是很正派的人。 我捫心自問，若他們在我的鎮上，讓我碰上，我會邀請他們共進晚餐嗎？不可能。我知道 ，完全不可能。但是他們對我熱情好客。我得承認，雖然我憎惡他對豬的方式，這位養豬 農夫還不算希特勒再世，至少那會兒不是。 當然，我知道若透過表面，我們毫無疑問會發現自己跟對方有極大的衝突，但是我不想讓 我們的對話朝那個方向發展，我儘量讓對話平穩、持續。可能他們也感覺到了，因為我們 之間的對話一直都很膚淺。 我們聊了天氣，又聊他那兩個兒子在小聯盟的球賽。當然，還有天氣會怎樣影響他們的球 賽。我們很成功的把對話保持在膚淺的層次，避免任何可能讓我們有衝突的話題。至少我 這麼想。但是突然，那人很使勁的用手指著我，用怕人的聲音吼叫說：“有時候，我希望 你們這些動物保護的人死掉。” 到底他是怎麼知道我跟動物保護有關，我永遠不會知道。我儘量避免提到這種事，但是我 知道我的胃緊緊的擰成了一個結。 更糟的是，此時他的兩個兒子從桌邊跳起來，衝到另一個房間，大聲的關上了門，並把電 視開得很響，可能是為了蓋住接下去要發生的事。 同時，他妻子很緊張的撿起了盤子，躲進了廚房。當我看到廚房門在她身後關上，又聽到 水流的聲音時，我有一種往下沉的感覺。我沒弄錯，他們要把我和他單獨留在一起。 坦率的說，我怕死了。在這種情況下，一個錯的舉動都會是災難性的。為了自我鎮定，我 想開始觀呼吸。但是我連這也做不到，因為我毫無呼吸可觀。 “他們說什麼讓您這麼生氣呢？”我終於一字一句的說，很小心的不讓他察覺我的恐懼。 我儘量把自己跟動物保護運動劃清界限。他顯然不喜歡他們。 “他們說我虐待我的豬，”他咆哮說。 “他們為什麼要這麼說呢？”我回答。我當然知道他們為什麼這麼說，但我想到了我的安 全。 讓我驚奇的是，他的答案雖然怒氣衝衝，但是卻很清晰。 他很準確的告訴我動物保護組織是如何這般說他這類的設施，和為什麼他們反對他這麼做 。 然後，他馬上開始長篇大論地說他如何不喜歡被叫作殘酷，而且他們完全不懂他這一行。 為什麼他們不可以只管自己的事。 當他開始說話的時候，我胃裏的結開始鬆開了。 事情變得明朗了，而且我很高興是這樣。他對我並未惡意，只是要發洩而已。 他的一部分沮喪來自於：儘管他不喜歡他對動物所做的某些事—讓他們擠在那麼小的籠子 裏，用這麼多的藥，以及把小小的豬仔從母豬那裏領走。但他看不到自己有任何別的選擇 。 假如他不做這些事，他會處於經濟上的劣勢而無法競爭。如今的事情就是這樣，他說，他 不得不這麼做。他不喜歡因這些事被責備，因為他是為了給全家謀生才做的。 湊巧的是，我在一個星期前正好在一個更大的養豬場。我得知他們的商業策略之一就是採 用完全大規模的裝配線養豬，來擊垮他這樣的小型農場。我所聽到的證實他所說的一切屬 實。 我不自覺的瞭解到這個人所處的困境。我因他們夫妻的邀請到了他家。我環顧四周，很明 顯，他們很拮据，一切都很破舊，他們的日子艱難。 顯而易見，養豬是這位農夫所知道的唯一的謀生方式，所以他就做了這一行。但他一點都 不喜歡養豬業的趨向。 偶爾，當他講到他多麼厭惡現代的工廠化豬肉生產，他的口氣就像對待動物保護人士。幾 分鐘前，他還恨不得他們死掉。 我們的談話繼續著，我開始慢慢的對他生出一些尊敬心來。在早些時，我對他的批判曾那 麼嚴厲。他裏面有正派的因素，也有善心。但是當我開始感覺他善的一面時，不僅想到， 他又怎麼可以如此對待他的豬呢？我全然沒想到接下去會發生的事… 我們聊著聊著，突然他看上去很不安。他的身體往前傾，把頭埋在手裏。他看上去崩潰了 ，好像有什麼可怕的事情發生了。 他有心臟病，中風了？我發現自己有點不能呼吸，腦子也不大清晰。 “怎麼了？”我問。 他過了一會才回答。他還可以說話，我鬆了一口氣。不過他的話沒提供任何解釋。 “沒關係，”他說，“我不想談它。”他說話的時候，做了一個手勢，好像要把什麼東西 推開。 接下去的幾分鐘裏，我們繼續聊天，但是我很不自在。事情似乎不完整，令人困惑。有什 麼黑暗的東西進了屋子，可是我不知道是什麼，也不知道如何應對。 然後，當我們在講話的時候，他的臉上又出現了失望的神色。我坐在那兒，感覺到了什麼 陰冷壓迫的事情。我儘量想瞭解正在發生的事情，但是不容易。我又感覺難以呼吸。 最後，他看著我。我注意到他眼中有淚。“你是對的，”他說。我當然喜歡別人說我是對 的，不過這次情況下我完全不知道他在講什麼。 他接著說：“沒有動物應該受到那樣的待遇，尤其是豬。你知道嗎？它們是聰明的動物。 你若對它們好，他們還很友善呢，但是我對它們不好。” 他又開始淚眼模糊。他說剛剛憶起了一件孩提時的事，這件事他已忘了多年。這個記憶是 一步步回來的，他說。 他跟我說，他長在密蘇里一個偏僻的小農場，那種老式的農場，有動物自由漫跑，又有穀 倉和牧草地，所有的動物都有名字。我還得知，他是家裏的獨子，一個鐵腕式的強權父親 的兒子。沒有兄弟姐妹，他常常感覺到孤獨。但是在農場的動物中他找到了伴侶，特別是 那幾條狗。它們對他就像朋友一樣。而且我還很驚奇的聽到他說，他還有一隻寵物豬。 當他開始講這隻豬的時候，他就像變了一個人。 之前，他基本上是單語調的，但他現在的聲音開始變得有活力。他的肢體語言，至此為止 ，似乎在訴說內心長期的煎熬，現在卻變得很有生氣了。他似乎獲得了新的活力。 夏天，他睡在穀倉裏，因為那兒比屋子裏涼快。那隻豬就會過來睡在他旁邊，還會撒嬌叫 他揉它的肚子。他很喜歡替它揉肚子。 在他們的地上有一個水池。天熱的時候他喜歡在池中游泳，但是有一條狗會很興奮而把事 情搞得一團糟。這狗會跳到水裏，游在他身上，她的爪會撓到他，讓他很不舒服，他差點 就放棄游泳了。但是，命運就是這樣定的，那頭豬挺身而出，成全了他。 很明顯這頭豬能游泳，它撲通的跳入水中，遊過去把自己置於他和狗之間，讓狗不能靠近 他。我想，她當時在扮演一個救生員的角色，或者說，是救生豬。 我聽著這個豬農講他和他的寵物豬之間的故事，真是莫大的享受。所以當事情又有轉折的 時候，我很吃驚。 失敗的表情再一次出現在他的臉上，我又感受到莫大的悲傷。他的內心有東西在掙扎，想 通過苦悶和痛苦找到生命。但是我不知道是什麼，也不知道怎樣幫助他。 “你的豬怎樣了？”我問。 他歎息，好像整個世界的痛苦都在那一聲歎息中。慢慢地，他說：“我父親逼我，要我殺 了那頭豬。 “你殺了嗎？” 我問。 “我逃開了，但是我躲不過，他們找到了我。” “發生什麼事了？” “我父親給我一個選擇。” “什麼選擇？” “他跟我說，你若不把那頭豬宰了，我就不認你是我兒子。” 聽到這，我感觸良多。有些父親常希望把兒子訓練成所謂勇敢強壯的人，卻往往使他們變 成冷酷無情的人。 他說：「我做了」，他的淚滑過臉頰。這淚觸動我的心，讓我謙卑。我先前認為這位男子 毫無人類感情，但他在陌生人前哭了。我先前認為這位男子鐵石心腸，但其實他有很深的 感情。我錯得多離譜啊。 在接下來的幾分鐘，我漸漸瞭解事情為何會變成這樣。這位豬農憶起了一件使他十分痛心 的事，那是他無法抹掉的記憶，所以他關上了心扉，因為那是他無法承受的傷痛。 他幼小的心靈受到創傷，他不想再受到傷害了。他不想再做個弱者，於是他在自己受傷的 心靈四周築起一道牆，牆裡有他對這隻豬的愛與依戀。現在他以殺豬維生。我想，他還是 想尋求他父親的認可。天啊，我們男人會做什麼事，以得到父親的認可？ 之前我認為他是冷酷無情的人，現在我才瞭解真相。他的呆板，不是因為缺乏感情。正好 相反，而是因為他的內心十分敏感。如果他沒有那麼敏感，就不會受那麼重的傷，然後築 起那道厚牆。 當我初見他時，明顯感覺到，他身體很緊繃。他身上穿的無形盔甲，證明他曾被傷得很重 。但是就這樣，他還在表面下隱藏了如此豐富的情感。 我之前以為他很無情，但那晚與他聊過之後，我很感謝他內心的那股力量，喚醒了他自己 那一段塵封已久的痛苦記憶。 我也很高興自己沒有陷入對他的成見中。如果我有，就不會聽他訴說那段不堪回首的回憶 了。 那晚聊了數小時，我們談了好多事。老實說，我很擔心他。因為他的感受與實際生活有很 大的落差。他該怎麼做？只有他知道。他沒有高中文憑，只有一點讀寫能力。如果他想做 別的，誰願意僱用他？以他的年紀，誰願意栽培他？ 那晚回去之後，這些問題仍在我腦海揮之不去。不過我在聊天時，曾開玩笑地說：“或許 你可以種花椰菜。”他盯著我看，顯然不太清楚我在說什麼。我想他可能不知道什麼是花 椰菜。 那晚我們像朋友一樣道別了。之後幾年，我們很少見面，但我仍惦記著他，因為我覺得他 是英雄。待會你就會知道原因。我除了佩服他有勇氣，說出那段痛苦回憶外，我還佩服他 具有更大的勇氣。 當我在寫《新世紀飲食》時，我引述他對我說的話。我只概略寫一下，並沒有提到他的名 字。因為他仍有機會和愛荷華其他豬農往來。若與我有關，可能對他不太好。 這本書出版後，我寄給他一本。我告訴他，我在書中提到那晚我們共同分享的事，希望不 會帶給他困擾。我還告訴他，這些內容在那幾頁。 數星期後，我收到他的來信：「親愛的羅賓斯先生，謝謝你寄給我此書。我看到它時，我 的偏頭痛又犯了。」 身為一位作家，你會希望去影響讀者。但他所說的事，並不是我所樂見的。 他繼續說，他頭痛的很厲害，所以他老婆就建議他，或許應該讀一下此書。因為她覺得他 的頭痛，可能和這本書有關。雖然他覺得聽起來不合邏輯，但他還是做了。因為他老婆在 這方面，常常是對的。 「您寫得真不賴」，他這麼說。這簡短的一句讚美，對我來說，比《紐約時報》大篇幅讚 揚意義更大。他還說，讀這本書，對他來說很難，因為書中所描寫的都是他在做的事。他 清楚感覺到，若繼續這麼做是錯的。 他的頭痛持續惡化，一直到他徹夜讀完這本書後。有一天早上，他走進浴室，望著鏡中的 自己，他說：「我決定了，我要賣掉我的牲口，不再做這一行了，雖然我不知要做什麼， 但也許如你所說的，我可以種花椰菜。」 他賣掉愛荷華的農場，搬到密蘇里州，買了一個小農場。他現在所經營的農場，堪稱模範 農場。 他種有機蔬菜，我確定也包括花椰菜。他把它們拿到當地農民市場賣。 他的農場也養豬，但只養十頭。他不關牠們，也不殺牠們。 他和當地學校簽約，校外教學時，孩子會來他的農場，參加「愛豬」計畫。他告訴孩子， 豬很聰明，如果人們善待牠們，牠們也會很友善。這就是他現在做的事。他讓每一個小孩 ，都有機會摸摸豬的肚子。 他現在幾乎都吃素，他已甩掉多餘的肥肉，健康也獲得大幅改善。多謝老天，他的經濟情 況也比以前好多了。 您現在知道為什麼我一直還記得他？為何我說他是英雄？因為他很勇敢。他雖然不知該做 什麼，卻願意不計一切，摒棄扼殺心靈的事物，遠離錯誤的生活方式，找到正確的生活。 有時我看到世界上的許多事時，會害怕我們無法成功。但當我想到這位男子及其精神力量 ，以及許多其他擁有相同熱血的人時，我又覺得我們會成功。 當我認為我們的人數不足以力挽狂瀾時，我就會想起我初次見這位豬農時對他的誤解。現 在我明白，其實英雄無處不在，只是我無法認出他們，因為我認為他們的樣子或行動應有 特定的模式。我的想法多麼偏差啊。 這位男子是我的英雄，因為他提醒了我 - 我們每個人都能掙脫我們為自己和他人築起的 牢籠，而成為更好的人。他是我的英雄，因為他提醒了我 - 我的願望將會成真。 當我初見他時，萬萬沒有想到我會說出現在所說的這些話，但這就是生命的奇妙之處。人 往往不知道，下一秒會發生什麼。這位豬農提醒了我，絕不要低估心靈的力量。 我覺得很榮幸，那天能和他獨處。感謝上蒼，讓我成為催化劑，幫助他解放自我。我知道 ，我對他而言，具有某種意義，但其實我所獲得的遠超過我所給予的。 對我而言，能除去眼前的薄紗，認出他人的善良，並服務他人，是一種恩典。其他人所期 待的奇蹟，可能是成為富豪，或神秘之旅。但對我而言，這就是生命的奇蹟。 作者：海風（翻譯） 中華素食網 2009年12月29日 ======================================================================================================= The Pig Farmer April 19th, 2010 One day in Iowa I met a particular gentleman—and I use that term, gentleman, frankly, only because I am trying to be polite, for that is certainly not how I saw him at the time. He owned and ran what he called a “pork production facility.” I, on the other hand, would have called it a pig Auschwitz. The conditions were brutal. The pigs were confined in cages that were barely larger than their own bodies, with the cages stacked on top of each other in tiers, three high. The sides and the bottoms of the cages were steel slats, so that excrement from the animals in the upper and middle tiers dropped through the slats on to the animals below. The aforementioned owner of this nightmare weighed, I am sure, at least 240 pounds, but what was even more impressive about his appearance was that he seemed to be made out of concrete. His movements had all the fluidity and grace of a brick wall. What made him even less appealing was that his language seemed to consist mainly of grunts, many of which sounded alike to me, and none of which were particularly pleasant to hear. Seeing how rigid he was and sensing the overall quality of his presence, I—rather brilliantly, I thought—concluded that his difficulties had not arisen merely because he hadn’t had time, that particular morning, to finish his entire daily yoga routine. But I wasn’t about to divulge my opinions of him or his operation, for I was undercover, visiting slaughterhouses and feedlots to learn what I could about modern meat production. There were no bumper stickers on my car, and my clothes and hairstyle were carefully chosen to give no indication that I might have philosophical leanings other than those that were common in the area. I told the farmer matter of factly that I was a researcher writing about animal agriculture, and asked if he’d mind speaking with me for a few minutes so that I might have the benefit of his knowledge. In response, he grunted a few words that I could not decipher, but that I gathered meant I could ask him questions and he would show me around. I was at this point not very happy about the situation, and this feeling did not improve when we entered one of the warehouses that housed his pigs. In fact, my distress increased, for I was immediately struck by what I can only call an overpowering olfactory experience. The place reeked like you would not believe of ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, and other noxious gases that were the products of the animals’ wastes. These, unfortunately, seemed to have been piling up inside the building for far too long a time. As nauseating as the stench was for me, I wondered what it must be like for the animals. The cells that detect scent are known as ethmoidal cells. Pigs, like dogs, have nearly 200 times the concentration of these cells in their noses as humans do. In a natural setting, they are able, while rooting around in the dirt, to detect the scent of an edible root through the earth itself. Given any kind of a chance, they will never soil their own nests, for they are actually quite clean animals, despite the reputation we have unfairly given them. But here they had no contact with the earth, and their noses were beset by the unceasing odor of their own urine and feces multiplied a thousand times by the accumulated wastes of the other pigs unfortunate enough to be caged in that warehouse. I was in the building only for a few minutes, and the longer I remained in there, the more desperately I wanted to leave. But the pigs were prisoners there, barely able to take a single step, forced to endure this stench, and almost completely immobile, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and with no time off, I can assure you, for holidays. The man who ran the place was—I’ll give him this—kind enough to answer my questions, which were mainly about the drugs he used to handle the problems that are fairly common in factory pigs today. But my sentiments about him and his farm were not becoming any warmer. It didn’t help when, in response to a particularly loud squealing from one of the pigs, he delivered a sudden and threatening kick to the bars of its cage, causing a loud “clang” to reverberate through the warehouse and leading to screaming from many of the pigs. Because it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide my distress, it crossed my mind that I should tell him what I thought of the conditions in which he kept his pigs, but then I thought better of it. This was a man, it was obvious, with whom there was no point in arguing. After maybe 15 minutes, I’d had enough and was preparing to leave, and I felt sure he was glad to be about to be rid of me. But then something happened, something that changed my life, forever—and, as it turns out, his too. It began when his wife came out from the farmhouse and cordially invited me to stay for dinner. The pig farmer grimaced when his wife spoke, but he dutifully turned to me and announced, “The wife would like you to stay for dinner.” He always called her “the wife,” by the way, which led me to deduce that he was not, apparently, on the leading edge of feminist thought in the country today. I don’t know whether you have ever done something without having a clue why, and to this day I couldn’t tell you what prompted me to do it, but I said Yes, I’d be delighted. And stay for dinner I did, though I didn’t eat the pork they served. The excuse I gave was that my doctor was worried about my cholesterol. I didn’t say that I was a vegetarian, nor that my cholesterol was 125. I was trying to be a polite and appropriate dinner guest. I didn’t want to say anything that might lead to any kind of disagreement. The couple (and their two sons, who were also at the table) were, I could see, being nice to me, giving me dinner and all, and it was gradually becoming clear to me that, along with all the rest of it, they could be, in their way, somewhat decent people. I asked myself, if they were in my town, traveling, and I had chanced to meet them, would I have invited them to dinner? Not likely, I knew, not likely at all. Yet here they were, being as hospitable to me as they could. Yes, I had to admit it. Much as I detested how the pigs were treated, this pig farmer wasn’t actually the reincarnation of Adolph Hitler. At least not at the moment. Of course, I still knew that if we were to scratch the surface we’d no doubt find ourselves in great conflict, and because that was not a direction in which I wanted to go, as the meal went along I sought to keep things on an even and constant keel. Perhaps they sensed it too, for among us, we managed to see that the conversation remained, consistently and resolutely, shallow. We talked about the weather, about the Little League games in which their two sons played, and then, of course, about how the weather might affect the Little League games. We were actually doing rather well at keeping the conversation superficial and far from any topic around which conflict might occur. Or so I thought. But then suddenly, out of nowhere, the man pointed at me forcefully with his finger, and snarled in a voice that I must say truly frightened me, “Sometimes I wish you animal rights people would just drop dead.” How on Earth he knew I had any affinity to animal rights I will never know—I had painstakingly avoided any mention of any such thing—but I do know that my stomach tightened immediately into a knot. To make matters worse, at that moment his two sons leapt from the table, tore into the den, slammed the door behind them, and turned the TV on loud, presumably preparing to drown out what was to follow. At the same instant, his wife nervously picked up some dishes and scurried into the kitchen. As I watched the door close behind her and heard the water begin running, I had a sinking sensation. They had, there was no mistaking it, left me alone with him. I was, to put it bluntly, terrified. Under the circumstances, a wrong move now could be disastrous. Trying to center myself, I tried to find some semblance of inner calm by watching my breath, but this I could not do, and for a very simple reason. There wasn’t any to watch. “What are they saying that’s so upsetting to you?” I said finally, pronouncing the words carefully and distinctly, trying not to show my terror. I was trying very hard at that moment to disassociate myself from the animal rights movement, a force in our society of which he, evidently, was not overly fond. “They accuse me of mistreating my stock,” he growled. “Why would they say a thing like that?” I answered, knowing full well, of course, why they would, but thinking mostly about my own survival. His reply, to my surprise, while angry, was actually quite articulate. He told me precisely what animal rights groups were saying about operations like his, and exactly why they were opposed to his way of doing things. Then, without pausing, he launched into a tirade about how he didn’t like being called cruel, and they didn’t know anything about the business he was in, and why couldn’t they mind their own business. As he spoke it, the knot in my stomach was relaxing, because it was becoming clear, and I was glad of it, that he meant me no harm, but just needed to vent. Part of his frustration, it seemed, was that even though he didn’t like doing some of the things he did to the animals—cooping them up in such small cages, using so many drugs, taking the babies away from their mothers so quickly after their births—he didn’t see that he had any choice. He would be at a disadvantage and unable to compete economically if he didn’t do things that way. This is how it’s done today, he told me, and he had to do it too. He didn’t like it, but he liked even less being blamed for doing what he had to do in order to feed his family. As it happened, I had just the week before been at a much larger hog operation, where I learned that it was part of their business strategy to try to put people like him out of business by going full-tilt into the mass production of assembly-line pigs, so that small farmers wouldn’t be able to keep up. What I had heard corroborated everything he was saying. Almost despite myself, I began to grasp the poignancy of this man’s human predicament. I was in his home because he and his wife had invited me to be there. And looking around, it was obvious that they were having a hard time making ends meet. Things were threadbare. This family was on the edge. Raising pigs, apparently, was the only way the farmer knew how to make a living, so he did it even though, as was becoming evident the more we talked, he didn’t like one bit the direction hog farming was going. At times, as he spoke about how much he hated the modern factory methods of pork production, he reminded me of the very animal rights people who a few minutes before he said he wished would drop dead. As the conversation progressed, I actually began to develop some sense of respect for this man whom I had earlier judged so harshly. There was decency in him. There was something within him that meant well. But as I began to sense a spirit of goodness in him, I could only wonder all the more how he could treat his pigs the way he did. Little did I know that I was about to find out. . . We are talking along, when suddenly he looks troubled. He slumps over, his head in his hands. He looks broken, and there is a sense of something awful having happened. Has he had a heart attack? A stroke? I’m finding it hard to breathe, and hard to think clearly. “What’s happening?” I ask. It takes him awhile to answer, but finally he does. I am relieved that he is able to speak, although what he says hardly brings any clarity to the situation. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, “and I don’t want to talk about it.” As he speaks, he makes a motion with his hand, as if he were pushing something away. For the next several minutes we continue to converse, but I’m quite uneasy. Things seem incomplete and confusing. Something dark has entered the room, and I don’t know what it is or how to deal with it. Then, as we are speaking, it happens again. Once again a look of despondency comes over him. Sitting there, I know I’m in the presence of something bleak and oppressive. I try to be present with what’s happening, but it’s not easy. Again I’m finding it hard to breathe. Finally, he looks at me, and I notice his eyes are teary. “You’re right,” he says. I, of course, always like to be told that I am right, but in this instance I don’t have the slightest idea what he’s talking about. He continues. “No animal,” he says, “should be treated like that. Especially hogs. Do you know that they’re intelligent animals? They’re even friendly, if you treat ’em right. But I don’t.” There are tears welling up in his eyes. And he tells me that he has just had a memory come back of something that happened in his childhood, something he hasn’t thought of for many years. It’s come back in stages, he says. He grew up, he tells me, on a small farm in rural Missouri, the old-fashioned kind where animals ran around, with barnyards and pastures, and where they all had names. I learn, too, that he was an only child, the son of a powerful father who ran things with an iron fist. With no brothers or sisters, he often felt lonely, but found companionship among the animals on the farm, particularly several dogs, who were as friends to him. And, he tells me, and this I am quite surprised to hear, he had a pet pig. As he proceeds to tell me about this pig, it is as if he is becoming a different person. Before he had spoken primarily in a monotone; but now his voice grows lively. His body language, which until this point seemed to speak primarily of long suffering, now becomes animated. There is something fresh taking place. In the summer, he tells me, he would sleep in the barn. It was cooler there than in the house, and the pig would come over and sleep alongside him, asking fondly to have her belly rubbed, which he was glad to do. There was a pond on their property, he goes on, and he liked to swim in it when the weather was hot, but one of the dogs would get excited when he did, and would ruin things. The dog would jump into the water and swim up on top of him, scratching him with her paws and making things miserable for him. He was about to give up on swimming, but then, as fate would have it, the pig, of all people, stepped in and saved the day. Evidently the pig could swim, for she would plop herself into the water, swim out where the dog was bothering the boy, and insert herself between them. She ’d stay between the dog and the boy, and keep the dog at bay. She was, as best I could make out, functioning in the situation something like a lifeguard, or in this case, perhaps more of a life-pig. I’m listening to this hog farmer tell me these stories about his pet pig, and I’m thoroughly enjoying both myself and him, and rather astounded at how things are transpiring, when once again, it happens. Once again a look of defeat sweeps across this man’s face, and once again I sense the presence of something very sad. Something in him, I know, is struggling to make its way toward life through anguish and pain, but I don’t know what it is or how, indeed, to help him. “What happened to your pig?” I ask. He sighs, and it’s as though the whole world’s pain is contained in that sigh. Then, slowly, he speaks. “My father made me butcher it.” “Did you?” I ask. “I ran away, but I couldn’t hide. They found me.” “What happened?” “My father gave me a choice.” “What was that?” “He told me, ‘You either slaughter that animal or you’re no longer my son. ’” Some choice, I think, feeling the weight of how fathers have so often trained their sons not to care, to be what they call brave and strong, but what so often turns out to be callous and closed-hearted. “So I did it,” he says, and now his tears begin to flow, making their way down his cheeks. I am touched and humbled. This man, whom I had judged to be without human feeling, is weeping in front of me, a stranger. This man, whom I had seen as callous and even heartless, is actually someone who cares, and deeply. How wrong, how profoundly and terribly wrong I had been. In the minutes that follow, it becomes clear to me what has been happening. The pig farmer has remembered something that was so painful, that was such a profound trauma, that he had not been able to cope with it when it had happened. Something had shut down, then. It was just too much to bear. Somewhere in his young, formative psyche he made a resolution never to be that hurt again, never to be that vulnerable again. And he built a wall around the place where the pain had occurred, which was the place where his love and attachment to that pig was located, which was his heart. And now here he was, slaughtering pigs for a living—still, I imagined, seeking his father’s approval. God, what we men will do, I thought, to get our fathers’ acceptance. I had thought he was a cold and closed human being, but now I saw the truth. His rigidity was not a result of a lack of feeling, as I had thought it was, but quite the opposite: it was a sign of how sensitive he was underneath. For if he had not been so sensitive, he would not have been that hurt, and he would not have needed to put up so massive a wall. The tension in his body that was so apparent to me upon first meeting him, the body armor that he carried, bespoke how hurt he had been, and how much capacity for feeling he carried still, beneath it all. I had judged him, and done so, to be honest, mercilessly. But for the rest of the evening I sat with him, humbled, and grateful for whatever it was in him that had been strong enough to force this long-buried and deeply painful memory to the surface. And glad, too, that I had not stayed stuck in my judgments of him, for if I had, I would not have provided an environment in which his remembering could have occurred. We talked that night, for hours, about many things. I was, after all that had happened, concerned for him. The gap between his feelings and his lifestyle seemed so tragically vast. What could he do? This was all he knew. He did not have a high school diploma. He was only partially literate. Who would hire him if he tried to do something else? Who would invest in him and train him, at his age? When finally, I left that evening, these questions were very much on my mind, and I had no answers to them. Somewhat flippantly, I tried to joke about it. “Maybe,” I said, “you’ll grow broccoli or something.” He stared at me, clearly not comprehending what I might be talking about. It occurred to me, briefly, that he might possibly not know what broccoli was. We parted that night as friends, and though we rarely see each other now, we have remained friends as the years have passed. I carry him in my heart and think of him, in fact, as a hero. Because, as you will soon see, impressed as I was by the courage it had taken for him to allow such painful memories to come to the surface, I had not yet seen the extent of his bravery. When I wrote Diet for a New America, I quoted him and summarized what he had told me, but I was quite brief and did not mention his name. I thought that, living as he did among other pig farmers in Iowa, it would not be to his benefit to be associated with me. When the book came out, I sent him a copy, saying I hoped he was comfortable with how I wrote of the evening we had shared, and directing him to the pages on which my discussion of our time together was to be found. Several weeks later, I received a letter from him. “Dear Mr. Robbins,” it began. “Thank you for the book. When I saw it, I got a migraine headache.” Now as an author, you do want to have an impact on your readers. This, however, was not what I had had in mind. He went on, though, to explain that the headaches had gotten so bad that, as he put it, “the wife” had suggested to him he should perhaps read the book. She thought there might be some kind of connection between the headaches and the book. He told me that this hadn’t made much sense to him, but he had done it because “the wife” was often right about these things. “You write good,” he told me, and I can tell you that his three words of his meant more to me than when the New York Times praised the book profusely. He then went on to say that reading the book was very hard for him, because the light it shone on what he was doing made it clear to him that it was wrong to continue. The headaches, meanwhile, had been getting worse, until, he told me, that very morning, when he had finished the book, having stayed up all night reading, he went into the bathroom, and looked into the mirror. “I decided, right then,” he said, “that I would sell my herd and get out of this business. I don’t know what I will do, though. Maybe I will, like you said, grow broccoli.” As it happened, he did sell his operation in Iowa and move back to Missouri, where he bought a small farm. And there he is today, running something of a model farm. He grows vegetables organically—including, I am sure, broccoli— that he sells at a local farmer’s market. He’s got pigs, all right, but only about 10, and he doesn’t cage them, nor does he kill them. Instead, he’ s got a contract with local schools; they bring kids out in buses on field trips to his farm, for his “Pet-a-pig” program. He shows them how intelligent pigs are and how friendly they can be if you treat them right, which he now does. He’s arranged it so the kids, each one of them, gets a chance to give a pig a belly rub. He’s become nearly a vegetarian himself, has lost most of his excess weight, and his health has improved substantially. And, thank goodness, he’s actually doing better financially than he was before. Do you see why I carry this man with me in my heart? Do you see why he is such a hero to me? He dared to leap, to risk everything, to leave what was killing his spirit even though he didn’t know what was next. He left behind a way of life that he knew was wrong, and he found one that he knows is right. When I look at many of the things happening in our world, I sometimes fear we won’t make it. But when I remember this man and the power of his spirit, and when I remember that there are many others whose hearts beat to the same quickening pulse, I think we will. I can get tricked into thinking there aren’t enough of us to turn the tide, but then I remember how wrong I was about the pig farmer when I first met him, and I realize that there are heroes afoot everywhere. Only I can’t recognize them because I think they are supposed to look or act a certain way. How blinded I can be by my own beliefs. The man is one of my heroes because he reminds me that we can depart from the cages we build for ourselves and for each other, and become something much better. He is one of my heroes because he reminds me of what I hope someday to become. When I first met him, I would not have thought it possible that I would ever say the things I am saying here. But this only goes to show how amazing life can be, and how you never really know what to expect. The pig farmer has become, for me, a reminder never to underestimate the power of the human heart. I consider myself privileged to have spent that day with him, and grateful that I was allowed to be a catalyst for the unfolding of his spirit. I know my presence served him in some way, but I also know, and know full well, that I received far more than I gave. To me, this is grace—to have the veils lifted from our eyes so that we can recognize and serve the goodness in each other. Others may wish for great riches or for ecstatic journeys to mystical planes, but to me, this is the magic of human life. --

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