From文雄爸爸，这麽好的文章一定要跟大家分享~~ ______________________________________________________________________________ 之前我大学同学寄过我这篇故事的英文版 (我将其附於本信的最下方), 之後我就试着寻 找其中文翻译以和大家分享. 皇天不负苦心人, 经过一段时间的努力, 我终於找到了 (不过我个人有对该篇翻译做了小 小的修改. 未经原译者同意, 真是抱歉.) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 一位猪农的故事 以下故事是 John·Robbins （约翰·罗宾斯）《食物革命》（THE FOOD RE VOLUTION） 一书中的一章（THE PIG FARMER）。这是一个真实的故事，述说他和一位猪农和其家人间 的感人故事。 “他说：「我做了」，他的泪滑过脸颊。这泪触动我的心，让我谦卑。我先前认为这位男 子毫无人类感情，但他在陌生人前哭了。我先前认为这位男子铁石心肠，但其实他有很深 的感情。我错得多离谱啊。”...... 有一天在爱荷华州我碰上了一位男士 - -我用男士这个词，坦率的说，只是因为礼貌上的 关系，因为当时我并非这麽看他的。他拥有并管理一个他所谓的“猪肉生产工厂”。我却 称它为奥斯维斯猪集中营。 猪场的条件很严酷。每头猪被关在笼子里，笼子仅比猪的身体大一点点，笼子一层一层叠 起来，共有三层。笼子的两边和底部都是钢条板，这样上层和中层笼子里的猪们的排泄物 就通过钢条板的空隙掉到下一层的猪身上。这个噩梦的主人大概至少有240磅左右，但是 他给人更深刻的印象还是，他似乎是水泥做的。他的举止投足像一堵砖墙那样呆板和毫无 生气。 让人更不舒服的是，他的说话只是嘟哝，他发的声听上去都大同小异，没有什麽好听的。 看到他的死板和他总体的面相，我突发奇想，我的结论是，他会那样，只是因为那个早上 他还没有时间做该做的瑜伽运动。 但是我不想暴露我对他本人，或他的养猪场的看法。因为我当时是个便衣，走访屠宰场和 饲养场去了解现代的肉类生产工厂。我的汽车保险杆上没贴口号贴纸，从我的衣着和发型 也看不出我跟当地普通人有什麽不同。 我跟这位农场主一板一眼的说，我是个搞畜牧研究的。我问他是否在意跟我讲几分钟话， 这样我就能学到他具有的知识。他嘟囔了几句。我听不懂具体是什麽话，但是明白他的意 思是我可以问问题，而且他可以带我参观。 我对这种境况感觉不痛快。这种感觉在进入他的猪场後，仍然挥之不去。其实让我更痛苦 的是那种令人无法忍受的震撼的嗅觉经验。猪场里面，蒸发着由动物的排泄物发出来的氨 气、硫化氢和别的有毒气体。动物的粪便，似乎在里面堆积太久了。 这种恶臭让我受不了，动物一定也觉得如此。感知气味的细胞叫做筛细胞。猪跟狗一样， 在它们的鼻子里的这种细胞差不多是人类的200倍。在自然环境里，牠们能用鼻子翻土觅 食，嗅出地下的根茎类。 只要有任何机会，它们绝不会在自己的窝里排泄。尽管它们有一个很不公正的名声，它们 实际上是很乾净的动物。 但是在这里，它们根本接触不到大地。它们的鼻子被自己的，还有跟它们一样不幸的同类 的排泄物因堆积在一起所发出的，被放大上千倍的，不可思议的恶臭所包围。 我在那里只待了几分钟，就想夺门而出。但是那些猪形同囚犯，几乎寸步难移，还被强迫 闻那种恶臭，每周七天全天候。我敢保证，它们绝对没有节假日。 经营这个地方的人，我姑且送了他这个词吧，“好心”地回答了我很多问题，大多是关於 他用何药品来对付现今在工厂式猪场里常见的猪病。 有一头猪发出一声较大的嚎叫，他突然在一个笼子上威胁性的踢了一脚，引起了很大的“ 当啷”声，在整个猪场产生了很大的回响，让很多的猪们大声号哭。这样的行为，真的对 他的形象毫无帮助。 我的难受越来越难掩饰，所以我想我应该告诉他我对他的养猪场的看法，但是我又想到了 一个更好的办法。很明显，跟这样一个人争执是没用的。 差不多15分钟以後，我看够了，就准备离开。我确定他也很高兴打发我走。但是有一件事 情发生了，这件事永远改变了我，也改变了他的一生。 事情的起始是他的妻子从他家的农场屋出来，诚恳的邀请我留下来吃晚饭。 农场主在他老婆说话的时候，一脸的苦相。但是他转向我，忠实的说：“那个婆娘让你留 下吃饭。”顺便说，他总是叫他妻子“那个婆娘”，让我觉得，他大概没跟上今日在我们 国家流行的女权思想吧。 我不知道你是否做过什麽在当时完全不知道为何要做的事。时至今日，我还不知为何我当 时说可以，说我很高兴留下来吃饭。 我真的留了下来，不过我没吃他们端上来的猪肉。我的藉口是，我的医生担心我的胆固醇 。我没说我吃素，而且我的胆固醇是125。 我努力做一个礼貌得体的晚餐客人。我没说任何可能引起我们分歧的话。 这夫妻俩（还有他们的两个儿子当时也在场）对我很好，给我晚饭吃。我渐渐的看的很清 楚，他们以他们的方式招待我，而且还算是很正派的人。 我扪心自问，若他们在我的镇上，让我碰上，我会邀请他们共进晚餐吗？不可能。我知道 ，完全不可能。但是他们对我热情好客。我得承认，虽然我憎恶他对猪的方式，这位养猪 农夫还不算希特勒再世，至少那会儿不是。 当然，我知道若透过表面，我们毫无疑问会发现自己跟对方有极大的冲突，但是我不想让 我们的对话朝那个方向发展，我尽量让对话平稳、持续。可能他们也感觉到了，因为我们 之间的对话一直都很肤浅。 我们聊了天气，又聊他那两个儿子在小联盟的球赛。当然，还有天气会怎样影响他们的球 赛。我们很成功的把对话保持在肤浅的层次，避免任何可能让我们有冲突的话题。至少我 这麽想。但是突然，那人很使劲的用手指着我，用怕人的声音吼叫说：“有时候，我希望 你们这些动物保护的人死掉。” 到底他是怎麽知道我跟动物保护有关，我永远不会知道。我尽量避免提到这种事，但是我 知道我的胃紧紧的拧成了一个结。 更糟的是，此时他的两个儿子从桌边跳起来，冲到另一个房间，大声的关上了门，并把电 视开得很响，可能是为了盖住接下去要发生的事。 同时，他妻子很紧张的捡起了盘子，躲进了厨房。当我看到厨房门在她身後关上，又听到 水流的声音时，我有一种往下沉的感觉。我没弄错，他们要把我和他单独留在一起。 坦率的说，我怕死了。在这种情况下，一个错的举动都会是灾难性的。为了自我镇定，我 想开始观呼吸。但是我连这也做不到，因为我毫无呼吸可观。 “他们说什麽让您这麽生气呢？”我终於一字一句的说，很小心的不让他察觉我的恐惧。 我尽量把自己跟动物保护运动划清界限。他显然不喜欢他们。 “他们说我虐待我的猪，”他咆哮说。 “他们为什麽要这麽说呢？”我回答。我当然知道他们为什麽这麽说，但我想到了我的安 全。 让我惊奇的是，他的答案虽然怒气冲冲，但是却很清晰。 他很准确的告诉我动物保护组织是如何这般说他这类的设施，和为什麽他们反对他这麽做 。 然後，他马上开始长篇大论地说他如何不喜欢被叫作残酷，而且他们完全不懂他这一行。 为什麽他们不可以只管自己的事。 当他开始说话的时候，我胃里的结开始松开了。 事情变得明朗了，而且我很高兴是这样。他对我并未恶意，只是要发泄而已。 他的一部分沮丧来自於：尽管他不喜欢他对动物所做的某些事—让他们挤在那麽小的笼子 里，用这麽多的药，以及把小小的猪仔从母猪那里领走。但他看不到自己有任何别的选择 。 假如他不做这些事，他会处於经济上的劣势而无法竞争。如今的事情就是这样，他说，他 不得不这麽做。他不喜欢因这些事被责备，因为他是为了给全家谋生才做的。 凑巧的是，我在一个星期前正好在一个更大的养猪场。我得知他们的商业策略之一就是采 用完全大规模的装配线养猪，来击垮他这样的小型农场。我所听到的证实他所说的一切属 实。 我不自觉的了解到这个人所处的困境。我因他们夫妻的邀请到了他家。我环顾四周，很明 显，他们很拮据，一切都很破旧，他们的日子艰难。 显而易见，养猪是这位农夫所知道的唯一的谋生方式，所以他就做了这一行。但他一点都 不喜欢养猪业的趋向。 偶尔，当他讲到他多麽厌恶现代的工厂化猪肉生产，他的口气就像对待动物保护人士。几 分钟前，他还恨不得他们死掉。 我们的谈话继续着，我开始慢慢的对他生出一些尊敬心来。在早些时，我对他的批判曾那 麽严厉。他里面有正派的因素，也有善心。但是当我开始感觉他善的一面时，不仅想到， 他又怎麽可以如此对待他的猪呢？我全然没想到接下去会发生的事… 我们聊着聊着，突然他看上去很不安。他的身体往前倾，把头埋在手里。他看上去崩溃了 ，好像有什麽可怕的事情发生了。 他有心脏病，中风了？我发现自己有点不能呼吸，脑子也不大清晰。 “怎麽了？”我问。 他过了一会才回答。他还可以说话，我松了一口气。不过他的话没提供任何解释。 “没关系，”他说，“我不想谈它。”他说话的时候，做了一个手势，好像要把什麽东西 推开。 接下去的几分钟里，我们继续聊天，但是我很不自在。事情似乎不完整，令人困惑。有什 麽黑暗的东西进了屋子，可是我不知道是什麽，也不知道如何应对。 然後，当我们在讲话的时候，他的脸上又出现了失望的神色。我坐在那儿，感觉到了什麽 阴冷压迫的事情。我尽量想了解正在发生的事情，但是不容易。我又感觉难以呼吸。 最後，他看着我。我注意到他眼中有泪。“你是对的，”他说。我当然喜欢别人说我是对 的，不过这次情况下我完全不知道他在讲什麽。 他接着说：“没有动物应该受到那样的待遇，尤其是猪。你知道吗？它们是聪明的动物。 你若对它们好，他们还很友善呢，但是我对它们不好。” 他又开始泪眼模糊。他说刚刚忆起了一件孩提时的事，这件事他已忘了多年。这个记忆是 一步步回来的，他说。 他跟我说，他长在密苏里一个偏僻的小农场，那种老式的农场，有动物自由漫跑，又有谷 仓和牧草地，所有的动物都有名字。我还得知，他是家里的独子，一个铁腕式的强权父亲 的儿子。没有兄弟姐妹，他常常感觉到孤独。但是在农场的动物中他找到了伴侣，特别是 那几条狗。它们对他就像朋友一样。而且我还很惊奇的听到他说，他还有一只宠物猪。 当他开始讲这只猪的时候，他就像变了一个人。 之前，他基本上是单语调的，但他现在的声音开始变得有活力。他的肢体语言，至此为止 ，似乎在诉说内心长期的煎熬，现在却变得很有生气了。他似乎获得了新的活力。 夏天，他睡在谷仓里，因为那儿比屋子里凉快。那只猪就会过来睡在他旁边，还会撒娇叫 他揉它的肚子。他很喜欢替它揉肚子。 在他们的地上有一个水池。天热的时候他喜欢在池中游泳，但是有一条狗会很兴奋而把事 情搞得一团糟。这狗会跳到水里，游在他身上，她的爪会挠到他，让他很不舒服，他差点 就放弃游泳了。但是，命运就是这样定的，那头猪挺身而出，成全了他。 很明显这头猪能游泳，它扑通的跳入水中，游过去把自己置於他和狗之间，让狗不能靠近 他。我想，她当时在扮演一个救生员的角色，或者说，是救生猪。 我听着这个猪农讲他和他的宠物猪之间的故事，真是莫大的享受。所以当事情又有转折的 时候，我很吃惊。 失败的表情再一次出现在他的脸上，我又感受到莫大的悲伤。他的内心有东西在挣扎，想 通过苦闷和痛苦找到生命。但是我不知道是什麽，也不知道怎样帮助他。 “你的猪怎样了？”我问。 他叹息，好像整个世界的痛苦都在那一声叹息中。慢慢地，他说：“我父亲逼我，要我杀 了那头猪。 “你杀了吗？” 我问。 “我逃开了，但是我躲不过，他们找到了我。” “发生什麽事了？” “我父亲给我一个选择。” “什麽选择？” “他跟我说，你若不把那头猪宰了，我就不认你是我儿子。” 听到这，我感触良多。有些父亲常希望把儿子训练成所谓勇敢强壮的人，却往往使他们变 成冷酷无情的人。 他说：「我做了」，他的泪滑过脸颊。这泪触动我的心，让我谦卑。我先前认为这位男子 毫无人类感情，但他在陌生人前哭了。我先前认为这位男子铁石心肠，但其实他有很深的 感情。我错得多离谱啊。 在接下来的几分钟，我渐渐了解事情为何会变成这样。这位猪农忆起了一件使他十分痛心 的事，那是他无法抹掉的记忆，所以他关上了心扉，因为那是他无法承受的伤痛。 他幼小的心灵受到创伤，他不想再受到伤害了。他不想再做个弱者，於是他在自己受伤的 心灵四周筑起一道墙，墙里有他对这只猪的爱与依恋。现在他以杀猪维生。我想，他还是 想寻求他父亲的认可。天啊，我们男人会做什麽事，以得到父亲的认可？ 之前我认为他是冷酷无情的人，现在我才了解真相。他的呆板，不是因为缺乏感情。正好 相反，而是因为他的内心十分敏感。如果他没有那麽敏感，就不会受那麽重的伤，然後筑 起那道厚墙。 当我初见他时，明显感觉到，他身体很紧绷。他身上穿的无形盔甲，证明他曾被伤得很重 。但是就这样，他还在表面下隐藏了如此丰富的情感。 我之前以为他很无情，但那晚与他聊过之後，我很感谢他内心的那股力量，唤醒了他自己 那一段尘封已久的痛苦记忆。 我也很高兴自己没有陷入对他的成见中。如果我有，就不会听他诉说那段不堪回首的回忆 了。 那晚聊了数小时，我们谈了好多事。老实说，我很担心他。因为他的感受与实际生活有很 大的落差。他该怎麽做？只有他知道。他没有高中文凭，只有一点读写能力。如果他想做 别的，谁愿意雇用他？以他的年纪，谁愿意栽培他？ 那晚回去之後，这些问题仍在我脑海挥之不去。不过我在聊天时，曾开玩笑地说：“或许 你可以种花椰菜。”他盯着我看，显然不太清楚我在说什麽。我想他可能不知道什麽是花 椰菜。 那晚我们像朋友一样道别了。之後几年，我们很少见面，但我仍惦记着他，因为我觉得他 是英雄。待会你就会知道原因。我除了佩服他有勇气，说出那段痛苦回忆外，我还佩服他 具有更大的勇气。 当我在写《新世纪饮食》时，我引述他对我说的话。我只概略写一下，并没有提到他的名 字。因为他仍有机会和爱荷华其他猪农往来。若与我有关，可能对他不太好。 这本书出版後，我寄给他一本。我告诉他，我在书中提到那晚我们共同分享的事，希望不 会带给他困扰。我还告诉他，这些内容在那几页。 数星期後，我收到他的来信：「亲爱的罗宾斯先生，谢谢你寄给我此书。我看到它时，我 的偏头痛又犯了。」 身为一位作家，你会希望去影响读者。但他所说的事，并不是我所乐见的。 他继续说，他头痛的很厉害，所以他老婆就建议他，或许应该读一下此书。因为她觉得他 的头痛，可能和这本书有关。虽然他觉得听起来不合逻辑，但他还是做了。因为他老婆在 这方面，常常是对的。 「您写得真不赖」，他这麽说。这简短的一句赞美，对我来说，比《纽约时报》大篇幅赞 扬意义更大。他还说，读这本书，对他来说很难，因为书中所描写的都是他在做的事。他 清楚感觉到，若继续这麽做是错的。 他的头痛持续恶化，一直到他彻夜读完这本书後。有一天早上，他走进浴室，望着镜中的 自己，他说：「我决定了，我要卖掉我的牲口，不再做这一行了，虽然我不知要做什麽， 但也许如你所说的，我可以种花椰菜。」 他卖掉爱荷华的农场，搬到密苏里州，买了一个小农场。他现在所经营的农场，堪称模范 农场。 他种有机蔬菜，我确定也包括花椰菜。他把它们拿到当地农民市场卖。 他的农场也养猪，但只养十头。他不关牠们，也不杀牠们。 他和当地学校签约，校外教学时，孩子会来他的农场，参加「爱猪」计画。他告诉孩子， 猪很聪明，如果人们善待牠们，牠们也会很友善。这就是他现在做的事。他让每一个小孩 ，都有机会摸摸猪的肚子。 他现在几乎都吃素，他已甩掉多余的肥肉，健康也获得大幅改善。多谢老天，他的经济情 况也比以前好多了。 您现在知道为什麽我一直还记得他？为何我说他是英雄？因为他很勇敢。他虽然不知该做 什麽，却愿意不计一切，摒弃扼杀心灵的事物，远离错误的生活方式，找到正确的生活。 有时我看到世界上的许多事时，会害怕我们无法成功。但当我想到这位男子及其精神力量 ，以及许多其他拥有相同热血的人时，我又觉得我们会成功。 当我认为我们的人数不足以力挽狂澜时，我就会想起我初次见这位猪农时对他的误解。现 在我明白，其实英雄无处不在，只是我无法认出他们，因为我认为他们的样子或行动应有 特定的模式。我的想法多麽偏差啊。 这位男子是我的英雄，因为他提醒了我 - 我们每个人都能挣脱我们为自己和他人筑起的 牢笼，而成为更好的人。他是我的英雄，因为他提醒了我 - 我的愿望将会成真。 当我初见他时，万万没有想到我会说出现在所说的这些话，但这就是生命的奇妙之处。人 往往不知道，下一秒会发生什麽。这位猪农提醒了我，绝不要低估心灵的力量。 我觉得很荣幸，那天能和他独处。感谢上苍，让我成为催化剂，帮助他解放自我。我知道 ，我对他而言，具有某种意义，但其实我所获得的远超过我所给予的。 对我而言，能除去眼前的薄纱，认出他人的善良，并服务他人，是一种恩典。其他人所期 待的奇蹟，可能是成为富豪，或神秘之旅。但对我而言，这就是生命的奇蹟。 作者：海风（翻译） 中华素食网 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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