It’s hardly surprising, I suppose, that at a gathering of writers, poets, and linguists, the talk would turn to etymology. That’s what happened at my department Christmas party this week. We sipped wine, enjoyed various sweet and savory treats, and talked about word histories.
At one point, someone mentioned the difference between the word “pig” and the word “pork.” Being a linguist by profession and an animal advocate by calling, I could not but respond. The first sentence out of my mouth was, “Well, of course, using ‘pork’ with reference to food helps us distance the fact that we’re eating an animal.” This was rapidly followed by a second sentence, “Sorry to be such an animal rights activist.” The third sentence, which did not come out of my mouth, but stayed firmly in my head was, “What am I apologizing for?”
I work in an environment in which talk of social justice is common and expected. At my university, issues of power, prejudice, and privilege are routinely incorporated into liberal arts courses, and all baccalaureate students are required to take a class on social justice. Frank discussion of feminism, gay rights, environmental issues, and racial equality are part of the education we provide, and social justice issues are woven into the fabric of our curriculum.
No one at my workplace apologizes for bringing up racism, sexism, or homophobia. Certainly no one would hesitate to mention the misogynistic or racist connotations of a word. And yet, when I mentioned the very real relationship between a word and the treatment of animals, my knee-jerk reaction was to express regret, as if I’d somehow overstepped my bounds.
Over the years, I’ve been more-or-less silent about my animal advocacy. I practice it through choices about what I eat and wear. Occasionally, I write a letter, sign a petition, stick a poster on my office door, or share an animal advocacy post to Facebook. But many, many times when my heart tells me to speak, I keep silent.
Part of my hesitancy comes from reactions I occasionally get when I do bring up animal issues. Most of the time, my friends and colleagues are politely respectful of my views, but few share them, and sometimes the gulf between their beliefs and mine becomes starkly evident. I’ve listened to some of my closest friends insist that the use of animals as commodities is “normal,” “natural,” or a human right, apparently unaware that identical arguments were long used to justify the enslavement of human beings. I often see a kind of casual indifference to animal suffering in people who are otherwise compassionate and thoughtful. I even had one lengthy discussion with a member of my own department who insisted that animals are no more conscious than plants—an assumption contradicted by a vast body of behavioral and physiological research. With these attitudes all around me, perhaps my reticence is excusable.
But most of my hesitancy doesn’t stem from my friends’ and coworkers’ reactions. It comes from me. From my own fear of offending others, of seeming strident, of coming across as a fanatic or a nut. I don’t want to be the person who is always pushing an issue, the Debby Downer who has to point out the dark side of something others take for granted and enjoy.
But increasingly, I’m asking myself, why don’t I want to be that person? Why not be the annoying guest who just won’t stop talking about something others would rather let drop? The zealot who throws a soapbox on the corner and stands atop it shouting? The one who keeps scratching and scratching at the status quo until a tiny hole appears—enough to let in a little light.
“What is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood,” wrote one of my favorite authors, Audre Lorde. Her words are resonating with me this solstice night. Perhaps it is time for me to stop hedging, hesitating, and apologizing. Maybe that will be my resolution for the New Year.