Thanking the Animals We Eat

A leather-footed man runs swiftly through the brush. His bow sets within his hand, deftly, unwavering, a sure friend. The beaded strap holding a long pouch of arrows moves gently across his chest. There is a rustling 20 meters away. He stops and kneels, pulling from the pouch a proper point. He crosses the bow and stretches the band back, aiming in the direction of the sound.

The animal moves closer. The color of the hide becomes visible. A deer. The tension in the band is sure, true, natural. His grandfather’s voice whispers to him from the Land of Spirit. “Check the points. Not too young.”

He waits. His breath slows, his gaze never swaying. Finally, he spots the antlers and counts: One, two, three, and, yes, four. Four points. A true foe and provider. He steadies his hand, following the movement in the brush. “Creator, give me a sure arrow.” Minutes pass. His muscles begin to quiver slightly under the strain. His eyes blur and he blinks several times to regain his focus. “Creator, give me a sure arrow.”

At last the deer moves into plain sight. The arrow leaps from the bow, whipping the air. The man now rushes to the animal. He must get there quickly. He checks the small leather pouch at his waste. The tobacco is ready.

When he arrives, the deer is not moving, but his breath has not left him. He kneels at his side, and places his hands upon the animal’s neck. The arrow has pierced his heart. A sure arrow. He leans his face into the deer’s soft ears. “Thank you brother. Thank you for giving my family food to eat.” He then drops tobacco on the earth and sits. He comforts the animal, as he leaves the Land of Man for the Land of Spirit. “Pass peacefully, brother. You are honored.”

I may not be a leather-footed man, as my Native American ancestors were before the 21st century, but they still whisper in my ears, as my feet—usually donning a pair of high heels—tap the Manhattan pavement each day. If I pay attention, I learn something.

As the rains ushered in fall, turkey ordering began in the market. Pumpkins began to flavor everything from pastries to soups, to pasta, to tea, and the question, “What are you thankful for?” sprouted up in conversation. Inevitably, the subject arrived. “Did you know that Elise thanks the turkey at Thanksgiving?” a friend of mine asked a new acquaintance. Faces turned to question marks.

I sighed, “Yes. I thank the turkey,” and proceeded to explain the cultural novelty. Surprisingly, though, this year, I wasn’t met with grins that said, “This woman is a nut,” but with lauding approval in speech and gesture. “I think that’s amazing!” one man said. “I wish there was more of that.”

There is a Cherokee belief, stemming for eons, that if you do not thank an animal for giving its life so that you may live, sickness will come upon you and the community. If it were properly thanked, the spirit would return to the Creator. If not, it was the bearer of infliction. Like a bad hangover, the Creator allowed the animal spirit to try to teach you a lesson.

Spiritual superstition? Maybe. But, as more and more Americans find themselves sitting on paper-covered benches in doctor’s offices with high cholesterol or diabetes, I have to wonder if my ancestors didn’t have it right after all.

It’s a scientific fact that our bodies have checks and balances. If we drink too much, our liver pays. If we eat too much, we gain unwanted pounds. A+B=C. It’s simple. Usually, we can wade through these minor physical repercussions from time to time with perfect justification. It was a holiday or a birthday. I was working 60 hours last week. I got fired and needed a drink, etc., etc. Our bodies usually cycle through the bad and replenish it with the good—eventually.

Unfortunately, for the most part, that’s not how things go. Our circumstances become tall and wide, holding whip and rod, and we suffer. Over time, we become a slave to those circumstances, and are told to ignore our failing vitality. It’s all in the pursuance of success. Justified and verified. Mind over matter. Work. Work. Work. Then, soon, our awareness of what we eat, and why, just evaporates.

It’s true. If you come to my house for Thanksgiving, and you want to cook with me, you are not allowed to touch the carcass of the bird unless you first say, “Thank you, Turkey.” The same goes for any meal where an animal of some kind is on the menu. I’m doing you a favor. I’m keeping you from getting sick. Right? Actually, what I am doing is trying to make sure my kitchen is a continual place of gratitude, a place where awareness is most keen—an awareness that something died for me to live.

I try not to limit this awareness to meat or fish. If I’m cutting an apple, I think about the person who tended the tree. If I am eating a carrot, I remind myself that someone pulled it from the ground. Another person’s work has helped bring food to my table. Over time, I have found that when I reflect upon these things while holding a knife over a cutting board, my perception of my fellow man and that of the world, changes. A deep sense of gratitude flourishes and rises within me. What was once okay to eat, isn’t. What was once all-American, seems tainted.

I travel a lot in my life. It is my calling. And when I tell my Native mother about the view some of my foreign friends have with food, and the celebration and respect they tend to have towards ingredients, food preparation and food sharing, she cries. She’s grieving what she calls, “a nation that once was.” She grieves that her daughter finds these things thousands of miles away and not in her own nation. I understand, but the fat lady hasn’t sung yet.

In western society, we have already analyzed and tested what is good and bad for our bodies. We can predict the downfall of our bad habits with nail-biting accuracy. Take type 2 diabetes as an example. This month, a report predicted that one out of three children born in the year 2000 will develop diabetes in their lifetimes.

We also know that the inflated, industrialized food system is feeding us a lot of horrible, while treating the animals and lands with a lot of horrible. A Native would say, “Duh. Not a good idea.”

Finally, in the land of capitalism, we know that voting with our dollar regarding food sources works. So what is it? Why are we not bouncing back quick enough? Why are we not healing? Why are the predictions still so dire?

It might be the foolish hope of a Native woman, but I believe it starts in our kitchens. Paying attention.

What if we were always, or at least most of the time, able to rest in this type of awareness? What if we were mindful of what we ate and fed our children, knowing it took someone else’s hands to help us eat that day. How would we view the meal? How would we view our bodies? How would we view our supermarket? Would we demand better food? Would we be more supportive of our nation’s farmers? Would we be more charitable to the hungry? How would our work schedule appear to us now, in the window of our mind’s eye?

Maybe if we were more aware, we would reconnect once again to the life and life force around us. Maybe the slave driver will cease his whip, and we will stand—healthier.

A Native American will speak to you figuratively (or literally, depending) and say, “Tend your crops, hunt your game, share your surplus, live with a heart of gratitude to the Creator, Mother Earth, Father Sky and your brethren, both animal kind and human kind. If so, you will be free of most sickness.” Cherokees call this “The way of right relationship.”

I’m human. I live in New York City. I don’t always succeed. But, I try my best. I try to listen. I try to choose a daily awareness over hurried ignorance. It’s a battle I fight. A little war paint under the skin never hurt anyone. Who knows? Maybe someday, we will all thank our turkeys before the fat lady sings.