I've been eating meat for as long as I can remember. By now, I wouldn't even be surprised that I have it regularly; my family's culture is particularly protein-heavy, containing foods such as oxtail, curry goat, and jerk chicken. To most of the people I know and grew up with, there's no consequence. My parents, aunts, and uncles all lived with animals that were probably waiting to be consumed for the benefit of mankind. Despite not having such an origin, I find that as the more I age, the more I find myself growing disturbed with eating animals.

For most of my dinners at home, I seem to save the meaty portions for last--not for the savory anticipation, but for delaying my conscience. It becomes a mental game where I have to suppress my thoughts just to eat a leg or thigh.

I've watched countless documentaries involving farming and genetically modified foods. I've glossed over some of the most horrifying slaughter videos available. I've read "Fast Food Nation" and shoved it in the presence of every McDonald's I encountered like a Christian cross. But still, I occasionally feel compelled to eat at Burger King or another restaurant because the rest of my family does and because grease is really tasty. And sometimes, I'm even the one initiating these events.

Knowing where your food came from in juxtaposition with its consequence brings a sort of sentimentality that's difficult to shake off. I remember looking at the pig's head of my college's cultural dinner and feeling horrified by the sight. The pork sandwich that followed was a bittersweet meal for me, namely because I could attach a face and a presence to the "victim."

I can't completely define why I feel this way. Maybe it's because when I'm looking at the chicken leg or thigh, I'm suddenly thinking of my own mortality. How my body could be slowly and flawlessly ripped apart by the most merciful butcher, tenderized by either blunt objects or menacing machinery, cooked at just the right temperature, and devoured as some late night snack. Or even just thrown in the trash, perfectly edible and untouched, at the end of some regal event.

For me, this makes eating much more difficult. But also much less wasteful. When I take the meat out of the container, I'm essentially making a deal with the ghost of the animal. Saying, yes, I agree to eat this part of you. I will make sure that you will not have died in vain, and I respect you for giving me the energy to continue living.