The Doe's Editor-in-Chief, Colin St. John, picks some of his favorite narratives.

Editor's Picks

I’d been a vegetarian my whole life. I realized about five years ago there was a disconnect between what I believed and what I was actually doing—and so I went vegan. That began a domino effect—like a lot of people have—with learning about all of this stuff. I wanted to get involved more and do more for a cause that I really valued.

I contacted PETA and asked if I could work as an investigator. I’ve been doing it since 2017. There are lots of stories. I don’t even know where to begin. We have to investigate all sorts of things like entertainment animals, farming animals and the like.

I’m a young guy from the UK and have a pretty normal background. It’s not the sort of thing I ever anticipated doing when I was younger: It’s been a challenge; it’s been rewarding, as well.

I’ve been in a few slaughterhouses: sheep and chickens. They are awful places.

The role changes depending on the place. Whenever I’m doing investigations, I’m working in the jobs that nobody wants. It tends to be really menial, manual labor work. The job that I had in the chicken processing plant was an awful, awful job. It was the point in the plant where the chickens are coming out of the trucks and they have to be hung up onto the moving line, onto the shackles so they can be carried throughout the whole plant.

I’d start in this very small dark room in a line with ten other workers. The whole shift, we picked chickens upside down by their legs and slotted their legs into the shackles. It was really hot, really musty—there was all of this stuff in the air, you couldn’t really breathe properly, and there is all sorts of shit and piss everywhere. The pick rate is insane: You have to pick a chicken up every two seconds. It’s a really stressful, intense work environment and lots of horrible stuff is going on all around you.

Pretty much all the time at the chicken slaughterhouse—and fairly regularly at the other slaughterhouses—illegal activities are taking place. 

In the slaughterhouse and the hanging room, things were happening all the time that were just absolutely brutal. We stood in line in this dark room—you can only really see the person to your immediate left or right—against a waist-high metal wall and there’s a wall behind you. Often, someone would pick up a chicken and out of—I don’t know frustration or boredom—would just lift the chicken up and then swing it down so that the chicken’s head slammed into the top of this partition wall. Sometimes they’d turn around and slam the chicken into the wall behind them.

All of this is not allowed. Supposedly if they had been seen doing it, they would have been in serious trouble. There’s a camera just one or two meters away from them at all times with infrared but nothing was enforced.

There was one guy who had a real penchant for pulling chickens' heads off. And quite early on when I was working there, he was trying to impress me or something—I don’t really know. I guess he was frustrated or bored. So he grabbed this chicken that was going by on the line by the head and he wrapped his hand around the neck and then just pulled. The chicken was obviously being carried away by the line, and so the body just stretched and stretched and stretched, and then eventually the neck snapped off and the body sprang back. Then he held this chicken’s head up and put it onto one of his fingers, like a little finger puppet. He waggled it around in front of me, making chicken noises. It was really messed up. This was actually reported to the plant while I was there, anonymously, and they didn’t do anything about it. When I left, he was still there.

In the sheep slaughterhouses, it’s generally like a poor boy working, cleaning up the floor. There’s blood and shit and guts everywhere and there’s got to be somebody to mop all that up constantly: picking up severed heads, fixing the troughs and sewers and drainage channels.

When I’m doing these jobs, I’m not thinking about the environment: I’m just thinking about the animals and trying to identify issues relating to them. But, the atmosphere in the chicken farms: They’re just so incredibly unnatural, so incredibly beyond anything that really should ever be done. These chicken sheds house ten thousand, thirteen thousand birds in one room. You can’t go into these places without wearing masks and protective clothing. I did on my first day and I was coughing for weeks. All of the ammonia and all of the dust and all of the shit that’s littering the shed, at the end of the season, will be cleared out and washed away somewhere.

I’ve worked on a pig farm and the lagoons of shit that you get on pig farms were just incredible, acres of land devoted to a pool of feces. I gather that it’s diluted down and sprayed on fields. These operations work at such a scale, they work so fast and they produce so much that the abattoir is just washing blood and shit away all the time—just pools of the stuff—and I can’t imagine that stuff is good for the environment.

People get sick working with animals; those things are inevitable. When I started at that chicken processing plant, I got pink eye within about three days. It was really, really bad. You’re standing in clouds of shit flying around, feathers and dust and all that. You’re bound to get infections. I had a cough at the time so whenever I coughed, my eyes felt like they were going to explode. I can’t imagine how you can work with animals and not anticipate getting sick: When I started that job at the processing plant, all of my colleagues expected me to come down with something. It’s sort of a guaranteed thing. I took a day off because of my eye and they all thought I’d be gone for a week. It’s completely normal.

We know that these things cause disease. If you put thousands and thousands of animals in cramped conditions together, it’s perfect for a virus to develop and spread. And that’s why it doesn’t exist in nature. It’s no surprise and it’s just shocking that nothing is really being done. There’s no change being instigated. As far as I understand it, the pig and poultry farms are the worst violators because of the conditions and the way that a virus can spread quite quickly there. 

All of this industrial animal farming is, as far as I’m concerned, the main culprit for the spread of disease. And not to mention, the use of antibiotics on the farms. I saw everyone coming down with viruses all the time. I think this sort of pandemic we’re experiencing now with coronavirus is going to happen again.

Being on the front lines of it, it’s impossible not to see the only way of avoiding all of these issues that pop up with factory farming is to just stop buying the things they are producing. I want everyone to go vegan, and to stop eating animals and buying animal products. So much pain will be prevented.

Environment

Insiders

Food

Money

I'm a PETA Investigator: Stop Eating Meat or Expect More Viral Outbreaks

The wealthy businessman sat across the wide, polished table from the high-ranking Trump appointee with a strange expression on his face: cautious, keen and hungry.

That’s right, he said. Many of the world’s most precious metals. And, for the United States, key strategic minerals.

It was just another D.C. meeting, squeezed between more meetings, like a thousand before and a thousand to come. Late-afternoon sun gleamed into the room, which was furnished with pomp: crown molding, gold-leaf foil, historic photos framed on the walls. An American flag stood near the window, glowing.

But something felt different. From a couch in the corner, I underlined those words in my notes: strategic minerals.

I’m a civil servant—which just means I’m a permanent government employee, serving whichever presidential administration gets elected. The vast majority of the federal workforce is made up of civil servant positions, managed by a thin layer of political appointees. In January 2017, we didn’t leave; we just got new bosses. Most of the Trump appointees I’ve worked with are good and hard-working people—but with some of them, I’m just not sure. The Trump administration has pulled in a lot of people who’ve never worked in government, including many from the private sector. Some just seem unfamiliar with or uninterested in the finer details of public service.

The wealthy businessman leaned forward, planting elbows on the table, fingers tented. He looked intently at the high-ranking Trump appointee, eyes wide and hungry.

So I thought, he said, wouldn’t it be nice? For those assets…to be owned by an American?

He raised his eyebrows and opened his hands, as if an invisible world bloomed between his fingers.

Just by being here, the businessman was taking some risks. Meeting with the government, asking these questions, poking around these bureau drawers. But he was focused on rewards, not risks. The Trump appointee straightened.

Hmm, he said. That’s all very interesting.

Whatever it was, the businessman’s idea wasn’t very complicated. For years, a group of corrupt, rich foreigners operated some corrupt, lucrative companies that owned mining rights in corrupt, poor countries. But now the U.S. government—across several agencies, in powerful symphony—was cornering the group. After years in the shadows, they were finally feeling the cold, searing light of American justice.

Which was well and good, but the businessman’s idea was: What about the mines? These were natural resources that ended up in cars, smartphones and weapons; they were some of the rarest and most valuable stuff on Earth. Why couldn’t an American—why couldn’t this very businessman—simply acquire the mining rights from the group of corrupt, rich foreigners?

Money wasn’t the problem; with assets like these, for a businessman like this, money was no issue. The problem, plainly, was American justice: Buying mines from corrupt criminals was not exactly, well, standard practice. But of course—these days, in this city, nothing was.

The room fell silent except for my pen scratches. The Trump appointee flipped through the memo I’d written, realizing it had nothing about mines or corrupt foreigners—when the businessman asked for this meeting, he hadn’t mentioned any of that. But even if he had—he was barking up the wrong tree. He’d gotten the wrong agency, the wrong bureau drawer. There was nothing this particular high-ranking Trump appointee could do to help him.

I put down my pen and looked up; his eyes were like dark mirrors, blank and inscrutable. From across the table, I felt the businessman’s gaze like a laser. My stomach clenched.

In this meeting, I was a nobody. Technically, I wasn’t even supposed to be there. Like most high-ranking Trump appointees, this one had a staff of junior Trump appointees to do stuff like sit in on his meetings and take notes. I was just the civil servant they asked to write a memo; I had expertise in topics loosely relevant to the businessman’s other affairs, before he came in with curveball questions. But on the day of the meeting, the staffers must have been busy. At the last minute, they called me down.

Yes, I said. Interesting. Clearing my throat, I sat up from the couch. But maybe we should check with legal?

The two men stared at me, then back at each other.

I fell back into the couch, took up my pen, and then realized, finally: Yes! Yes of course, I thought: Legal!

Sure, the businessman was barking up the wrong tree. Our agency was powerless; he’d need to circle D.C. again, go knocking on other appointees’ doors. But still—a high-ranking U.S. government official was alone in a room with a wealthy businessman, who seemed to be fishing around for tacit approval to buy mines from corrupt foreigners. Where on Earth were the lawyers?!

Right, said the Trump appointee. We could ask legal.

The businessman’s eyes flashed at me—wondering, I imagined: Who is this?

Minutes later, it was over. An assistant appeared at the large door, beckoning; the Trump appointee’s next meeting was waiting. The two men stood up, uttered pleasantries, shook hands, and agreed to follow up.

Closing the door behind the businessman, the Trump appointee turned to me.

My stomach clenched again, and I shrugged my shoulders. There was nothing to say; the businessman had been barking up the wrong tree.

Right, the Trump appointee said, staring off into some middle distance. He walked to his desk. Great, he said, gesturing to the door. Thanks.

On the way out, I held up my notepad. I’ll type up the notes and send them around, I said.

He looked up and seemed to wince a little. Ah, he said, smiling now. No, don’t bother.

It’s no bother, I said. And it wasn’t: sharing notes with relevant colleagues is what government employees do. It’s the job.

No, really, he said. Don’t send around the notes.

There was a long silence. I nodded but didn’t know what to say. It was a scenario I’d never imagined.

I smiled, still confused. Ask you in a month?

His assistant flurried in with a pile of papers. The next meeting was ready.

Yeah, he said. Find me in a month and I’ll tell you what happened.

He looked down at the papers; his assistant guided me out. A group of other, lower-level Trump appointees milled about in the waiting room. They seemed to size me up—wondering, I imagined, whether I was a civil servant they could trust. I crossed the building, down dimly lit halls and staircases, to my cubicle. The windows in our office looked onto a small interior courtyard—just an empty square of concrete and stone, below a patch of sky. A place the public never sees.

I told my direct supervisors about the meeting; they laughed and shook their heads. Go figure, they said, chalking it up to another strange quirk of these strange times. They were civil servants, too. By that point, nothing much surprised us.

I threw away the notes. Every now and then, I google the wealthy businessman and the mines—but there’s nothing.

I never asked the Trump appointee what happened. There was no follow up, and his staff never asked me to take notes for him again. The next time I saw him, weeks later, he stretched out his hand and introduced himself with a smile. He’d forgotten me completely.

Politics

Working in Trump's Government Is Exactly as You'd Expect

But out of the 13 years I’ve been incarcerated, the last three-and-a-half months have been the hardest—by far. I have never experienced this much stress and anxiety. And it all started once COVID landed here from Chino.

Up until then, I felt San Quentin was doing a decent job at keeping the virus out. All staff was reduced to C.O.'s, medical and kitchen staff only. No work, no groups, no sports and worst of all: no visits. That hurt me the most, but as much as I miss my loved ones, I felt safer having all these activities on hold. To continue to run the normal program would have been a recipe for disaster. So here we were with a modified schedule of yard every other day, showers every other day and phone calls once every five days. I definitely wasn't a fan of the limited calls, and I would much prefer to shower every day, but, hey, we were COVID-free so I took the good with the bad.

Then some genius decided it was a smart move to transfer 121 incarcerated people here from Chino. It has been hell ever since.

For the life of me, I can't understand why they thought this was a good idea. Don't get me wrong, my incarcerated brothers at Chino were dying and the outbreak was out of control. So, something needed to be done and fast. But the answer was not to send them to a prison with zero confirmed cases. Would you move infected members of one nursing home to another with no cases? Would you send infected soldiers from one military base to another with no cases? Of course not! So why do it to us?

Simply put: Our lives don't matter. We are considered second-class citizens (if citizens at all) and because we have committed crimes, we are not worthy of the effort of protection.

Our lives aren’t worth saving. This is clear by the way they have dealt with me and my celly. We were both tested June 23. A few days later, the nurse came by to check my temp and oxygen level, but didn’t check my celly. That didn't make sense to me, so when it happened again the next day I asked, "Why am I being checked but not my celly?”

And the C.O. tells me, “Because you’re positive.”

So, I reply, “And my celly’s negative?”

So, I ask, "And you're going to leave us in here together?"

I couldn't believe it. The C.O. told me that this was her first day back and that she didn't know how they were handling people who were testing positive.

On June 30, we officially received our results in the mail. I immediately showed this to custody and the nurse, requesting a cell move. The response I got this time was, “Well, he (my celly) probably has it by now, so we're not going to move you."

But he didn't have it. He tested again on July 6, received his results on July 11 and was still negative. They’re sure to move me now, right? Wrong. This time reason being they aren't doing any moves right now. They had already taken dozens of people to the hole who tested positive and there were at least 50 empty cells. Space wasn't an issue.

Image inside of San Quentin provided by the author's family

Since then, my celly has tested negative two more times and I continuously requested to be moved. I was told by the lieutenant to, "Get your shower and get the fuck out of my office."

I was told by medical that since it’s been over 14 days, I am no longer infectious, so a move is no longer necessary. Without being tested again, I am now considered "clear" or "resolved." Now I pray that I am no longer infectious for my celly’s sake. But that has done nothing to quell my anxiety.

Every day I am worried that I'm going to infect him.

And, what scares me the most is that he may not recover as easily as I did. He is classified as "high-risk medical," is over 50, has high blood pressure and has already had valley fever. The stress of this has caused me to lose sleep and lose my appetite. I have conveyed this to medical staff as well as custody and the only answer I'm given is that I shouldn't be worried because I've recovered—so I'm alright now.

"I'm alright now?" What happens in a few months when: The flu season hits and my antibodies go away? I'll be in the same position. God willing, I won't catch it again but I'm afraid a second wave is inevitable. Unless the population is drastically reduced, we will begin to get re-infected if our antibodies are depleted.

The California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation and Governor Gavin Newsom are dragging their feet in taking decisive action. And the longer they take, the more lives we will lose. And it's not just the incarcerated population here at Quentin. This outbreak will continue to impact the staff here as well as the surrounding communities.

Almost 300 staff have tested positive and Sergeant Polanco has died.

And I'm referring to more than just the "non-violent, low-level offenders." This narrative is not only misleading, but it also fuels the fear of the public when it comes to releasing us. There is an irrational fear that if you free people who have committed violent crimes, they will go out and immediately rob, rape and murder. However, the numbers simply do not support this. The recidivism rate for lifers is low. And the majority of lifers, like myself, are incarcerated for violent crimes. We are growing, changing, maturing and learning from our mistakes. We are reentering society no longer taking from or harming but contributing and being productive.

My crime will always be violent. That is something I cannot change. But what can and has changed is me. It is time to shift the focus from the crimes committed to the rehabilitation efforts taken post-conviction. This should be done in general, but now more than ever because of a pandemic that cannot be controlled in this environment.

The building is filthy and the deep cleaning they say has taken place is a joke. The cleaning crew wiped the rails and mopped the floor. Porters do that every day. They finally cleaned the trash from the gun rail but the vents are still clogged with layers of dust, and turned off: They have not been cleaned in years. They are refusing to open the windows, so there is no fresh air coming into the building. Fans are blowing recycled air around, which is doing nothing but helping the virus spread.

And they have not touched the cells; it is a complete lie when they say they have. Hand sanitizer hasn't been passed out since April. (Not to mention the gallons of hand sanitizer Bay Area rapper E-40 donated. We have yet to receive one drop of that.) And if that isn't enough, they are forcing two people to live in a smaller cell than what's legally required to house a dog. So, an animal is entitled to better living conditions than what we are afforded.

How long must this continue? How many more must die before something is done? When will the powers that be recognize our humanity and start making decisions based on what's right and not what's best for their image? Round two is coming, and mass release is the only answer.

Justice

I Have Coronavirus Inside of California’s San Quentin Prison

Before George’s murder, in my small town, I was constantly told, “You’re doing a heck of a job.” 

He was killed on May 25 and, after his burial, I started getting mass texts. I got 400 or so. I was called everything in the book. People have put memes on Facebook about me. 

The first thing that most people jump to when it comes to a black man like me is: He’s gotta be doing something besides working. 

My little town has totally ridiculed me. I've been to many states and talked to numerous people, taking pictures, preaching and spreading the word about George, about racism. Nobody in my town has offered condolences. 

A nigga ain’t killed on nothing: They’re not thinking of his opinion, it doesn't matter. I've had two or three people tell me: Why would we change anything for a dead nigger?

We’ve had some protests about the Confederate flag here and it throws me all the way back to 1970. 

I see people ride by every day who have called me names and said bad things about me because somebody murdered my kin.

In certain places in the world, a black man is still a boy. It obviously started many, many years ago and kept perpetuating itself. But I wholeheartedly believe that Trump has made it worse. That is their man; he is the poster child for bad decisions and bad actions.

George was a good guy, big smile, happy-go-lucky. But life didn't go the way he really wanted it to go. He let himself down. We all know how that goes. When people let themselves down, it can drive them into depression. And then bad things feel good. 

I honestly believe that the Lord got tired of seeing him suffer and make bad decisions. The Lord realized that he was going to use George for a sacrificial lamb to open everybody’s eyes. That or the devil reared his ugly head and said, “I’m going to show you how bad people really are.” 

I think both of those can be true at the same time.

We visualized from start to finish a man suffer for eight minutes and 46 seconds. 

It’s probably the worst thing I’ve ever seen. 

When I saw it the first time, my wife called me over to the television. It was early in the morning. 

I didn't know it was him. I said, “Oh my God. This dude is gonna kill this dude. Man, what the hell.” Then my sister called and said, “Have you seen what the police did to Perry?” If you knew him you called him Perry. Perry is his middle name.

He was lying on the ground with his face down. I heard his voice. He started moaning, “I need some water. I need some water.” And I knew it. “Oh my God, it’s Perry.” I think that’s the only time I've watched the whole video. 

If that video doesn’t break your heart, you are part of the problem.

Racism runs wild in some people. The little place I live in hasn’t a care about black, blue, green, yellow or orange—they live in their own circle. It’s crazy to live in a town where everybody thinks you’re a dumb nigger. It goes back to power and control.

But I live close enough to Minneapolis and go back often. It wouldn’t matter if it were in China. I have got to see this through, I really do.

Things in my mind and my heart have changed a great deal since Perry died. I can’t let him die in vain. 

I am preaching for equality. This situation has made me stronger than anything I could’ve imagined. 

My whole goal is to start on people who are 35 and younger, people who haven’t had babies, people in college—spreading the word. Because something’s got to change. We can't let another three or four generations go on like ours have. 

If we can’t educate and communicate with the younger generation, this world isn’t ever going to be right. That’s where it has to start. It has to start at home. Racism isn’t in our DNA. It’s taught. 

It totally blows me away that someone would literally sit down with a baby and tell them, “If he has dark skin, he’s ignorant. He’s dumb. He’s stupid. He’s not like you. He’s not as good as you.” And that’s how it begins.

I believe that because eyes are open and ears are open, we can do something to change this. I have two young children. I’ve got to do something because otherwise, I’m going to be leaving my babies in a world full of chaos, prejudice and racism. 

I’m a Member of George Floyd’s Family and I Have a Message for You

Drugs & Alcohol

Up, up and away! Time to get out of the house with The Doe.

Travel

Stories that can only be told from the land of the free, home of the brave.

American Stories

LGBTQ Voices

Motherhood

Earth Day or any day, let's celebrate our planet. 

Mother Earth

Tearjerkers

The Doe celebrates its authors this Black History Month.

Black Voices

Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years. Between print journalism, podcasting, social media and infotainment, The Doe turns over every rock in this evolving ecosystem.

Media

Stories of starting over and finding the fresh.

New Beginnings

The ol' nine to five has changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, from working remotely to, well, not working at all. This month we take a look at how cash still does rule in our capitalist society and what the future of business and money might just look like.

The Doe's editorial team takes a look back at the year and shares its favorite narratives.

Best of 2021

I write of a subject askew from the usual passions and pastimes of a 37-year-old heteronormative Canadian male. It pertains to my most beloved of feathered friends, the Eurasian Rock Dove, otherwise known by their street name: the pigeon.

Yes, you read that right. Pigeons. I know you may be thinking, “Sky rats?” But, I assure you, there is a good reason why I’ve come to love these birds—the fact that they’re delicious completely aside.

I haven’t had a television in 20 years, much less cable. I haven’t played a video game since Mario 3 came out on the original Nintendo.

As a teen, I began to dislike what reality TV was producing and basically stopped watching television cold turkey. Then, I started a Christian metalcore band, eventually touring across Canada multiple times.

I found out at 34 that I’m on the autistic spectrum: My love of music, touring, people and excitement mixed with things I could never figure out all came together—along with why I wasn’t really all that drawn to the same things my peers were.

Most of my interests are all that “normal.” Hopefully, with this in mind, pigeons as a passionate pastime doesn’t seem quite as off-kilter.

Now, with our world seeing some major hurdles of late (and the environment being front and center for everyone), personal responsibility was getting loud in my mind. I began looking for ways to reduce my carbon footprint, get back outdoors and maybe find ways to catch my own food. What could I do if driving less wasn't an option?

The seed was planted and I went to work looking for ways to enrich my life, my eating experience and reduce my reliance on factory farming.

I was a Boy Scout, ate game meat in our hometown of Prince George and, occasionally, got called to help someone from church butcher a deer or a moose. So, I knew there were other ways to get animal protein than the supermarket. But, alas, hunting was not mom-approved.

Not having a firearms license or a freezer for larger animals—not to mention Canada’s conservation guidelines hunters must abide by—attempting to hunt for my own food seemed like it was right out the window.

Down the YouTube rabbit hole I went, eventually coming across some wilderness survival videos. I quickly discovered an American gentleman who wound up hunting and eating three pigeons he brought down with a slingshot. This is about when my ASD’s “hyper-focused-very-specific-interests-algorithm” fired up.

“You mean pigeons taste like steak and no one cares a lick about them at all?”

I learned quickly there are no rules about hunting or trapping pigeons in my city. They are pests and the government doesn’t really worry about it. When I began keeping the birds, I learned about the Canadian Pigeon Fancier’s Association and joined.

I also discovered how damn tasty these birds are. They’re AAA-grade beef with wings and, like duck, it can be served medium rare without issue. My first few birds were caught wild and I had no intention of keeping them, just harvesting and eating them. It didn’t take long before I realized that despite how delicious these birds were, hunting them was a lot of work for only a couple kills per hunt.

At the time, my roommate and good friend suggested we try and catch them with nets. I was skeptical at first, but we had found a good spot to try it out and the results were spectacular.

I quickly built a coop in the garage and went about catching the first 50 birds in a two-week span. Catching them and keeping them to fatten them up became the new modus operandi.

After about eight weeks, every bird had doubled in size and I knew I had something unique and delicious on my hands. I’ve only had one pal dislike the taste but, that time, I failed hard on the cook.

Out of the first 50 birds, 34 were made into meals for me, my partner and our friends—all while building, expanding and making the coop better and better. The remaining 16 are our core flock and they keep the newbies in line pretty good.

How does this tie back to that personal responsibility? Well, after learning all the things I needed to keep pigeons, I stumbled across something I had completely missed: The second-largest account for greenhouse gases affecting our climate today is, oddly enough, cow burps.

Methane is second only to combustion pollution for carbon in our atmosphere.

This got me thinking about what it takes to get a cow ready for slaughter versus a pigeon. Doing a pound for pound quick calculation, I discovered that one pound of pigeon meat has about 1/1000th of the carbon footprint of a pound of beef. Feed, water, housing and electricity and cost per cow versus a pigeon: Suddenly it felt like I was making a really noble choice.

I’ve had vegans and vegetarians approach me, conflicted, but we always seem to come to an agreement that this is a good way to be personally responsible for the climate. A big bonus is it allows me to advocate for a middle ground where our dietary choices can maintain dignity while also reducing our individual carbon footprint.

It didn’t stop there. I also discovered these little birds also have up to 24 young a year. That’s about the same rate of bunnies, and we all know the saying about reproducing like bunnies.

Not only had I stumbled into an intensely-focused interest that satisfied my need for purpose on multiple levels, but it was also entirely sustainable environmentally, it reduced my personal carbon footprint immensely and opened me up to you, dear reader.

There are some unsavory aspects of keeping pigeons, no doubt about it. First off, hunting isn’t for everyone. Killing your food doesn’t feel cool. You don’t feel like an empowered dude when you end your pigeon’s life to make food. You remember their names and handling and cuddling them. You made sure they were happy and had places to lay eggs, have babies, eat like crazy and be safe. Then you take your sky buddy’s life as swiftly and painlessly as you can.

This sort of thing changes a man. You know the life you’re taking is ending because you’re hungry and want food. You know the plan, you stick to it, but it doesn’t change what you’re taking from the bird, and you can’t change what it does to you.

I can defend my right to dignity in my food for all the reasons above, but I defend it first by caring for my pigeons, tending to their wounds, feeding them extra well, being kind and pleasant and gentle with them, naming them and so forth. In the end, you make sure they aren’t slaughtered by someone they don’t know, because I learned that giving my birds dignity in death is the least I can do.

If you choose to take up hunting and keeping pigeons or you choose a diet free of products made from sentient creatures—whatever your reasons are, I hope we can find those common intersections, especially during a pandemic like COVID-19. Much like pigeons, the better we work together as a community or flock, the better chances we have of surviving, thriving and having beautiful families of our own.

Eating pigeon may seem odd or downright grotesque in this time and age, but the more you learn about pigeons and their history with us as humans, the more and more factory farming and diseases blooming in those environments seem to make choosing alternative meat sources a whole lot easier. Icing the cake with a deeply dented carbon footprint and unexpected respect between dietary camps certainly sealed the deal for me.

My partner and I are building a greenhouse and we intend to use bird droppings as fertilizer to grow even more of our own food on our deck and in the yard. The entire idea to do it at all never would have come up without her asking me, “Well, what are you going to do with all the poop?”

While the idea that this could be egalitarian sure seems tempting, please keep in mind this was all information and knowledge I stumbled across trying to find more affordable food. I didn’t decide on pigeons as a fundamental dietary inclusion because of all the above, I found out along the way. And if there’s any takeaway, for me, it’s that we are all learning as we go—no matter our dietary choices. That realization has led to amazing interactions across the world—ever since this pigeon thing got wings.

How Eating Pigeons Reduced My Food Carbon Footprint

I stopped retching just long enough to un-mute myself from the call.

“Good idea,” I sputtered. “Let’s ask Leah to—” before quickly swiping a sweaty finger across the mute button just as another wave of hot vomit shot out of me and into the bathroom sink. Not into the toilet—it was occupied.

I was sitting on it to bleed out my first fetus. Zoom call number 57. First abortion.

We were a week or so into lockdown here in Paris when I started to think something was off. Annoyingly, the symptoms of pregnancy are essentially the same as the symptoms of PMS (huge, aching breasts, cramps and headaches, cravings), so, initially, I didn’t think anything of it. I knew it was something to worry about, though, when I couldn’t stomach a glass of wine. Or a vodka-tonic. Or a cosmopolitan. (During a pandemic, being solo in isolation sure does make you reach for the sauce).

Sure enough, the following morning a plastic stick told me there was a croissant in the oven. “Merde,” I said to myself sarcastically, and then laughed into a groan as I remembered that it was also Mother’s Day. Great timing, womb.

The punchline quickly wore off, though, and the horror began to sink in.

I genuinely had believed that I was barren based on an absolute bare minimum of scientific evidence (polycystic ovaries and both a raging fear and loathing of pregnancy). I was convinced that my terror, hatred and anxiety had burnt away my womb into a desert.

Of course, because the toast always lands butter-side-down, I’d made my Nobel Prize-winning discovery during a global pandemic, in a country whose language I do not speak fluently, and at a time when we need permission slips to leave the house. France is as socialist as nations come, but the thud of horror winded me in the chest as I wondered if abortions would be considered “essential medical services” during the confinement, and had a flash of me growing more and more pregnant until all this was over. It felt a bit like the scene from Twilight when Bella’s vampire baby is killing her from the inside out.

Doctors' appointments were down to less than a skeletal schedule, filled with what I assumed were worried Parisians fearing that they had COVID-19. When I clicked the “English spoken” filter to show “appointments near me,” that schedule dissolved to nothing.

Well, this would be a fantastic challenge to test both my skills in French and in mime.

In a queue ten meters long of just three people, I waited outside the doctor’s office for my appointment. A kind pair of eyes above a mask welcomed me inside and went through the basics of using the French medical service. This much I understood. When it got to the actual question du jour, though, I had to apologetically ask if he knew any English.

The shame of it. Of not knowing the language. Of taking up space. Of what I was about to ask him. I am still furious at this shame. I know that I have no need to feel shame about a choice that is better for both me and what would have been a very therapized child. I know that abortion is a human right. I donate to Planned Parenthood; I write articles about it. I debate it with friends all the time and still, I was feeling this shame? 

Even now, I write this piece anonymously so that future employers won’t Google me and find my abortion story.

The doctor, of course, did not share this shame with me. As we continued in Franglais, he told me that the French procedures for this involve a blood test, an ultrasound scan and a week of “reflection” before anything could be done.

Why would I want to bring a child into the world? Why would I want to force someone to unwillingly exist, to experience the enduring pummeling of a lifetime? Particularly into this existence, where countries are literally both sinking and on fire, and a deadly virus is slinking its way around the globe. Why would I want to create something that would be dependent on me, and that I would, no matter how hard I tried not to, probably end up loving way too much? And possibly losing.

The blood test showed that I was indeed avec bébé, and also that I was blood type O positive. (You need to know your blood type in order to receive the most effective and least harmful dose of “the abortion pills”—typically two pills taken in sequence.) The scan showed both that I was about six weeks along and also an image of a little bean just floating along on the lilo of my uterus.

After my week of reflection, back to the doctor I went. She watched me take the first pill (mifepristone) in front of her. This pill stopped the pregnancy. The doctor told me to take the second pill (misoprostol) 28 hours later. The second pill causes your uterus to contract so the pregnancy can leave your body. Basically it forces your body to squeeze it all out of you. I’m advised to take it by letting it dissolve between my gum and cheek.

“Maybe it’s good that we’re on lockdown,” I thought. “I can work from home anyway rather than have cramps in the office.”

I didn’t need my 6 a.m. alarm timer because I was awake all night with unexpected worry. I felt shaky, sweaty and sick, not so much with fear of pain, but more with fear of it not working. I let the tablet dissolve in the gum-spot and placed a sanitary towel as thick as a brick in my underwear. Within an hour I began to get what felt like normal period cramps, slowly increasing in intensity. Nothing unmanageable, and as the pain ramped up, I took some acetaminophen. It was just like a regular period, which was lucky because I had a day full of Zoom meetings, Slack notifications and emails ahead of me.

Throughout the day, nausea continued to rise up, hot in my throat. I ran to the bathroom a handful of times thinking I was about to hurl, but it was always a false alarm. The abdominal pain increased and I changed the towel at least twice.

I could feel myself shedding. It was distracting and, during one such Zoom call, the pain really began to get searingly sharp. I was on my laptop and the call was important. Jobs were being dissolved every day thanks to COVID, and I couldn’t afford to make an excuse and leave this call with 12 colleagues and my boss. I could feel the bloodshed change from a steady stream to more of a tsunami, so I muted myself and ran to the bathroom with my laptop, squeezing it with sweaty hands. My camera was off.

I got to the toilet just in time for the bowl to receive what felt like a hot load of thick, lumpy jelly pouring out of me. I screamed as I felt it. I knew this was it. This poor bean was making its escape from a life of pain and fear and being loved too much and not enough, and I was surprised (and embarrassed, the shame for feeling shame again) that I’d started to cry.

I stifled a sob to listen in to the Zoom call for a second. Luckily another colleague was pitching an awful idea to my boss, so I figured I still had a few minutes. As I let myself exhale again, it wasn’t a cry that burst out of my mouth, but that vomit that had been threatening all day. In what may be my most impressive yoga move to date, I leaned over to the sink while still keeping myself hovering over the toilet next to it and ensured everything leaving me found its way into the plumbing that wasn’t mine.

Panting, I rinsed out the basin and splashed water on my face. I sat back onto my China throne. The call was still going and another colleague was pitching an idea. My breathing slowed and I was able to contribute to the call again after 20 minutes of being AWOL, with a pause for the second brief vomit that began this story.

The call ended and I stayed in the bathroom with my laptop awkwardly at my feet. Within an hour, the bleeding and the pain sighed back to “regular period level” and the heaving and vomiting stopped.

It was over. I could finally have that glass of wine.

Women

Science & Technology

My At-Home Abortion Was on a Zoom Call With My Boss

In China, entering any enclosed area requires a temperature check. Hand-held thermometer guns are ubiquitous—from convenience stores and cafes to supermarkets and shopping malls. Employees at the doorways of buildings point these devices at your wrist or forehead and take a reading. If the screen blinks green, you may pass go.

I live in Beijing, China’s capital city of 22 million. During my time here, I’ve rarely had a sense of “being monitored”—despite the fact that the city, and China as a whole, has an extensive surveillance system. Perhaps it’s partially because cameras can be discreet: Indoors, they are ensconced in the ceiling, tucked in corners; outside, they hang above eye-level.

Also, despite the fact that my face has likely been scanned millions of times, I’ve never had such data used against me. I suspect most Beijing residents feel the same way—the cameras haven’t exerted any impact on their life, so the hardware becomes invisible, ignored.

COVID-19, however, has made me more aware of the cameras that dot Beijing’s cityscape.

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