Pork
August 5, 2004
When I hear people arguing over whether Bush or Kerry will do a better job with Iraq, or the economy, or education, the one issue that stays foremost in my mind is this: Stem cell research. There's a very good chance that stem cell research will lead to a cure for my pain in the ass condition. So fuck Bush and his mucked-up religious gobbledygook.
In the nineties, I had a semi-permanent freelance job as a graphic designer for a clothing company. I designed labels and prints and hang tags, et cetera. I sat directly behind a young girl with crazy, curly red hair and heavy eyelids, who worked full-time as a merchandiser -- a job that I never fully understood. For the most part, we had a lot of fun. She would come in, usually with a raging hangover, and tell me all about her exploits from the night before. "Oh man," she'd say, "I was out with Rob last night."
"Who's Rob?" I'd ask.
"You know— Rob."
I'd scratch my chin and roll my eyes around in my head, trying to think of a previous story involving Rob. Then I'd shake my head and shrug.
"Rob," she’d say again. "I know I told you about him."
"The guitar player?”
“No, that’s Dan. Rob's the guy with the metal shop."
"Oh, right," I'd say and pretend to remember.
We had this conversation a hundred times, with a hundred different names. It was always possible that she had told me about this guy or that one, but simply because there were so many guys and so many stories, it was impossible to keep track. Anyway, she was young, single, and living in New York City, so who could fault her for wanting to have fun? She went out with lawyers, artists, carpenters, musicians, tall guys, short guys, and a guy in a wheelchair. None of these "relationships" ever lasted for more than a week or two before she'd get bored and move on. But for as long as each relationship lasted, she'd take on the lifestyle of the man of the moment. In other words, when she went out with a biker, she dressed like a biker chick. She’d hang out at biker bars and go to biker rallies. When she went out with a lawyer, she went to martini bars and parties in the Hamptons. When she went out with a member of PETA, she began going to animal rights rallies and meetings. She would bring literature into work for me to read, filled with horrifying pictures of rabbits, monkeys, pigs, or puppy dogs. Often she would cry. I easily agreed with her as she rattled on and on about testing eye shadow on rabbits, and I politely nodded when she spoke about the health benefits of a vegetarian diet. But when she started talking about the "inhumane pharmaceutical companies," I pulled a bottle of insulin from my bag and handed it to her.
"What's that?" she asked.
"My insulin."
"What about it?" she said, eager to continue her lecture.
I pointed to the small printing on the side of the vial that read: Pork.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"It means I'm part pig."
"Huh?"
"My insulin," I explained, "It's pig insulin."
"Eww," she said as she handed the vial back to me.
"That's my dirty little secret," I said, and put the bottle back in my bag.
Like I said, this was several years ago, and at the time, the insulin I was taking to control my diabetes was pork insulin. I mean, it wasn't just derived from pork; it was purified pig insulin that I injected under my skin to keep myself alive. Pig insulin was nearly identical to human insulin, and it did the trick. I wasn't exactly sure how they got the insulin out of the pig, but I'm sure it wasn't pretty. These days, my insulin is concocted in a test tube and doesn't come from pigs anymore. It’s brewed in a vat, like beer. It's a much more humane solution, no question, and I can breathe a little easier around the vegans, but the whole scene made it obvious, if it wasn't already, that the world is a complicated place. And when it comes down to it, few issues take precedence over the desire to stay alive.
