Not only did I live in Manhattan, which is a vegan mecca full of over 150 vegetarian restaurants, but I started to plan all my travel around vegan restaurants. When I was lucky enough to attend an animal rights conference in South Africa, I knew that the first place I’d hit up would be the all-vegan Greenside Café in Johannesburg. When I traveled to Vancouver, it was clear that the Naam, in Kitsilano, would be my mainstay, but in addition, every corner hot dog stand there offered a vegan hot dog (which, I’m sad to say, is far from the case in New York)—and so clearly that became my daily snack, multiple times a day.
During my travels, where I gave talks and workshops on veganism, activism, and writing for social justice, I experienced cities like Chicago, San Francisco, Toronto, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and Boston as if they were jungles of vegan food—I needed to try it all. Sometimes I was in these cities for only one solid day, and yet I simply had to traipse across town just to try the cookie dough peanut butter shake at the Chicago Diner, or the vegan cheesesteak at Gianni’s (now Blackbird Pizzeria) in Philadelphia—which, I might add, was a surreal experience. Just knowing that everything I loved to eat was available to me without animal products, and that there was a passionate group of change makers and foodies at the bottom of this food revolution, buoyed me.
—
In some ways, even though my initial veganism resulted in my gaining weight—and continued to perpetuate my imbalanced relationship with food—it also started me down the road that would eventually help me put that relationship in balance. What it gave me, immediately and permanently, was perspective. Prior to my veganism, I had been almost solely self-focused—when you’re an aspiring actor, it’s difficult to be anything but. Adding activism to the mix changes things. The animals for whom I was speaking were simply invisible to virtually everybody else, and so they relied on people like me and my comrades to amplify their voices. Focusing on that, instead of whether I was the fattest actor in the room at the audition, allowed many other things in my life to shift around, too, and ultimately to fall into place.
But though I was, in some ways, beginning to find my true self, it would be years before I would find balance with my eating. The fact that so many of the foods I chose to eat (actually, all of them) were highly processed, oily, and sugary meant that I felt lethargic and sluggish, much like in my meat and cheese days. Like a drug addict needing his next fix, the way I dealt with my fatigue was to eat more.
By the time I officially traded in cattle calls for saving cows, it seemed I had discovered this part of myself—my activist force—that grounded me at my foundation and provided my life with profound meaning and a productive outlet for my relentless drive. I stood firmer with my feet planted beneath me. For the first time, I felt I knew who I was and exactly what I wanted to accomplish. And yet, despite that, even as I grew more and more self-aware when it came to eating, I continued to lack the fundamental self-care that I needed in order to thrive. I adored the food I ate, and nothing made me happier than eating it. But it wore me down, and my weight and size were as concerning to me as ever, as much on my mind as when I was in high school, making the dreaded walk to the front of the classroom for the bathroom key.
Looking in the mirror in the morning was always a painful moment, as was picking out my outfit for the day. Just like when I was a kid, each day I would try on multiple outfits, constantly convinced that the issue was with my clothes, and not with me. I would finally decide on something multilayered and eccentric, such as a sequined turquoise floor-length skirt—anything to distract the onlookers, anything to distract me.
My roommate, Rachel—a kindhearted performer whom I had met on craigslist and remain friends with to this day—would look at my wardrobe, wide-eyed, while eating her breakfast, and say, “Jazz, I have no idea how you put together such creative outfits. You look amazing.”
I would respond, “Ah, it’s nothing . . . just what I gravitate toward. But thanks!” and then, with a wink, stick my fork into a chunk of the potato on her plate.
Indeed, I had become a walking contradiction. On one hand, I was self-assured and confident—making my style seem as effortlessly put together as my attitude. But the shattered “new kid” inside me had never disappeared, and as my weight continued to shoot up, the still-broken parts of me began to crumble. I felt embarrassed for caring so much what I looked like—especially now that my life’s priorities seemed so clear to me.
But despite all that, the plethora of food options captivated and controlled me. I craved it, both physically and emotionally, and—just as it had been before—food was always there for me to turn to. So I turned to it, again and again. And then one day, when I realized I could not climb the subway stairs without stopping halfway to rest, or partake in a relatively short fund-raiser walkathon, and when the only way I could get through the day was with regular doses of coffee and simple carbs, it occurred to me that I was eating myself sick.
—
“I have the worst headache in the world. Oh, my God . . .”
It was six A.M. and I was standing at Columbus Circle, just at the southwest entrance to Central Park. It was the day of Farm Sanctuary’s New York City Walk for Farm Animals, and I was the organizer. In just a few hours, literally thousands of people would be arriving, registering, and walking through the park with signs celebrating veganism and raising awareness about the horrors that farmed animals endure. There were speakers, bands, organizations manning tables, information stands, goodie bags, food booths, and about seventy-five volunteers—all reporting to me. I was already on my third coffee of the day and would not be slowing down anytime soon. As I stood at the helm of this event, which ultimately would raise over eighty thousand dollars for the rescue efforts of Farm Sanctuary, I was a mix of jubilant and overwhelmed. Discovering my activism had been a remarkable experience for many reasons, one of which being that it brought out my inner community organizer, and—bossy bitch that I am—it turned out I was a natural.
On days like this one, it never would have occurred to me why my back ached, my head ached, and my feet ached. Politely excusing myself from the pre-event mayhem to grab a vegan muffin from the nearby Whole Foods, plus a second bagel and a fourth cup of coffee, simply seemed to me like fueling up to get through the morning. I didn’t make the connection between my lack of real nutrition and my remarkable dearth of energy.
“Are you going to walk through the park, too?” The person asking me the question was clad in a cow costume. The kitsch of this event did not escape me—I found it charming and amusing, but also saw that the lighthearted approach to raising awareness was often effective. The point of this event was to celebrate, not mourn; to provide opportunities, not criticism.
“Nah, I have to hang back and get the food set up for when y’all come back,” I told the cow, who nodded and walked away to join the giant chicken. I had been being honest with the cow, yet I left out the part about how I couldn’t have walked the three-mile route through the park even if I had wanted to. Though I was in my twenties, my body felt like it belonged to someone’s grandma.
As soon as the attendees were off walking on their route, I visited the nearby hot pretzel stand for a snack—then I popped a couple of Advil that I kept in my pocket to help my overall body pain and fatigue, which I simply accepted as part of my life.
—
Everything I did was physically trying. Even regular everyday activities like walking home from the nearby grocery store—which included a tiny incline in the sidewalk—left me out of breath and shaky. Falling asleep never came easily, and waking up in the morning was only successful when there was the promise of coffee within ten minutes of rising, and consistent subsequent cups throughout the day.
I worked hard and ate hard, and my body rebelled against me. I developed acne (which no medication would cure, and I tried them all), painful boils on my thighs where they constantly rubbed together, and even occasional abscesses
in my ears. My eyes were in a constant state of puffiness, my mind in a constant state of fixation on when and where my next meal or coffee would be.
Yet, ironically, I was wildly successful at my career and was regularly given way more credit than I deserved by people who were inspired by my advocacy efforts, by the articles I wrote, by the talks I delivered. They grasped at anything they could find as a sign of hope for animal rights, which often seemed like such a hopeless cause that so many people—even otherwise decent, kind people—felt free to ignore. This kind of recognition humbled and jarred me, and all I could do to deal with it was to work even harder.
I was regularly giving workshops on veganism and on effective grassroots advocacy at festivals, universities, bookstores, and events throughout the country. Though I received countless e-mails following these presentations—most of which blend together for me—I can still recall with painful precision the ones (and there were a lot of them) that read something like “I just so admire your unabashed ability to get up there, despite your size,” or, “The fact that you’re comfortable with your body, even though you’re large, is inspiring. There aren’t enough fat women out there who will go to the microphone and be seen. Good for you.”
Good for me? What, exactly, had I been doing that was so admirable? Not apologizing publicly for my fatness? Being an outspoken advocate even though my weight dictated that I should probably just shut up and be quiet, because opinions were for thin, beautiful women?
These comments, which were no doubt intended as compliments, made me incredibly uncomfortable. Even though I understood, on some level, that I was fat, I got through the majority of my days by pretending I wasn’t. Similarly, even though I knew, on some level, that my physical ailments—the achiness, the headaches, the sore feet, the bad back—were a direct extension of my weight and my diet’s lack of healthful foods, I convinced myself that it was just because I worked so hard.
What I lacked, clearly, was balance. But, as I said on an all-too-regular basis, who needed balance when there was a new vegan ice cream shop in the East Village?
It was, after all, for the animals.
THIRTEEN
that alone wasn’t enough
Food was not the only love in my life.
There is a fine line between the way we relate to sex and the way we relate to food. For me, both were fraught with unfortunate choices, immense pleasure from sometimes surprising sources, obsessive desire, and—ultimately—nourishment and sweetness. Just as with food, I approached my romantic relationships with a fervor and fury that took over everything. My loves, whether of people or sugar, were not always the best choices for me, but—for better or worse—they were my sustenance. And the lack of awareness regarding the way I related to food was alarmingly similar to the way I related to my own sexuality.
—
It started, of course, with Timmy, the light-haired, sparkly eyed beauty who swept me off my feet during our summer stock adventure back in 1997. I was just shy of eighteen and had no idea that this summer romance would become a defining relationship for me, the one I would always look back on with a mix of longing, bittersweet affection, and eye rolling. It could certainly be argued that my attitude toward food during that formative time could be thought of symbolically as a metaphor for my willingness (or lack thereof, really) to look inside myself with honesty. I ate and ate and ate and ate, yet I never had enough. Though it would be years before I would recognize my unending hunger as something much deeper than simply a food craving—as a profound imbalance between my vision of myself and of the world—with Timmy, the similarities (at least in retrospect) were startling. I was constantly in search of more with him, certainly because my evolving needs were not being met in my relationship—and so my hunger, with Timmy, too, was insatiable. We did love each other—I still love Timmy—but we were ultimately incapable of growing together anymore (or at least unwilling to put in the work that kind of fortitude required), and, concurrently, we were completely unable to break things off.
One minute it was, “Jazz, I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life . . .” which I responded to with a twenty-minute embrace and echoes of intense neediness. The next moment we were crying and physically pushing each other away, saying, “I don’t want you anymore . . . I feel so trapped. Get out of my life!”
We loved and hated, fought and fucked. The emotional roller coaster of our relationship was inexplicable and based simply on habit and codependence. We had become adults together, and separating ourselves from those formative years seemed impossible, so we stayed together, each intensely focused on the other, despite our insurmountable differences. Though I think that strong relationships are those in which people can evolve together, and can inform each other’s growth and even complement each other’s weaknesses with one’s own strengths, Timmy and I simply outgrew each other. We were too young (or immature) to commit to being in it with each other for the long run.
Still, there was that one special place we always managed to see eye to eye: food. The two of us became well practiced in taking late-night excursions to diners for eggs and toast, or to Dunkin’ Donuts for two Boston creams each. We bonded over fried things, and as we ate them, they ate us—swallowing our relationship whole.
Food began to overshadow everything for us. It was like a tidal wave, soaking and rearranging everything in its path—even those parts of us that had otherwise been intact. Timmy, for example, had always been an avid runner and passionate motocross racer. But by the time I was twenty-one and he twenty-nine—by the time the tidal wave had started to rise—he’d traded in his athleticism for an early-onset beer gut. And as time passed, we, as a pair, seriously lost sight of our health (our go-to snack was a family-sized bag of Doritos each), and we dealt with our ultimate incompatibility by stuffing our faces so that our mouths were busy. If we couldn’t talk, we couldn’t break up, even though breaking up was clearly what we should’ve done. Although Timmy and I loved each other deeply, we were mutually destructive. We enabled one another, and—frighteningly—we also acted as a frame of reference: As Timmy gained weight, you couldn’t really tell if I was gaining it, because I was still the same proportion to him. It was simple physics.
Looking back, I realize there was perhaps a more substantial reason behind our foray into food. The fact that I was a lesbian, but didn’t know it yet, might have had something to do with the inconsistent sex and the emotional tumultuousness of our love affair. I loved him, and he loved me, but that alone wasn’t enough.
Our five-year relationship was therefore not surprisingly an on-again, off-again affair, with the first “off” period being when I first went to college. While we eventually reconvened, there was one other off period—this one significant for other reasons. I was barely twenty at the time, and during this particular break from Timmy, I ventured into two new territories: AOL and lesbianism—or, as I defined it for myself at the time, bisexuality.
—
It wasn’t as though I had been closeted before then—not to my knowledge, anyway. I realize that for many people, their sexual preference is strong from the moment they discover they’re sexual beings, or perhaps even earlier. For me, growing up, my fascination with women was indeed intense, but I did not think of it as sexual attraction. However, my obsession with Bette Midler, and later, the Broadway star Patti LuPone, did seem to be a bit more than your run-of-the-mill aspiring actress’s admiration. I absolutely adored them, and had an unwavering desire to be the most important person in their lives, but that brand of lust never felt salacious to me.
Perhaps more telling was my obsession with my young, female teachers—who, in retrospect, I was clearly crushing on (the roots of my later propensity toward teacher types, perhaps?). Many of my female teachers were deeply sexy to me, and I thought of them in the same ways I imagine many of the hormone-laden boys in my classes did. But, again, it never quite registered that these feelings were sex
ual, especially since I concurrently had crushes on boys (though I never felt for them nearly as much as I did for those glorious teachers).
Gay was something that happened to your cousin, not to you. Gay was something you were “cool with,” not something you embraced—certainly not on a personal level. To even entertain that thought felt fake, because clearly my trajectory was to get married to a man and have children. That was what I always assumed would happen, and that was what my mother and grandmother assumed for me, too. It was simply never questioned, and there were no telltale signs I was gay—which was validated by the fact that I went through my early and midteen years writing bad poetry about not having a boyfriend, or dramatic, fictionalized accounts of broken hearts.
Still, even if I didn’t recognize them as such, I see now that there were indeed signs. Emily—the girl I met at the University of the Arts, who had inspired my initial vegetarianism—was the first lesbian I was friends with, and when we’d hang out, I was intensely aware of her sexual identity. When I’d spend time with one of my many gay male friends, I never even thought about their sexual preference, but there was something about sharing my space with gay women that made me feel extremely vulnerable, in ways I didn’t understand and, perhaps, preferred not to think about.
Then, when I moved to New York and met Clara—the petite, spiral-haired rabble-rouser who held my hand when I stood up at The Vagina Monologues, my mind started to shift, just a little. On one particularly sunny day, when I was meeting Clara after the LGBT club meeting she was leading, I arrived early and waited outside. Clara spotted me through the window and made a simple, friendly gesture for me to join them. Upon seeing her invitation, my stomach was instantly in knots, my legs frozen beneath me. I shook my head no and, once my legs started working again, I feverishly walked away, wondering the whole time why I was reacting so strongly.
Always Too Much and Never Enough Page 17