I remember coming around the corner and seeing the dead and bloodied deer hanging from the shelter. I was at summer camp in Colorado and was heading from arts and crafts to the dining hall for lunch.

A couple of older guy counselors had tied a rope between the deer and the back bumper of a pick up truck. I heard the rev of the truck engine mixed with the heavy ripping sound of the skin pulling away from the deer’s body as I walked past.

No one seemed concerned that a handful of young campers had witnessed this scene. I don’t remember if any of us 10 and 11-year-olds even discussed it. But I do remember being worried and sickened at the thought of the camp serving the doomed deer to us disguised as taco meat or something else that sounded normally palatable.

It had happened once before. I was spending the night at my friend Julie’s house in 4th grade. At her family’s dinner table, her dad asked if I liked venison. No way was my emphatic answer. I probably even used the word gross.

After we finished eating, he asked if I had enjoyed the spaghetti. I innocently nodded my people pleasing head. I remember the shame and gut punch I felt when he laughed and said, “Well, then you like venison because that was made with a deer I shot and killed.”

The fact was that I didn’t actually like any kind of meat. I never had. I ate it in various forms where it was morphed into something I found familiar enough such as spaghetti or tacos or even meatloaf. But from the youngest age, I could not stomach eating anything that resembled the living creature it used to be.

Drumsticks or ribs or anything with obvious bones were horrors to me. I wouldn’t touch any meat that had a hint of pink in it or on the plate. Wouldn’t even eat my potatoes if the pink had touched them. I never ate fish or any sea creature that slightly resembled what it was in its former life. In fact, besides the frozen fish sticks my mom occasionally served us, I refused to eat any seafood at all.

This was sacrilege to her side of the family. She was from New Orleans where my grandmother’s crawfish étouffée, gumbo and crab boils were pretty legendary.

I remember having to escape from the table when everyone would suck the fat of their crab claws. Or God forbid, pull the “vein” out of a shrimp. (It’s poop, people. I mean seriously!)

One of my earliest childhood memories is seared in my brain like grill marks on a steak. I remember looking out the car window at a field full of cows. I felt a jolt like a lightening rod (or a cattle prod?) when it hit me that the cows grazing in that field were the same as the hamburger or steak on my plate. The sickening thought had landed in my head like a meteor thudding to earth, and there it stayed embedded for good.

I was never thrilled about eating chicken either, but as long as it was morphed into something no longer resembling chicken (remember - no drumsticks!) I could stomach it. But barely.

One day in first grade, we were on the wide open playground of my 1st through 12th grade school at the same time as an upper school biology class. Although we were intimidated by the big kids, curiosity inched us closer to their circle once we noticed the teacher had a live chicken in his arms.

Before we registered what was happening, the teacher beheaded the chicken with an axe then directed his students to step back to create a wide berth for the headless chicken that was now frantically running around the playground. I had a clear view. And a traumatic image I still can’t unsee.

Even before these scarring animal-related incidents though, I had a well established aversion to meat. My mom wrote in my baby book, “Leslie hates meat. We have to disguise it as something else. But she loves her fruits and vegetables.”

God bless her, this didn’t stop her from trying. She used to hold my dessert hostage when I was little until I ate some of the meat she would cut into tiny bite-sized pieces for me. But I was no fool. I would often excuse myself to go to the bathroom during dinner after secretly pocketing several bits of meat that were destined for the toilet.

Or I would push the pieces around on my plate, then wait until she got up from the table to do dishes at the sink. Then I would sneakily drop a few bites into the bottom of our kitchen table centerpiece. It was a yellow basket that housed a plastic assortment of fruits and vegetables stuck into a styrofoam base. I would lift up the styrofoam, sprinkle my meat underneath, then smush the whole thing back down.

I grew up in cattle country - Fort Worth to be exact whose nickname is Cowtown. I was always the weird one out for hating meat. I was picky, silly, ridiculous. I was told that meat was meat and animals were supposed to be meat and to just separate the two in my brain. And I tried.

Like any kid, I wanted to fit in, to be normal. So I did my best to create a barrier in my mind between living, breathing animals and what was on my plate. And this sort of worked for a long time. Until it didn’t.

I don’t know why it took me so long, but one day shortly after graduating from college, I just decided I was done with it. I didn’t make any grand proclamations or promises of a lifetime commitment. This was way before the days of veggie burgers, fake meat or vegan menus, so I was a bit worried about what I would subsist on. But I was determined to try living without meat.

Fast forward more than 35 years later, and I am still a vegetarian. Once I decided to stop trying to fit into society’s standard for a “normal” diet, it was easy. I am still an anomaly in Texas but becoming less so all the time. And I am not a fanatical, proselytizing vegetarian. I am aware that my diet is better for my health and better for the planet, but I have no illusions about the world (especially my part of the world) going veg. I have no problem sitting at the table with meat eaters and harbor no judgement about others’ dietary preferences. I’ve even been known to tag along to a steak or barbecue place. (They have great sides.)

A year or two after going veg, my now husband/then boyfriend made the same decision for himself. (Mind you, his parents owned a home cooking restaurant at the time, so this was no small thing.) I know everyone thinks I “made” him join me, but the truth is that I relentlessly questioned him and even discouraged him from doing it because I wanted to make sure it was purely a choice he was making for himself. And it was.

We raised our two kids vegetarian and taught them from the beginning about our reasons why. We also taught them that they were free to make their own choices about their diets. That in our house vegetarian food would be served but if they were at a friend’s or a restaurant, they were free to eat what they wanted.

They both accidentally tried bacon once when it was served at preschool on Western Day and they thought it was the same kind of veggie bacon we had at home. Keaton tried sushi once, and I think Josie tried chicken along the way. But at 25 years old, Keaton is staunchly vegetarian and Josie is now vegan.

We used to get lots of questions/concerns about how their growth might be affected by being raised without meat. We ended up being reluctant teachers about protein sources and the nutritional needs of kids. My dad, who was a pediatrician, used to use them as examples of how children can thrive with a plant-based diet. Today Josie is 5 ‘6. Keaton is 6 ‘3. They clearly got what they needed.

Choosing how to structure my own diet was freeing and frankly, quite a relief. Teaching my kids from the start about what exactly meat is and where it comes from gave me peace of mind and gave them full knowledge to make informed choices for themselves.

The bigger takeaway though ended up being that for me, questioning norms and being the odd man out is not only ok, it’s necessary. Every time I’ve gone against the grain, I’ve become more aligned with what is authentically me. Besides being vegetarian in a meat eater’s world, I’ve also made non-traditional choices both big - my career path, my religion - and small, and my life is better for it.

And speaking of small, remember those little pieces of meat I stuffed into the bottom of our 1970s centerpiece? Well into the 2000s, that centerpiece still resided on my mom’s kitchen table. Sitting there during a visit one day, I absentmindedly lifted the styrofoam based plastic arrangement and was horrified (and also somewhat delighted, honestly) to find a whole collection of tiny dried-up ancient pieces of meat. “Look Mom,” I shrieked. “I never did eat my meat.” If only I’d known sooner that was all it would take to make her finally toss that ugly centerpiece.

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