Sin Eater by Tarri Driver

I once was a young woman who, for some years, didn’t eat animals in any shape or form. I felt irresponsible and cruel eating them. That’s not the whole story, but that’s the relevant truth. I was troubled knowing that there were animals living in suffering on gridded farms overflowing with flies and shit as far as the eye could see. I didn’t want to ingest all of that pain, brutality and filth. That was too much for me to eat.

My dietary choices caused problems within my family. My father-in-law prepared chicken-fried-rice for my husband and me one evening for dinner. He knew I didn’t eat animals, but he said,

“It just has a little bit of chicken and a little bit of scrambled eggs in it, and you ought to be thankful to God for it anyway.”

My husband was furious, arguing with his father, ultimately storming out to bring me something I could eat, as my mother-in-law and I sat awkwardly at the table. I didn’t speak up for myself. I found it impossible to do so. My throat had closed up. On second thought, I might have ended up eating the food, but that part of the story is unclear.

Another time, I took a trip up north to visit my extended family. My auntie made a savory, meat-filled casserole for supper one night. Just as my father-in-law had done, she said,

“Oh, it just has some sausage and eggs in it, and, also—you’re welcome for cooking, by the way!”

Again, I did not speak up for myself. I ate some of the food, but not all of it.

Another time, I was at my parents’ house for a meal, and they served ground beef tacos. The brown pile steaming on the platter turned my stomach sour. No one said anything, and I ate all of the food on my plate.

By now, the season of animal-free eating had shifted, and I felt I had to adjust, so I shifted too. I learned to eat other things, like shame, pain, guilt and wounds. I learned the value of living in solidarity with human suffering as I understood Jesus had.

Martyrdom turned out to be delicious, and I was good at it. I gobbled it up like a hungry, hungry hippo. I didn’t have a preferred ritualistic meal in which I sopped it up. I ate it with buttermilk biscuits and gravy. I ate it with fried chicken. I ate it with beefy goulash. I ate it with fruit cobbler. I ate it with just about anything.            

I took on my mother’s unhappiness and depression with a side of mayonnaise-based coleslaw. I took on my father’s loneliness and anger with a slab of steak well-done, tough as shoe leather, smothered in Heinz 57. I took on my brother’s sadness and anxiety with a side of cold, smoked salmon and capers atop a toasted baguette.

I ingested and absorbed, and I wore these pains like a patchwork coat that I wrapped around myself like a little babushka. The heavy coat stifled and suppressed me, and I became very, very small. I became so small that I didn’t have any struggles or feelings of my own. The coat became comfortable, like a weighted blanket, and I kept myself wrapped in it. It was like a cozy, humid cave or like a big night sky that I looked up into—observing and absorbing the winking twinkles of other people’s suffering.

Everyone in town and beyond came to me with their troubles and woes. Leaning forward on the edge of my chair with narrowed eyes, nodding my head knowingly, I listened with alert compassion. I asked clarifying questions and mirrored their grievances so that they would know I heard them and held space for them. I needed them to know that they were not alone and that they could always come to me. I would be there for them, like a faithful saint, shoveling handfuls of their grief straight into my gaping maw. I wondered how much I could absorb and keep on smiling, nodding my head, my eyelids drooping with the weight of the world, my shoulders slumped under my patchwork coat, while I discretely patted myself on the back.

The time came when I became too full.

During my morning ablutions, I saw my belly pooched out well over my toes. Surprised, I turned to view my profile in the mirror. Indeed, my girth had increased significantly over my time of sin eating. Additionally, the face in the mirror staring back at me didn’t look like me at all, or at least how I remembered myself looking. My hair was long and grey. My back was hunched over, and I had to hang onto the sides of the sink to keep balanced on my shaky legs. I realized I couldn’t even wear my patchwork coat anymore; my body staggered under its weight. It was a strange sight to see a young woman who had no wrinkles or age spots or jowls transform into someone unrecognizable. I had become an old woman in some ways, yet remained a young, half-witted woman at the same time.

Was my deterioration a result of my eating habits? Surely not. I enjoyed it too much. How could something so purposeful be harmful?

But I had to admit to myself, despite the satisfaction of eating it all up, my body was breaking down. My vision had narrowed. I jumped at every little sound. My bowels were like churning oceans of glue. I had no choice but to take a break from sin eating. I was too full.     

For a period of time, I kept to myself. I rested, and I went on a diet. I stayed hydrated and took naps. My patchwork coat remained hung up in the closet; the multicolored swirls and diagonals peeked out at me through the slats of the shutter door. My body recovered. My hair grew back in and regained its luster. My back straightened up, and I listened to the birdsong. My breathing regulated, and I became more relaxed.

I became so relaxed and comfortable that sin eating was a distant memory, a nearly forgotten dream—one where the dreamer knows a bizarre dream has occurred, but it’s impossible to remember and floats around in the brain like tufts of cotton candy, dissolving quickly as consciousness reemerges.

Then, one chilly, white-sky afternoon, I grabbed my patchwork coat to keep the wind at bay on my walk into town. The familiar weight of it pushing me down was soothing—I’d forgotten how cozy it was. Upon my arrival at the bustling market, I saw a familiar face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and her eyes were red and swollen. She grabbed my shoulders with a greedy grip and shook me violently.

“Where have you been? Oh, where have you been?” she lamented.

And she poured out her sorrow. It splashed onto the ground, over my feet, splashed up onto my coat and onto my face. Some of it splashed onto my lips, and I licked it with my tongue. The taste was salty and comforting.

As she shook me and I looked into her desperate face, I was jolted awake from a pleasant state. My heart hammered and my palms sweated. I could have spit feathers, and my stomach growled from the depths of my gut.

And I slid into sin-eating again. 

I set up counsel in the center of the market—a simple, small wooden table with two wooden stools on either side. I sat upon one of the stools, and the other was open for any and all. One by one, everyone came to me. People arrived at all hours of every day. On some mornings, a line formed and snaked around the block. I was important. These people needed me.

After a while, my body started breaking down again, and though my decline was spinning out of my control, I could still handle it. My hip gave out, my back hurt and I had trouble walking, so I started using a cane. I ground my enamel away and broke two of my teeth, the pain shooting up the sides of my face like lightening, so I had my teeth pulled and wore dentures. I often woke up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat with the sheets soaked and my heart pounding, so I got up, changed the sheets and drank hot milk until I felt relaxed enough to sleep again. My dreams were dangerous. I had dreams of being chased by dark figures, of falling down into chasms, of falling up into infinite space, dreams of my teeth falling out, spitting bloody bits of tissue and gum into my palms, so I worked very hard at wrapping my dreams into plain, brown paper and putting them up onto the shelving in my mind, and that was effective overall. 

A woman approached me at the market late one evening. Dusk was a muted violet fading into a listless grey, and the shadows were already long on the cobblestone streets and stucco walls. I didn’t recognize this woman. She had more hair on her chin than on her head, and she was easily twice my height. Her eyes were blazing. She looked older than me—much older. Her piercing gaze struck me, and with her gnarled hands, she cradled my head, making me look at her squarely. With squinted eyes and in an even and firm tone she said to me,

“You’re foolish. What are you doing? You know better! You’re not long for this world.” My face went hot and flushed, then cold, and I yelled at her to get away from me. She sauntered away and did not look back. What did she know about me? She didn’t know a thing!

Around midnight, the crowd finally dwindled down. As I sat on my stool, and drool seeped down my chin and onto my patchwork coat, I nearly passed out from exhaustion. I thought about that old woman calling me a fool. What did she know?

Tarri Driver

Image: A table loaded with food of all types, pies, suasages, eggs, ham salad etc. from Pixabay.com