I find it ironic that the food that has most deeply impacted my life is one that has never touched my lips. Coming from an Indian background, I have been fortunate to encounter some exquisite tastes, overwhelmingly delicious scents, and exotic dishes. Yet none of them can match up to the good old American delicacy: pork.

My religion of Islam forbids its followers to eat any kind of pork. The Qu’ran says, “He hath only forbidden you dead meat, and blood, and the flesh of swine, and that on which any other name hath been invoked besides that of Allah,” (Surah 173). The historical explanation behind this is that pigs are known to be dirty, diseased animals that eat and sleep in their own feces. However, as a five-year-old child who was born into Islam, I did not quite understand these reasons. All I knew was that pork was off-limits.

My earliest memory involving pork, or any food for that matter, is from my Catholic pre-school class. Children were not allowed to bring any food from home in a lunchbox of any kind, and we were required to eat whatever was put in front of us at lunchtime (this may be the explanation for why my taste buds have adapted to enjoy the more bland varieties of American foods). The only exception to this rule was if we had a conflicting religious obligation.

“Come to the tables everyone!” calls Ms. Lowd. My ears perk up and I immediately set down the book I’m working my way through. Food was on the table, and Goodnight Moon could wait. I hurry over to my regular spot and offer a big grin to pretty Ms. Lowd. She smiles back sweetly, and with her dark curls and soft brown eyes, she’s the greatest person I know. After mommy, of course. The cook brings out fresh lunch trays, and I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of what today’s meal will be. My tray is set down in front of me, and I breathe in the sweet aroma of rice and vegetables. I carefully spread my napkin across my lap and pry open the top on my half-pint of chocolate milk. My cousin Irfan is sitting next to me, and he has somehow already scarfed down most of the food on his plate. “What are those little squares?” I ask him, staring down at the soft pink cubes mixed in with the grains of rice on my plate. “It’s chicken,” he mumbles through a mouth full of food. “Just eat it.”

As I lift my fork to my mouth for my first bite, I see Ms. Lowd hurry over to me. She looks concerned, and the cook is worried. She asks if Irfan and I have already begun eating. I say no as Irfan nods, pointing proudly to his empty plate. “Oh dear,” she breathes, as the cook begins to apologize profusely. Everyone turns to look at me. I am led over to a small table in the corner of the classroom. Ms. Lowd talks to me in her gentle, calming voice, and I am in a trance. She explains that I cannot eat this lunch today because it contains pork. She asks if I like peanut butter and jelly, and I shrug my shoulders in reply. I am told I will have to eat my substitute meal at this table, and I could join my friends at the big tables once I finished. The cook sets a sandwich down in front of me apologetically, and I try to look brave for her. After I examine the dollops of peanut butter and dripping jelly, I glance back at my friends. They are all laughing with Irfan, who had decided to measure the number of french fries he can cram into his mouth at one time. I turn back around and feel guilty, like I have done something wrong.

Later memories of pork are not as vivid as the first, but I know that there are several. At my elementary school, Sausage Day was revered by students and adults alike. I remember being the only person to refuse this weekly miracle. “You don’t like sausage?!” my friends would exclaim in wonder. I would just shake my head. Even today, I am not sure if I held back the truth to keep things simple, or out of shame for being different.

As the world entered the new millennium, diversity blossomed and I became surrounded by friends of different colors and beliefs. Some couldn’t eat beef, others didn’t consume meat at all. One even didn’t like chocolate, which I took a somewhat personal offense to. I slowly started to feel less like an outsider when it came to food.

The years went by, and I found myself offering religious reasons to explain my pork-free diet. Whether I gave the scientific reasons to avoid pork, or said that it was simply written in the Qu’ran, I was accepted.

Around the age of 16, my world changed. I was going through a period of self-search, and that caused me to reevaluate all of my beliefs, including my religion. It was extremely difficult for me to grasp the concept of having a merciful God and a world of terror and pain exist simultaneously. My faith was shaken by news articles claiming that Islam is hateful and violent, condemning all Muslims to be terrorists spreading a barbaric religion. I began attending daily service at my mosque less often, and I even started questioning my decisions against drinking alcohol and pre-marital sex, which up until then had been set in stone in my mind. But I never once considered eating pork.

I still don’t have a satisfying answer for why pork never tempted me. It probably carried the least physical consequences of the sins I was contemplating. Yet it somehow had a way of keeping me grounded. Not eating pork kept me connected to my religion, at a time when I felt disconnected and alone.

So many emotions are attached to this simple meat: curiosity, shame, isolation, hope, and finally, acceptance. I may never taste it, but pork will always play an monumental role in my life.

Image: photographer unknown. "tricky pig." Photograph. 2009. From The Brothers Slack.

http://thebrothersslack.blogspot.com/ (accessed September 1, 2009)