Dear Momma. I’m trying to remember you.
You come to me in parts. Never the whole of you at once. Just parts.
Like your eyes. I remember your eyes. Those impossibly big, round, sad eyes.
The first thing I ever was those eyes. I opened mine for the first time and met yours. I could
see myself reflected back in those eyes. I could see my own eyes, and my face, brand
new and so small.
And I could see them. I could see them coming.
They came and they took me away.
And that’s when I started forgetting you.
Momma, I remember your tongue. As big as my head, that tongue. So rough but so gentle.
I was born slick and wet and you cleaned me with that tongue. Or at least you started
to. That tongue was the first thing I felt. And it felt like love.
And then I felt them. I felt their hands grab me. Rough but not gentle. No love in those
hands.
I remember your smell, Momma. Warm and earthy. My first breath was of you.
But there were other smells. Filth and fear. And them. I could smell them. Their scent
overpowered yours. They took you from me in more ways than one.
The sound, Momma. I remember the sound of you breathing. That was the first thing I
heard, that breathing. Deep and steady. Measured but labored.
It seemed such a task, breathing. A low, rasping hum, in and out. The whole of you expanding
out and collapsing again. I could listen to you forever.
But then there was yelling. So loud, that yelling. It hurt to hear it, Momma.
And then they were there. The Takers. They’d come for me with their loud yelling and their
strong smells and their rough but not gentle hands.
They came and they took me, Momma and I started to lose you.
And now I don’t know where I am. It’s small and dark and I can’t move. There’s
something around my neck and it hurts. I can hear others around me. They’re hurting too.
We’re all hurting. The Takers come sometimes with their rough
not gentle hands and their yelling so loud it hurts to hear. And they take again. They
take some of us away. I don’t know where they go.
I’m trying hard not to forget you, Momma. Please know I’m trying.
---
My dear child. I’ve lost you. They came and they took you. It’s happened again and
I can’t stop it.
I carried you inside me, just like your brothers and sisters before you. I could protect you
then. I wanted to keep you there forever.
But then you came. You came and you were beautiful and you were mine. So small and brand new.
So fragile.
I cleaned you up for your new world. I tried to keep you close and quiet. But they knew
you’d come. They always know.
I wanted to hide you back inside me and keep you safe always, but they came, my child,
the Takers came for you. They always come.
My body’s so tired, my child. I couldn’t fight them away. I tried the first time. And
the next. And the next. And the next. And the next. And on and on and on. And now, my
child, I have nothing left.
I’m empty again. And I’ve lost you. Again. And soon they’ll try to fill me back up.
But I’m so very tired.
I cried for you, my child. I yelled your name for days. Did you hear me? I wanted you to
know I was here. I wanted you to find me. But now I have no voice left. And you’re
not here.
You must be hungry, my child. I have milk for you but they take it. Every day they take
it.
It hurts so bad. The cold, hard suction. I’m swollen and aching. And I’m empty.
What will I feed you when you come back?
I have nothing left to give, my child. I’m so sorry.
They’ve taken everything. My children, my milk, my fight, my life. The darkness is coming,
my child. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Please know I tried.
---
Momma I’m tired. They’re coming again. They’re coming and this time it’s for
me.
I see them, Momma, with their small cold eyes. They’re coming.
They take me again with their rough not gentle hands. And I think of your warm tongue.
I’m upside down, Momma. We all are. I smell blood and fear. Something’s wrong.
I’m moving, Momma. There are Takers all around us. And the noise. It’s so loud.
I can’t even hear my own scream.
Can you hear me? They’re coming for me, Momma.
The Taker has something shiny. And there’s blood. So much blood. I’m getting closer.
And I can see myself, Momma, in the shine. My own face, still so small and brand new.
And I think of your impossibly big, sad eyes, the first thing I ever saw.
And then, Momma, and then…darkness.
---
This is the story of a dairy cow and her baby sent to the veal industry. This is where your
milk comes from. This is not an isolated incident. For more information, please see the videos
linked here as well as in the video description below. You can find all the resources on the
blog post for this video, which is linked below in the description as well. Please like
and share this video to help give a voice to the mothers and children of the dairy industry
and subscribe for more vegan content every Monday, Wednesday and some Fridays. To support
messages like this please see the support links in the video description below, or click
the text here or the link in the sidebar. Now go live vegans, ditch the dairy, and I’ll
see you soon.
Subtitles by the Amara.org community