Human Pigs

Some time ago, I took the ferry to Blake Island. It was once home to the Suquamish tribe and the birthplace of Chief Sealth, the man for whom Seattle was named. The two-hour crossing was long, and I had arrived hungry, assuming food would be easy to find.

At a small cafe near the dock, I saw peanuts on the menu for $2. When I asked for a bag, the clerk told me to wait a minute and disappeared into the back. He returned hauling two crates overflowing with snacks, none of which were peanuts. He didn't speak to me. Instead, he looked right past me to the next person in line. “Where are the peanuts?” I asked. “Oh,” he muttered. “I thought I told you. We’re out.” Confused and ignored, I settled for a bag of chips.

When I finally reached the longhouse on the island, the atmosphere shifted. Patrons handed out clams to the crowd as we filed inside, where an all-you-can-eat buffet had been laid out. There was something bizarre about an “all you can eat” buffet inside of a Native American longhouse. I tried to eat, but I found myself mesmerized by the other guests; the way in which they piled their plates high with food—the sheer, unchecked scale of their consumption.

Witnessing those heaping plates felt nightmarish, especially in a space of such historical importance. I had to get out. I retreated into the woods for a hike, desperate to escape the madness. For a brief moment, I felt like a pig in a barn.