Macabre, Not Merry

Cruelty takes many shapes. One of the trendy New England varieties approximates a Christmas tree.

It may seem harsh to characterize as barbaric the pyramid of lobster traps piled on the Swampscott Town Hall lawn. A more forgiving description of those who erected it and others who admire it is “unenlightened.” Definitely “carnivorous.” But, to remain oblivious of the lobsters’ fate revokes the cheer meant to be inherent in that tower.

Next year, why not commemorate with a stack of battery cages (where four to ten egg-laying hens get crammed into about 75 square inches — less than the area of a sheet of paper and about 15 inches high). Or, how about a tower of gestation crates, in which pregnant sows are made to lie on slatted concrete and cannot turn around, walk, or fully extend their legs. Or, maybe an arrangement of steel-jawed leghold traps will make a nice holiday display. Oh, wait — all of these contraptions deservedly became illegal in Massachusetts through ballot initiatives. Unfortunately, shellfish hold less sway, except as edibles, with our state’s populous. Chowda rules, after all.

A recent ban in the United Kingdom, similar to those in Switzerland, Norway, New Zealand, and parts of Australia, on boiling-alive lobsters and crabs, rests on studies that finally acknowledge crustaceans’ reaction to pain when submerged in a pot of scalding water: they don’t like it. However, so as not to disrupt consumption or commerce, further studies tout, as humane, the new practice of chilling or stunning the crustacean before the drop into blistering liquid. How thoughtful of us to chill or stun. Humans excel at denial, especially when it’s served with melted butter. FYI, we also stun cattle who are frightened and on their way to slaughter, not as an attempt to mitigate their suffering, but to manage the production line. Regardless, workers are known to beat the uncooperative.

But, I digress.

I expect a fierce response to my perspective: Get over it; the tree is fun! You’re making a big deal out of nothing. We live in a coastal town and should treasure the one or two lobstermen left, and pay our respects to the many before them. It’s a great tribute to build a Christmas tree from their tools of the trade.

I certainly respect the hard work, but lobstering is a chosen profession.

Whether pagan or Christian in origin, adorned trees for Christmas are meant to represent life and hope. For many, they have become a symbol of the celebration of Jesus Christ, a legendary man of peace and compassion. All of which, in modern times, renders the decorated tree as something of a contradiction, especially as we wring our hands over the destruction of the rain forest, yet intentionally grow millions of conifers predestined to be felled for our momentary pleasure, then discarded as trash. Every religion tends to cloak its hypocrisy in celebratory ritual and tradition.

Dead trees, dead lobsters. For our delight. Even if no blatant harm is intended, lobster-trap Christmas trees subtly normalize the frightening confinement, distress, and inevitable doom of each and every lobster unlucky enough to have wandered in. Their ghosts remain enveloped by the wire mesh, sending a holiday message that’s not so happy.