#40 Disposables

I remember, back in the early 60’s, puzzling with my mother over the fate of
an empty aerosol spray can. A notice on the can said “Do not incinerate”
and all our trash that didn’t get burned in the fireplace was stored up for
the trip to the county incinerator. Somehow the compost pile—-the other
place we threw things—-didn’t seem quite right either. Finally we packed it
up with a note explaining our dilemma and sent it back to the manufacturers.
It was a little act of defiance, and one of my earliest run-ins with the
problem of trash.

Things have changed since then. We have a flourishing recycling program in
our neighborhood. Two Saturday mornings a month, people converge from all
over to a common point, laden with cardboard and plastic. Cars line up to
unload stuffed trunks and back seats. Neighbors walk, pulling grocery carts
and red wagons, trash bags of plastic bottles over their shoulders,
cardboard balanced on their heads. It’s like a cultural rite, binding us
together. But they take only two kinds of plastic. The city takes only
paper, glass, and cans. There is so much more.

So it was a thrill to find a place that recycled everything—-seven grades of
plastic, waxed cardboard orange juice and milk containers, styrofoam and
packing peanuts, batteries, clean rags, eye-glasses, electronics, aluminum
foil. Seeing big bales of material there, saved from the trash pile, en
route to being reused, was deeply satisfying.

I hadn’t realized how much my unwillingness to throw things out has to do
with hating the idea of contributing to the volume of landfill. Once I
discovered that somebody could actually do something useful with those old
plastic containers and the worn-out clothes that I had saved for rags
(enough to last a life-time or two), I was delighted to get rid of
them—-just as I had happily parted with piles of carefully saved scrap paper
when became recyclable. I came home from that wonderful center feeling like
I’d solved a problem that had been nagging me on a low level for years.
Finally I could do the right thing.

Yet this solution brought unexpected problems of its own. Where would we
store seven different kinds of plastic? What about packaging that has no
numbers? How can you be sure of the difference between #1, which crinkles
but doesn’t tear, #3 which leaves a white line when folded, and #6 which
crinkles and tears (unless it’s #6 styrofoam, which is separate)? What if
it kind of crinkles? The very next day we had Asian food and I was faced
with Korean packaging that had no number and did not clearly fit any
category. It just didn’t seem fair.

In our attempt to learn and organize (we recognize we’re on a steep learning
curve), our kitchen is now covered with little signs—-and I hate signs.
Having rinsed our glass and cans for years, we now get to clean orange juice
boxes, spaghetti sauce lids and styrofoam cups as well. I found the plastic
wrap from a package of vegan hot dogs in our new #1 bin. It has no number.
Is it really #1? How much do I care? I look longingly at the trash can.

Now, with each piece of plastic that comes into our house calling out for
cleaning, scrutiny, decision and storage space, I feel the enormity of my
collusion with this throw-away culture run amok. I didn’t ask for it.
Never in my wildest dreams did I feel a need for seven different kinds of
plastic—-or packaging that defies access—-but I am surrounded. I think a
group I know that invites people from wealthy nations to share with the
poor—-their mission is to ease the burdens not only of poverty but of
materialism. My trip to the recycling center reminds me of the burden of
stuff that I carry every day.

Knowing now that it’s possible, I will sort my plastic, rinse and flatten my
orange juice containers, separate my metal and plastic lids, save my
batteries and rags, and invite everyone around me do the same. I know it
matters. I know that consumers, defying market assumptions, have been the
driving force behind our fledgling recycling industry. I’m glad to fish all
that stuff out of the waste stream to keep it from going to the
landfill-—but I’m also sad. I’d so much rather be able to go upstream to
where it all gets produced, and just turn off the switch. Then we could
redesign the whole system, thinking together about what we really want and
need, designing it to last, remembering that there’s no real “away” where we
can throw things.

Pamela Haines
Philadelphia
1/06



A few things that have made me hopeful recently:

Neighbors who watch out for one another.

Old men from the south, new Asian and African immigrants, and urban
professionals finding common ground in a community garden.

Poor women in third world countries banding together to improve each others’
lives with the help of micro-lending projects.

The growth of an evangelical Protestant movement in the U.S whose message
includes action on poverty and the environment.