Going Zero-ish Waste Without Going Mad
I was born and raised in Oregon, so to consider going zero waste was perhaps inevitable.
The best memories I have from being raised an Oregonian kid always involve the woods, trees, and the waters. Learning about trees in the forest which leaned over in a fairy's arch, spotting outrageous mushrooms sprouting from the strangest places, and losing my oar in the middle of a placid lake - I'm grateful for the nature-based education I received throughout my childhood. Recycling was a given, right along playing the Oregon Trail game on mono-chromatically green computer monitors. Being a kid who cared about the environment was a given. How could you grow up with surrounded by so much accesible natural beauty and not care about its welfare?
I was the kid who insisted we cut every plastic six-pack holder before it hit the family's recycling bin, to ensure it could not possibly snare and choke a sea animal.
(I was considered a weird kid.)
So it has been a major surprise, if not a full-blown existential shock to the core, to realize that being raised to care has not been enough. That somehow, despite my generation being very explicitly taught to care about the earth, it is full of more garbage, toxins, poison, and reckless destruction than ever before in human history.
Which sucks!
While I've been congratulating myself for four decades of recycling, the toothbrush I used in 1987 is very likely sitting somewhere in a dump, in pristine condition. Next to those I used in '88, '89, '90, and so on. And it will probably still be there, long after I'm gone.
To me, this is a very depressing thought.
Also one I know to be true, because - damned if I don't get older by the day, but the My Little Pony family I received in 1985 looks pretty much the same. Some yellowing of their white plastic, but their lovely purple and blue manes remain perfect. A mother Pony and her tiny daughter Pony. Whether they like it or not, they are probably going to accompany me through my entire lifetime, weird totems gazing at me with their gentle, plastic eyes.
But anyway.
I tried to go "zero waste" in 2018, once I began to take notice of the dire news: about garbage patches in the Pacific. About sea turtles chocking on contact lens cases. About bought politicians denying, and people somehow agreeing, that nothing about the earth's climate had changed - around the same time my beloved 11-months of rainy Oregon skies dried up, and just before summer forest fires became our norm.
Also in 2018, zero waste blogs began to proliferate, populated by happy, smiling, lovely women named Kate who promised that collectively, taking on not just a "recycle it" approach to garbage but the rather radical shift to "no waste whatsoever" was possible - was sexy! Following their disclaimers that any clicked links could result in a commission from Amazon followed - surprise! - lots of stupid advice about purchasing stuff. Stuff, new stuff, sexy stuff, like hip little kits containing a bamboo fork, a special wooden brush for my hair, about, essentially and relentlessly, BUYING MORE STUFF.
And for some reason everyone wants me to buy a goddamned crystal, too.
What to me is obviously and very eye-rollingly left out by such bloggers are the obvious points that Amazon is a) a corporate beast with no soul and also b) the worst fucking way to buy stuff, from the point of view of an environmentalist. We once received a 30-page paper workbook from Amazon, delivered in a box that measured 3 feet by 1 foot, surrounded by several feet of plastic wrapping to keep it from... breaking? Tearing? Who knows. It was dumb and wasteful, and also classic Amazon.
But I didn't really think it through back in the heydays of '18, instead trying to follow their maddeningly simple advice. Somehow, these people claimed they could fit their trash in a shoebox, and yet gave advice like:
Long story short, I actually became rather depressed by my foray into zero waste. I just couldn't figure out how to do it - how carrying around a fork would actually change my trash input, how I could ever find the supplies OR the time to make my own kitchen cleaning spray, what impact this would make in a world where almost literally everything we purchase conventionally is wrapped in unrecyclable, turtle-murdering plastic.
So, I gave up.
I didn't like being the poopy-pants upset by something as common as walking into a modern American grocery store, and bearing witness to its rampant and thoughtless waste. The sight of a plastic box filled with an absurd amount of plastic cookie cutters set me off one holiday season, sputtering in the aisles to my poor spouse about toxic runoff poisoning child workers in Asia.
I didn't like feeling so helpless in the face of modern capitalism - even being told my family and friends to give up because, "What you do personally doesn't actually matter - it's the corporations that need to change."
I got tired of all the negativity: both from myself, and from the outside.
So what has changed as 2019 draws to its close?
Back in the day, I wanted to try it because I wanted to minimize at least my own footprint on our fragile ecosystem.
These days, I see it as a means to reclaim my power in a brutally consumerist, and literally toxic, society.
I don't think that I should know so many people my age or younger diagnosed with and even dying of cancer.
I do think corporations should be held accountable for their ethics and their practices.
I think that in America, education about the environmental catastrophe which is pending due to our inaction should be prioritized, as it is in other parts of the world.
This time, I am fueled as much by anger as corporate culture as I am my love of the wilderness. For me, reducing my waste and overall consumption is a means to:
The best memories I have from being raised an Oregonian kid always involve the woods, trees, and the waters. Learning about trees in the forest which leaned over in a fairy's arch, spotting outrageous mushrooms sprouting from the strangest places, and losing my oar in the middle of a placid lake - I'm grateful for the nature-based education I received throughout my childhood. Recycling was a given, right along playing the Oregon Trail game on mono-chromatically green computer monitors. Being a kid who cared about the environment was a given. How could you grow up with surrounded by so much accesible natural beauty and not care about its welfare?
I was the kid who insisted we cut every plastic six-pack holder before it hit the family's recycling bin, to ensure it could not possibly snare and choke a sea animal.
(I was considered a weird kid.)
So it has been a major surprise, if not a full-blown existential shock to the core, to realize that being raised to care has not been enough. That somehow, despite my generation being very explicitly taught to care about the earth, it is full of more garbage, toxins, poison, and reckless destruction than ever before in human history.
Which sucks!
While I've been congratulating myself for four decades of recycling, the toothbrush I used in 1987 is very likely sitting somewhere in a dump, in pristine condition. Next to those I used in '88, '89, '90, and so on. And it will probably still be there, long after I'm gone.
To me, this is a very depressing thought.
Also one I know to be true, because - damned if I don't get older by the day, but the My Little Pony family I received in 1985 looks pretty much the same. Some yellowing of their white plastic, but their lovely purple and blue manes remain perfect. A mother Pony and her tiny daughter Pony. Whether they like it or not, they are probably going to accompany me through my entire lifetime, weird totems gazing at me with their gentle, plastic eyes.
But anyway.
I tried to go "zero waste" in 2018, once I began to take notice of the dire news: about garbage patches in the Pacific. About sea turtles chocking on contact lens cases. About bought politicians denying, and people somehow agreeing, that nothing about the earth's climate had changed - around the same time my beloved 11-months of rainy Oregon skies dried up, and just before summer forest fires became our norm.
Also in 2018, zero waste blogs began to proliferate, populated by happy, smiling, lovely women named Kate who promised that collectively, taking on not just a "recycle it" approach to garbage but the rather radical shift to "no waste whatsoever" was possible - was sexy! Following their disclaimers that any clicked links could result in a commission from Amazon followed - surprise! - lots of stupid advice about purchasing stuff. Stuff, new stuff, sexy stuff, like hip little kits containing a bamboo fork, a special wooden brush for my hair, about, essentially and relentlessly, BUYING MORE STUFF.
And for some reason everyone wants me to buy a goddamned crystal, too.
What to me is obviously and very eye-rollingly left out by such bloggers are the obvious points that Amazon is a) a corporate beast with no soul and also b) the worst fucking way to buy stuff, from the point of view of an environmentalist. We once received a 30-page paper workbook from Amazon, delivered in a box that measured 3 feet by 1 foot, surrounded by several feet of plastic wrapping to keep it from... breaking? Tearing? Who knows. It was dumb and wasteful, and also classic Amazon.
But I didn't really think it through back in the heydays of '18, instead trying to follow their maddeningly simple advice. Somehow, these people claimed they could fit their trash in a shoebox, and yet gave advice like:
- buy a water bottle and fill it with tap water - don't buy plastic bottled water!
- carry a woven bag into the grocery store, and say goodbye to plastic bags!
Long story short, I actually became rather depressed by my foray into zero waste. I just couldn't figure out how to do it - how carrying around a fork would actually change my trash input, how I could ever find the supplies OR the time to make my own kitchen cleaning spray, what impact this would make in a world where almost literally everything we purchase conventionally is wrapped in unrecyclable, turtle-murdering plastic.
So, I gave up.
I didn't like being the poopy-pants upset by something as common as walking into a modern American grocery store, and bearing witness to its rampant and thoughtless waste. The sight of a plastic box filled with an absurd amount of plastic cookie cutters set me off one holiday season, sputtering in the aisles to my poor spouse about toxic runoff poisoning child workers in Asia.
I didn't like feeling so helpless in the face of modern capitalism - even being told my family and friends to give up because, "What you do personally doesn't actually matter - it's the corporations that need to change."
I got tired of all the negativity: both from myself, and from the outside.
So what has changed as 2019 draws to its close?
Back in the day, I wanted to try it because I wanted to minimize at least my own footprint on our fragile ecosystem.
These days, I see it as a means to reclaim my power in a brutally consumerist, and literally toxic, society.
I don't think that I should know so many people my age or younger diagnosed with and even dying of cancer.
I do think corporations should be held accountable for their ethics and their practices.
I think that in America, education about the environmental catastrophe which is pending due to our inaction should be prioritized, as it is in other parts of the world.
This time, I am fueled as much by anger as corporate culture as I am my love of the wilderness. For me, reducing my waste and overall consumption is a means to:
- reduce my feelings of helpless dependency on invented products which I don't need
- reprogram my worldview to understand what is needed vs. what is being marketed to me as necessary
- increase my financial independence by diverting money away from unnecessary
- decrease toxins in my home and reduce risks of bio accumulation via synthetic dyes, leaching plastic, and the like
- shrink my participation in a "garbage disposal system" which does not work
- support actual people and vendors in my community rather than mega-corporations who, sure, offer lower prices and convenience, but at the cost of human rights, environmental responsibility, and corporate accountability
- protect myself and my loved ones from products that were not likely to have been tested for my long-term safety and health, and from products that were likely produced with no regard for human rights or dignity
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