Trash Bags

I have gotten into the habit of purging.  Not the same kind of purging I did in Senegal post bacteria ingestion.  No, now back at home, I feel stifled by the clutter of my belongings and my room on the whole, a shrine to my childhood.  I’m currently in the midst of paring down.  Clothes and art supplies are being goodwilled, magazines recycled, and books sorted.  Trash bags have proven supremely useful in these organizational endeavors and I have now filled many a bag.

However, the other day, the stack of sleek black bags I had grabbed from under the kitchen sink ran out.  I scoured the house for more and came across a box that proclaimed, “NEW! NOUVEAU! NEUVO!” in block letters set against a detailed picture of the trash bag’s new design.  

I turned the box over a couple of times, studying the diagrams and reading the print that was clearly supposed to make one ecstatic about the bags’ new look.  These bags did not sit well with me.  I was particularly puzzled by the claim that “GLAD® ForceFlexTM bags help keep trash out of your way.”  Begrudgingly (and without any sense as to why I felt any resentment towards the bags), I filled a bag with clothes and watched it stretch with the weight.  Big deal, I thought.  

That evening, as I was rushing off to meet a friend, one of my Jesuit neighbors pulled into the adjacent driveway.  I live next to a very large yellow house owned by a divinity school that may or may not be affiliated with Harvard.  The residents of the house rotate regularly, but we have come to know the current residents fairly well.

We greeted each other and mutually established the fact that yes, counter to my mother’s fears, I was indeed back in one piece.  Apparently he had received the address for my blog and, dutiful neighbor that he is, checked it out.  He asked how the transition was going and I replied, “surprisingly well.”

He related his experience of visiting a US grocery store for the first time after an extended stay in Haiti.  I admitted that I had yet to breach that sphere of Western Life.  

“What is difficult is the abundance of choice,” he said thoughtfully.

I nodded my assent.  “I’m having enough trouble as is with trash bags.”

He gave me a quizzical look.

And I then proceeded, though previously unaware of my convictions, to launch into a diatribe about my encounter with the new and improved trash bags.  

“Trash in Senegal goes on the ground you walk—sand, sidewalk, street….it’s all landfill.  Or, within individual households, it goes in a small bucket.  Tied up in the tiny wafer thin bags from the market.  Collected once a week if you are lucky enough to live in a developed urban area.  Burned or buried or not.  But even though the streets were filthy, trash was not generated at nearly the same level as here.  All containers and bottles are reused.  Nothing comes with all of this ridiculous extra packaging.  No paper towels….” I rattled on.  My neighbor listened patiently.  

“And here they are revamping trash bags.  One of the single consumer products that, up until this point, never required innovation to increase or maintain demand.  Millions were probably spent to design, manufacture and market those trash bags. Not high fashion.  Just some marketing ploy to launch a new ad campaign.  So much money to redesign trash bags….” I trailed off, embarrassed by my loquaciousness.

“If that makes any sense at all.” I tried. “Maybe the transition has been a bit more difficult than I had imagined….”

And my neighbor, with all of his priestly (jesuitly?) wisdom said, “You know, that is something you could write about.”

I laughed and we chatted a bit longer before parting ways.