Title : Why I Went Zero Waste
link : Why I Went Zero Waste
Why I Went Zero Waste
This was supposed to be the introduction to a book I couldn't finish because, well, I'm not a good writer. I don't have the creativity required for a coherent Instagram message, let alone a blog post, let alone an entire book. I meant to publish it as my first blog post but it was too annyoing. By now you must be used to me so I figure this is as good a time as any, it's the spiritual sequel to this post. I took these photos in the beautiful Rooke's Nest.
I'm writing this because Bea Johnson's Zero Waste Home changed my life. Because I'm a narcissist, I assume it will change yours too.
Zero waste is an industrial term applied to a consumer movement towards a circular economy where, much like Amy Schumer’s comedy, material is reused and recycled infinitely. This means reimagining design, manufacturing, and recovery to divert or recapture as much as possible from the waste stream. It involves using only biodegradable or reclaimable technical nutrients that nourish, rather than harm, the environment. More importantly, it requires changing habits: buying less, choosing quality over quantity, and demanding durable, not disposable, goods. Zero waste is the way our grandparents lived, a lifestyle we rejected because we were too busy swiping left to cook anything but shrink wrapped meals.
Zero waste is an industrial term applied to a consumer movement towards a circular economy where, much like Amy Schumer’s comedy, material is reused and recycled infinitely. This means reimagining design, manufacturing, and recovery to divert or recapture as much as possible from the waste stream. It involves using only biodegradable or reclaimable technical nutrients that nourish, rather than harm, the environment. More importantly, it requires changing habits: buying less, choosing quality over quantity, and demanding durable, not disposable, goods. Zero waste is the way our grandparents lived, a lifestyle we rejected because we were too busy swiping left to cook anything but shrink wrapped meals.
The zero waste movement grew partly because of increased awareness of the dangers of climate change. According to a 2016 EPA report, municipal solid waste landfills were the third largest contribution of any methane source in the United States. Convenience comes at a cost, and we live with the consequences of having everything precut, prewashed, air conditioned, and delivered. Mostly, however, the movement’s increased popularity can be attributed to inspiring women like Johnson, who drew attention to the lifestyle via social media. The story of an empowered French woman forging environmental change in America resonated with me, though my background couldn’t be more different.
I grew up really far from the Gallic countryside, in an economically depressed suburb of Cleveland. My family composted, had a vegetable garden, upcycled everything from paper bags to twist ties, and owned Ferngully on VHS. We lived in a small, 200 year old farmhouse, where we climbed trees in thrift store clothing, picking apples and pears off the branches (we also played a lot in the creek out back, which was filled with sewage). My mom, despite working full time and raising us alone, sewed our clothes and cooked homemade gluten-free meals every day. Most people think I’m an only child, which should probably bother me. I’m the oldest of six.
This upbringing- at the intersection of post-Occupation Korean frugality and third-generation American conspicuous consumption- turned me into sort of a Beyonce / Sasha Fierce, ecologically speaking, minus the talent, money, and beauty. Anybody can be a good little planeteer until they hit puberty and start caring about what other people think. I went from scavenging $0.50 secondhand Comme des Garçons jeans to spending my whole allowance at Wet Seal. My curly hair, which I once wore long, like a Stevie Nicks dress, became frizzy and brittle under the eurocentric rigors of ceramic straighteners. I was trapped in a vicious cycle requiring more products, more chemicals, more time spent fighting my sister for the bathroom every morning, all so I could fit into a typically Midwestern thermos of jocks, cheerleaders, sk8r bois, and AP nerds whose names I no longer remember.
They were different times, those dark days when my AIM buddy list resembled a Hollister catalog and I barely knew what a carbon sink was. I graduated high school and bought a ticket to Paris, my first trip outside the country alone, indulging in every mini disposable product and travel gadget Target had to offer. I went to Zara and spent graduation money on stuff I’d wear once, then toss as soon as photos appeared on Facebook. Back then, I pretended I didn’t derive unparalleled joy from identifying wildlife habitats listed in Janine Benyus’ field guides, or secretly extol Arne Naess’ ideas of all-encompassing natural relationships as I applied glitter lotion to my forearms every night.
Everything changed in college, when, confronted with the fact my family could never be proud of any major not requiring a semester of organic chemistry, I ditched my plans to become a teacher. My mom suggested taking a sustainability course. The class opened my eyes to the absurdities of resource mismanagement, industrialized food production, and my own personal overconsumption. I suddenly understood why Morrissey preferred animals to people. The more I read, the more helpless and hypocritical I felt. I drove everywhere, drank bottled water, and discarded multiple Kleenex during allergy season. Frustrated with the disconnect between what I learned and how I lived, I asked a professor for guidance.
She sent me an article about the Johnsons, a family of four trying to live trash-free in California. Looking at pictures of their organized cabinets gave me the sensation of clean, crisp mountain air caressing my face while biting into a York Peppermint Patty. Unpackaged bulk items rested beautifully in the pantry, unencumbered by labels. Non-toxic, non-polluting bar soap surrounded by air plants lent a minimalist appeal to the bathroom. The zero waste home, in all its white, plastic-free purity, was the domestic manifestation of Tilda Swinton, better than any Nancy Meyer movie house.
Even more striking was what Bea Johnson herself represented. Here was someone living her values and inspiring others to do the same. Next semester, I tested the zero waste lifestyle for a school project. At first I tried a week, then a month. The experiment gradually slipped into a year. My allergies disappeared. Instead of buying paper towels and plastic wrap, I saved money by switching to cloth for cleaning or carrying sandwiches. I started eating vegan. I walked to class, and for the first time in my life, noticed a hint of Kardashian-like posterior tautness. Grocers quizzed me about my package-free objectives. I found this oddly gratifying, probably because I love attention. Once I saw how rewarding zero waste living was, I didn’t want to stop.
That zero waste project made me realize how basic I was. I chose to go from a simple, contented upbringing where I freely experienced culture and nature to letting others tell me it wasn’t enough- there was a ton of stuff I needed instead. The magazines I read and people I hung around influenced what I thought I should wear (fast fashion), or buy (pumpkin spice lattes), or look like (any of the original Laguna Beach cast members). As is the case for so many from my generation, I’d lost my sense of direction, becoming fully dependent on peers and marketers to shape my identity. Zero waste gave me my independence back, however dramatic that sounds.
It also helped me start a new life in another country. That year, I met a Frenchman in a speakeasy in the Marais. We married a few weeks later. I’d basically only ever lived in Cleveland, and suddenly found myself in an unfamiliar place, with a different language, and a culture surprisingly alien to me. Want a surefire conversation starter with Parisians? Tell vendors at farmer’s markets you want fresh produce or bread in your own cloth bags. Curious neighbors inquired about the glass jars and wicker shopping cart I wheeled around everyday. They learned my name, and I learned their stories. I asked about their kids, and they asked about my cats. I arrived a shy, scared foreigner, but zero waste broke the ice, making me feel at home right away.
It all went full circle, I guess, from the Cleveland girl reading about Bea Johnson’s zero waste activism stateside to the Cleveland girl composting on a little balcony in Montmartre. Critics argue, however, that zero waste isn’t practical for everybody. Can millennials, who are so obligation-averse they can barely commit to a Netflix series, go zero waste while still having enough time and money to cultivate their personal brand? I think so. I’ve seen firsthand how zero waste helps others achieve happier, healthier lives, and it’s not as difficult or extreme as one might think. That, along with my near pathological need for affirmation from others, is the reason I started this blog: to provide busy people a flexible means of transitioning to a simpler, more sustainable lifestyle. Not everyone lives in a city with bulk shopping, or has the spare time and resources to make everything from scratch. I wrote this for those who might not realize they have the circumstances to go zero waste yet.
To see Bea Johnson speak in Toronto for the first time, purchase tickets here. This isn't a sponsored post or anything by the way, in fact I hope my amazing friend Sophi, the Toronto Tool Library's Zero Waste Events Manager, isn't embarrassed by this...
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