I’m not an environmental crusader; this one is personal. That is, my contempt for plastic grocery bags has swelled until it is spilling out of my outrage receptacle. If it escalates any further, I can see myself spending my golden years writing letters to supermarket CEOs, Congress and, on bad days, the Queen of England and the Trilateral Commission, about the scourge of plastic bags.
The Earth Policy Institute says a trillion single-use bags are unleashed annually. Too many end up in our oceans, in swirling gyres of garbage. Too many end up in my garage, where I give them the stink eye.
My aversion is supported by facts, but it is, in the end, a gut reaction: my gut says most plastic bags are creepy. In my mind, there is something about plastic that wants to suffocate us. Paper, on the other hand, is nothing but trustworthy.
I admittedly am biased in this matter; my newspaper career has been built on paper, not plastic. People say paper kills trees, but I’ve been to the Pacific Northwest, where they are growing plenty of new ones. I don’t think we have reached peak pulp.
So when baggers say “Is plastic OK?” I respond, “paper, if you’ve got it.” I often add, “You don’t have to bag that free-trade, organic dark chocolate bar made from cocoa beans grown on the moral high ground of indigenous peoples’ homelands.’’
At the big, foreign-owned market we frequent, the baggers usually ask if we’re OK with plastic, but the question is hurried and mumbled, because it seems not many shoppers ask for paper. At the co-op we also frequent, the baggers come to a full stop, as if they really mean it when they ask. They give you time to sort the implications for the Earth, the economy and the back seat of your car.
You wouldn’t want to weigh the question afresh like an ethicist each time — the people in line might throttle you — but lots of them spend spare hours saving whales or volunteering for Bernie, so they should spare you a moment. I need to have my answer prepared because my mind can drift in a grocery store line — I start mulling work gripes, the Red Sox, song lyrics or even the fact that pitching legend Walter Johnson, at age 37, remarkably won 20 games and hit .433. This allocation of brain power means I can be caught by surprise by the paper/plastic inquiry. I also may not be able to instantly recall my debit card pin number. The scourge of plastic, again.
I was recently in Hawaii visiting our son (yes, we blew through a lot of carbon to get there, but clipper ships, alas, are no longer booking) and I found that markets, by state law, must use paper bags. This happily brought me back to the days of my youth. Paper was the only option then, and store clerks would double-bag the heavy stuff. At the store we walked to in Waikiki, when we weren’t off getting sunburns, bags were made of stern stuff, not like the thin, easy-rip bags they give you in corporate markets. And they had paper handles, too! I was in bag heaven.
Hawaii has done this because the blights of modern society stand out in a former paradise. Only the crudest lout would deny the value of protecting an environment that seems blessed, and brings in tourist dollars, too. Lebanon some years ago had to remove plastic bags that hung high in the trees around the landfill. At dusk they looked like a swarm of ghosts.
Over time, we have purchased a collection of sturdy bags made of natural materials. A couple are boxy and reinforced, and I have tested them to 40 pounds. “OK to pack it heavy?” the baggers inquire, and I say, “you bet.” Damn the arthritis. Full load ahead!
But our reusable bags sometimes are in the wrong car or left at home, and checkout becomes a moment of truth. Sometimes the baggers get off their mark as fast as Olympic sprinters, and are at work before I can speak up for paper. I too often acquiesce to plastic.
I return home with my head bowed, like the original crusaders limping back from the Holy Land, once full of visions, but having fallen woefully short. At least those crusaders brought back what they thought were pieces of the true cross, or an apostle’s bones. I have a wiggly, squishable plastic bag that will dog me like the petty sins of my youth I once struggled to put behind me. I will crush it in my hand, but it will slowly unwind itself and mock me.
Dan Mackie can be reached at dmackie@vnews.com.
