Anonymous waste. Just don't spill the bin on the way.

Mixed waste hidden in a black plastic bag from prying eyes. That's anonymous waste. That's municipal waste, the reality of our everyday waste management.

How did I come to this? This morning I witnessed a brief moment that forced me into deep reflection (you know me).

November 4, 2022

A scene on a rainy street

I was standing with tea by the window watching the rainy street (a habit from England). I saw garbage collectors emptying bins. At one point a "stylish" thirty-something woman rushed over to them and with a smile handed them a bag of garbage, as if she was doing them some kind of favor. When the bag landed in the truck, it clinked all the way to me (through the closed window).

It occurred to me that this is actually the only moment when a person might feel ashamed of their waste. Otherwise, waste is anonymous. That's why we throw absolutely anything into the bin. Nobody knows about it. Nobody judges us for it! And the judgment of others is like a steel ball chained to the leg for many of us. But imagine if it weren't like that. If you had to take your waste to a collection center, like hazardous waste.

The lady would first want to see the contents, that's clear, and of course also see your ID. We'll call the "stylish" woman (from the beginning of the article) Silva.

Silva arrives - a story where anonymous waste doesn't exist

Silva drove into the waste collection center with her shiny SUV. She wanted to arrive just a few minutes early to avoid the queue. Not so much the queue in front of her, but rather the queue of cars that were starting to appear in her rearview mirror.

Two cars that had arrived earlier disappeared and Silva's turn finally came. She got out of the car and pulled out an anonymous black bin for mixed waste from the trunk.

"ID card, please," asked the woman in a torn, dirty jacket. Silva handed her the ID with a nervous smile. She couldn't help it, but these visits always seemed extremely unpleasant to her.

You don't sort glass?!

It didn't happen very often that Silva would feel ashamed of herself. At the collection center, however, it happened with iron regularity: every Monday and Thursday.

"Oh!" the woman in the jacket raised her eyebrows, "you don't even sort glass? Can't you give up those pickles when you can't even be bothered with the jar?"

"One jar..." she heard an apologetic tone in her own voice. Looking at the woman, she noticed the carelessly pinned name tag: "Dita."

"One per week! That's fifty-two jars a year! Just from you! Who do you think has to haul this? I only have one back!"

A nightingale with a constricted throat

"I'll try to do better," Silva whispered and unpleasantly felt blood rushing to her face. She searched her memory for when she had felt like this last. It didn't take much effort.

Rays of fading sun penetrated through large windows from outside, the courtyard was covered with colorful leaves. And she stood with tears in her eyes in front of the podium.

"Just try it," the teacher urged her. She didn't understand that Silva was insecure and afraid. Mom had just told her that she couldn't sing. But little Silva didn't know that mom had a headache and the exclamation: "Who has to listen to your screeching all the time!" shouldn't be taken seriously at all. But little Silva was dependent on adults for her self-evaluation.

"Why else would mom tell me I can't sing if it wasn't true?" went through her head back then in front of the podium.

Under the teacher's pressure, she finally quietly recited two verses while swallowing tears as bitter as grapefruit, which she sometimes had to eat because it was full of vitamins. She sensed that vitamins were something good, but didn't understand why she had to eat something that didn't taste good because of them.

She got a C that time and convinced herself that she really couldn't sing. She never sang again. Ever.

Haven't you considered therapy?

"Hello!" the woman from the collection center waved her hands in front of Silva's face.
"Sorry, I remembered something."
"I'm saying, do you know what children in Africa would give for this?!" Dita sputtered angrily.
"I misjudged the amount of rice..."
"Then measure it next time!

Dita frowned over the 200g package of macadamia nuts but said nothing. But Silva could guess what she was thinking: "For a whole day of collecting waste, I can barely afford two packages like this!"

"Four wine bottles?! Haven't you thought about therapy?"
"We had a celebration."
"You don't need to lie to me. I'm neither your husband nor your boss."

Silva swallowed hard. What was she supposed to do? A glass or two in the evening helped her unwind from otherwise demanding work where the demands kept increasing.

Mixed municipal waste reveals the number of flare-ups

When Dita pulled out a solid plastic container from a product that promised losing 10 kg in one month, she said venomously, as if to herself: "The fat will be thin and the thin will be cold..."

Dita continued the inspection. Dandruff shampoos, creams for dry skin, but also anti-fungal ointments. A composition of food and drugstore items, worn-out pantyhose and one tangled condom.

"Just one?!" Dita's eyes widened, while thinking: "Those makeup and tight leggings aren't much use to you."

Silva, now completely red, could have slapped herself again. She wanted to throw it in the small bin in front of the house to avoid exactly such comments during the mixed waste inspection. Dita naturally couldn't know what Silva knew.

With tears in her eyes, she got into the car and a chain of doubts and assumptions from recent times went through her head. That one condom in the bin didn't represent defeat for Silva, but triumph. She wore heavy makeup and tight leggings to arouse her husband's interest, who had seemed indifferent in recent months. Not fifteen minutes passed without her thinking with anxious stomach tightening whether her marriage had hit a dead end. It didn't smell musty and of urine yet, but it seemed like the union was heading there...

Good thing we have that anonymous waste, right? Now just don't spill the bin on the way.