Jillian Donadio

“I’m telling you people are animals. Actually no, that’s an insult to animals,” Tamara, a short and slim New York native, quips. She opines about the uptick of litter strewn across Toms River, New Jersey. “My mom was at the dentist the other day, and she saw two people sitting in their car eatin’ their McDonalds breakfast, literally crunch up their dirty Egg McMuffin containers and just throw them out the window. Neanderthals. No, fat Neanderthals.”

            I giggle and sigh. “I don’t understand that mentality. I don’t even think twice about finding a garbage can and throwing my garbage in. It’s automatic.”

            “Whenever I’m walking Bentley in Bedminster, I’m always picking up trash. Even around my complex. I sometimes use the doggy poop bag, and then dispose of it all,” Katrina demurely contributes to the lively exchange of outrage and disgust. In her mid-thirties, she has lived in middle-class neighborhoods in central Jersey most of her life. She has never seen this amount of litter in her area.

            “I believe it! I swear, it’s like everyone came back after the pandemic stupider and unable to behave in society. The beaches are the worst with these Snapchat pop-up parties with the hundreds of kids leaving their cigarette butts and bottles. And there were the needles that washed up in the water at Seaside from the overflow in the sewage. Disgusting,” Tamara continues her tirade.

            “And the worst part is that litter is contributing to air pollution, too. It burns toxicity into the air, causing health defects in people,” Nicole offers quietly. She grounds the conversation in facts, mostly due to her knowledge as a high school math and science teacher.

Our soapbox session in Katrina’s moderately sized SUV while leaving the NJ Lottery Balloon Festival spurs familiar feelings of guilt. I am not solely responsible for the earth’s health. Yet, it feels wrong to perpetuate the group’s indignance towards others as I mentally list the passive ways I contribute to the problem.

I recall my frequent trips to Starbucks within the last year. All of the venti-sized plastic cups once filled with Iced Chai Lattes thrown in random garbage cans. All of the times I wasn’t sure if a bubble mailer from Amazon was recyclable and threw it in the trash “to be safe.” All of the receipts I’ve accepted when asked by a cashier, only to be smushed in the heap of my accordion file folder. All of the trinkets I’ve purchased encased in plastic, such as the Queen’s Gambit Pop Doll residing on my desk for “empowering female character inspiration.” What will happen to her once I leave this planet? I heard once that nearly all plastics ever made still exist today. I will decompose faster than Beth Harmon.

            I share their outrage towards people’s apparent disregard for their carbon footprint. But are we any better? We all took free plastic water bottles from the SmatWater vendor while leaving the festival. I ate my hot dog with extra ketchup but ditched the processed white bun. It will end up in a landfill instead of nourishing a hungry person. Tamara ate a Stromboli atop a single-use disposable plate. Also destined for life in a landfill. Nicole ate her greasy French Fries and Katrina her Mexican cornmeal grilled cheese in Styrofoam boxes. I read on a recent Pinterest infographic that Styrofoam takes approximately five-hundred years to decompose. My flesh will waste away faster than a dinner container.

            Matawan township contracted a new garbage collector at the start of this year. Since then, the garbage receptacles perpetually overflow, due to smaller bins and missed pick-ups. Every day I walk the perimeter of my condominium complex. And every day I feel pangs of remorse as I pass masks hanging from tree branches, cigarette butts nestled in sidewalk cracks, kids’ juice boxes crushed at sewer corners. With each cardboard box remnant and broken-off microplastic, my mind conjures images of where these items originated. What factory assembly line created them? Why were they purchased? What product did they once hold? And what exact circumstances led them to their current positions? I pick up anything I can temporarily hold in my hands, only to dispose in my household garbage can, which I then dispose in the same overflowing garbage receptacles. I’m useless.

“We’re never gonna get out of here,” Katrina frets. Back in her SUV, our enclave sits in brief silence as we idle with the engine running. Only one of the cars emitting fumes in the mass rush to leave the festival grounds. I remind myself that at least we are not the people directly throwing wrappers on the ground. At least we are aware of environmental plights. We are aware of our actions and their consequences. And awareness is the first step to change, I assure myself. I have already kicked my Starbucks habit by buying a reusable glass travel mug and brewing tea at home. I stopped using straws, opting for the adult sippy lid option when I purchase a corporate beverage. Last year, after a thunderstorm blew through Atlantic Highlands, I picked up the strewn trash emitted from garbage cans knocked over by the strong winds. Is that trash mingled amongst a landfill now? How long before it’s gone? Will I still be here?

Last month in my complex I ambled underneath a branch holding a bird’s nest. The bird with grey-blue feathers sat motionless in its nest. Entangled amongst the twigs are a thick shredded bag and tiny white ribbon. They hang down from the tree alongside the green sinking leaves. I notice this same bird in a polluted nest every day for two weeks, until suddenly it vanishes. Now when I pass, I have the strong urge to pull the bag and ribbon from the nest. Clean the twigs to restore order to this small parcel of earth. I never do for fear of disturbing the structure of the nest and it falling to the ground. Are there eggs in there? I imagine them cracking upon impact. Are little bird babies waiting to enter this world sitting on plastic and ribbon? When is it right for humans to intervene in nature?

The bird has vanished, but the bag and ribbon remain. I wonder how much longer these materials will live. And I ache at how unfair it is that they get to exist longer than the grey-blue feathered bird.