In the 1950s, my mother delighted at the latest instant food
mixes and frozen meals, because it meant she could spend less time in the
kitchen and more time relaxing with Dad and me. (Both of my parents worked.)
Dad, of course, had different opinions about instant mixes and frozen foods,
but that’s another story.
Now, I live in south Seattle, in a neighborhood said to be
one of the most diverse in the entire U.S. I like to do some of my shopping at
a small Asian grocery store a few blocks from my house. I like to support
immigrants and small businesses.
None of the packages of fresh fruits and vegetables are
labeled, assuming that the people who shop here know what’s inside. There are
at least 6 different kinds of leaves wrapped in plastic, roots and vegetables
I’ve never seen before, several different kinds of chili peppers that I could
never identify without having to go back to school again. I see packages of
large green stems that I suspect might be sugar cane, but I don’t really know.
Only the price is marked on the packages. I usually only buy what I recognize.
I wonder if the goods are imported from China, from sources rejected by PCC and
Whole Foods Market. They do, after all, cost much less here.
I have been taking my own canvas bag when I go shopping at
that store, partly to get used to not using plastic bags, and partly to avoid
accumulating them. After I’d picked out a variety of fresh vegetables, noodles
and miscellaneous spices, I brought my things to the cash register. The woman behind the counter started ringing
up my purchases and putting them in a plastic bag. “Oh,” I said, “I brought my
own bag.” I handed her the canvas bag I’d brought with me.
She laughed. “Are you practicing having to bring your own
bag?”
I nodded yes.
“How silly,” she said, shaking her head. “In the old
country, we all brought our own baskets to the market. We never had to do that
here. Now we have to go back to doing things the old way!” She laughed again.
“I will put your things in the plastic bag, then put it all in your bag.”
She was so insistent that I didn’t argue. Her English wasn’t
good enough, and I don’t speak Thai or Vietnamese, so I didn’t know how to
explain the ecological impact to her. I recognized in her laughter my mother’s
attitudes: in leaving behind the old country, they left behind all of the
primitive old country ways, coming to a new land where technology ruled and
modern conveniences (like plastic bags in stores) abound. This woman and my
mother were so delighted at the time- and energy-saving devices they found here
in America. The immigrants, like my mother in the 1950s, enjoy the comforts of
American life, even if it means going against the current ecological grain. To
them, bringing your own basket or bag to the store is going back to the kind of
life they wanted to leave behind.
I will still continue to bring my own canvas bags when I go
shopping. I will continue to believe it makes sound ecological sense. But I’ve
gained some kind of ironic perspective. It reminds me of the time I first
visited my relatives in Latvia, shortly after it regained its independence.
“How wonderful that your farmers here don’t use chemicals,” I said. “That’s
because we can’t afford them,” my cousin replied.
