I stare blankly at a small slatted square of light sprawled eerily against the gray floor of an otherwise pallid room. It gradually crawls across the smooth concrete, stretching as it dims from scarlet to a deep, unsettling crimson. It holds my attention, but fails to stir any emotion in my long-since barren soul. Eventually, the light of the setting sun fades altogether, and the faint vermillion glow of the moon illuminates my cell.

                  I am aware that another day has passed, but I have no idea how many preceded it—I never really cared to count in the first place. I close my eyes. I guess it’s time to sleep. I do wonder, though, as I let my consciousness drift away, how many days there are left ahead. Time feels inevitably finite. I idly contemplate the impending apocalypse until, finally, another dreamless night consumes me.

–

                  My father always made a point of imparting to me the vital need to combat climate change. As a manufacturer of solar panels, he was understandably passionate about this subject.

                  “Everyone needs to do their part. We all need to work together to save the world.”

                  My father made sure I grew up with the dangers of fossil fuels ingrained in my mind. While other kids my age were reciting phrases like, “stop, drop, and roll,” I was chanting, “stop carbon emissions.”

                  As children do, I hung onto my father's every word. I took meticulous pride in my responsibility to recycle and detested those who did otherwise. I was filled with a joyful sense of global camaraderie whenever politicians or CEOs appeared on the news explaining their plans to reduce carbon emissions. I believed the whole world was on a mission that I was a vital part of. While other kids my age believed in Santa Claus, I believed in the promises of billionaires.

                  My journey diverged in the spring of 2023, at lunch with a friend.

–

                  My friend Dongwoo and I picked up our orders from the counter. I paused to load up on ketchup packets as Dongwoo sighed.

                  “They used to have the good straws here,” he grumbled, veering away from the dispenser full of paper straws, resigned aggravation in his expression. I laughed half-heartedly, only mildly annoyed by his attitude toward the planet-saving variety of drinking tubes.

                  “Straw’s a straw, man,” I said, grabbing one.

                  He grimaced. “Nah, can’t do it,” he said. “The taste grosses me out; I’d rather just take the lid off and drink from the cup.”

                  I hesitated, straw in hand, as a wave of nausea washed over me. My gaze dropped to the drink on my tray, and suddenly it looked decidedly unappealing. I realized I’d started to associate the taste of cola with having wet, gluey lumps of paper in my mouth.

                  “Actually, I get what you mean,” I said slowly, “I think they’re starting to make me hate soda.”

                  “You been using them way too much, then,” he retorted, turning to find us a spot to sit.

                  I tossed the straw into the trash can next to the dispenser and followed Dongwoo as he led us to a table. We sat down, and he started saying something else, but I found it hard to focus on the conversation.

                  My mind was full of paper straws.

                  When I got home, I still couldn't shake my lunchtime revelation. I stared at the unlit ceiling from my bed. The room was quiet and still, but the walls seemed to bend with my whirling thoughts.

                  I don’t like paper straws. Whose idea was it to make straws out of a material that disintegrates in liquids? It’s ridiculous. It’s annoying. What proportion of plastic waste did straws even make up in the first place? Could it really be enough to merit replacing them with an entirely ineffective alternative? I don’t want to use paper straws anymore. What difference would it make if I—just one person—stopped using paper straws?

                  I decided to handle this minor existential crisis logically; I consulted a search engine. Paper straws were first developed by an American inventor named Marvin Chester Stone in 1888. We started using plastic ones in the 1960’s. A study in 2019 found that plastic straws made up an insignificant percentage of plastic-based pollution—less than one percent of plastic waste found in the ocean. The modern push to use paper straws instead of plastic ones can be traced back to a well-intentioned 9-year-old, who kicked off the movement with a fabricated statistic. My existence makes up 0.00000000012 percent of the earth’s population—give or take.

                  My chaotic rush of thoughts receded as I satisfied my curiosity, but a deeper, more unsettling trickle of thoughts was beginning to take its place. I continued scrolling. Deeper, deeper.

                  So-called “eco-friendly” paper drinking straws contain long-lasting and potentially toxic chemicals and may not be better for the environment than plastic versions, researchers have warned.1

                  My stomach curled. I scrolled.

                  The little-known unintended consequence of recycling plastics: Breaking down plastics can generate polluting microplastics that wind up in water or the air, one study finds.2

                  I released a deep sigh I hadn't realized I’d been holding. I scrolled.

                  Corporations tried to blame you for the plastic crisis: If you’ve ever tossed a plastic water bottle in a trash can and felt a wave of guilt wash over you, that’s exactly how the packaging industry planned it.3

                  It was 5:00 a.m. I locked my phone and rolled over. I began to accept a reality that deep down, I had been aware of for a long time. I was born into a world that was already on fire, and the ones who set it were content to let it burn. I alone am powerless to extinguish it.

                  While other kids my age had let apathy define our generation years ago4, I had only just caught up.

                  The next day passed in a haze. The realization that my future had never been more than ashes settled in slowly, a dark thought clouding my mind like smog.

                  Days turned to weeks, and my apathy didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger. Weeks turned to months, and it became a part of me—the lens through which I viewed the world. Everything felt clearer than it ever had. I understood my peers better. We bonded in a shared understanding that nothing matters. We lived by this principle. We were reckless and callous, numbed by the odd peace that comes with accepting your fate. The earth crumbled away beneath each step we took.

–

                  As the years passed, I watched the blaze grow more daunting. Aerosols painted the sky scarlet as a painfully literal reminder that we’re all on fire.

                  A siren blares in the distance, warning of another flash flood and pulling me from my reverie. Third time this month.

                  I glance around before ducking into a nearby building. As I wander up the stairs, I wonder idly if I should move to a different city; the floods are getting more frequent here, and they’re annoying. I make my way up the third flight of stairs and nearly walk right into the door to the roof. I curse quietly. I thought this building was taller.

                  I step out onto the roof just in time to see the flood appear from around the block. All at once, it’s everywhere. Cacophony. It’s awful. I’ve never experienced one this close before. Indistinct shapes scrape and crash against pavement, a violent blur of dingy colors that blend into an unpleasant shade of brown. The sound is deafening. The smell is somehow louder. A faintly familiar nausea washes over me.

                  I feel the concrete under my feet begin to tremble, and I sigh. This building is not tall enough.

–

                  I notice three things upon waking: I am wet, my left shoe is missing, and I am no longer outside. I stand up and look around, quickly realizing where I am. I wander groggily towards the bars of the prison cell.

                  “Hey,” I call out to a nearby guard.

                  He looks up, “Hm?”

                  “What’d I do?” I ask.

                  “Uh,” he grunts, glancing down at the tablet in his hands. “Inappropriate disposal of rubber,” he says after a moment.

                  “Okay,” I reply, hobbling over to the gray cot against the wall. I’m thinking about that day I threw away my first paper straw as I settle down against the rough sheets. I close my eyes and images of the flood dash through my mind. I wonder how they even found my shoe in all that mess.

–

                  The moon still glows crystalline white in a deep blue sky. A gentle fall breeze drifts in through my bedroom window.

                  I don’t know what the future holds, but I feel well within my rights to be terrified of the possibilities. I think about how our environment is choking on the PFAS chemicals used to cheapen paper straw production5 before heaving a deep sigh and climbing into bed. 

Links

washingtonpost.com/climate-solutions/2023/05/22/plastic-recycling-microplastic-pollution/

bootcamp.uxdesign.cc/gen-z-and-performative-apathy-cde6d9d49c1f

seattletimes.com/nation-world/study-paper-straws-might-not-be-better-than-plastic-for-environment/

urmc.rochester.edu/encyclopedia/content.aspx?contenttypeid=6&contentid=1664397703

grist.org/accountability/maine-oregon-laws-shift-responsibility-for-recycling-plastic-waste-to-companies/