It is hard to deny the appeal of community litter-gathering events. It’s comforting to share with one’s neighbors the joy of picking up an irresponsible person’s trash. The resulting sense of camaraderie can be life-affirming!
But for some of us, solo litter-collecting is our preferred strategy for navigating a world of discarded nip bottles, plastic dental flossers, and coffee cups. I’m one of those people, and here are my reasons:
- Cursing: After I fail in my third attempt to pick up a flattened soda can with my trash grabber tool, it’s not unusual for me to say a few bad words. To be sure, these utterances aren’t offensive enough to warrant my condemnation to Hell, but they could certainly provoke blushing in a flock of cloistered nuns on their weekly hike to Ben & Jerry’s for Happy Hour. I’m willing to take that risk, but I refuse to expose KMB volunteers in the immediate vicinity – especially children or teens – to my profanity. I’d hate to think that I inspired a generation of young people to become foul-mouthed podcast comedians.
- Indiana Jones: As an only child who cultivated an active fantasy life in my youth, it’s easy for me to imagine during litter retrieval that I’m Indiana Jones traversing a neighborhood teeming with menace (“Is that a bungee cord or a deadly coral snake?” “Oh my God, that’s no discarded avocado—it’s a grenade!”). My grabber is Indy’s bullwhip, my yellow KMB vest his bomber jacket, and my baseball cap a dashing brown fedora. I imagine 8-year-olds in passing cars asking, “Mom, who’s that old guy carrying a Hefty bag?” “That’s KMB Man, Timmy. Nobody knows his real name or where he comes from, but I do know he brought cleanliness to our town after it had been terrorized by litterers for decades. He’s the man I wish your father was.”
- Toxic Rivalry: Left to my own devices in a group environment, I become alarmingly competitive (“There’s no way I’m going to let Madge collect more litter than me. A quick slice of her bag with my pen knife should do the trick.”). Once again, I don’t want to be a negative role model.
- Money: You sometimes find coins when picking up litter – pennies, quarters, doubloons, etc. If I were in a group, I’d feel obliged to “share the wealth” with my fellow volunteers in a fashion similar to restaurant wait staff pooling their tips. But if I’m collecting solo, anything I discover is mine, all mine. (Don’t forget, I’m an only child). At the end of the day, I could be forty cents closer to buying that Tom-Brady-autographed oven mitt I’ve been saving up for.
- Thinking: Pressures to chat can be high in group-oriented activities like litter retrieval (“Hey, Mike, is that a custom-made grip you’ve got there on your grabber?” “How did you get into litter-gathering? Were your parents gatherers? Was there a lot of trash in the neighborhood where you grew up?”). That’s all fine for folks who like conversation, but collecting litter on your own provides significant blocks of time to think big thoughts in blessed silence. You can ruminate (“What possessed me to buy that Peloton I never use?”), contemplate your future (“Maybe a regular treadmill would be better for me”), or brainstorm solutions for world problems (“Hamster wheels: limitless energy without the carbon footprint? I can’t wait to write The New York Times about this!”).
Well, there you have it. Venturing out in groups to de-litter is certainly praiseworthy. But let’s not forget those solitary souls who prefer to hit the streets with nothing more than a grabber, a plastic bag, and a little cobra repellent. May the litter be with them.
If you’d like to venture out on your own for solo litter cleanups, sign up for the Massachusetts Litter Cleanup Crew.
Mike Morris is a retired professor of psychology from the University of New Haven who moved to Framingham, MA in 2022. His primary avocations are satirical writing and pursuing street litter with a vengeance. His humor blog, University Life, can be accessed at https://universitylife.michaeladrianmorris.com.
