Thinking about waste through the lens of ‘distancing’ and ‘recycling’ has made me realize just how easy it is to detach ourselves from the consequences of what we throw away. Before taking this class, I never really thought about what was happening to waste after being put in a bin.
Recycling is for many ‘convenient’ and, in a sense, it shows a feeling that ‘we’re doing our part’, even when the system is flawed or poorly effective.
I’ve noticed that for most people, including myself, recycling feels like a final solution rather than a temporary one. I thought that once an item was thrown away it would automatically be reused in some ways. But I guess I was wrong. We rinse out our cans, separate our plastics, and place them in the blue bin (yellow bin in France) with the confidence that we’re helping the planet. But rarely do we ask where that recycling actually goes, how much of it is actually reused, or what it costs—socially, environmentally, or economically.
This is where distancing comes in. The waste disappears from our homes and our minds once it leaves the curb. We’re physically and emotionally distant from the landfills, incinerators, or overseas processing plants that deal with our waste. It’s a privilege to not have to see where our trash ends up or who is handling it. That distance allows us to keep consuming at high rates without confronting the mess it creates. But imagine living in front of a landfill, would that make us consume less? In some ways, recycling becomes a way to avoid ‘guilt’—it’s not really about reducing waste but about maintaining a comfortable level of consumption while feeling environmentally responsible. But are we really helping the planet?
Reflecting on this has made me question how I participate in these systems. It has made me want to move beyond just recycling and toward reducing my waste in the first place—rethinking what I buy, how it’s packaged, and whether I really need it. It’s also made me more curious about local waste infrastructure and the people who work within it.