Wednesday, November 6, 2019 // The Statement
6B
The
ringing of my
alarm
wakes
me
up.
The
warmth
of
my sheets and the ache in
my limbs and back keep me bound to
the bed, lethargic on a day when honking cars and
whirring buses outside my window call for me to get
up. I remain suspended in place while businessmen
stride along the sidewalk outside my window. Their
odd strides unsettle me. Yet, what is most troubling
is what lies in the sun’s illuminating gaze, what lies
on my mind every waking hour, what lies next to me
and is often my first sight of the day. Every morning,
as I lean on my elbow and reach into the distance to
silence my alarm, my eyes glance at my desk, and I
grimace at the horror before me. No matter how hard
I try, I cannot forget what is here with me.
On my desk sit two porcelain plates, two white
bowls, one plastic bowl and a metal spoon, fork and
knife, all piled up in a makeshift tower. The top plate
is smothered with remnants of my mother’s moong
dal, caking the white surface with a hardened crust.
The plate seems to hold a barren desert, the blue and
green stripes and flowers in the center of the plate
obscured. Bits of scattered roti line the edges of the
plastic bowl, and though the spoon
seems clean enough to be used
again, the stains of overuse
remain.
When I eventually
roll out of bed and
turn to my to-do
list to write the
many
tasks
to
complete,
doing
my
dishes
doesn’t end
up
there.
I
can
read
50
pages in
an
hour
right
before a
book dis-
cussion,
review
concepts
right
before
an
exam
and
write a six-
page essay all
in one night, but
I somehow never
find a moment to
wash my plates and
utensils. I put my mom’s
home cooked meals in the
microwave on a dirty plate.
Food waste continues to collect
on the containers. “I’ll get to it when
I have to,” I tell myself. “It’s not an issue
right now.” Despite being aware of the grotesque aes-
thetic and potential for mold or sanitation concerns, I
continue on with my day completely unworried, only
doing a brief water rinse when truly necessary.
My stagnant negligence might sound familiar. The
way in which I justify my disregard for my dirty dish-
es parallels a common narrative we hear in response
to concerns about climate change. The politicians,
businessmen and other public figures who are most
able to take action to reduce the threat of climate
change continually backpedal, essentially justifying
inaction rather than reform. At its core, the problem
of climate change is a problem of procrastination
at a high-level — industrialists, policymakers and
executives who knew that their work was a ticking
time bomb passed it on to future generations. This
conscious complacency comes from greed and pri-
oritizing personal desire over collective health and
security. Procrastination easily snowballs, yet more
reprehensible is being aware of the implications of
procrastination and doing nothing in the name of
short-term gain.
In many ways, my plate crisis is one I inherited
from my family, though I do not blame my parents or
any one person in particular for handing it off to me.
We often leave things to be done until the last pos-
sible minute — filling out paperwork the night it is
due, cleaning the house minutes before guests arrive
and, of course, washing the dishes only when we need
clean plates or silverware. We often stack individu-
al plates in the sink after a quick rinse rather than
scrubbing them down and putting them away. Soon
enough, a tower like the one on my desk forms in our
kitchen. When there’s no other option, my parents
eventually crack their knuckles and get to washing.
It’s a common tradition in Indian culture to hand
down dishware to children after serious develop-
ments in their life, such as moving away from home
or marriage, and these dishes oftentimes have a par-
ent or grandparent’s name inscribed on them. The
set that I received when I came to Michigan follows
along in this custom.
But I ask myself, “Do I want to pass down plates and
silverware that have been so tainted, so desecrated
that it feels unnerving to think of someone else eat-
ing from them? Am I just destined to follow the same
path of prior generations — the path of attrition and
decay until the dishes fall and the problem becomes
real enough to be addressed?”
When the food scraps on my desk spilled over one
afternoon before a class earlier this year, I knew I
had to change my habits. After scrubbing the food off
the plates under the stream of water with a sponge, I
resolved to wash every dish, even the smallest utensil,
immediately after use. When I had a late-night snack,
I didn’t wait till the next morning to clean it and store
it in a drawer. Though my realization was painful, it
has done wonders for my room, clearing up space on
my desk and letting me tackle my day with one less
nagging concern on my mind.
The tragedy in comparing my dishwashing process
to an extinction-level threat is the way in which the
metaphor falls apart. I can always shift course to cul-
tivate personal growth, but there is no such imme-
diate solution that can completely halt the current
process of the warming climate and its many effects.
While I can face my demons, humankind cannot face
its own. The war of attrition is in some ways inevi-
table for reform, and efforts to combat the crisis are
currently trying to clear the first hurdle — getting
those to whom the issue most pertains to acknowl-
edge the issue.
Until procrastinators and opportunists like me
decide that it is in our best interest to solve an under-
lying issue rather than let it fester, nothing is going to
get done. If we can’t even maintain our own personal
plates in order, then we certainly cannot preserve our
place on Earth.
Preserve our tectonic plates
by preserving our own
BY ARJUN THAKKAR, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
PHOTO BY DANYEL THARAKAN