by Jamieson Diemer

I think my mother may have been the first person to come up with the idea of living green. She didn’t call it that; she said she was “living naturally.”  Every summer was a frenzy to pick, prepare, and can every conceivable food product we might desire that winter. My mother was also staunchly anti-medicine; she believed that my immune system was all I needed. I never had seen a bottle of Nyquil or Pepto Bismol until after I was married. But although I grew up wearing secondhand clothes, canning tomatoes, and reusing cottage cheese containers, I never knew why. I assumed my mother was insane. Who else would have a tin of rotting vegetable scraps by the kitchen sink, waiting for an innocent bystander to be pressed into the service of transporting the stinky mess out to the garden? And who in their right mind would prefer to wash (let alone touch!)  cloth diapers when disposable diapers are so–disposable?

The author (second from left) in Belize

My worst impression of natural living was formed in the four months following my sister’s birth-homebirth, of course (that was more natural). My seven-year-old eyes only saw unnecessary pain and blood. I had no idea of the potential damage to an unborn child pain-numbing drugs can have. Who wouldn’t want to be put in a blissfully pain free drug-induced coma while someone else took care of the dirty work? I certainly did not enjoy catching my sister’s slimy head as my mother screamed and ogling extended family members I didn’t know oohed and aahed. I did not understand why I should be the one to cut and tie the umbilical cord, or why I should hold the bowl for the placenta. My mother viewed my experience as a beautiful womanly privilege. I thought it was disgusting. I would have rather sat in a waiting room with a back issue of Highlights.

Less than a month later, my mother schlepped her newborn baby, three-year-old son, and me to Belize, Central America. Compared to what we were used to, our new living conditions were primitive. My new playmates ran around with bare feet on dirt floors while their mothers washed clothes on broken concrete drainage pipes in the river. The neighborhood witch doctor dispensed potent healing herbs… and spells.

My mother was thrilled that I had the opportunity to get closer to nature. I wasn’t so thrilled. When our friends and family’s concerns about germs, parasites, and their effect on young children fell on my mother’s deaf ears, I appointed myself official Guardian of Cleanliness and Representative for Parasite Prevention. My mother grew so frustrated with my constant hand washing that she turned the water valve off. She then insisted on my helping her wash my sister’s dirty diapers. This outlandish request was all the proof I needed to be convinced that she had lost her mind. I had no clue that ninety percent of baby diapers go into landfills. I did know, however, all about the dangers of feces. I had practically memorized the book Where There is No Doctor - a medical guide outlining the necessity of keeping livestock out of the kitchen (because they might poop), boiling water drawn downstream (and thus poop-ridden) of another village, and washing your hands after you poop- all because…POOP SPREADS GERMS! AND PARASITES! Mom was crazy, and she was using me as free slave labor. Poor me.

I may have survived washing poopy diapers, but my mother’s poor communication skills and do-it-or-else teaching methods did not endear me to the green lifestyle.  As soon as I could, I stuffed my non-pollution-producing-secondhand bike in the back of the garage, along with every other semblance I had of a nature- loving lifestyle. I gleefully bought new clothes & threw them away when I was tired of them, with no thought of Goodwill. I ate Twizzlers without caring about artificial flavoring & Red 40.  After years of blissful consumption and guiltless disposal of Starbucks cups and Ziploc bags, I finally learned what “environmental impact” means. I learned about the scary health effects of aspartame and pesticides. Some things started to fall into place. Was there a reason why all the notepads in our house consisted of Bulldog clips and printed-on-one-side computer paper?

Slowly, I started trying to reduce my wanton consumption.  I began refilling water bottles and using cloth cleaning rags instead of paper towels. Never could I let my mom know about my new secret habit, though–if she found out about the pile of plastic bags under my kitchen sink waiting to be taken to the recycling bin at New Seasons, she might take credit for my “living naturally”! Truthfully, she would be somewhat entitled to do so. However, if someone were to ask me if they should teach their children to live green, I would say, “Yes!…But!” make sure you’re nice about it. If you force your child to do something without kindly educating them about the reasons for its importance (thus justifying the inconvenience and extra work), they may make wild assumptions about your mental condition and later reject your theories altogether, like I did. Don’t worry if you’re not the perfect teacher of green living, though–I  may even be willing to wash diapers to keep them out of the landfill.