PLASTIC BAG

Apathy's a draaaaaaaagg
My mind, is like, a plastic bag
That corresponds, to all those ads
It sucks up all the rubbish
That is fed in through by ear
I eat Kleenex for breakfast
And use soft hygienic
Weetabix
To dry my tears

My favorite rock album, Germfree Adolescence, features the track, Plastic Bag, a beautifully weird song about using dry cereal as tissue. X-Ray Spex released this album in 1977 at the height of the Punk Era and it features the great Poly Styrene, a rock legend, may she rest in peace. She was about my age when she sang and recorded 14 of the coolest, rawest, and refreshingly adolescent punk rock songs I have ever heard. The whole genre was of course founded by youth, therefore I feel it almost destiny that this album found me during my 19th year. The album encapsulates the pyromaniacal desire to burn everything down while also wanting to cry and cry over all the destruction happening around you. This desire has been swelling in me for a while now, beginning around when I started working. I wonder if Poly ever worked in retail. For her sake, I hope she has not. My 16th, 17th, and 18th years were full of wild experiences, depression, crippling, crippling, depression, and a shit ton of music. At 16, nearing the end of my hippie phase (wearing hemp chokers to work), I found a love for rock music. The Emos cradled my sadness, the Punks pierced through my ignorance, the Goths welcomed my blackness, and the Metalheads yelled at me until I yelled back. I take the 20-30 minute drive, stock the shelves, bag the groceries, find a screaming child’s mother, eat my cold McDonald’s, and do it all again tomorrow. I would teleport into a world where all the freaks and geeks would sing their folk songs and mosh on the ancient burnt relics of all my old workplaces. As I enter my 4th year as a retail employee, (now on my fourth job at Whole Foods) I find the irony growing. The more I work the louder the music gets.

After a 4-8 hour performance for what I call, “The Pilates Class” (The main customers at Whole Foods: loads of white women who hurry into the store after a backbreaking hour of Pilates), I turn on my local rock radio station (of which is full of static until I get to the road with all the potholes), and headbang until I get home. I wish I could say I was cool enough to reject modern technology and prefer radio to my curated Spotify playlists. But the truth is, my car is older than me and Bluetooth so I don’t have a choice. Anywho, it’s in those dreadful shifts that my mind begins to feel like a plastic bag: frail, and fragile, to be filled and emptied without a say and to be discarded when my body is no longer of use.

At Whole Foods and most retail stores, there is a communication board for employees and leadership. Every time I clock in for my shift I read the various notes and news posts thumbtacked to the board and wait for a manager to tell me to get on the floor. Thank you for your dedication and loyalty. Reliable employees are the best gift a leader can ask for. Thank you for selling your soul, you can buy it back as soon as we’re done with it. The last one was not there, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I found it hiding between messages alerting us of our upcoming team appreciation week. If you’ve never worked a part-time job before, (shame on you!) team appreciation week usually involves breakfast and lunch being provided by the company for a week or so along with raffles, and free swag (company t-shirt, maybe even a hoodie). My first shift fell right in the middle of one of these infamous 7-day celebrations and after 3 hours of online training, I was prompted to grab some free breakfast from the break room. I swear I heard my stomach practically rumble the words Fuck. Yes. As I gleefully approached the free breakfast, I scanned the table before me in utter disappointment.

I'll take a step back a moment to explain my frustration. About a year before working there I had been getting frequent headaches that would prevent me from going a full day without needing painkillers. Winter depression hit hard and my eating habits had strayed far from the FDA’s standards as to what comprises a healthy American diet. I needed a life change, but if you aren’t aware, we live in a food desert. Although I can’t speak for everyone reading this, I know that in my city, I can count on one hand, and perhaps two fingers, just how many healthy options there are. With that being said, they did open a Playa Bowls around the corner so things are looking up. (Of course, this has nothing to do with the new luxury apartments, also conveniently placed around the corner from me). All the food that was readily available to me would only enhance the problem. I needed to make a change and so, to the dismay of my wallet, I began going out of the way to shop for all the dairy-free, gluten-free, fat-free shit and fast forward to the present day, and I don’t get headaches anymore. I’ve learned many new fun recipes and dairy is my enemy (on weekdays).

It was like some sick joke honestly. Everything on the table was the same color with various artificially-made specks of red that I could only assume was cherry filling. Coffee, glazed donuts, blueberry donuts, chocolate donuts, chocolate croissants, regular croissants, corn muffins, blueberry muffins, chocolate chip muffins (the kind with the giant pieces of sugar on top), pastries, pastries, pastries, you get the point. I mean, this is a Whole Foods, where was the organic orange juice? The Oishii strawberries? The gluten-free bagels? I was reminded of the old familiar feeling of being starving and choosing to eat the very things that sat before me, only to be left unsatisfied about 30 minutes later. I didn't understand why a company that promises to “nurture the people and the planet” was feeding their beloved employees the worst of the worst food in their store. I couldn't deal.

I’d thought that by working at a store where The Pilates Class made the five-minute drive in their White Benz’s to buy their broccoli nuggets and gluten-free bread, I would be able to experience a whole new world of nutrition. Don’t get me wrong I am learning a lot about how the other half lives, (Did you know gluten-free bread has to be refrigerated!? Shocking I know.) But seeing that spread of various baked goods at 9 a.m. made me feel so angry and sad and angry again. I don’t know who my anger was directed at really, was it The Pilates class? The managers who set up the spread? My dad, for being the first person to introduce me to sugar? The big evil corporations that feed us all this salty sugary food so we develop health disorders? Who knows. The latter I guess. All I knew was that if I didn’t eat something everyone I talked to the rest of the day would surely hear about it, so I weighed my options, and chose my old reliable, a glazed donut.

After another hour or ten of training, I was relieved. I began the journey back home and I asked myself if I was overreacting about the whole endeavor. I mean it’s just some pastries. Perhaps the managers associated sweets with happiness and celebration as we all do, and this was a genuine thank-you gift for the hard work of the employees. Perhaps my new coworkers found this gesture endearing and gleefully grabbed their donuts, croissants, and muffins and stirred in their sugar packets with smiles on their faces. Perhaps I am too spoiled to understand that free or cheap food of any quality is a privilege, and to complain about such a thing is only indicative of that. Most of my new coworkers are not from the States and do not come from places where not cooking is an option. Perhaps they came here and were overjoyed that they could feed their swelling children without having to spend hours preparing, cooking, and serving their meals daily. Perhaps by having allowed myself to feel anger instead of gratitude for this gift, I was pricing my worth too high. Perhaps I deserve to eat pastries for breakfast, seeing as I work for minimum wage and that is all I could afford anyway. Perhaps I should numb myself to these emotions so I would stop head banging and yelling to hard rock in my car, preventing me from seeing the giant potholes in the street. Perhaps I should just be happy that I am home, that I am living.

But in the end, that is not living. If I have learned anything from my rock Godmother Poly, it's that Kleenex makes a damn good breakfast and that my adolescence is my time to live fully, embracing the chaotic beauty of my experiences, music, and emotions.

My name is Nyla Mitchell and I am a 19 year old emerging writer from the east coast. I draw inspiration from music and my community, often weaving themes of identity into my work. Whether through fiction, poetry, or personal essays, I strive to capture the beauty and challenges of life as a young girl. I am currently pursuing a degree in English at Drew University while also continuing to better my craft through workshops and connections with fellow writers.