“Don’t Want it? Neither Do We.”

The ad on this bus reads, “Don’t want it? Neither do we.”

The image prominently features a faded, slouchy red couch. The couch sits atop a trash heap that looks as if it was scooped straight out of the landfill. The pile includes rocks, dirt, plastic containers, and other bits of detritus. Though worn, this couch has all of its parts and is not ripped, broken, or damaged beyond repair.

The fine print on the ad encourages people to contact their service provider to schedule a bulky waste pickup. Another way to say: to avoid it ending up on the street, we’ll come and dump it in the landfill for you.

The imagery. The language. The embedded assumptions. Permission to dispose recklessly, fervently, while implicating no person, or industry or practice. As if this magical cycle of consumption and disposal exists outside of planetary capacity constraints, and separate from issues of racial and economic justice. As if these larger systems don’t feed each other in self-serving feedback loops, typically to the benefit of multinational waste haulers and the furniture industry. Why would they be motivated to disrupt this message or practice?

What impact has this long held practice of stigmatizing used furniture by comparing it to trash had? Who benefits when used furniture is made to feel like a toxic hot potato? Who suffers?
What about the downstream industry, those whose livelihood depends on stewarding worn and broken goods, or organizations dependent upon donations and reuse? Could this toxic narrative have helped justify the over-investment in disposal and under-investment in downstream, community-level reclamation, refurbishment, and redistribution programs?

Who is solving for what? Do we care? Does it matter?