The Berkelivore’s Dilemma

BY RACHEL GROSS

Wrong spelling, per usual.

On Monday, instead of attempting to re-read my notes or actually purchasing the books on my class book list in preparation for final exams, I found myself slouched against the backseat window of an SUV Forerunner, on the way back from a relaxing retreat at Lake Tahoe, cradling a Starbucks grande soy gingerbread latte ($4.95) between my knees.

Long car rides make me nauseous. Despite having smartly started off the trip by throwing up a mess of half-digested eggs onto my friend’s neighbor’s lawn, I was still feeling slightly queasy; I put the latte down. I stared out the window and watched the sheep and autumn scenery hurtle past. But because it was there, I quickly retrieved my cardboard cup, and placed it to my lips.

Slrrrp.

Drinking a beverage from Starbucks is always an odd experience. The first sip threatens to overwhelm. Instantly engorged, your taste buds tingle, swoon, and obligingly belt out a rhapsody of sweetly synthesized sensations. Then, after the first five or so swallows, they go comatose. Your tongue attains a pleasant numbness, and all you are aware of is a vague sense of comforting lukewarmth. Most mysteriously, the last three-fourths virtually drinks itself. You can’t recall how you managed to down 18 ounces in ten minutes flat, but apparently, you did, and then somehow you ended up with this empty cup.

Huh.

Post-latte, smacking my lips in an attempt to dispel the syrupy film coating my mouth, I tried to discern the individual flavors of the drink. Sugar. Cinnamon. Pre-packaged gingerbread spice mix. More sugar. And an aftertaste of — I couldn’t quite place it — oh yes: complacency. With just a shade of self-loathing.

It is moments like these that remind me of my heritage. Here I will admit two things I am not proud of: (1) Growing up in the suburbs of Orange County, (2) I have consumed my fair share of Starbucks coffee. Though I cringe to recall it, there was a time in my youth when I, too, purchased caramel frappuccinos with reckless abandon; I said yes to whipped cream; I lounged in soft chairs while listening to endless loops of Norah Jones. On multiple occasions, I even ordered a wedge of pumpkin bread ($2.95) on the side. Forgive me father, for I have sinned.

In my almost four years at Berkeley, I have tried desperately to atone for this sordid past. I now live in a student co-op, where we compost our food scraps, where we exclusively drink tap water, and where we harness leftover shower water to feed our plants. Eighty percent of the time, I come to lecture wearing an ensemble of items rummaged from my house free pile, and my unwashed curls speak to an unwavering commitment to my personal water-saving anti-bathing campaign. I subsist mainly on granola and homemade hummus, and if I want pumpkin bread, I make that shit myself. The sordid Starbucks trek, I assure you, is saved only for the rare visit to my homeland and the moral in-between space of road trips.

This is not an attempt to excuse poor judgment, or to account for personal hygiene choices I should probably keep to myself. Nor is it a jab at Starbucks — their horrendously high prices, they say, reflect their pledge to international fair trade and all that is “Ethical Local Global” while their cups proudly announce that they are “made with 10% post-consumer recycled fiber.” (Of course, there is that other 90%, and the fact that they are a multi-million dollar corporation accused of undercutting farmers, of pushing genetically modified beans, etc., etc. Plus, they always misspell my name.)

It is, instead, a reality check. At Berkeley, we are told that we are important — that our choices affect the world. That we should therefore always be informed, and vote with our dollar, and recycle, except really we shouldn’t have to recycle because we shouldn’t be buying paper or plastic in the first place, and did you even consider the malnourished Ethiopian orphans who died en masse for your espresso? Doesn’t taste so good now, does it? Yes you, you corporate slut. You disgust me.

My point is: because our education equips us with the tools to make the right decisions, we feel morally obliged to always follow through. And “always” is a dangerous modifier. So that when we don’t, we feel like bigger tools than the wooden stirrers we use to stir our tall low-fat cappuccinos. We feel like we have failed. I am reminded of the words scrawled on the door of a bathroom stall in my former co-op: “Save the planet: kill yourself.”

A little perspective, please. Heightened awareness of our actions and their impact on this world is a beautiful, empowering thing. It’s also a lot of pressure. Making responsible choices isn’t always easy (or at least, it is often easier to make irresponsible ones). And it would be lying to say we aren’t influenced by the communities we live in. We make decisions because we care, but we also make them because in Berkeley those choices are available, they are embedded in our culture, and they are supported by those around us. In other words, sometimes we are sustainable for the very reason that other communities are not: because it’s easy.

I am not (clearly) a perfect citizen of our beloved Mother Earth. I am not my 19-year-old brother, who tirelessly interrogates the origin of every extra-vivid piece of fruit, who chastises me for enjoying Nutella (which contains palm oil, harvested by the Italian company Ferrero, responsible for the destruction of rainforests in Southeast Asia), whom I love and try to emulate every day. I do try. But I do eat processed foods, I do create waste, and I haven’t watched Food Inc. yet.

And you know what? That’s okay. In the end, the occasional slip-up in an otherwise good-intentioned life should make me proud — not nauseous. One thing Berkeley has taught me, besides how to be a socially responsible human, is that I can’t always beat myself up for being just that: a human. Subject to impulsive whims and poor choices.

For instance, writing this column instead of studying for my rhetoric final. Which I will now spend the next five hours trying desperately to amend, after finding a place to recycle this empty cup.