I often make comparisons when I travel. What’s different and what’s similar in ways of living a life? Since I’ve been living in the United States for about two years now, as I study at Dartmouth, it’s often easy to ignore how capitalism really emerged and subtly became an accepted way of life for me.
As Uzbekistan is a post-Soviet country, I’m very familiar with Marx’s philosophy. It might look odd to include Karl Marx’s alienation theory in a student newspaper here, but I want to elaborate a little on it. In the simplest terms, the alienation theory describes how a worker is estranged from their product; they don’t know where their product is going, and the customer doesn’t know where they’re buying it from.
As I grew up living an agricultural rural life in Uzbekistan, I got too used to living in an informal economy — in a rather positive way. I would go to the bazaar and buy a bag of apples from a seller, who grew them and brought them to the market. She would be proud of talking about the story behind these apples — her devotion to the apple trees for seven years, her dedication to six months of taking care of the seasonal apples and carefully picking apples by hand herself — which would convince me to buy them.
Before Dartmouth, I used to wear a school uniform. There was a seamstress at the beginning of my street, who always sewed my skirts. Our families were well acquainted, and we saw each other often. When she would ask me about what I want to experience in a new school year while making subtle adjustments to the black eloquent garment, it only made me appreciate the final product that fit the expectations of a fifteen-year-old girl.
Since I have come to the United States, this human aspect behind a product has been slowly slipping away. In a modern capitalist society, it is too easy to turn a blind eye to the workers, who poured their heart into it and sewed the skirt you just got from Amazon. What makes it so easily dismissable is that it creates a feeling that you don’t owe anything to anyone as long as you pay for it. You only care about the final result.
Capitalism and private property ownership strip off humanity behind objects we own and buy. When I get grapes from CVS in town, who cultivated them and who brought them to the shelves rarely crosses my mind. I have little to no concept of how goods like these grapes become available to me at the grocery store.
However, I often feel more connected to whatever the product I’m buying if I hear the history behind it. I have had two encounters in the United States that remind me of my informal economy in Uzbekistan.
Last year during spring break, I got a chance to visit New Mexico on a trip sponsored by the William Jewett Tucker Center. When I was in Santa Fe, a group of Native American artists were selling artwork they made in the neighborhood close to the Museum of Contemporary Native Arts. I remember buying a turquoise necklace from one of them, who told me they learned how to make jewelry from their grandmother. It added humanity to the necklace. I still think fondly of the interaction that came with my purchase today.
Another encounter happened before my sophomore fall when I visited my friend from Dartmouth, who lives in Connecticut close to the University of Connecticut. We drove up to the harvest gathering with her family. I wandered around farmers who were selling their harvest, proud of the work and effort they had put in.
I often hear the saying “There’s no ethical consumption under capitalism,” and I tend to agree. Simply existing in the United States means you’re currently benefiting from a land obtained from colonization, living in a building constructed from materials mined likely by exploited labor, and owning something that you never get to know how exactly it is made should raise an ethical concern.
I am here to say that passive consumption, with systems as simple as ordering kiosks at Courtyard Cafe, pushes us to just be interested in the final result. But often the process — of how something is made, nourished, brought and sold — is the sweeter part.
I am glad the kiosk system didn’t live long. As I stand by the stir fry section at Collis, I like verbalizing what I would like to have for my lunch: an egg over medium, white rice and beef with Teriyaki sauce. These interactions might not be as long or meaningful as I want them to be, but they matter for me.
I wandered around Collis, pondering where exactly the pastries come from. Do they come from relationships and interactions like the ones I value most? I got to ask a few student workers there, who said they’re not exactly sure, but they knew that pastries were bought from a local restaurant. This brought me relief.
As much as we love building modern systems, returning to the simple form of life, where two people chat and do their ordinary duties can brighten our day, can make it extraordinary. It’s something we can’t feel with automated systems. Whether it’s a bag of apples I buy in a bazaar or a skirt from a long-known seamstress, I know the material goods won’t last forever. We just need to take time to care about the people behind the products.
