The Accidental Environmentalism of Low Income Living

As a kid, I fantasized about growing up, living on my own, and taking the longest, hottest showers every single day. To me, being an adult meant enjoying all the hot water my hot water heater could give. It meant showering for half an hour; it meant standing under that little water fall until it ran cold. 

My dad timed my showers when I was a kid. He timed my siblings’ showers too. If any of us hit the 15-minute mark, he’d let us know it was time to get the hell out. He said he timed our showers to keep the water bill down; if we complained, he reminded us that he and his siblings had to share their bath water. 

My dad trained my siblings and I to flip light switches off when we left a room. He taught us to bundle up in the winter and spend as much time in the water as possible in the summer; he was always finding ways to keep the thermostat at an affordable number, and I can’t blame him. Providing for a family of five with one blue collar income couldn’t have been easy. 

My mom cooked daily, and we ate leftovers regularly. Sometimes, I’d come home to a brand new blouse laid out neatly on my bed. Often, though, especially when I was little, I wore my siblings’ and my cousins’ hand-me-downs. I quit the Girl Scouts after just one year because some of the girls in my troupe made fun of me for wearing clothing my older brother had outgrown. I can still remember the outfit I had on the day they laughed at me: black and white athletic pants and a Looney Tunes t-shirt.

The first apartment I ever rented included the cost of water in the price of my monthly rent. I took full advantage of that perk, letting the hot water run uninterrupted as I shampooed and conditioned my hair, washed my body from head to toe, and shaved all the spots a young woman living under patriarchy tends to shave. Years later, when I moved to Brooklyn after breaking up with an abusive boyfriend, I took long, hot showers — sometimes twice a day — to quell my frequent anxiety attacks.  

I’d never recycled anything before I lived in Brooklyn. Recycling isn’t accessible or expected where I grew up, so my roommates had to show me how to do it. They explained which items go into which trash cans, and which items can’t be recycled at all. They told me to rinse my items before tossing them. They’d grown up in urban California, and I don’t think they’d ever had to explain recycling to an adult before meeting me. 

I eventually lived in urban California myself, and when I did, even the longest, hottest showers didn’t keep me from earning environmental credits toward my utility bills — I suppose that’s because I never used the heater, and my 1920s apartment didn’t have air conditioning. My editor at the time — a true eco warrior — took things a step further: she didn’t flush her toilet after peeing. I can’t remember if I told her I’d grown up using outhouses too frequently not to flush a toilet after every use, but I certainly had that thought every time I visited her home.

I wasn’t brought up to be an eco warrior, but in recent years, I’ve come to realize the accidental environmentalism of living on a lower income. The timed showers, the lights, the leftovers — when my parents taught me to conserve energy and avoid waste for financial reasons, they unwittingly taught me to respect our planet and her natural resources. 

Even though I live in a subtropical climate in the Lower Mississippi Delta region, I typically don’t turn on my air conditioning until June each year. I don’t turn on my heat until late October or early November, and I usually keep the thermostat around 65. I prefer low lighting, and I take short showers. I eat leftovers, and I don’t buy new clothing often. Although I enjoy occasionally traveling, I don’t fly much. I like to think I’d live this way no matter what, but since I’ve always lived paycheck to paycheck, I can’t say for sure how I’d live if money weren’t a constant concern. Research suggests the wealthiest among us are responsible for the most carbon emissions, after all. 

At the time of this writing, I’m over a decade into a debt payoff journey. I’m desperately trying to get ahead financially, and I’m exhausted. I’ve been exhausted for a long time. While I’m grateful for any and all financial progress I’m able to achieve, I’m frequently frustrated with how slow that progress feels. I’m frustrated that life is so expensive. I’m frustrated that I’m living in a time of wealth inequality that mirrors the Gilded Age. At times, I feel so frustrated it seems I could explode; it’s then that I remind myself of the accidental environmentalism of it all, and I feel some comfort. 

I hope it won’t be another decade-plus before I’m debt-free with a solid emergency fund. I hope I won’t have to work two jobs when I’m 40. I hope it won’t be several years before I get to fly to a city I’ve never seen. I hope I’ll get to retire someday. Perhaps equally important, however, I hope I’ll still take short showers, eat leftovers, and shop and fly minimally even when — even if — I don’t have to.