“I am attempting to make an American made product and am needing public support to make it happen. The product is a reusable 16 oz cup that collapses down to under 2 inches and fits in your pocket. We call it HicCup. Take a look at this video and spread the word. What we need is is to raise 20k dollars to pay for the mold, which costs 45k. I’ve raised 25k and now I need help raising the rest. To accomplish this I will need to pre-sell 1667 cups at a price of 14$. Thanks for any support you can send my way and thank you for promoting products made in America!”

So if you’re looking for an environmentally friendly reusable plastic cup, or if you just want to help a young lady manufacture her product in the USA, visit her web site at www.budastar.com to help.

It’s a trip.

I found myself standing in the grocery store, looking at all the things I’d avoided for a year. Olive oil. Avocados. Certain varieties of vegetables and fruits. Junk.

Realizing that I could now, according to my own arbitrary rules, buy any piece of crap I wanted to was actually not as liberating as you might think. I felt a little queasy in my stomach, sort of the inverse of the way I felt a year ago when I was considering the seemingly insurmountable obstacle ahead. I didn’t much care for this newfound freedom.

Then I realized something even more gratifying than not buying things because of some arbitrary set of rules you’ve imposed on yourself: not buying things because you understand a little bit more of what they represent–about you, about the economy, about the world.

There’s a connection between every thing we buy and some other person. Several people, really. Sometimes entire cultures. Empires were built on spice trading. They still are, it’s just that the spices are now electronic and disposable.

My point is that when you pick up a can of cashews from the supermarket shelf, they exist there, for you to consume, directly–DIRECTLY–because of some person very far away who worked very hard to bring them to you. You are connected to that person, with whole civilizations of people, because of what you consume. You’re connected through the very item you’re purchasing. That’s a powerful event. Especially since it happens at the grocery store in the snack aisle.

It also happens in the Gap. And at Best Buy. And at Starbucks. And everywhere you spend your money. There’s no difference between the connection you make with the woman downtown who cuts your hair and the woman in Ecuador who harvests your bananas. Well, there’s one difference: you look the hairstylist in the eye when you decide how much money you will pay her.

So the act of “Buying American,” or buying local, buying green, or any other arbitrary act of conscientious consumerism, can really be thought of as the act of looking through your purchase, seeing beyond the item on the shelf, considering where it came from and how it got to you, and all the ramifications therein. It makes how you spend your money more of a responsibility. And that’s as it should be.

The good news is that this responsibility is not an albatross around your neck. It really is empowering. Instead of a cog in the economic engine, you’re more like a pilot with your hands on the controls. And you feel it.

I’m not suggesting that you go out and start buying only American-made items. Or that you buy only “green” items. Or recycled items. Or handmade items. But if you’d like to start wielding some of your buying power in a more deliberate way, I do have some suggestions for you. Five of them. Simple ones. And I’ll let you have all year to give them a try.

1. Read labels. Look past the especially prevalent and deceptive “greenwash” marketing to consider the facts about your purchase. So many items are packaged to give the impression of environmental friendliness, without having to back it up with any of those pesky facts and figures. If your “eco bag” is assembled from spent rice hulls, that’s awesome. If it was delivered to you from Hong Kong by supertanker, that’s maybe not. The details are all there, nine times out of ten, printed on the fine print of the box or the jar or the tag. What it’s made of and where it’s from tell you a lot. They make it easier to start to see through the store shelf all the way back to the product’s origin. If nothing else, go to the grocery store one day and just tell yourself you’re going to pay attention to the origin of every item you buy this trip. Don’t limit, just learn. It’s not too difficult, and you just might get a glimpse at that empowerment I’m talking about.

2. Don’t buy something you want. Seriously, deprive yourself. Pick something up, put it in your cart/bag/basket, and then reconsider it. At the supermarket, at the mall, at the record store. Do I really need it? Maybe you do. Frequently you will. But sometimes you won’t. Even though you want it. So put it back. Just this once. This “doing without” is a great way to help prioritize your consumption. I do really need my morning coffee. But what I don’t need is every nick-knack I see. That’s my weakness, and after a year of being free of buying junk I want rather than stuff I need I can honestly say I’ve come to a new understanding of what is especially wasteful in my own consumption. And I think I’ll feel less inclined to make purchases just to feel good, more inclined to make every purchase really count. Sometimes “want” is good enough. But sometimes “want” is just because you can’t think of anything better at the moment to make you happy.

3. Go one day without buying anything. For those of you who say, “That’s easy!” I commend you. For the rest of us, though, it’s trickier than it looks. For me, going a day without purchasing really makes me less of a consumer, less of a pig, less of a typical American glutton. It means I brew my own coffee, pack my own lunch, make due with what’s in the fridge for dinner, and most importantly that I don’t seize any of those daily opportunities to satiate myself, to get a little rush of adrenaline, by purchasing something I don’t really need. Going a day without buying anything may make you less “American” in the sense that you’re not a “capitalist pig,” but much more of a typical new millennium American in that you’re joining the growing movement of people who are taking responsibility for their purchasing actions. You see it in the folks who pay more at Whole Foods for organic cereal or free-range chicken or recycled napkins. That’s the new definition of “Buying American” that I’m aiming for; the one that says you’re aware of how your purchases affect the planet and all of its inhabitants.

4. Buy something used. A refurbished camera. A used car. A pre-owned television. A vintage shirt. We’re conditioned to really prefer shiny and new and “mine, all mine” to things that are previously loved. But the thing is, as I’ve really learned this year, buying second-hand really ain’t so bad. Sure, I do have a hard time looking high-fashion these days, but there’s certainly no excuse not to consider buying vintage clothing for at least part of my wardrobe–especially the part that might be served by brand new items that are purposely distressed and made to look vintage! Seriously, you’ll find the act of giving new life to something someone could have thrown away to be very illuminating. You’ll start to pierce the veil of fear we have about used goods–you need a warranty and insurance and it just won’t last. Well here’s the truth: lots of stuff lasts, and as a benefit to the folks who made it in the first place, and bought it in the second, and sold it in the third, and re-used it in the fourth… You just might enjoy feeling like you beat the system when you don’t experience the buyer’s remorse that so often accompanies our brand new purchases.

5. Buy something expensive and worth it. I know, now that I’ve talked bad about buying brand new it’s seems ridiculous to suggest that you buy something new and particularly expensive, but I have my reasons. I’m suggesting you pay a premium for quality in hopes that it will affect how you think about purchases in the long term. In a choice between the cheap thing that’s poorer quality versus the expensive thing that’s better quality, choose the better quality item just one time. Maybe not with a car or a house, but perhaps a sweater. Or a CD player. Or a pair of shoes. It doesn’t even have to be American or locally made, but it might be. The thing that comes from doing this is a different sense of responsibility–the burden of buying a product that is meant to last. Instead of spending $200 on the lawnmower that you just know is not going to last more than three years, pay the premium for the $275 model that is likely to last a decade. Not only is this a great way to save money in the long run, but it’s a great way to reduce waste. And it’s a tangible way to really confront your role in the system. Hopefully it’s another vote with your dollars that says, “I don’t want only the cheapest item I can get. I am willing to pay a premium for quality in more than just the long-lasting product sense.” In this case you’re also paying for “quality” in the Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance way–the philosophical quality that equates with truth, and all of the economic, environmental and humanistic benefits that accompany it.

That’s a lot of baggage to put onto the simple act of buying a t-shirt or a snack or a television. But I think it’s the crucial little detail that’s missing from the way our system works. As a culture we really do value cheap and instant gratification above all else, at any number of societal and personal expenses, and nobody calls us on it. So I know it sounds crazy when I say that reading the label on a box can make you a better shopper, a more conscientious consumer, a more fully empowered citizen, but I think it’s true. I think it can.

I really think it can.

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Of course, there are exceptions that prove the rule. American Apparel shirts are high fashion. Maglites are high quality. Jiffy Steamers just haven’t switched to overseas manufacturing yet–and I can say that knowing nothing about that company at all. Based on cold hard statistical probability alone, they will eventually source their labor overseas. They will. Period. I’m not singling them out. Everyone will. As long as it makes business sense, it will happen more and more. Period.

Don’t believe me? Read this: 12 Reasons Why Companies Outsource Overseas. It’s called “12 Reasons” but you’ll notice they all center around only one reason: Money.

So that begs the question, is sending our labor overseas really all that bad? Is it bad if American jobs become more skilled, more white collar, more design rather than more build? Are those office jobs in California that came from the iPod somehow worth less than factory jobs assembling iPods would be? If you’re cheap foreign labor, you also might feel that working in a horrible factory for horrible pay is still better than working on a pile of infected garbage in the hot sun, maybe not being paid at all for your dangerous labor.

The cat is out of the bag and it has run away to China. We won’t get back to “the good ol’ days” of American manufacturing. I’m sorry, but we won’t.

If the rules change, then I will reevaluate this prediction. But until then, while governments continue to manipulate currencies and workforces, and until we stop wanting lots of stuff while only willing to pay a little, I’m standing by it.

If and when change happens, most realistically speaking, it’s going to be because of other unfortunate world-changing events–like when China is no longer “developing” and has become the world power we once were.

This too will happen. Maybe not in our lifetime. But probably not much beyond. That’s when you’ll find more stuff being made in America.

Then the stuff we’ll make here we’ll make here for one simple reason: because we are a capitalist society, above all else. Survival of the fittest. And when it costs less for American hands to assemble the stuff we consume–and by then, the stuff China’s budding billions of middle class will also want to consume–that’s when you’ll start seeing more stuff made in America.

Great.

Until things get that bad, we should maybe utilize my MITUSA buying agenda for what it is: a way to limit unnecessary purchases. A way to curb excess. A way to watch out for what you do, to yourself and to others.

You maybe don’t need all those extra holiday decorations each year. Maybe you can live with a few less pairs of shoes come spring. Or maybe not so many sweaters in the post-Christmas sales rush. Or maybe you don’t need to wait in line for dirt cheap and downright disposable DVD players and lawn mowers.

You can live without some of that stuff. It’s just that you haven’t had to in a really long time. Why? Because practically everything we buy is dirt cheap because it’s made by poor people who are thankful for the opportunity. And we’re all too happy to give it to them in exchange for inexpensive junk.

We’re good at that.

So go ahead and buy American. Do it because it’s a great way to limit your consumption of unneccessary crap. But don’t do it because you’re going to save a job or fix our economy or raise a tired manufacturing center from its ashes. Buying American will quite likely make you a better, more proactive consumer. And it may even make you feel a little more free. If you’re like me, you might even feel empowered.

Until, that is, you decide that you really want to make some guacamole.

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Nope.

There’s still a lot of it. Quite a lot.

That’s every receipt for everything I bought this year. Or I should say, a receipt for everything I consumed. Food, clothing, stuff…

That’s a pile of evidence about the size of a small grocery sack stuffed full.

Every last receipt, for every tank of gas and every cup of coffee and every batch of groceries (with the exception of the random times when printers didn’t work or employees didn’t offer). I’m now so well trained at saving receipts, I’m wondering if I’ll be able to stop.

Can you imagine how big it will be next year, when I’m not so consciously limiting my purchases?

Yikes.

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Buying American, though, is a good way to limit what you buy. A great way to stop being quite so wasteful. Not quite so excessive. And that’s a good thing.

But the thing is, you shouldn’t feel like an awful person for being wasteful. It’s part and parcel with success. We live in a successful society. Success breeds excess. It doesn’t mean we’re evil or awful or deliberately wasteful. It’s just the way it goes. We can afford to do less with more, rather than the reverse.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t think about all the ways we’re wasteful and try to limit them. But what I’m saying is that it’s at least a bit understandable. We’re fortunate people, even many of the most unfortunate among us. And the excesses that come with our successes are, if nothing else, to be expected.

That doesn’t mean, though, that we shouldn’t be aware of our actions and make conscientious buying decisions. If you’re going to be wasteful, that’s understandable. Just don’t do it because you don’t know any better.

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Me, and a year's worth of catalogs.

I didn’t count them, but it’s a lot. Do you really need me to count them? Look how high they are. Those are my steps. And my legs. And I’m tall.

Here’s another reference for scale. Myra.

Myra, and a year's worth of catalogs.

That’s like 16 or 18 inches of catalogs. So really, that’s a lot of catalogs. Keep in mind that I didn’t order any of them. Nor did I do business with any of the catalog companies this year. Yet they still sent me, month after month and season after season, lots and lots of catalogs.

You know you live in a wasteful society when the quantity of publications used to sell you other stuff is, in itself, excessive.

Also, here’s a wider shot that doesn’t really do anything to help illustrate how many catalogs I got. But you can kinda see Hazel in the background too. I didn’t want her to feel left out.

Myra, Hazel, and a year's worth of catalogs.

Time to go buy some junk, just because I can.

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And I’m not sure if that’s unfortunate, or just fine.

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I needed to buy a book. For work. For my job as a writer, for which I sometimes interview people. I purchased the new book of a photographer I’ll be speaking to so that I can properly interview him without sounding like an idiot.

Is it my fault that he, or really his publisher, decided to print a book in China? More to the point, is he supposed to tell a publisher, “No, I don’t want you to publish my book if it means it won’t be printed in America.” Have you looked at photo books lately? They’re huge. And expensive. And clearly often made overseas. I don’t know too many photographers–even world-famous ones–who would argue with their publishers about where to print their books.

It’s a business. Publishers want to make money, even if it’s via your life’s most meaningfully passionate pursuit. It’s a business, and we consumers want cheap. And those businesses want profit. It’s how the system works. It’s called capitalism.

And it means that sometimes, no matter how much you’d like to avoid it, you have to buy things that are not MITUSA.

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I know you can buy most foods made right here in ‘Merica. But you’ve gotta be careful of avocados. And shrimp. And those dirt cheap tilapia fillets. And dammit if 99.9% of all olive oil comes from Europe. All sorts of foods are MITUSA, though, so there’s not too much excuse to continue generally choosing American-grown foods. (Then again, I have yet to see the film Food Inc, so maybe you just shouldn’t eat American either. See? There’s no right answer.)

If you’ve got a dog, there’s lots of American-made food (thanks to the good folks at Nestle-Purina, right here in St. Louis) and even rawhide dog chews. But this is a good example of how most stuff is imported from less expensive sources–in this case, China and Brazil.

Nevermind thinking about gasoline and coffee. You’re damned if you do, and there’s no way you don’t. Good luck spending $40 a pound on Kona vs. the already-expensive $10/pound Starbucks grinds–much less however inexpensive Wal Mart’s house brand may be. And if you’re interested in tracking the origins of your gasoline, I recommend you find a Sinclair station and shop there exclusively. Even then, the oil was likely Canadian.

There’s just some stuff you for all intents and purposes cannot buy MITUSA. Coffee. Gas. Most children’s books. And the decor for your home. There’s plenty of stuff like this. Stuff you want to buy.

That’s unfortunate. Awful, though, is the stuff you literally need to buy. The cameras to do your job as a photographer. The car parts to make your transportation work. The shoes to keep your feet dry. The jacket to keep your body warm. Sure, you can buy vintage. And used clothing. And used electronics. But you don’t always have opportunity to make those concessions. I just did, for Shelley’s Christmas gift. A refurbished digital camera. Is it really that much better, though, that I got her a previously owned bit of electronics rather than simply getting her the newest and bestest dream camera? It’s not like we’re buying the things willy nilly. She broke her old one. She needs a new one. So be it.

I guess the bottom line is that there sure seem to be a lot of alternatives that, on a regular (albeit limited) basis, make it possible to buy only American-made stuff. But in the long term, most of us just aren’t going to be able to sustain a 100%-American-only purchasing pr0gram. We’re just not set up as a society to value intangibles–like buying less junk or supporting the American worker–in lieu of saving a few dollars. I suppose that’s what it means to be a capitalist.

I’m no expert, but I certainly feel much more informed about this subject now than I did 12 months ago. And while I am empowered by the feeling that I have total control over what I buy, rather than the feeling that I must purchase from a limited set of options the system is set up to provide, I realize that it’s just too damn much work to sustain over a long-term and/or society-wide level.

I don’t mean to sound like a pessimist, but I think it really is the correct assessment of the situation as it stands.

I’ll keep pondering this stuff, but the thing that tells me how impossible shopping MITUSA-only is, is the fact that I can’t wait to buy some new clothes in January. And I’m looking forward to not having to work so hard every time I want to make a purchase. It’s a blessing and a curse. I feel liberated and limited. But after so many months, it’s the limitation that is starting to weigh heavily.

So maybe my best advice is not to purchase only American-made stuff forever, but just spend a year doing it. See how it changes your buying habits. Hopefully it’ll stick with me and I’ll remain a more conscientious consumer. Maybe it could work for you too. Or maybe don’t even limit yourself to only buying American. Buy whatever you want. Just before you do, turn the thing over and find out where it was made. I can tell you right now, the vast, and I do mean VAST, majority of what you buy comes from overseas. The overwhelming majority of that is from China. And there’s got to be value in simply spending some time wrapping your mind around that, no matter how it makes you feel or how it affects your behavior. At least you’ll know what you’re doing, and you’ll become a much more active participant in the whole system–flawed as it may be.

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