I Renounced Amazon

A Minneapolis resident has been recording the take-off of every deportation flight out of the city. He counts the shackled men, women, and children as they hobble up the stairs to the plane, many of whom pause for a last glance back at freedom.

Brown lives do not matter, any more than Black lives do.

Because my conscience could no longer ignore Bezos’s support of and profiteering from the current fascist/racist/misogynistic/nativist regime, I quit shopping at his behemoth.

Amazon is a habit as destructive to my health as sugar and just as equisitely painful to kick.

This week, I wanted to buy a bar of Dr. Bronner lavender soap to replace the sliver left in my shower. Dr. Bronner meets my exacting standards: cruelty free, organic, post-consumer recycled packaging, fair trade. And the scent of lavender floats me above the potential disasters the day will inevitably bring.

Out of habit, I clicked on Amazon. Where the smiling A would say welcome back Dawn. Where the smiling A would pop up my credit card, fill in my address, and offer free shipping. My soap would arrive sooner than scheduled.

Shit shit shit. Renunciation.

I screeched to a halt. My brain reacted exactly as it does when I realize there are cookies in the kitchen, and I have to resist. Maybe I’ll eat one cookie and then resist. Maybe I’ll eat a bag of chips.

As the curser hovers, the craving for Amazon’s instant gratification eases. As the cursor hovers, a moment of mindfulness arises. As the cursor hovers, I see brown faces.

I click over to Dr. Bronner’s website. I find the Lavendar soap. Resisting the urge to buy $50.00 of unnecessaries in order to get free shipping, I settle for three bars. Fifteen dollars, not bad. I type in all the information that Amazon would have supplied automatically. However, I also accidentally connect to a shopping app that saves my credit card. I will need to delete that account after I finish the Dr. Bronner order.

Renouncing Amazon has added several steps to the purchase of a bar of soap, as Bezos dangles convenience in front of me like an Oreo.

I rub my forehead and proceed to check out. $10.00 for shipping? For three bars of soap? No way, Dr. Bronner. I delete the items from my cart.

Tension increases, as my body’s addiction to instant gratification goes unsatisfied. I’m irritated. I want to throw my computer at the wall.

Instead, I breathe. Breathe in faces. Breathe out safety.

I resign myself to the need to locate a new source for cruelty free, organic, post-consumer recycled packaging, fair trade, lavender soap.

The Ecosia search engine (Ecosia plants trees when you search with them) pops up reviews of the best organic bath bars. The perfect replacement sits at the top of the list, but it’s Canadian. International shipping rates will apply—plus, probably, an additional rightfully-outraged-at-the-USA surcharge. I understand, because after all, outrage is why I renounced Amazon in the first place.

But, what is the stab at the base of my skull? Disappointment? Withdrawal? I rest my head in my hand, too weary to keep up the search. Maybe I’ll go back to Amazon for just this one purchase.

Instead, I breathe.

I return to the review site and find a company that meets my standards, the Carolina Castille Soap Company. Organic. They claim cruelty-free. The price beats Dr. Bronner. Free shipping. But they don’t have lavender. Why can’t I have what I want? Why can’t I have what I’m used to? I’m pissed off. I want to scream.

Instead, I breathe. Breathe in faces. Breathe out love.

In a moment of sweet surrender, I choose patchouli, the scent my high school best friend wore.

This labyrinthine process will repeat for everything I buy. My Amazon order history includes products from Cantu to yoga socks. Time was, I could have bought organic soap at Whole Foods, but then Amazon bought them. Once Target threw their LGBTQIA+ customers under the bus, that store earned a spot on my list. I once bought my Cantu at CVS, but those shelves are frequently bare, likely because Amazon undercuts their prices. I borrowed an ebook from the library, and immediately returned it; the only way to read it was on Amazon’s Kindle app.

At least seven times a week, I slam on the Amazon brake. Body, mind, and soul screech to a halt. Eyes closed, breath silky. A moment of reflection slips in. No longer the center of attention, my needs subside. No longer reaching out for the comfort that’s a couple of clicks away, I return to the present moment. Eyes closed, breath silky. I imagine the faces of those whose lives have been destroyed—brown faces darker than my high yellow. At least seven times a week, political activism becomes renunciation becomes meditation.

In Minneapolis, a resident records the take-off of every deportation flight out of the city. He counts the shackled men, women, and children as they hobble aboard the plane, many of whom pause for a last glance back at freedom. May they be at peace.