Even the Salvation Army cannot use all of the clothes it receives
Spencer Platt/Getty.
It was early morning at the Quincy Street Salvation Army, an
easy-to-miss location tucked away on a Brooklyn side street. The only
donations that had come in so far were books, an entire truck full from
one single apartment. Charitable clothing donations usually roll in with
fits and starts, with the changing of the seasons and at the end of the
year, when people are looking for tax write-offs. It was on a weekday
morning in the middle of the fall, the off-hours for clothing donations.
But I didn’t have to witness someone pulling up their car and shoveling
bags full of clothes from the trunk. I’d been that person innumerable
times, lugging overloaded trash bags, pierced by the heels of cheap
pumps, sleeves and pant legs hanging out, to a local charity. I had
never known what happens after I drive away and leave my old clothing
orphaned on the Salvation Army’s doorstep.
Michael Noneza, otherwise known as “Maui,” one of the donation
center’s assistant supervisors, bounced into the warehouse. “You ready?”
the cheery Pacific Islander asked, and ushered me over to a massive
freight elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The
elevator jolted upward and the doors opened on a scene that looked a bit
like a threadbare Santa’s workshop. Dozens of Hispanic women were
standing behind a row of wooden slides, pulling clothes out of
elephantine gray bins and separating them into broad categories like
jackets, pants, and childrenswear. “We keep only the best,” Maui told
me. “Then it’s ticketed and priced.” The pricers, perched on what looked
like adult high chairs, quickly and methodically moved through racks of
80 garments each, making snap judgments based on condition and brand.
The Quincy Street Salvation Army may be on a quiet out-of-the-way
street, but it is the main distribution center serving eight Salvation
Army locations in Brooklyn and Queens. It processes an average of five
tons of outcast clothing every single day of the year, and much more
during the holiday season when donations spike. From that astonishing
mass, the sorters choose exactly 11,200 garments a day to be
divided up equally between the eight thrift stores they serve. I asked
Maui if they’ve ever hit a dry spell, where the donations dipped too low
to fully restock each stores with their share of the 11,200 items. He
laughed, “We never run out of clothes. There are always enough clothes.”
What American doesn’t have something hanging in his or her closet
worn only once or twice, a pair of pants waiting for a diet, or even a
brand-new dress or jacket with the tags still on? Common sense and
everyday experience tell us that we have so many clothes that a
majority go underused and neglected. According to a 2010 national
survey in ShopSmart magazine, one in four American women own
seven pairs of jeans, but we only wear four of them regularly. Not
surprisingly, charities regularly see brand-new clothes come in with
tags still affixed. “We see people throwing away new stuff every day,”
Maui says.
There is an enormous disconnect between increasing clothing
consumption and the resultant waste, partially because unworn clothes
aren’t immediately thrown out like other disposable products. Instead,
they accumulate in our closets or wherever we can find space for them.
Master closets now average about 6 feet by 8 feet, a size more typical
of an extra bedroom 40 years ago.
Maui and I took the elevator back downstairs and walked into a dimly
lit warehouse hidden away on the far side of the donation drop-off area.
Garments that make it into the Salvation Army thrift stores have
exactly one month to sell. Then, they’re pulled from their hangers,
tossed in bins, and end up back in a room such as this one.
In the rag-cut room, two men were silently pushing T-shirts, dresses,
and every other manner of apparel into a compressor that works like the
back of a garbage truck, squeezing out neat cubes of rejected clothing
that weigh a half ton each. The cubes were then lifted and moved via
forklift to the middle of the room, where a wall of wrapped and bound
half-ton bales towered. I saw tags for Old Navy, Sean Jean, and Diesel
peeking out of the bales, as well as slivers of denim, knits in bright
maroons and bold stripes, and the smooth surfaces of Windbreakers.
Smashed together like this, stripped of its symbolic meaning, stacked
up like bulk dog food, I was reminded that clothing is ultimately fiber
that comes from resources and results in horrifying volumes of waste.
Clothing stores completely separate us from this reality, and a
“rag-cut” room brings it home in an instant. The Quincy Street Salvation
Army builds a completed wall made of 18 tons, or 36 bales, of unwanted
clothing every three days. And this is just a small portion of the
cast-offs of one single Salvation Army location in one city in the
United States.
Most Americans are thoroughly convinced there is another person in
their direct vicinity who truly needs and wants our unwanted clothes.
This couldn’t be further from the truth. Charities long ago passed the
point of being able to sell all of our wearable unwanted clothes.
According to John Paben, co-owner of used-clothing processer Mid- West
Textile, “They never could.”
There are thousands of secondhand textile processors in the United
States today, mostly small family businesses, many of them several
generations old. I visited Trans- Americas Trading Co., a third-
generation textile recycler in Clifton, N.J., which employs 85 people
and processes close to 17 million pounds of used clothing a year. Inside
Trans-Americas, there is a wall of cubed-up clothing five bales tall
and more than 20 bales long. “This is literally several hundred
thousand pounds of textile waste, and we bring in two trailer loads of
this much every day,” Trans-Americas president Eric Stubin told me. The
volume they process has gone up over the years alongside our consumption
of clothing.
Without textile recyclers, charities would be totally beleaguered and
forced to throw away everything that couldn’t be sold. Charities might
even have to turn us away. The only benefit to this doomsday scenario is
that our clothes would pile up in our house or in landfills, finally
forcing us to face down just how much clothing waste we create.
Donated clothes to be distributed to displaced people at Hajj Camp in Kaduna, NigeriaPius Utomi Ekpei/AFP/Getty Images.
A majority of the clothing processed at Trans-Americas comes from
overburdened charities within a thousand-mile radius of New York City.
Used clothes come into the warehouse in mixed bales like those I saw at
the Quincy Street Salvation Army. “I like to call it the good, the bad,
and the ugly,” Stubin said, as we sailed past women separating pants
from shirts and sending them down long slides. “We get everything from
torn sweaters to spoiled and stained towels to good useable clothing.”
Stubin’s sorters separate the wearable stuff into two hundred broad
categories like cotton blouses, baby clothes, jackets, sweaters, khaki
pants, and denim. “From there, sorters begin to look for quality and
start sorting the worn from the torn and making various grades,” Stubin
explains. The higher-skilled employees “develop an eye,” he says, for
coveted brands, cashmere, and the gold mine vintage finds. But a lot, at
least half of what Trans-America processes, is “the bad and the ugly.”
This is the situation in general in the textile recycling industry
today.
Most of our donated clothing does not end up in vintage shops, as
car-seat stuffing, or as an industrial wiping rag. It is sold overseas.
After the prized vintage is plucked out and the outcasts are sent to
the fiber and wiping rag companies, the remaining clothing is sorted,
shrink-wrapped, tied up, baled, and sold to used-clothing vendors
around the world. The secondhand clothing industry has been
export-oriented almost since the introduction of mass-produced
garments. And by one estimate, used clothing is now the United States’
number one export by volume, with the overwhelming majority sent to
ports in sub-Saharan Africa. Tanzanians and Kenyans call used clothing mitumba,
which means “bales,” as it comes off the cargo ships in the
shrink-wrapped cubes like the ones I saw at Trans-Americas and Salvation
Army. The bales are cut open in front of an eager clientele and buyers,
who pick through it for higher-value finds.
Once again, while many Americans might like to imagine that there is
some poor, underdressed African who wants our worn and tattered duds,
the African used clothing market is very particular and is demanding
higher quality and more fashion-forward styles. Paben told me that
access to the Internet and cellphones has made the continent fiercely
fashion-forward in recent years. “There’s been a change in what you can
sell there,” he says, and the bales have to be much more carefully
sorted based on style, brand, and condition. As incomes rise in Africa,
tastes become more savvy, cheap Chinese imports of new clothes flood
those countries, and our own high-quality clothing supply is depleted,
it’s foreseeable that the African solution to our overconsumption may
come to an end. What then?
On a recent Saturday morning, I was back at the Quincy Street
Salvation Army shopping for a vintage coat, hoping to find quality and
craftsmanship I could actually afford. This particular Salvation Army is
roughly the size of an airplane hanger, and deathly quiet in the
mornings. I hoped to make a score while the rest of Brooklyn slept off
their Friday night. As I flipped through the women’s tops, I noticed a
Salvation Army employee in a smock, methodically walking past me. At
first I thought she was straightening the racks and hanging clothes back
up that had been pulled to the floor, but then I realized she was
carrying clothes away. She looked at the color of the
price tags stapled onto each garment. Then, she plucked out the ones
that had sat their too long unsold, like eggs gone bad, and chucked them
into those huge gray dumpsters I saw in the sorting room upstairs.
Soon enough, I thought, they would be shredded or on their way overseas.
Excerpted from Overdressed: The Shockingly High Cost of Cheap Fashion. Published by Portfolio/Penguin. Copyright Elizabeth L. Cline, 2012.
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