10 Jul 2025

Waste land / Colder case

Kim Kelly appreciates municipal services, and Arwa Mahdawi concludes her true crime investigation

Screenshot of trash piled up during the Philadelphia strike (YouTube)

Today: Kim Kelly, author of FIGHT LIKE HELL: The Untold History of American Labor, founding editor of the metal newsletter Salvo.and a regular contributor to Teen Vogue and In These Times; and Arwa Mahdawi, columnist at The Guardian, and author of Strong Female Lead.

Issue No. 358

Who Takes Out Your Garbage?
Kim Kelly

HYDRANYM No. 7: Vote!
The Editors

How to Solve a Murder: Part Seven
Arwa Mahdawi

Who Takes Out Your Garbage?

by Kim Kelly

Like a lot of city things, municipal trash pickup still feels like a recent development to me. The first 18 years of my life were spent in silence and clean pine-scented air under velvety black skies riotous with stars. The next 20 unfolded in tour vans and dive bars and shitty apartments and other loud loud always loud smoky smelly loud places that have sometimes felt like home and often felt like a mistake. Even if I miss the summer whippoorwills more than I can say, I can’t pretend to hate the conveniences of city life.

There was a rhythm to my childhood in the Pine Barrens. On Tuesdays, the Bookmobile came, bearing printed rumors of places far outside my tiny rural world. The little white library van would park across from our post office, which was nestled inside a baby-blue trailer, and give us exactly one hour to grab as many books as we could before it disappeared back down the road towards parts unknown. On Wednesdays, my mom dropped me off at Holy Eucharist for CCD (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine) class, intending to put the fear of God into me. Instead, the experience left me with a couple of half-assed sacraments under my belt, a lifelong distaste for authority, and a grudging appreciation for the gory parts of the Bible. On Saturdays, we’d visit my grandparents and I’d revel in the decadence of my weekly treat: two crisp pickle spears, one ice-cold can of Coca-Cola, and as many pretzels as I could sneak out of the big plastic jar Poppy kept on top of the fridge. And on Sundays, we went to the dump.