Reams of Paper

Holding the New York Times in my hands, I feel as if the weight of the paper imbues sophistication in me before I take stock of the first page. Yet my guilt brews as I imagine the paper’s weight in another form, its heft signifying my unnecessary indulgence in reams of newsprint. Like so many Columbians, I scan the Times online multiple times throughout the day and usually cannot find time to peruse the hardcopy despite my best intentions. Accruing piles of unfolded Times copies on my desk, my trivial indulgence becomes a larger symbol of an increasingly papered life.

In newspapers, essays, textbooks, bags, forms (far too many), tissues, tickets, paper towels, envelopes, notebooks, novels, magazines, boxes, and food packaging, our reliance on paper extends beyond the double- or—gasp!—single -sided sheets that exhaust campus printers. At a recent club-leaders event on campus, the presiding administrators proudly noted how they converted the Facts About Columbia Essential to Students into a digital format, negating the need to print hundreds of spiral-bound booklets. However, later that day each student received a funding guide filling nearly 100 single-sided pages with information administrators could have posted online. Such inconsistencies illustrate University-wide problems in which a new, less resource-intensive measure serves as an abstract model rather than a policy.

As an educational and residential institution, Columbia depends heavily on paper in all of its forms. Nationally, paper comprises about 35 percent of municipal solid waste. Despite the availability of municipal recycling services in New York City, recyclable paper constitutes 27 percent of the city’s waste stream. However, we can only recycle paper fibers up to seven times before they wear beyond use, indicating first, a need for production from more renewable products and second, reductions in overall consumption.

To address both of these problems, we should consider the early life of paper. Paper production began nearly 2000 years ago in China but demand grew substantially after the invention of the printing press in 1450 AD. The papermaking process, in which papermakers dissolve fibers in water then reform and dry them on screens, did not develop into the streamlined and mechanized form it takes today until the beginning of the 19th century. At that point, the primary source material for paper changed from fibers such as cloth and linen to wood pulp.

We still depend on wood pulp for the preponderance of our paper supplies despite its increasing scarcity and the long investments in space and resources needed to grow, process, and harvest wood. We can create paper using a variety of products—think of the term’s origins from “papyrus,” a wetland plant—we can look to other materials to supplant wood pulp. Hemp and kenaf (a bamboo-like plant) can substitute but still require agricultural investments. Better alternatives include paper made from agricultural refuse like wheat straws and textile scraps, both of which have yet to reach economies of scale.

Ambitious or curious individuals can avoid the municipal recycling process altogether by creating their own paper, which entails a domestic version of the industrial process (without the unappealing chemical bleaches and dyes): blend water and used paper shreds, drain, press, and dry on a mold. History professors might not appreciate reading 25 pages on a mottled, fiber-flecked sheet, but at least it will suffice for a letter to grandma and grandpa.

Regardless of alternatives, do we remain justified in exploiting the resource at current levels? As an institution, Columbia can mandate double-sided printing for official and classroom activities when feasible, but their efforts must extend beyond the computer labs. The University should facilitate a used book exchange, make used packing boxes from campus operations available for shipping and moving dates, discourage heavily packaged foods, encourage digitized forms, and provide facilities for students to print on the blank sides of pre-printed pages. Students can follow suit, considering their options for purchasing recycled content paper, making a concerted effort to stem the tide of books that accumulate on their shelves, and investing in long-lasting products to replace one-time-use materials (think bags and towels).

Most importantly, we all must bear in mind that life existed before we constructed lives amidst a sea of paper. My father once related an anecdote from a trip through Afghanistan in the 1970s when the locals laughed at him and his friends for bringing toilet paper on the trip. Though minor, his experience illustrates that our dependency on manufactured resources is not common to the world at large (please note: I do not advocate paperless bathrooms).

We should consider the implications of our reliance on the ephemeral materials we nonchalantly use. Of course we cannot underestimate the benefits of our ability to form so many products from one resource. Computer documents can strain your eyes, and there is something deeply satisfying about holding original newsprints from historical archives with their tattered and yellowed pages. Yet I can afford to forgo the printed newspaper most days and I’ve become well-adjusted to utilizing the University and city libraries for my literary needs. Considering that before 1800 papermakers could produce only one sheet at a time, we can all make time to give greater thought to our use of paper in its varied and ubiquitous forms.

Becky Davies is a Columbia College junior majoring in urban studies. Home Ec runs alternate Mondays. Opinion@columbiaspectator.com