Ode to the single use plastic straw. A love story.

Years ago, after bleaching my teeth, my dentist told me to drink with a straw to protect my enamel from stains caused by sodas, juices, or flavored drinks.

From that point on, I faithfully used a straw—always. My drink of choice was Diet Coke, so it was always Diet Coke and a straw for me.

When I was arrested in 2013 and spent a year in the county jail, there were no straws. No Diet Coke. And no teeth bleaching either.

When I got to prison, I discovered we could purchase Diet Coke.

Each housing unit had a soda machine. (Before anyone gets outraged, the funds from these machines were used to pay for things around the prison to ease the burden on taxpayers. I guess you could still be outraged, but it was the only vending available to us—except during visits. Anyway…)

I was thrilled. Nothing about prison was easy, especially in those early days, but when I was finally able to buy a cold Diet Coke, I cried. I didn’t care that it was splashing over my teeth, causing stains. Diet Coke is my vice, and I was just so grateful. Getting a Diet Coke every two weeks became something to look forward to—and in a place where there’s very little to look forward to, that meant everything.

There were many things you could buy in the prison commissary. Some unexpected things. But no straws.

About three years into my prison sentence, someone told me I could buy a black-market straw. A real straw, still in its paper wrapper.

I would’ve paid almost anything for it, but it was only a dollar—or about three packs of noodles in prison currency. I handed over the noodles and was given the straw, still wrapped.

The straw probably came from the infirmary, but I wasn’t asking questions. I could write an entire blog post on black-market goods in prison (and maybe I will), but for now, the straw.

I went straight to the vending machine, bought a cold Diet Coke, and drank it with that white bendy straw. And again, I cried. (For the record, I was not afraid to cry in prison.)

That straw became a prized possession. I treated it like gold. It made the list in my gratitude journal over a hundred times. I was incredibly protective of it. After using it, I’d carefully hide it so no one could steal it (nothing is too insignificant to be stolen in prison) or have it confiscated by an officer.

I cleaned my beloved straw—white, bendy, and admittedly dingy—with a Q-tip and a crochet hook, pushing the Q-tip through to scrub the inside. During COVID, when we had access to bleach, I’d spray the Q-tip with bleach to clean it more thoroughly.

I used that same straw for the next seven years, until the day I left prison. And on that last day, when I could have thrown it out, I just couldn’t. I brought it home. (I’ll post a picture of it when I unpack.) I know it sounds strange, but I couldn’t part with it then, and I still can’t.

After my release, I went to a gas station with my sister. I grabbed a fountain Diet Coke, and there it was—a whole container of wrapped straws, just sitting there. I could take one. No one would care. I could take two. But I didn’t.

Still, it was a moment. I drank my soda and threw both the cup and the straw away when I was finished. And it felt weird.

It still does.

an embarrassment of riches

Thank you for reading,

Kelli