"Homo Consumens is the man whose main goal is not primarily to own things, but to consume more and more, and thus to compensate for his inner vacuity, passivity, loneliness and anxiety….He mistakes thrill and excitement for joy and happiness and material comfort for aliveness; satisfied greed becomes the meaning of life, striving for it a new religion. The freedom to consume becomes the essence of human freedom."
Erich Fromm. “The Application of Humanist Psychoanalysis to Marx's Theory" in Socialist Humanism: An International Symposium. New York: Doubleday, 1965.
I like to
think that I’m totally immune to the lure of consumerism. After all, I’ve spent the past 15 years
lecturing students on the importance of voluntary simplicity both as a means to
prevent further environmental degradation to our planet, but also as a way to
find greater happiness in life.
That latter
benefit of reducing consumption is often lost on 20-something-year-olds who
have grown up fervently believing that meaning and happiness in life are connected
to the ability to buy whatever one wants, whenever one wants, whether one has
the funds to do so or not. I’ve found
that, even when I show these students hard data from the field of human
psychology clearly demonstrating that the “need to always have more” is linked
to personal unhappiness and that the
happiest people on the planet are actually those who are the most immune to the
lure of consumption, they simply don’t buy it (no pun intended).
But at least
I have the satisfaction of knowing that I am setting a positive example for my
students, right? After all, I’m living
in a house that is much smaller than I could afford, I drive a 17 year old car
(by choice), rarely eat out in restaurants, and generally wear clothes till
they fall apart (literally!). On the
surface of things, I am the poster boy for the voluntary simplicity movement.
And yet,
deep in the marrow of my being, I am as easily seduced by the lure of American
consumerism as the most fashion-conscious student in my environmental ethics
class. Just recently, for example, I
found myself wanting to replace the perfectly adequate cell-phone that I had
been using for about four years with a smart new Iphone. The new phone cost hundreds of dollars more
than the old phone did and that new plan that I had to take out to get it was
also more expensive, but at least I could now say that I had the smartest, most
sophisticated, most stylish cell phone on the market. And I was ever so happy—that is, until I saw
a colleague of mine with the new Iphone 4s with even cooler features than the
model I had. And then I found myself
becoming envious and thinking that my own Iphone just didn’t seem quite as
special any more.
Then there’s
the issue of my car. I am adamant about
the fact that I will not buy a new car until the one I have—a 1995 Toyota
Corolla—starts to become unreliable or cost more to maintain than it is
worth. 17 years later, I still have the
same car, and it is still chugging along perfectly fine. There are absolutely no mechanical issues
with the car, but it certainly doesn’t provide as smooth and quiet a ride as a
new car would, and lately, the paint on the roof of the car has begun to wear
off, making the car look rather shabby. In
fact, I’ve been told that I have the ugliest car on campus, and that’s probably
true: I doubt that even the most
cash-strapped freshman would ever be caught dead driving a car as aesthetically
challenged as mine.
Now, when
someone asks me about my car, I tell them proudly that I’ll be damned if I ever
get suckered into buying a new car before I absolutely need one. But, in fact, I’m starting to feel just a
little self-conscious about being seen driving a car like mine or parking it at
the Mall amidst all the shiny new SUVs that people on Long Island tend to own. And this year, I’ve even begun fantasizing
about getting a new car—not anything excessive mind you, but something small,
cute, and fun like a Honda Fit. Every
time I see someone driving one of these cars, I almost automatically think to
myself: “Why should they get to drive a
nice new car, while I am forced to drive this piece of crap! “After all,” I reason to myself, “I am a
college professor and do have a reputation to maintain.”
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| The Ugliest Car on Campus |
So you see,
although I would like to believe that I am impervious to the insatiable desire
for more than I need, this really isn’t the case. I am as much a part of the species homo consumens as anyone. The only difference is that I’ve read enough
to have some ideas about what the root causes of the consumeristic desires that drive our society might be. I
think that these causes are threefold:
1) Contemporary Americans have come to identify
who they are as human beings with what they own. The more trendy things I own, then, the more
worthy I am as a human being. Conversely,
if I live in a modest house, don’t wear the latest clothes, and don’t drive a
nice car, then something is wrong with ME as a human being. In 21st
century America we are judged, not by the “content of our characters,” but by
the stuff we possess.
2) We have been convinced by modern
advertising that we should have as much as our neighbors do. In the past, however, our neighbors could
only afford to buy things if they saved for them. But the advent of the credit industry means
that ordinary people can buy things they don’t have the actually money for. We don’t know, for example, that our
neighbors really can’t afford to live in the McMansion that they recently built
or drive their new Lexus, but we think they can, and that makes us feel
inferior. So we too are compelled to
take out loans and live well beyond our means, just to “keep up with the
Jonses.”
3) In the absence of authentic religious
belief, Americans have made a religion out of consumption. If we really believed in God and were
convinced that this life is not all that there is, having so much stuff wouldn’t
mean quite as much to us. After all, how
could owning even the most sophisticated things in the world—fancy jewelry,
designer clothes, etc.—ever compare with what we have to look forward to in the
next life? Objectively, then, if
Americans really believe in anything, it is that salvation comes from buying
power—the ability to satisfy our insatiable desires with more and more
stuff. God is dead, but at least we have
Walmart—or Neiman Marcus, if you prefer—to provide us with ultimate meaning in life.
These are
just a few thoughts that came to me as I reflected on the roots of our
consumerism in the United States. I’d
love to hear what you think about this.
Is the problem of consumerism really as bad as I think it is (do you
personally fall victim to it?)? And what
do you think that the ultimate root of this need to always acquire more and
more is?
This article originally appeared on EcoBlog