Darlene ChaniMaya Postma

Meet Mr. Bitey, a cheap plastic T-Rex I can’t seem to throw away.

Mr. Bitey moved with me across 14 states and 3 apartments. Once, you could squeeze his arms to open and close his jaws. Now, his arms are snapped off, and he can’t stand alone. He lays around my apartment, occasionally moved from surface to surface.

I feel pity and anxiety for this cheap, injection moulded plastic toy that holds no more value than a 5 ticket carnival reward.

In the Midwest, we are proud when something costs you nothing. I’m sure I paid nothing, or little for Mr. Bitey at one time. I don’t know how I came by him, but I cannot bear to throw him away, in case “someone might want it.”

As a foundling, this “someone-might-want it” mentality tugs on my heartstrings. Growing up Dutch, to throw away the smallest object is a waste. Everything can be reused, handed down, or used by someone else.

However, it’s time for Mr. Bitey to be donated, or go in the trash. Why do I have these misplaced feelings for a broken plastic toy?

Growing up as a creative, storytelling kid I developed strong anthropomorphic relationships with everything from the school bus to scraps of paper. At one time, Mr. Bitey could have been one of many colorful characters in my caravan.

What Toy Story-esque attachments am I applying to this insignificant, nonfunctional toy? Who is Mr. Bitey? Did he always want to bite? Did he hate biting? Did he wish to grow beyond his nature? Did he feel like a tool of pinching and destruction? Does he wonder about his ancestors? Is he aware that his ancestors have in part become been broken down into the petroleum products that created him?

As I finish this post, Mr. Bitey sits near the trash can. He will soon move on to a better place.

Darlene