I Pick Up What I Did Not Drop by Claire Chong
When I was eight, I was getting ready for an art competition. The theme was on the current issues in our environment, so I started looking things up online. Oceans filled with plastic, animals trapped in waste, glaciers disappearing. I was just a kid, but something shifted in me. Around that same time, I was on a walk with my parents when I saw a sign by a storm drain: “No Dumping — Drains to Ocean.” I looked at the litter nearby and thought: if no one picks this up, it ends up in the ocean. So I ran home, grabbed our barbecue tongs, put on gloves, and went back out with a trash bag. That was the beginning. Eight years ago.
I am now a junior at Portola High School, and I still do it every single day. My alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m. I wash up, pack my lunch, and sit down to eat with my family before my dad leaves for work. My mom slices an apple. My dad boils eggs. I always make sure to thank them for the meal — I never skip that. By 6:30, my mom and I head out with gloves and a trash bag. Some mornings are just ordinary walks. But some are not. This past March, I turned sixteen. On my birthday morning, my whole family walked to school together, picking up litter along the way. We came across a pile of trash that smelled terrible. It was rough. But honestly, cleaning it up together felt more meaningful than any birthday party could have. That is what eight years of plogging has taught me — that showing up, even on hard days, is its own kind of celebration.
The morning air is cool and quiet in a way that makes everything feel clear. Walking through the tree-lined paths near our neighborhood, I spot things — a plastic bottle in the grass, a wrapper by the curb. Not mine. I pick them up anyway, with what I always call a forgiving heart. By the time school comes into view, the sky has gone from gray to gold, and I find myself watching a snail cross the sidewalk, ants moving in a line, small wildflowers growing through cracks in the pavement. Small lives, doing their part. I think about that a lot.
Then I reach the student parking lot, and the feeling changes. There are four trash cans there — clearly labeled, easy to reach. And yet every morning I find plastic cups, food wrappers, and empty bottles scattered across the asphalt right next to them. I have watched this for two years. It does not make me angry. It makes me sad. Most of these students are sixteen or older. They are old enough to make a different choice. I do not think they are bad people — I really do not. I think they have just never been shown why it matters. No one has connected that wrapper on the ground to the storm drain, to the ocean. That one connection changed my life at age eight. I keep picking up after them, with a forgiving heart, because I believe that once someone truly understands, they can change.
The problem goes further than litter, though. Over the years, I have noticed more and more crows gathering near school grounds on my walks. The reason is simple: improperly managed food waste gives them a reliable food source, and their numbers grow fast. Not long ago, a crow dropped waste on my head and clothes during a morning walk. It was unpleasant — but more than that, it reminded me that neglected trash does not just sit there. It spreads. Into the air, into the ecosystem, into the daily lives of everyone in this community. An overpopulation of crows feeding on human garbage is not natural. It is a sign that something in our system is broken.
A big part of that system is our school cafeterias. The Irvine Unified School District serves over 36,000 students. If each student uses just three single-use plastic items at lunch — a tray, a wrapped utensil set, a sealed cup — that is over 100,000 pieces of plastic waste generated inside our schools every single day. Over a full school year, that is more than 18 million pieces. I know these numbers not from a report, but from picking them up off the ground every morning before class. When schools hand out disposable items every day with no expectation of accountability, they are quietly teaching students that waste is someone else’s problem. We cannot talk about sustainability in the classroom while doing the opposite in the cafeteria.
Other California districts have already made changes. LA Unified has tested reusable tray programs. San Francisco Unified has eliminated most single-use plastics from its cafeterias. State funding exists through CalRecycle and AB 1201. IUSD can do the same. I am asking for three things: a public waste audit so our community can see exactly what our schools generate each week; a reusable tray and utensil pilot at one or two campuses starting in the 2026–2027 school year; and a formal student environmental role at each school with a real voice in waste decisions — not just an optional club. And above all: real education that helps students understand where their trash actually goes.
Every morning I watch the sky turn from gray to gold. I watch the snails and the ants and the little wildflowers do their quiet work without anyone noticing. And I pick up what others have left behind — not out of bitterness, but because I love this city and I believe it is worth caring for. I started with barbecue tongs at age eight. I celebrated my sixteenth birthday the same way. I am still going, and I will keep going. But my goal was never to pick up litter forever. My goal has always been for there to be less of it — because more people chose to pay attention. Irvine is a city that prides itself on doing things right. I believe we can. I just ask that we start.
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