GEORGIA-PACIFIC
Based in Atlanta, Georgia-Pacific is one of the world’s largest manufacturers of paper, tissue, and packaging products; in 2005, Georgia-Pacific was purchased by Koch Industries for 21 billion dollars; beginning in elementary school, and peaking in 8th grade, I hid in bathroom stalls at school in the morning; my bus arrived at school an hour before class began; students were supposed to congregate in the cafeteria; this undefined period exacerbated my insecurities; unchecked social anxiety forced me to find comfort in hidden and locked spaces; I was particularly self-conscious because hair had begun growing on my upper lip; this hair did not seem cool—it seemed disgusting; unable to speak to my father about shaving or much of anything, I used the Bic razor my mother left on the edge of her bathtub; she used this razor for her legs and armpits; I did not understand the necessity of shaving cream, so I shaved without cream or water; this process left my upper lip chafed and cut and scabby; combined with a greasy face and acne, this rendered me cripplingly self-conscious; bathroom stalls stop several inches short of the floor; on certain occasions, while hiding in a stall, somebody would enter the bathroom, notice my feet, and ask: “Is somebody taking a shit in there?”; I would not reply, which would elicit the follow-up inquiry: “Who’s dumpin’ in there?!”; I squeezed my muscles tight, tried to suppress my anger and embarrassment, thought about Gandhi, and said nothing; “Tell me who it is or else I’m gonna go outside and tell everybody to come in and watch you take a big stinky shit!” they would say; finally, when my options felt exhausted, I would whisper my identity; the person would walk away, open the door, then yell that I was taking a shit; they would laugh and leave; I would sob uncontrollably and yank a handful of toilet paper; the toilet paper dispenser was always made by Georgia-Pacific; this name—Georgia-Pacific—is a nonsense-phrase I thought about often while crying on the toilet; I wondered if, in the days of the supercontinent, Pangaea, Georgia might have touched the Pacific Ocean; hence, the name: Georgia-Pacific; this thought pleased me; finally, however, I concluded no, Georgia was probably bordered by western Africa; this fact would render the American South’s connection to Africa far, far older—and less tragic—than the Transatlantic Slave Trade (sometimes referred to as the African Holocaust, or Maafa); when I finally stopped crying, I would shove my right hand into my pocket, grab some chapstick, quickly apply a coat to my lips, and put the chapstick back in my pocket; next, I would squeeze some hand lotion onto my finger and rub it onto my face, just below my nose, where it was red and dry; the sting would last for a second, then go away; I would put away the lotion; then, when I was sure nobody else was in the bathroom, I would unbolt the door, shove it open, and go to homeroom; my junior year in high school, I purchased an electric shaver; I still have not made sense of the name, Georgia-Pacific.
