The Trash Compactor

& other symbols of hope

Photo by Brian McGowan on Unsplash

When I think back to my earliest memories of Star Wars, one scene always stands out: the trash compactor scene.

Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, and Chewbacca have just broken Leia Organa out of her cell on the Death Star. They’re dodging blaster fire from Stormtroopers, and the one path of escape is through a garbage shoot. After much arguing–mostly with Han–Leia grabs Luke’s blaster and fires a hole through the grate. Our heroes dive to safety. Or so they think.

After crash landing inside a trash compactor, Princess Leia and her Rebels-in-the-making discover a few different things: 1) an incredible smell, 2) a monster that nearly devours Luke, and 3) walls that threaten to flatten all four of them into trash pancakes.

I don’t know about you, but falling into a stomach-twisting situation with unseen monsters and walls that are closing in feels far too real right now.

Every new headline out of Washington seems to squeeze us a little bit tighter. Like Han, Luke, Leia, and Chewy, we’re trying to climb out of it, brace against it, call for help–anything. Still, the walls keep coming closer. We feel pressed a little tighter.

The trash compactor scene is part of what makes Star Wars so special: It’s an operatic space fantasy that ignites our imaginations with lightsabers, star destroyers, X Wings, evil empires, and magical heroes, but there’s also trash. Star Wars allows us to escape to a galaxy far, far away, but the reason we love to escape there is it also feels like the here and now, where friendship, dedication, and a little bit of cunning is all we need to resist injustice.

That’s what the trash compactor scene reminds me of today: sometimes when we want to escape, what we really need is to dive in.

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A couple weeks ago, my fellow teachers and I received a warning at the weekly faculty meeting: We should be wary of discussing politics with fellow faculty and staff. We were cautioned against making assumptions of our colleagues’ perspectives on political matters.

I do not know the circumstances that led to our receiving this warning, and I must acknowledge the wisdom in it: In a place of work–especially a school–it’s important to avoid assumptions when discussing serious matters (or anything). God calls us to love our neighbor as ourselves, which means seeing and treating everyone–everyone–with the fullness of human dignity, even when we disagree with them.

I don’t believe my school meant to squash anyone’s perspective or right to free speech. In fact, I think they were trying to ensure our spaces remain a safe place for open dialogue. Still, as someone who wants to keep earning their pay check, when I heard “Be careful what you say,” I instinctively translated it to, “Don’t say anything.”

Sure enough, the next day I found myself in the faculty room with a colleague I thought seemed a little off. This person and I are not particularly close. We aren’t friends outside of school and, in the grand scheme of the universe, we barely know each other. Even still, I asked how they were doing, and they mentioned that recent events had been weighing on them.

In that moment, I sensed the shroud of the previous day’s admonition–be wary of political discussions–and while I could tell my colleague and I were likely on the same page, I said nothing. The conversation ended. I didn’t get either of us in trouble. I escaped.

A couple days later, I ran into that same colleague again and asked if I could talk with them privately. I shared that I’d been reflecting on our previous conversation and wanted to make it clear that I also felt the weight of recent events. I felt (and still feel) frightened, angry, and appalled by what’s been happening in Washington DC these past three weeks.

The language of side-taking is also a slippery slope, I’ll admit, but I wanted this person to know I was on theirs. I might not know them very well, but I know them well enough to respect them, care about them, and value the amazing things they do teaching young people each and every day.

The twenty minute conversation we had that morning didn’t rebuild U.S.A.I.D.. We didn’t get any executive orders rescinded. We didn’t quell anyone’s fears over a purge of Palestinians from their home. But we did walk away knowing that one more person in our hallway knew where the other stood in relation to the chaos unfolding around us.

I don’t know that either of our burdens were lightened, but, speaking for myself, I discovered someone else carrying similar ones. There’s some comfort in that.

Honestly, it feels like a silly thing to say I read the headlines and feel powerless. Of course I feel powerless: I don’t have any direct impact on the people making those headlines right now. Most of us fall into that category: We care, but we are so far, far away from these decisions that when we put our phones back down or fold up our newspapers, we’re just trying to survive.

I’m not powerless, though. And neither are you. We exist in relationship, and every day we have opportunities to strengthen the bonds of friendship, family, and community. Our relationships, the ways we support each other on a daily basis, might feel messy, but it’s how we escape the blaster fire.

It’s how we keep each other alive.

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I’d like to leave you with one more messy image of hope. This one comes from the most recent Star Wars series, Skeleton Crew. Even if you haven’t watched the series, I humbly ask you to stick with me. I think it shows us something we all need right now…

Skeleton Crew follows a group of four children who get lost on the outskirts of the galaxy. One of those children is KB (Kyriana Kratter), a young girl with cybernetic prosthetics. KB is human, but she needs her robotic enhancements to stay alive. As she and the other children navigate a strange planet, exposure to the elements corrodes part of her circuitry, and she collapses.

The scene is heart wrenching. This brilliant young girl who has come so far sits amid—What else?—a scrap yard, a frozen waste of forgotten parts strangely reminiscent of the trash compactor on the Death Star. She’s hunched over, barely able to move or speak. She’s literally breaking down.

I don’t know about you, but finding oneself feeling exhausted, broken down, and numb–like a part of you is corroding and unable to process properly–feels far too real right now.

Fortunately, KB isn’t alone. She’s with Wim (Ravi Cabot-Conyers), one of the other four children trying to find their way home. In order for Wim to save KB, he must replace her corroded part, which requires inserting the new part into the back of KB’s head via a tray that conjures images of old CD-Rom drives.

There’s nothing graphic about the scene, but it makes me squirm a little bit. It’s supposed to. The work of keeping each other alive is sometimes unpleasant. It’s easier not to see the inner workings of someone else’s mind, much less feel them. But that’s what Wim does. He reaches in.

Afterward, a rejuvenated KB stands, looks down at a shell-shocked Wim, and says, “You probably thought it would be more exciting to save someone’s life.”

This work we’re called to do will not make headlines. It will pale in comparison to the global havoc we are witnessing. But these two stories from a distant galaxy remind us surviving doesn’t mean escaping. It means diving in. It means reaching in. It means doing the messy, dirty work of love day in and day out.

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We cannot look away. We must bear witness to this moment. Let that witness not end when we set down our phones, though. If for every minute we spend scrolling through headlines we also commit to being fully present with each other, then maybe we can stop the walls from closing. If we remember to reach out to one another when it looks like we’re breaking down, then maybe we can keep each other going.