This past week, I rescued my favorite reusable shopping bag from our own trash bin. My wife had thrown it away.
This wasn’t because it was splitting at the seams; I only noticed that after I rescued it. She threw it away because she’s never liked it. And this isn’t the first time I’ve rescued this particular bag.
I spotted it a couple of years ago in a trash receptacle at a Rewe supermarket in Berlin. A man and woman who looked like street people with substance abuse issues had used it to return bottles for refunds, then discarded it.
I immediately saw potential: it was oversized and made of sturdy plastic, with long handles that let me carry it over my shoulder rather than straining my hands with a heavy load. It also meant I could carry everything in one trip instead of juggling multiple bags.
I took it home, washed out the stale beer smell, and it became my favorite shopping bag.
It’s not a particularly attractive item. From a fashion point of view, it’s actually quite ugly, even tacky in a suburban kind of way. On one side is a poorly reproduced photo of a panda (reminding me of the DC Zoo), and on the other are supermarket vegetables.
I appreciate the small irony: it’s an Edeka bag (a competing German supermarket chain) that I found discarded at Rewe.
I’ve even packed it when I travel. It carries groceries, books, and recycling.
Most importantly, I consider rescuing and using this bag an act of defiance against a culture that treats everything as disposable.
Consumer culture encourages disposing of old items and purchasing new ones. Minimalism argues that attachment is unhealthy. But despite an overabundance of reusable bags competing for space in our pantry, I’m not in a rush to throw this one out.
The reason is simple: objects with stories resist disposability.
We live in a culture with contradictory messages about possessions. Planned obsolescence forces us to abandon rather than fix things once they show wear. Marketing constantly pushes us to want something new. Minimalism reinforces this activity by calling attachment to objects pathological.
But this bag isn’t just a bag. It’s a story about resourcefulness, recycling, and noticing what others overlook. It represents a moment in Berlin when I saw value where others saw trash. To a certain extent, getting rid of it would mean erasing that story.
This object isn’t just a utility; it’s also about identity.
I’ve noticed a pattern in what I keep versus what I discard. I hold onto clothing with stories, books I’ve read and marked up, objects I’ve rescued or repurposed, even when my wife tries to throw them away. I can let go of purely functional things that don’t carry a narrative. The difference isn’t about value or cost; it’s about whether something is identity-bearing or just useful.
This isn’t separation anxiety. It’s resistance to treating objects, and by extension, almost everything, as disposable. Maybe the pathological thing is a culture that insists we should feel nothing for our possessions, that everything should be easily replaceable the moment it shows wear.
That’s why I’ll keep using this rescued bag until it literally can’t hold anything anymore. Not because I’m pathological, but because I refuse to treat objects with stories as disposable.
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/Reusable-Plastic-Shopping-Bag-scaled.jpeg25602225Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2026-02-22 04:19:422026-02-22 04:20:28Why I Keep a Shopping Bag I Rescued from the Trash in Berlin
After heavy snowfalls in American cities, people dig out their parked cars, and some try to “hold” the cleared space with lawn chairs, trash cans, traffic cones, etc. The logic is familiar: I did the work, so I should get the benefit.
Last week, my neighborhood listserv lit up with complaints from people who had shoveled out their cars, left an object to reserve the space, and returned later to find another vehicle parked there. Then they described the inconvenience of circling the neighborhood, or adjacent ones, looking for another spot. One resident emphasized that this had happened multiple times and argued that, because they worked as a nurse in a hospital, convenient access to their vehicle was essential to their job.
Understandably, not everyone can work remotely, and reliable transportation matters. But these practical concerns don’t answer the underlying question at stake in these disputes: Does the act of shoveling snow create a legitimate claim to a public parking space?
The intuition behind “snow dibs” closely resembles a popular interpretation of John Locke’s labor theory of property. The basic idea (stripped of its qualifications) is that mixing one’s labor with something generates ownership. Clear a field, build a house, improve unused land, and the property somehow becomes yours. This intuition is powerful, and it feels fair. But the logic breaks down when applied to public space.
Labor alone does not create ownership, even in private property systems. Labor can justify ownership only within a legal framework that already recognizes title, boundaries, and exclusion. Clearing snow from a public street does none of those things. The street was not yours before you shoveled, even if you have a yearly parking pass, and your effort does not magically convert it into private property afterward.
These snow shovelers are applying private property logic to a public good. They treat public parking as a common resource that can be claimed through use or maintenance. They feel fairness demands compensation for effort. This is a moral claim, not a legal one. And they’re asserting a vernacular norm that conflicts with municipal law.
This is why the belief feels so compelling. Typically, effort and improvement are connected to ownership. Build a deck on your house, plant a garden in your yard, and those improvements become yours because the legal system allows it. But public space works differently. Use is temporary and non-exclusive. Just like a picnic table in a public park, no individual can legitimately claim ongoing control over a specific street parking spot.
Snow shoveling produces a hybrid situation. It is an effort combined with temporary use. It feels like ownership even though it is not. The result is a clash between two systems:
Municipal law says street parking is public and first-come, first-served. Vernacular norm says shoveling creates a temporary claim that others ought to respect.
Cities (which are typically too busy cleaning the snow from busy streets) often exacerbate this conflict through inconsistent enforcement. When rules against reserving public parking aren’t enforced, informal norms take over. Boston’s well-known (and unofficial) “dibs” culture is tolerated. Meanwhile, other cities explicitly ban chair-saving. In many neighborhoods, enforcement is inconsistent or nonexistent, leaving residents to negotiate (or fight – guns drawn or fired) these norms themselves.
This recurring dispute reveals a larger question: can labor generate claims to public space, and if so, who decides their scope and duration? Similar conflicts play out with street vendors claiming sidewalk space, graffiti writers and street artists putting their work on urban surfaces, or communities creating unsanctioned memorials, each asserting informal claims the city may not recognize.
The answer, legally speaking, is no. Shoveling snow does not create parking rights. But the moral intuition behind the claim is strong enough that people enforce it anyway through chairs, notes, social pressure, and occasionally real conflict.
Shoveling out a car after a major snowfall is hard work, and it feels unfair when that effort yields no lasting benefit. But fairness and legality are not the same thing. Public goods do not function like private property. Labor does not generate exclusive rights to shared space, even when it feels as though it should.
Until cities consistently enforce their own rules or neighborhoods settle on a shared norm, these disputes will recur every winter. For now, snowstorms turn street parking into a kind of urban Wild West, where moral intuition, informal norms, and public law will repeatedly collide.
Photo Credit
Photographer: Woody Wonderworks
Title: “Reserved Parking Space…Unfair?” (2016)
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/Screenshot-2026-02-09-at-12.40.01-PM.png9781524Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2026-02-09 18:30:092026-02-09 18:48:36Why Shoveling Your Car out of the Snow Doesn’t Create Parking Rights (But Feels Like It Should)
Periodically, academics seek and are given the title of visiting scholar. The designation sounds formal and flattering, and for many people it carries a great deal of symbolic weight.
But there is considerable variation and confusion surrounding these types of arrangements.
In general, visiting scholar positions are courtesy appointments. Sometimes, a visiting scholar position is given to a professor who is on sabbatical. In other cases, the title is accorded to individuals who are between academic jobs. And sometimes the title is given to someone who also holds a full-time position elsewhere at research think tanks, governmental offices, or in private industry.
In most cases, the position is unpaid. The host institution may provide non-pecuniary benefits such as an office, a university ID, business cards, internet access, and library privileges. Occasionally, there is a modest research stipend or an expectation that the visiting scholar will contribute to work associated with a grant held by a faculty member or research center.
These material realities rarely align with the expectations many academics bring to the role. Some prospective visiting scholars imagine sustained engagement with eminent faculty, serious attention to their work, and a sense that their scholarship will finally receive “the recognition it so rightfully deserves.” Sometimes there is also the belief that the appointment might lead to a more permanent job, or at least confer an advantage should a position open at a later point in time.
Others focus on the symbolic value of the title itself. They anticipate the cachet it will carry on their CV and the status it will confer when they return to their home institution. In practice, this benefit is usually far more modest than expected.
Years ago, during one of my visiting scholar appointments, I met a younger colleague who held the same designation. They were frustrated because none of the faculty members had taken an active interest in him or his work, and he felt largely ignored.
We were both visiting scholars in the same department. While the department organized activities like brown-bag seminars, neither of us felt particularly integrated into the intellectual life of the faculty. My colleague expressed frustration that none of the faculty members had taken an active interest in him or his work.
I told him that what he was experiencing was not unusual. Many faculty members do not spend much time on campus. When they are present, it is often to teach a class or meet briefly with a student before leaving. Since the COVID pandemic, this pattern has become more common, with teaching and research increasingly conducted remotely. Chairs and faculty alike rarely have the time, or institutional incentives, to actively integrate visiting scholars into departmental life.
This pattern is not accidental. Some departments appear to accumulate visiting scholars almost by default, treating them as an unpaid academic reserve. There is a belief that a roster of visiting scholars enhances a department’s reputation, particularly when those scholars are international. Some institutions even mention these programs on their websites, including application procedures and points of contact. I have also heard of universities charging scholars for the designation. In other words, some departments treat visiting scholars as a revenue stream while providing minimal support in return.
This is why my colleague’s situation can be interpreted differently. What initially feels like neglect can also be understood as a form of freedom. Visiting scholars are largely released from the performative obligations that structure everyday academic life. There was no need to be chaperoned by a disinterested junior faculty member or by someone who had been sidelined within the department. They are free to conduct research and write, or simply play tourist. This lack of interaction was, in many ways, a blessing in disguise.
This reframing, however, only works if the visiting scholar adjusts their expectations and behavior accordingly. Waiting to be invited into the intellectual or social life of the department is usually a mistake.
The more productive approach is to be proactive. Make a list of people whose work genuinely interests you (either at that university, at nearby research institutes, or at other universities in the area) and reach out to them directly. Invite them for coffee or a drink. Some will respond, and others won’t. In my experience, the most meaningful interactions and connections often take place outside the formal departmental ecosystem.
If a visiting scholar waits for invitations to lunch, dinner, or informal gatherings, disappointment is almost guaranteed. But that’s not a personal failure, nor is it evidence that something has gone wrong. Visiting Scholar positions function exactly as designed. They are opportunities you should properly use to enhance your career and life. Adjust expectations accordingly, and they can actually be worthwhile.
Artist: William Hogarth
Title: Scholars at a Lecture (1736)
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/Screenshot-2026-01-31-at-11.11.29-PM.png9541522Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2026-02-01 05:03:022026-02-01 05:10:08Demystifying Visiting Scholar Positions
Why I Keep a Shopping Bag I Rescued from the Trash in Berlin
/by Jeffrey Ian RossThis past week, I rescued my favorite reusable shopping bag from our own trash bin. My wife had thrown it away.
This wasn’t because it was splitting at the seams; I only noticed that after I rescued it. She threw it away because she’s never liked it. And this isn’t the first time I’ve rescued this particular bag.
I spotted it a couple of years ago in a trash receptacle at a Rewe supermarket in Berlin. A man and woman who looked like street people with substance abuse issues had used it to return bottles for refunds, then discarded it.
I immediately saw potential: it was oversized and made of sturdy plastic, with long handles that let me carry it over my shoulder rather than straining my hands with a heavy load. It also meant I could carry everything in one trip instead of juggling multiple bags.
I took it home, washed out the stale beer smell, and it became my favorite shopping bag.
It’s not a particularly attractive item. From a fashion point of view, it’s actually quite ugly, even tacky in a suburban kind of way. On one side is a poorly reproduced photo of a panda (reminding me of the DC Zoo), and on the other are supermarket vegetables.
I appreciate the small irony: it’s an Edeka bag (a competing German supermarket chain) that I found discarded at Rewe.
I’ve even packed it when I travel. It carries groceries, books, and recycling.
Most importantly, I consider rescuing and using this bag an act of defiance against a culture that treats everything as disposable.
Consumer culture encourages disposing of old items and purchasing new ones. Minimalism argues that attachment is unhealthy. But despite an overabundance of reusable bags competing for space in our pantry, I’m not in a rush to throw this one out.
The reason is simple: objects with stories resist disposability.
We live in a culture with contradictory messages about possessions. Planned obsolescence forces us to abandon rather than fix things once they show wear. Marketing constantly pushes us to want something new. Minimalism reinforces this activity by calling attachment to objects pathological.
But this bag isn’t just a bag. It’s a story about resourcefulness, recycling, and noticing what others overlook. It represents a moment in Berlin when I saw value where others saw trash. To a certain extent, getting rid of it would mean erasing that story.
This object isn’t just a utility; it’s also about identity.
I’ve noticed a pattern in what I keep versus what I discard. I hold onto clothing with stories, books I’ve read and marked up, objects I’ve rescued or repurposed, even when my wife tries to throw them away. I can let go of purely functional things that don’t carry a narrative. The difference isn’t about value or cost; it’s about whether something is identity-bearing or just useful.
This isn’t separation anxiety. It’s resistance to treating objects, and by extension, almost everything, as disposable. Maybe the pathological thing is a culture that insists we should feel nothing for our possessions, that everything should be easily replaceable the moment it shows wear.
That’s why I’ll keep using this rescued bag until it literally can’t hold anything anymore. Not because I’m pathological, but because I refuse to treat objects with stories as disposable.
Why Shoveling Your Car out of the Snow Doesn’t Create Parking Rights (But Feels Like It Should)
/by Jeffrey Ian RossAfter heavy snowfalls in American cities, people dig out their parked cars, and some try to “hold” the cleared space with lawn chairs, trash cans, traffic cones, etc. The logic is familiar: I did the work, so I should get the benefit.
Last week, my neighborhood listserv lit up with complaints from people who had shoveled out their cars, left an object to reserve the space, and returned later to find another vehicle parked there. Then they described the inconvenience of circling the neighborhood, or adjacent ones, looking for another spot. One resident emphasized that this had happened multiple times and argued that, because they worked as a nurse in a hospital, convenient access to their vehicle was essential to their job.
Understandably, not everyone can work remotely, and reliable transportation matters. But these practical concerns don’t answer the underlying question at stake in these disputes: Does the act of shoveling snow create a legitimate claim to a public parking space?
The intuition behind “snow dibs” closely resembles a popular interpretation of John Locke’s labor theory of property. The basic idea (stripped of its qualifications) is that mixing one’s labor with something generates ownership. Clear a field, build a house, improve unused land, and the property somehow becomes yours. This intuition is powerful, and it feels fair. But the logic breaks down when applied to public space.
Labor alone does not create ownership, even in private property systems. Labor can justify ownership only within a legal framework that already recognizes title, boundaries, and exclusion. Clearing snow from a public street does none of those things. The street was not yours before you shoveled, even if you have a yearly parking pass, and your effort does not magically convert it into private property afterward.
These snow shovelers are applying private property logic to a public good. They treat public parking as a common resource that can be claimed through use or maintenance. They feel fairness demands compensation for effort. This is a moral claim, not a legal one. And they’re asserting a vernacular norm that conflicts with municipal law.
This is why the belief feels so compelling. Typically, effort and improvement are connected to ownership. Build a deck on your house, plant a garden in your yard, and those improvements become yours because the legal system allows it. But public space works differently. Use is temporary and non-exclusive. Just like a picnic table in a public park, no individual can legitimately claim ongoing control over a specific street parking spot.
Snow shoveling produces a hybrid situation. It is an effort combined with temporary use. It feels like ownership even though it is not. The result is a clash between two systems:
Municipal law says street parking is public and first-come, first-served. Vernacular norm says shoveling creates a temporary claim that others ought to respect.
Cities (which are typically too busy cleaning the snow from busy streets) often exacerbate this conflict through inconsistent enforcement. When rules against reserving public parking aren’t enforced, informal norms take over. Boston’s well-known (and unofficial) “dibs” culture is tolerated. Meanwhile, other cities explicitly ban chair-saving. In many neighborhoods, enforcement is inconsistent or nonexistent, leaving residents to negotiate (or fight – guns drawn or fired) these norms themselves.
This recurring dispute reveals a larger question: can labor generate claims to public space, and if so, who decides their scope and duration? Similar conflicts play out with street vendors claiming sidewalk space, graffiti writers and street artists putting their work on urban surfaces, or communities creating unsanctioned memorials, each asserting informal claims the city may not recognize.
The answer, legally speaking, is no. Shoveling snow does not create parking rights. But the moral intuition behind the claim is strong enough that people enforce it anyway through chairs, notes, social pressure, and occasionally real conflict.
Shoveling out a car after a major snowfall is hard work, and it feels unfair when that effort yields no lasting benefit. But fairness and legality are not the same thing. Public goods do not function like private property. Labor does not generate exclusive rights to shared space, even when it feels as though it should.
Until cities consistently enforce their own rules or neighborhoods settle on a shared norm, these disputes will recur every winter. For now, snowstorms turn street parking into a kind of urban Wild West, where moral intuition, informal norms, and public law will repeatedly collide.
Photo Credit
Photographer: Woody Wonderworks
Title: “Reserved Parking Space…Unfair?” (2016)
Demystifying Visiting Scholar Positions
/by Jeffrey Ian RossPeriodically, academics seek and are given the title of visiting scholar. The designation sounds formal and flattering, and for many people it carries a great deal of symbolic weight.
But there is considerable variation and confusion surrounding these types of arrangements.
In general, visiting scholar positions are courtesy appointments. Sometimes, a visiting scholar position is given to a professor who is on sabbatical. In other cases, the title is accorded to individuals who are between academic jobs. And sometimes the title is given to someone who also holds a full-time position elsewhere at research think tanks, governmental offices, or in private industry.
In most cases, the position is unpaid. The host institution may provide non-pecuniary benefits such as an office, a university ID, business cards, internet access, and library privileges. Occasionally, there is a modest research stipend or an expectation that the visiting scholar will contribute to work associated with a grant held by a faculty member or research center.
These material realities rarely align with the expectations many academics bring to the role. Some prospective visiting scholars imagine sustained engagement with eminent faculty, serious attention to their work, and a sense that their scholarship will finally receive “the recognition it so rightfully deserves.” Sometimes there is also the belief that the appointment might lead to a more permanent job, or at least confer an advantage should a position open at a later point in time.
Others focus on the symbolic value of the title itself. They anticipate the cachet it will carry on their CV and the status it will confer when they return to their home institution. In practice, this benefit is usually far more modest than expected.
Years ago, during one of my visiting scholar appointments, I met a younger colleague who held the same designation. They were frustrated because none of the faculty members had taken an active interest in him or his work, and he felt largely ignored.
We were both visiting scholars in the same department. While the department organized activities like brown-bag seminars, neither of us felt particularly integrated into the intellectual life of the faculty. My colleague expressed frustration that none of the faculty members had taken an active interest in him or his work.
I told him that what he was experiencing was not unusual. Many faculty members do not spend much time on campus. When they are present, it is often to teach a class or meet briefly with a student before leaving. Since the COVID pandemic, this pattern has become more common, with teaching and research increasingly conducted remotely. Chairs and faculty alike rarely have the time, or institutional incentives, to actively integrate visiting scholars into departmental life.
This pattern is not accidental. Some departments appear to accumulate visiting scholars almost by default, treating them as an unpaid academic reserve. There is a belief that a roster of visiting scholars enhances a department’s reputation, particularly when those scholars are international. Some institutions even mention these programs on their websites, including application procedures and points of contact. I have also heard of universities charging scholars for the designation. In other words, some departments treat visiting scholars as a revenue stream while providing minimal support in return.
This is why my colleague’s situation can be interpreted differently. What initially feels like neglect can also be understood as a form of freedom. Visiting scholars are largely released from the performative obligations that structure everyday academic life. There was no need to be chaperoned by a disinterested junior faculty member or by someone who had been sidelined within the department. They are free to conduct research and write, or simply play tourist. This lack of interaction was, in many ways, a blessing in disguise.
This reframing, however, only works if the visiting scholar adjusts their expectations and behavior accordingly. Waiting to be invited into the intellectual or social life of the department is usually a mistake.
The more productive approach is to be proactive. Make a list of people whose work genuinely interests you (either at that university, at nearby research institutes, or at other universities in the area) and reach out to them directly. Invite them for coffee or a drink. Some will respond, and others won’t. In my experience, the most meaningful interactions and connections often take place outside the formal departmental ecosystem.
If a visiting scholar waits for invitations to lunch, dinner, or informal gatherings, disappointment is almost guaranteed. But that’s not a personal failure, nor is it evidence that something has gone wrong. Visiting Scholar positions function exactly as designed. They are opportunities you should properly use to enhance your career and life. Adjust expectations accordingly, and they can actually be worthwhile.
Artist: William Hogarth
Title: Scholars at a Lecture (1736)