You can’t have your Amazon package and #eattherich, too.

My relationship with Jeff Bezos began in 2011.

The original Kindle Fire was released to U.S. customers in Fall 2011. I think my parents gave it to me for my birthday that year. (My birthday’s in December, so it’s hard to keep track.)

I was one of those precocious students whom teachers would describe in my report cards as “a voracious reader,” so even though I always have and always will be an analog kind of gal, my firmware-engineer father was very enthusiastic about giving me the first touchscreen, tablet-esque Kindle. (I used it, but I still prefer library books. Sorry, Dad.)

As I got older, the relationship evolved from mostly intellectual to inextricably financial.

In 2018, when I was 21, I got the Amazon Visa through Chase so I could enjoy such conveniences like:

• 2% cash-back on all the gas I used during my 80-minute, there-and-back daily commute,
• 2% cash-back on the many cocktails I consumed on Monday nights,
• and the oh-so magical 5% cash-back on the avocados I bought from Whole Foods (for which two out of three of my roommates openly mocked me).

And that wasn’t all.

I set up renewing purchases for mundane household items so I could also save 5% on boring things like sponges and never again have to leave the grocery store lugging a bottle of dishwasher soap or struggling with a cumbersome package of toilet paper. (The horror.)

Finally, I dumped him and moved back in with my parents.

It wasn’t until 2020 when I quit my corporate job, moved back in with my parents, and spent the dark winter months licking the wounds of a personal heartbreak that I finally decided to dump Jeff Bezos.

In other words, I rescinded my Prime membership.

(And no, it wasn’t just because I was living with my mom and thus no longer needed to buy my own toilet paper since she was the one heroically braving BJ’s Wholesale Club during the shortage of the COVID-19 pandemic.)

So why did I decide to cut ties with the juggernaut?

“It’s not me,” I told the Amazon customer service bot as I went through the exceedingly high number of steps to cancel my membership. “It’s you.”

Despite the loneliness, depression, and severe FOMO that consumed me during the pandemic, I had never felt so lucky.

Everyone in my family was healthy. We were in a place of financial stability. My biggest grievance was nursing a broken heart, which I did with many bowls of popcorn, many marathon nights of House, M.D., and many afternoons playing cards with my nana. (I always kept my distance, and she is alive and kicking today.)

I also spent many an hour walking, contemplating, and reading harrowing articles, such as the selection below:

• Vox | The real cost of Amazon, by Shirin Ghaffary and Jason Del Ray
• The Guardian | ‘They don’t care about safety’: Amazon workers struggle with pandemic demand, by Michael Sainato
• The Verge | Amazon’s poor treatment of workers is catching up to it during the coronavirus crisis, by Casey Newton
• NBC News | Lack of oversight and transparency leave Amazon employees in the dark on Covid-19, by April Glaser, Olivia Solon, Cyrus Farivar, Adiel Kaplan and Ezra Kaplan

As I struggled to breathe through the disposal mask my mom may or may not have bulk-ordered from Amazon, I thought to myself, “Am I the baddie?”

Soon after, I decided I really didn’t need 2-day free shipping to conveniently deliver to my door the useless things I don’t need made, packaged, and delivered by people suffering much more than me.

I wasn’t even missed.

Unsurprisingly, Amazon was unbothered by my departure.

In 2020, Amazon’s net sales totaled $386.1 billion, a 38% increase from 2019. [Source: Amazon Q4 2020 Earnings Release]

In 2021, its net sales reached $469.8 billion, a 22% increase from 2021. [Source: Amazon Q4 2021 Earnings Release]

Billionaire, bad boy Bezos

None of this information is shocking—neither the terrible accounts of worker treatment during the COVID-19 pandemic nor the astronomical sales figures.

After all, it’s pretty common knowledge that treatment of warehouse workers is deplorable. And these days, it seems everyone knows that the big tech overlords are pretty much running our lives.

Perhaps this is why, “young Americans feel more resentment toward the rich.” So says the Cato 2019 Welfare, Work, and Wealth National Survey, which also reports that among Americans under 30:

• 52% “say that ‘most’ rich people in the United States got rich ‘by taking advantage of other people”;
• 39% “believe it’s ‘immoral’ for society to allow people to become billionaires”;
• 44% “feel ‘angry’ when they read or hear about rich people.”

We all say we hate him …

It’s not just young people shaking their fists at Bezos’ super-yacht. Turns out, disapproving of billionaires is fun for the whole family:

• 70% of republicans disapprove of Bezos
• 68% of independents disapprove of Bezos
• 66% of democrats disapprove of Bezos (a 10% increase in disapproval after hearing negative messaging about him)

And as one Nation indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all (i.e., the United States), 42% of us hold “a very unfavorable view” of Bezos1. [Source: The Tech Oversight Project]

but many of us are still “running with [our] dress[es] unbuttoned screaming ‘But Daddy I love him!'”*​

So … why are we supporting his business(es), giving him so much money, and helping him fulfill his childhood dream?

• 81% of US households shop from Amazon
• The typical customer places 72 orders per year. (That’s 1-2 orders per week.) [Source: Numerator]

That’s a lot of awkwardly smiling cardboard boxes.

And growing! This year, more people than ever wanted to join Pitbull Bezos’ club: In March 2024, the number of people subscribing to Amazon Prime hit an all time high at 180 million. [Source: Transport Topics]

Why are we doing this?

Is it so awful to carry toilet paper from the store to the house? Is more than two days so unbearable to wait for a package? Is it no longer romantic to support local bookstores? Or even chain bookstores?

You can’t have your Amazon package and #eattherich, too.

We’ve all heard the meme-cry, #eattherich. Perhaps you’ve even heard it in the wild straight from the lips of a skinny-jean-clad Millennial or a baggy-trouser-sporting Zoomer. (Maybe you’ve even said it yourself.)

A lot of people like to talk smack about rich people and tech billionaires in general. (Might I direct your eyes to this piece from The Guardian by Owen Jones: Eat the rich! Why millennials and generation Z have turned their backs on capitalism.)

So some people are trying to not just talk the talk but also walk the walk: “Nearly half of Gen Z shoppers (47%) say they are actively trying to shop less with Amazon.” [Source: Chain Storage Age]

Okay. Good!

My question is … what “trying”?

Truly, what does that even mean? How does one “try” to not buy from Amazon? (You can still go ahead and buy the bloody thing if you want—just do it from another shop.)

Why so many on-again-off-again relationships with Bezos? Is there some Pitbull-lookalike fetish brewing among the kids that I don’t know about? Is there truly nowhere else to get toilet paper or books?2​

Take a cue from Nike, Shia LaBeouf, whomever you fancy, and Just (Don’t) Do It.

Or do it. You do you.

Maybe you’re among the 58% who approve of him.

1 42% AFTER hearing negative messaging about him; 30% before.

2 I promise you, there is. Like this one, which is a certified B corp and even grants you free shipping over $15.

Now go on your merry way,

Meredith

P.S. Missed last week? We covered why it feels like we have to be our own doctors.