It’s the fifth visit to my boyfriend’s parents, and after cycling quite a distance, we step into the house in our sports clothes. I know a shower would do me good, but I don’t feel particularly dirty. As we make our way to the kitchen, I catch sight of my partner’s mother quickly grabbing a mop from the corner and starting to clean a few metres behind us. When I turn around, she looks a bit flustered. I stare at my partner in disbelief.
Reflecting on this incident, I can’t help but think of Derrida and Dufourmantelle (2000). They discuss a paradox within the concept of hospitality. They suggest that, while we might believe we can offer complete hospitality, there is always a boundary that limits it. “[…] this is mine, I am at home, you are welcome in my home, without any implication of ‘make yourself at home’ but on condition that you observe the rules of hospitality by respecting the being-at-home of my home, the being-itself of what I am.”[1] When someone starts cleaning behind me, I feel that boundary quite clearly. Unintentionally, I have crossed an important rule: hygiene.
What I experience sensorially is interesting. A subtle discomfort - which already is perceptible due to the cleanliness of this particular environment - is heightened by this incident. Suddenly, my body feels too large for the space. I can feel how sweaty and clammy my feet are. My body odour seems suddenly much more intrusive.
In the book A Philosophy of Dirt, Lagerspetz (2018) cites that "a human being secretes roughly 50 grams of dirt each day. Consisting of 38 grams of fat, 2 grams of skin, 10 grams of sweat, and a couple of grams of other secretions."[2] According to Lagerspetz (2018), these numbers should be nuanced: the information is based on an analysis of particles found on clothing. But perhaps the mother’s concern about our hygiene is justified. Undoubtedly, my partner and I leave countless flakes, hairs, and other small particles behind from the moment we enter. I imagine these drifting through the air, settling in every corner and crevice as we move through the house. I am slowly disintegrating, just like the cushions on the sofa, the tablecloth, and other soft, fibrous objects.
When I check the source about how much dirt a person loses each day, I discover that some brands cleverly use these figures to their advantage. A site that appears during a quick Google search sells cleaning products and cites the same information.[3] On the website, the everyday process of shedding bodily dirt is presented as disgusting. Fortunately, I’m assured that the advertised cleaning solutions can help me tackle this enormous obstacle in my life.
Within scientific studies, other connections are made regarding household dirt, referred to as the ‘hygiene hypotheses’.[4] This hypothesis suggests that an environment that is too clean and offers insufficient exposure to bacteria and other microorganisms may contribute to a weakened immune system and an increased risk of allergies and autoimmune diseases. While the hygiene hypothesis is debated, it seems plausible that there is a link between overly clean environments and allergies.
What strikes me about the incident at my partner’s parents’ house is that I suddenly feel like a contaminating object. As individuals, we never want to be associated with being ‘dirty’. I recall a high school classmate who was bullied because some people considered their hygiene inadequate. Social exclusion driven by disgust undoubtedly has a profound impact on a person's self-esteem. Lagerspetz (2018) questions at what moment dirt becomes something foreign to the body, particularly when it so recently was a part of you. There seems to be a stark division: clean versus dirty. Yet, this distinction is deeply personal. Our perception of dirt is relative and can differ from one individual to another, from one culture to the next. "It exists in the eye of the beholder."[5] The perception of cleanliness of my boyfriend’s mother may not necessarily align with my own.
Cleanliness and Disgust
There is an ongoing concern for maintaining a tidy, fresh, and clean environment. Socially, when preparing for guests, some people quickly grab the vacuum cleaner, while others wipe down the toilet and spray a refreshing scent. Nussbaum (2000) suggests that this concern reflects a tendency that is fundamentally hostile to life.[6] In her essay “[lv1] Secret sewers of vice. The Passions of Law.”, she analyses the concept of disgust, linking our fixation on cleanliness to a broader rejection of our embodied, animal nature. Nussbaum explains that disgust is a response to the perceived threat posed by dirty or harmful substances to our bodies, acting as a defence mechanism against contamination or the intrusion of unwanted elements.
However, disgust is not merely a physical response; it carries cultural dimensions that shape our beliefs about dirt and judgement. According to Nussbaum, disgust functions as a symbolic mechanism to distance ourselves from things we perceive as inferior or contaminating. These associations are especially problematic because they can lead to viewing certain groups of people as lesser or not fully human. Nussbaum concludes that the remedy lies in embracing the body in its entirety, including all its fluids. I find myself wondering how we might begin to celebrate our flakes, hairs, and boogers.
Our relationship with a clean, dust-free environment is likely to become even more pronounced, as reflected in the steady stream of new cleaning equipment and household products. Currently, there are over 110 brands manufacturing vacuum cleaners, each offering a variety of models tailored to different needs.[7] In 1907, James Murray Spangler invented the first portable electric vacuum cleaner. Initially a luxury item, it gradually became a household staple. Since the 1920s, vacuum cleaner models have been widely available, fundamentally transforming domestic life and the way we maintain cleanliness in our homes. The vacuum cleaner represents a departure from that past, signifying a transition to a world where neatness, cleanliness, and control are paramount. We eliminate dust not only because it clutters surfaces but also because it disturbs our fundamental desire for order. For instance, my dog's hair always catches my attention, standing out like a glaring imperfection.
I remember being quite pleased with our first vacuum cleaner, a cheap model we bought from the local electronics store in Boxtel. It cost around 60 euros at the time, and I recall appreciating its affordability. I think everyone has had a similar basic model at some point. We only upgraded to a more expensive one when we got a dog. Lately, robot vacuum cleaners, with their growing popularity, have started replacing traditional vacuums. Some of my friends even boast about theirs, giving them affectionate, stereotypical names like ‘Dini’ or ‘Berta’. When they leave our house, my partner and I exchange curious glances: is that something we should consider? It certainly feels like the logical next step once our current vacuum gives out (...isn’t it already due for replacement?).
Epilogue
Dust forms when materials, objects, and bodies gradually break down and disperse. It is closely tied to decay, representing the disintegration of what was once whole. Composed of particles from various sources, dust is a heterogeneous mix where the original cohesion has been fractured or dissolved. The vacuum cleaner gathers this random assortment of particles. At times, society feels just as haphazard to me—a place where things, people, and objects converge without any clear purpose. Take an IKEA, for example: amidst thousands of visitors each day, you walk the same paths, browsing the same furniture. You have no real connection to those around you; they are merely background figures. Occasionally, you might pass a family with noisy children or a young couple engaging in playful antics. You coexist without truly connecting. The same experience applies at the Efteling, where I find myself among hundreds of thousands of visitors: everyone has their own unique day and experience, yet you share the specific space with countless others. There’s no real sense of community within the crowd. At best, you might strike up a conversation in line, but you often find yourself focused on your own companions. All those unique experiences are, in a sense, filtered through the park’s entrances, forming a grey mass where you, as an individual, become just another part of the crowd—much like a speck of dust being sucked up by the vacuum cleaner.
If you were to view society as the contents of a vacuum cleaner, what is expected of me? What do I have in common with all those other particles, flakes, hairs, boogers, microbes, and remnants of things? While we are defined by our differences—between rich or poor, together or alone, newcomers or long-timers, the colour of my skin, the shape of my eyes, whether I am too heavy or too thin, what I own... even what brand of vacuum cleaner I use...
[1] Derrida, J. and Dufourmantelle, A. (2000). Of Hospitality. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press.
[2] Lagerspetz, O. (2018). A philosophy of dirt. Reaktion Books.
[4] Rook, G.A.W. (2009). "Hygiene hypothesis and autoimmune disease." Clinical Reviews in Allergy & Immunology, 35(1), 23-27.
[5] Douglas, M. (2003). Purity and danger: An analysis of concepts of pollution and taboo. Routledge.
[6] Nussbaum, M. (2000). Secret sewers of vice. The Passions of Law. New York University Press, New York and London.
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