Baggage

I carried a red backpack in the seventh grade. I can't recall where I got it, though I had older stepbrothers at the time, and I think it may have been one of their hand-me-downs.

I had everything in that bag. It became stuffed, just a mess of papers and whatnot.

Early that year they'd put us through some academic tests. I guess I did well; they put me in advanced classes almost immediately. I'd never encountered snobby kids before that. I was in those classes with little tennis-playing kids who lived on the north side, kids who played new instruments in band, unlike mine.

They criticized everything about me, from the bad sniffles I had for a while to my clothes and hair. Some of these kids went on to do something awful to a friend of mine.

A few of "us" advanced students had been placed in a gym class that was mostly kids who probably grew up to reside in state penitentiaries. Richard Hunt anyone? Craig Chizer? Casper? Kevin Lewis? How about that kid who'd seen his father commit suicide? What was his name? He sucker-punched this nice boy named Greg once, right in the nose. I didn't know so much blood could come out of a boy's nose.

So it was a strange alliance between us as we tried to stick together to survive. The snobs didn't much care for me, but at least I wasn't one of them. We really only survived because eventually, those thugs mostly ended up getting booted out of school. We simply out-lasted them.

But things were falling apart at home too. Dramatic stuff, domestic scenes, nights when we'd head out for a hotel, leaving those other people in our house. Did you see Sling Blade? There is a scene in which a woman's kids learn that, despite what they'd been promised, their mother is actually not going to finally leave abusive Doyle Hargraves (Dwight Yoakam). They're told, in fact, that they mean to mend things and spend much more time together.

Well, we had one or two scenes just like that during this time in my life.

My grades began to plummet; I didn't care about my homework. My grades were bad enough that I was kicked out of advanced band. With hardly any notice, I was sent to the moldy older band hall to play with a band that didn't compete. I was instantly first chair trumpet, and I stayed that way. Mostly we played "The Beer Barrel Polka" over and over.

In advanced science, each day when we were to review our homework, I'd just lay my head on that red backpack and wish to be... gone.

Our science teacher ended up being the superintendent some years later. Though I appreciated the fact that I was socially promoted despite failing everything that year, I didn't understand how she never found it in her heart to ask me what was going on. She died not long ago.

***

In 1986, my life was better, in a way. I was out of high school. I took a stab at junior college, but I had an attitude when the journalism teacher told me I'd get an A as long as I turned in something, anything. There wasn't even a classroom. I was supposedly there on a journalism scholarship.

I quit school. I also broke up with a girlfriend and cut my hair short.

By December of that year I made a stab at living in Surfside with my mother and her boyfriend. I was drinking Southern Comfort every night, listening to UB40, and getting into other trouble that I won't go into here.

He was newly sober, having done an inpatient spell in rehab. Every morning he'd arise, marveling at the sun rising over the Gulf of Mexico. We'd drink coffee and talk philosophy. If I am anything resembling a thinker today, I owe much of it to him. I hope he's doing okay.

That Christmas he gave me this bag.
"It's not a hint," he said with a laugh.

I stayed there about six weeks. I don't believe I've seen him since.

These days I carry my training gear in it: gloves, shin guards, that sort of thing. It's holding together nicely.

***

My mother always gave me terrific gifts, though it always felt like "undoing." Do you know this concept? It's a gesture meant to undo pain caused elsewhere. She loaded us down with an embarrassment of riches every Christmas or birthday.

She gave me this little rolling suitcase about 10 years ago.

It's been terrific. I learned long ago that picking out generic black bags from the carousel at the airport is pretty difficult. This bag is functional and highly visible. I don't speak to my mother anymore, though I have many of her gifts in my life still.

***

When I worked at Yahoo they gave me this backpack.

It's a great one, with a slot for a laptop, zippered compartments all over, and that awesome Yahoo! logo embroidered in. I'd carried a backpack to my jobs since going to UT anyway; it seemed more "me" than a briefcase.

After 18 months at Yahoo! the layoffs came. I unloaded my backpack, convinced it was some sort of loaner that I needed to leave there. It had just appeared on my desk 18 months earlier. "If you don't take that home I'll take it," said Candace.

I took it.

And it's served me well ever since. I've carried all sorts of things in it, from textbooks to files and CDs, snacks, moisturizer, and even the occasional stapler. It's my "man purse."

In the Fall of 2007, though, it began to fall apart. One zipper stopped working, and the liner began to disintegrate, leaving little black flecks on whatever I happened to put in the bag.

I just wanted it to hold on, to carry me through grad school. God, it's become such a part of me. If my keys aren't in the cabinet at home, they're on the latch in the backpack. The backpack is a significant part of my life system. I don't know what I'll do without it.

It carried me all right. We carried each other I suppose.

I'm at a new place in life now, with my degree and my new direction. Do I go ahead and make that change, maybe go with the briefcase?

I don't know.

Nothing in my life lacks meaning.