I posted a photo of a bag I carry whenever I go out for errands. The items are simple and practical: a wallet with cards, some cash, and a small temple charm from Japan; a pen; a small notebook; loose paper for practicing Japanese; AirPods; a comb; a solid perfume; makeup; mouth freshener; a mask; Band-Aids; and a pair of Pilates socks. None of these items feels especially meaningful on its own. But they show how I move through everyday life and how I try to stay prepared and adaptable.
Most of the items in my bag support daily needs. I carry them so I can write thoughts down, take care of myself, and move comfortably between different spaces. I always carry a notebook and a pen. When I have a short break, even for half an hour, I often find a coffee shop to take notes on readings or practice my handwriting. The loose paper is there for practicing Japanese, a language I recently began to learn. Although I use digital tools alongside paper, especially when reading course materials or books too heavy to carry around. I prefer to think and write on paper, and writing by hand slows me down. It helps me focus and gives my thoughts a physical form. For me, the notebook and pen are important text technologies because they shape how I engage with language and learning.
Some of the items in my bag also connect to larger cultural and technological systems. The temple charm comes from Japan, where I will be moving for family reasons. It carries cultural meaning, even if I do not actively think about it each day. The loose paper used for practicing Japanese reflects learning as an ongoing process rather than an achievement. Other items, such as AirPods and cards, connect to digital systems of communication, identification, and access that are part of everyday life but often stay invisible.
The contents of my bag reflect many forms of literacy. These include handwritten literacy, digital listening and communication, and language learning. These literacies are not always visible from the outside. Outwardly, the bag may appear organized and composed. Privately, its contents reflect someone still forming an identity. I hold many roles: mother, wife, daughter, and someone preparing for future academic work. Yet I am still trying to understand what identity belongs to me alone. At times, I am unsure whether my bag represents a clear identity at all, or whether it simply reflects this in-between stage of becoming.
What stands out to me is how little my bag has changed over time. I have carried similar items since I was in high school, even though I cannot clearly remember what my bag looked like. This continuity shows that while my roles and responsibilities have shifted, the tools I rely on to think, learn, and care for myself have remained mostly the same.
If someone were to study this bag in the future, they might see it as evidence of a transitional moment (although I cannot imagine a world without handwritten texts). It reflects a period when people still relied on handwritten notes alongside digital and wireless systems, and when learning and daily life were supported by small, portable objects. In this way, my bag tells a quiet story: not who I want to be, but who I am slowly becoming through ordinary, everyday practices.