Needful Things

Admittedly, I don’t need to carry a lot of these items around. Perhaps more than anything, the contents of my backpack are for the weekly possibilities I may encounter. I go many days not realizing they are all in there, but this is likely because I have never worked in only one room in my entire teaching career. My keys, mask, laptop, charge cable, mouse, agenda, and pens get the most frequent use. And yes, I drink tea daily. The rest range in need from weekly to rarely. Some are sojourners that I simply forget to put away, like the quarter inch cable for the music room. The iPad stores film and music projects students have completed, and those hold both practical and sentimental value as texts. The papers range from policies to student writing. They are time-sensitive until they serve their purpose, after which they are recycled; they are filed or shredded in the case of confidential documents.

Items as “Texts”

The objects in this bag reflect my well-intended, and sometimes unrealistic, goals for the day and week. I first considered the contents of my bag more as artifacts or exhibits—a kind of evidence of my work existence. The activities associated with these items evoke the etymological meanings of text as “birthing” or “creating” something, because I use these objects in an ongoing process of constructing relevant content for secondary school students.

The work-issued laptop and iPad are, in part, marketing tools for potentially fickle clients who are skeptical of the relevance of what I have to offer. That laptop has become my most essential item. As a text, it communicates my striving to connect with and share ideas with students, parents, and colleagues. Because of COVID 19 guidelines, I attend a weekly meeting on Microsoft Teams from a desk with relatively little disruption, thanks to the (tangled) headphones. I think of activities as in-person and virtual. Increasingly, these objects afford greater opportunities for screen-based connections with others, while simultaneously reinforcing physical distance or isolation. It is remarkable to consider just how diminished face-to-face interactions have become due to both digital technology and health protocols.

On “Text Technologies”

The pens and paper are easily recognizable traditional text technologies, but so are the laptop and phone, and iPad. They are both tools of creating texts and texts in and of themselves that speak to my professional identity and role. The digital devices’ existence communicates my socioeconomic position and the extent to which I identify with trends in personal electronics. The older version iPhone and wired headphones, for instance, are on the verge of (manufactured) perceived obsolescence. The physical and digital communication tools indicate the potential I have for creating alphanumeric (print), audiovisual, or multimedia texts that can be shared privately or publicly.

On Literacies

The contents of the paper and digital texts reveal my reading and writing literacy, musical literacy, and broader digital literacies, which include create visual, audio, and various software-based texts). They reveal the extent to which I consume and produce texts, which reflect my education, as well as my professional and personal experiences.

External vs. Internal

The contents of my backpack tell a story of finite time and energy, and of the uncertainty with which, after twenty years of teaching, I still carry out my job. There is a paradoxical impermanence to the texts I create and consume: while vast digital storage exists, the ease with which texts can be made, consumed, or modified renders the files far less “sacred” or relevant, given enough time. If the distinct pen strokes on paper speak to the identity of a text creator, the traits of a digitally created text rely on more deeply embedded characteristics of voice and style. But even these may be altered convincingly, as is the case with audiovisual editing tools that allow a kind of digital puppetry of a person’s body and voice.

The bag itself speaks to the differences between my outwardly projected image and what this image narrates. I consider myself to versatile, adaptable, and forward-looking in my role as a teacher.  The backpack reinforces this and an image of self-reliance. I often commute by bicycle to my school; within the building, I work in at least three locations daily. The building has three floors and two additional detached buildings, which makes a backpack the most convenient choice for me. The drawback of its size and design is that it can reach a point where I cannot easily find items in it. I’m sure Marie Kondo would deliver (with a joyful smile) firm words of rebuke if asked her opinion. The internal contents indicate that I simultaneously navigate physical and digital environments—each of which has boundaries between personal and professional life. The stickers on my laptop suggest informality and (hopefully) approachability. I also wish to be perceived as capable, prepared, and innovative in my practice. A look at my digital filing might contradict this!

The photograph reminds me of survival kit diagrams in old Boy Scout manuals—even their iconic “Be Prepared” slogan. For me, “survival” is an exaggerated metaphor for the unanticipated surprises I encounter daily while teaching adolescents.

Looking Back

I started my career as a supply teacher in London, UK. The role was, by definition, transient, and I traveled all over the city to work. I had pens, paper, and an indispensable city map book. My monthly transit pass, wallet, and apartment keys were my most guarded possessions. Absent were any sort of mobile phone, iPad, laptop, mask or hand sanitizer. I relied on a landline where I lived, and I marveled at how many kids had their own phone. Truth and Reconciliation had been taking place in South Africa, but not in Canada. Absent from my bag then: laptop, phone, iPad, and in-ear headphones. I owned none of these things because they seemed expensive and decadent. I barely survived my year there, as it was the most difficult environment I have ever worked in as a teacher.

An Archeologist Finds a Backpack

I imagine an archeologist looking back at the mask and hand sanitizer as quaint devices of personal hygiene used to limit the spread of a disease that was be mild compared to what came later. The alphanumeric keys on the laptop and mobile devices juxtaposed with pens and paper—some of which has photocopy ink—would indicate the period of technological transition people were in on at least two fronts. First, there is the transition from physical to digital; second, there is the transition from disk drive to cloud-based storage. More significant will be the materials themselves: the disposable plastics, metals, and wood fibres be indicative of a privileged culture that recklessly exploited and consumed resources at great environmental cost. The array of digital devices would speak to the owner’s relative privilege or professional status –and reliance on web-based interactions.