When I dump out my bag, the story it tells is fairly straightforward: I’m a teacher, a student, and someone who’s regularly on the go. My MacBook and iPad are the heart of much of the work I do; they’re ready when I plan lessons, write papers, and keep me connected. These are my main text technologies, tools that let me read, write, and communicate in ways that would have been impossible a generation ago. My AirPods let me move through the day with podcasts, music, or the occasional phone call, and of course I never go far without a charger, not just to stay prepared myself, but also to help colleagues or friends when their batteries need attention.

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Mixed in with the devices are some everyday essentials: a granola bar for those long stretches between meals and my glasses, which I can’t function without. My teacher ID card feels like a badge of identity, it literally gives me access to my school, but it also represents the community I belong to and the role I play in it. These items remind me that literacy isn’t just about words and screens; it’s about navigating spaces, balancing roles, and carrying the right resources with you.

And then there’s the oddball item: a plastic toy spatula. It doesn’t exactly scream “professional,” but it says a lot about me. It’s playful, personal, and a reminder that I don’t move through the world only as a teacher or student but that I’m also part of a family, and those pieces of my life sneak into my bag (and into my day) whether I plan it or not.

That’s where the contrast between public and private really shows up. On the surface, someone seeing me with my ID card and laptop might assume my identity is purely academic or professional with little understanding of my home life. But when the bag is open, the picture changes. The spatula tells a different kind of story, one that’s less polished, more personal, and harder to guess from the outside. It suggests that while I project a certain image to my students and colleagues, the private reality is more layered, blending work with family, structure with play.

If you looked in this same bag 20 years ago, you’d probably find notebooks, pens, and maybe a discman with tattered wired earbuds instead of sleek compact devices. I like to think that swap, from paper and physical music to tablets and digital streaming, demonstrates how our everyday literacies have shifted. A future archaeologist might find this collection of objects and immediately recognize the technology-dependence of our time, but I wonder what they’d make of the spatula. Maybe it would puzzle them, or maybe they’d see it as the most human artifact in the whole bag.