On Tote Bag Theory

(in which the author only hints at talking about iPads in education, but promises that he will -- eventually)

When I was in the Middle School I used to walk my teachers to their cars pretty much every afternoon. I was that nerdy kid with the girl's[1] haircut that hung out in his teachers' rooms after school (or pretty much any other time I had a chance) and as such when they wanted more than anything just to get me out of their room and get themselves on to their own lives they'd say, "Mike -- want to be my big helper?' and I'd say yes, of course, because that’s what I wanted more than anything^[2], and then the two of us would clomp through the school with like four of those green LL Bean tote bags each stuffed to the point of exhaustion out to some maroon Volvo in the Middle School parking lot. We’d spend a few minutes stacking everything in careful enough piles that – with a little luck – nothing would topple over, and almost inevitably the teacher would sort of grimace and say, “I don’t know how I’m going to get all of this in my house.” Then they’d head off with a wave and I’d be left standing in the parking lot wondering what would happen if they opened a car window on the way home.

That was the price of being a teacher – the burden of tote bags. I sort of understood it then, and I certainly understood it fifteen years later when I too was a teacher buried beneath the impossible weight of my own stuff: two LL Bean tote bags of my own, a brown paper shopping bag, a laptop bag, a thermos, two sets of keys, my cell-phone, my lunch bag, my badge, my coffee, etc. etc. As such, one morning in the school parking lot I had one of those "I need to quit my job and work in a pizza joint" moments that served as an indicator of a creeping unhappiness not-quite-job-related: in this case, it was “stuff” related. Not that my stuff wasn't organized (because in a vague, perhaps unrecognizable way, it was); not that I didn't love my job (because in every way I did); I just didn't have the energy to match the kind of system-wide resistance all my stuff had created for me. So I did what we all do at least once in our professional lives -- I just sort of sat in my car and thought about how awesome it would be to never get out[3].

Eventually I did make it out of the car -- people were starting to stare -- but I decided, at least for one day, to just leave everything in my car and see what happened. I brought with me my keys, my wallet, my coffee, and nothing else. And it was fantastic. I felt light, agile, smart, dexterous and awake. For the first time since the first day of school I knew what I was responsible for, and where it all was.

That was the last day I let a tote bag in my car[4].

*

I think we’ve all had that moment of organizational revelation/liberation at work -- David Allen^[5] argues that we feel it most often right before we leave for vacation, when we’re forced most to confront and resolve our loose ends -- but I’m not sure my students ever really do. Some of that is their fault -- it’s because they’re kids and cultivating personal organizational skills fall pretty low on their list of priorities when compared to, you know, worrying about how you look, how you feel, whether (person x) likes you, whether or not your pants actually fit you, if there’s anything stuck to your face, why your parents said "that thing" this morning, etc. But some of it is our fault, too -- we overwhelm our students^[6] massively with paperwork, we constantly re-manipulate their schedules in major and minor ways, we load them up on materials of pretty serious mass and magnitude, and -- without any kind of professional coaching whatsoever -- expect them to manage it all. Strangely enough, they’ve all developed a pretty familiar coping mechanism: a really huge bag (these, on wheels[7]) that they drag with them everywhere they go. Thus the circle is complete.

I’m lucky to work in a pretty amazing school and luckier still to be on the inside edge of a set of discussions about technology in the classroom generally, and 1:1 programs specifically. Though there are innumerable devices out in the world that can “do” any number of technologically intriguing things^[8], I find myself becoming more interested in what a device can “remove” from my students lives: the clutter, the confusion, the psychic muddiness, those ridiculous backpacks-on-wheels. My classroom is a better place when it is a place of stewardship and engagement and diction and energy, and my sense is the distractions of the world are at near constant odds with my wants as a teacher. Put another way, this: the device I want in my classroom is the one that keeps my students organized and clear, and keeps their attention where it needs most to be – on each other.

---

[1] Apologies for the gender coding, but this is true: the first time I went to camp, a young boy – who was just genuinely trying to be helpful – pointed to the “girls” side of the property and told me I’d find my kind over there. It was there haircut.

^[2] This was for one of three reasons: a. I was really into playing this futuristic role-playing game called “Star Frontiers” back then and since no-one else ever wanted to play with me I was often stuck trying to figure out how to kill time until I could go home; b. I thought in the back of my mind I was going to become a teacher and as such I was hoping an older teacher might let me take a look at a gradebook (which I was so fascinated by I’d make up my own if I found a spare piece of graphing paper); or c. I badly misunderstood “cool” and was pretty sure if my middle school teachers liked me I was well on my way up the social hierarchy of my class.

[3] And then – as I always end up doing – I imagine how awesome it would be to deliver pizza. Because in my head all that would entail would be, you know, listening to music and eating pizza.

[4] I’m serious: I put them both in a chiminea and “freed” them. Quick note to the reader: tote bags do not burn anywhere near as well as you might hope.

^[5] I’m writing this while wearing a “Team David” tee-shirt. In my head, there’s “Team David” and “Team Franklin” and it gets ugly when we’re all in the same room.

^[6] Here I’d argue, “And as such, ourselves”

[7] The saddest thing I’ve heard at school all year: a parent watching her third grader walking into school with one of those things dragging behind her said, “It’s like she’s already commuting to work”.

^[8] And each with their own cult like set of devotees, I might add.