I Carry (Sunday Scribbling #85)

Hefting my purse onto the teacher's desk, I hear the thunk and the inevitable question: "What do you have in there, Mrs. McLean?" And, because I got to class early and I'm actually ready to start and we have about seven minutes left in the break, I decide to play show and tell.

It's not technically a "purse", but is more like a travel tote, a square piece of manufactured black nylon that is nearly as thick as it is wide. It is my constant companion.

"Well," I begin, opening up the back pocket, "here's my wallet, and my keys, a few Advil Migraine, and a leftover mint from Boston Pizza ..."

The student is staring at me, as if she can't quite believe that I'm really doing this. After all, aren't teachers bound by some sort of sacred vow, to remain mysterious? Aloof? Don't they really just lurk around the school after the last bell of the day rings?

I reach into one of the "hidden" pockets and pull out a requisition for blood tests, conveniently forgotten due to my intense phobia of sharp metal objects jabbing into me, and bundled in with it is a credit card slip for a scrapbooking magazine. Figures. Surprised I only bought one, actually.

The zippered pocket on the front flap is definitive teacher territory: seven pens (some working and some not), two mechanical pencils, and an ominously-empty open plastic lead refill container. There are also two buttons that proudly proclaim, "I'm a McLean!", a small zippy bag of Tylenol, and my classroom keys on a lanyard.

Under the front flap is the main section of the bag. In the pockets on the side are my cell phone (always with the ringer off -- I never remember to turn it on at 3:20 pm) and yet more pens.

And then ... Opening the zipper at the top reveals the Inner Sanctum and The Three Things I Will Not Leave the House Without.

"You have a camera in there?" The student is beginning to believe that she is witnessing the real life incarnation of Mary Poppins' carpet bag.

I nod, putting my Panasonic FZ-5 on the desk, trying to keep my face neutral, per the Secret Society of Substitute Teachers. "Yes. And this is my computer." I pull the Palm LifeDrive out of its faux-leather sleeve and turn it on, and then, slowly, savouring the sight of the student's bulging gaze, I unfold the wireless keyboard and put them together. (I always love that part.)

"You never know what you might need, or when you might need it," I explain.

The student nods slowly, then turns away, leaving me to decide if this has been a "teachable moment", or merely a glimpse into my own fabricated insanity. Either way, the bell is about to ring.