The Hidden Value of Back-to-School Shopping
· Time
One of my first school memories comes from the first day of first grade, when my German mother dropped me off with a blue paper cone stuffed with fresh school supplies and a brand-new, boxy green backpack. Peering into the cone, inside at a Staedtler eraser and a pack of gummy bears, I felt like an alien about to make first contact with my classmates at Blessed Sacrament in Johnson City, N.Y.
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Even without a Trapper Keeper, I blended in.
Americans were agog over back-to-school shopping then, as they are now. This year, the average family is projected to spend $489 per child on stationery, devices, clothing, shoes, and the latest technology for packing organic strawberries.
It's easy to dismiss our collective consumer ritual as another marketing season. Yes, it was invented by department stores selling school uniforms in the 1800s, and then turbocharged with seasonal catalogs and sales by retailers like Montgomery Ward and Sears in the century that followed. And it is a sort of pre-Halloween ritual in which we all foist new costumes on our children.
But all those new backpacks, sneakers, pencil cases, and lunch boxes do something else. They help turn our children back into students.
For two glorious summer months, we released our children from the routines and identities of school. They've spent a culturally sanctioned rumspringa at pools, beaches, and camps, in the woods, or on a Nintendo. Then, almost overnight, we thrust them back into desks, routines, homework, and a social world that is often new and uncertain.
A handful of new pencils can help.
We usually think possessions express who we are. Possessions send identity signals. Some are obvious. Owning a home makes you a homeowner. Owning a dog makes you a pet owner. A Prius says you care about climate change as much as a Ford Raptor pickup says you're ready to let the world burn.
Others are more aspirational. A set of cleats doesn't make you a soccer player, and a graphing calculator doesn't teach you calculus. But these objects signal the roles we are stepping into—to the people around us and to ourselves. Possessions can help us become someone new.
That's why transitions are so often linked to new possessions. We wear funny hats and robes when we graduate from college. Wedding rings, dresses, and tuxedos mark our transition from singlehood to married life. We furnish nurseries before our babies arrive. A suit, scrubs, or a desk can make a new professional identity feel real.
Possessions can be the bridges we need to new identities before we feel entirely comfortable inhabiting them. Having a first child is a psychedelic experience. You're handed a fragile infant and sent off to do your best. A first-year medical student is a long way from being a physician. Possessions associated with these roles help cement identities as we grow into them.
Our children often face no less dramatic transitions.
My son, who was just a giant in the familiar melee of daycare, will become a kindergartner this week in an enormous building filled with children much bigger than him. Your sixth grader is becoming a middle schooler. Or your ninth grader is starting high school. They may not yet know what role we and their peers expect them to play.
Practically, their old backpack works. And, yes, buying what you already own is expensive and wasteful. A replacement will not kindle new friendships and a sudden capacity for algebra. Teaching our children about waste and having enough are important lessons.
But the mistake is assuming that we buy possessions purely for function. An old backpack can still carry books. Shoes that fit in June may miraculously survive until September. They may also carry an old identity. To a child, they may feel like a younger self.
A transition doesn't require us to replace everything. One or two new possessions may be enough to construct the new identity. A new ring is enough for many married couples.
A new backpack, sneakers, pencil case, lunchbox, or graphing calculator is a prop for this new identity. It tells classmates and teachers, “I belong.” More importantly, it can help our children say this to themselves.