Stuff

The textbooks I use in my classes have all kinds of odd articles in them, adapted and used as a focus for different language skills. My class of kids (12-14) uses a text called Energy 4, and it's largely a desperate and woefully unsuccessful attempt at hipness. I want to write and tell them how futile that is: by the time the book is published and enters the classroom, all the songs and celebrities that they use have become old and passe, a process that happens within months, and their appearance in the book only incites disdain and boredom. A JLo song that was popular two years ago was greeted with groans and eye-rolling by my students, so why even try?
Anyway, we had a unit on everyday objects. Things in your home, etc. Language focus on describing things, shapes, sizes, colors, textures, and so on. And they had an article about a performance artist in London who destroyed everything he owned, books, clothes, furniture, appliances, everything. His purpose was to make people think about their possessions and the value they place upon them, the materialistic nature of our culture, and other arty questions.
I've been thinking about possessions and their value quite a bit since Katrina. I didn't lose everything, as many others did, and I didn't have much to begin with, largely by choice. I lost a lot of clothes that I didn't wear often, furniture that was either cheap or handed down/along, books, few of which had more than sentimental value. And of what I salvaged, most of it is stored in scattered places far from me (Mom, Kristin, I haven't forgotten, I just don't know what to do about it yet.)
I like it now. I like having a suitcase of clothes and my laptop be all I have to worry about. I've had to buy some things since I arrived, since my current apartment was only sparsely furnished, without dishes or bedding, but nothing I couldn't walk away from easily. I enjoy that feeling, light, unburdened. I miss my books, and occasionally I get tired of wearing the same clothes for the last year and a half, but those are momentary feelings and I don't dwell on them. Now, I'm not suggesting that Katrina was actually a blessing for a million Americans, relieving them of the weight of their possessions. Beyond TVs and stereos, many families lost their history, in the form of pictures and heirlooms, homes that had been theirs for generations, their place and identity in the world, networks of friends and relatives that can never be reconstructed. I listen to the NPR stories and read NOLA.com and I still cry for what was lost. But it's also true that such an event forces an evaluation of what is important, what you actually need. And it isn't the TV or stereo, or a couch or bed, or even books (though it's a poor life without them). I know this is where a grand revelation should be, the meaning of life and whatnot, "What I Learned", blah, blah, blah. I don't have one. Just that I know for sure now, it's not the stuff. The stuff is clutter, extra baggage, dead weight. It's very similar to the time when I first shaved my head. I had all this hair, and it was nice, and other people liked it, and it said something about me and I liked what it said. It had taken so long to grow, so much time and effort in its care and upkeep, I was nervous about losing that. But I did it and the only feelings I had afterward were those of freedom and relief. The old writing axiom of "Less is more" seems appropriate here, too.
None of this did I attempt to tell my kids. Too much eye-rolling. They're good kids though, smart, energetic, not too troublesome. We usually have a good time together. Some of them call me "Master Matt" and I get a kick out of that; it's sarcastic, but good-natured. And teaching them is something I can keep, as memory, that can't be blown or washed away, or stolen or broken, that's light and portable, and leaves plenty of room in my suitcase for a Hawaiian shirt or two.