Personal Essay 2: My Backpack

When I was a freshman in highschool my mom got me a backpack for my birthday. Back then I never thought that this backpack would mean anything to me other than a really nice bag to hold my really heavy books and binders for the rest of my education career. This backpack was no ordinary backpack. To me it was something that I could use to fit in at school, because everyone had this backpack. I never thought when I got this backpack about the relationship I would form with, the things I would do, and the places I would go.

The day I got my backpack as a gift I remember how brand-new it looked. It was a light baby blue and grey North Face, with perfect shiny reflectors on the top and bottom of the face of the bag. At the beginning I treated it with such delicacy so I wouldn’t ruin its beautiful aesthetic. As the year went on I became more unaware of the delicacy of the bag. It was thin and tough, like an unworn pair of shoes. With every frustrating day, it was thrown onto the floor of the kitchen, or into a wall in my bedroom. It was stuffed full to the brim with the many things I needed every day. It endured the abuse to the best of its ability each and every day.

It was used for a whole week stays where I would throw whatever pile of summer clothes was at my reach. It endured summers at the lake and days at the beach, full of sand, salt, and critters. One summer the whole thing ended up in the lake, bobbing like a little kid in a life jacket. Day trips and hikes through the woods to secret spots I would make lunches and hope the sandwiches and fruit would stay in their place (for the food’s sake).

I’m an adventurer and I like to think that my backpack is too. My first time out of the country was the summer of 2014 after my junior year of high school. The trip was a month long, and I lived out of my backpack and a duffle bag. At some points I was living just out of my backpack for days at a time. Boy can I tell you that thing had never smelled worse before this trip. My backpack survived four days in Buenos Aires, which gave it the aroma of sugar roasted street peanuts and cigarettes. On the other side of the country in Salta, I lived with a family. Every day I rode the public bus to get to “school”, brought my backpack with me to whichever activity was that day. The first week of community service was composed of restoring an old historical church by cleaning out the upper rooms of all the old artifacts and trash, along with the piles of dirt and dust that was swept out into dumpsters – and into my bag. Then came the painting. We painted at three sites. The first was the church, second was a center for children with cerebral palsy, and the third was an old rural park. No matter how far away my backpack was from paint, it accumulated about a whole can onto the outside, making it look like a gratified wall.

The rest of the trip was full of traveling, hiking, sun, food, horses, sweat and dirt that was all beautifully reflected onto my backpack in a thick coating of the color brown. When I returned home my mom suggested that we throw the backpack away. The stench and color mortified her as she wondered what the hell she possibly let me do for the past month. I shook off her expression and threw my bag in the wash – with a little extra detergent it was good to go.

Six months later I went on a service trip to Costa Rica where I practically lived out of the bag once again. Although compared to the last trip the heat and humidity sped up the filth process by the second day. It was on my back 24/7. Through airports and busy streets, to schools and community centers, hiking, swimming, and everything in between – the thick coat of brown had returned and once again upon arriving at home, with the same mortified expression on my mom’s face, I threw the bag into the wash and it was ready for school the next day.

A few months later I started college at the University of Limerick in Ireland. This bag provided shelter for my belongings with every downpour for my walk to class, and every trip I took throughout Europe. It walked with me through the historic streets of Dublin and Galway, and on the Cliffs of Moher. It made it on trips in the tube in London, metro stations in Paris and Rome, and the beaches of Barcelona.

Today my backpack is stretched out so much that it sags at the base and around all of the zippers. It is still that baby blue color, but with a hint of grey and brown dirt stains in all of the crevasse. It’s missing two zippers and can no longer withstand more than five minutes in the rain. This backpack has been around the world and back with me (literally). I have made some of the best friends and the most amazing memories while wearing this on my shoulders. I wouldn’t want it any other way with my beat up, stretched, and discolored mess of a backpack.