“Learning is ever in the freshness of its youth, even for the old.” —Aeschylus

 

On an August day so hot even the television meteorologists had run out of words to describe it—“sweltering” no longer seemed to do the heat justice—I joined throngs of suburban women rushing to our neighborhood Target in search of school supplies. As we lunged for three-ring binders, lined notebooks, and multi-colored highlighters, I might have looked like any other well-intentioned mother readying Junior for his upcoming year in the classroom. The difference in my case is that the coveted school supplies were for me. At 45, I found myself back on campus, this time in pursuit of a master’s degree in theology.

Of course, more than the fashions have changed since I matriculated at Millsaps College and Ole Miss in the 1980s. Now kids today—they all look so young to me…maybe because they are young—have laptops for taking notes and mini-recorders for taping lectures. When they meet for lunch in the cafeteria, they send instant messages to one another while munching on tofu and granola. There are a few other “second career” students like me, meaning “over 30,” and we huddle together in the corner for solidarity, sipping on diet sodas and screaming into our cell phones because we don’t quite yet trust the technology.

At Target, as I threw such antiquated items as marbled composition books and number-two pencils into my shopping cart, I stopped short when I came upon the crayons.

Each fall, when Mother would take me to buy school supplies in preparation for a new school year at Hattie Casey Elementary School, and later at Jackson Academy, my chubby hands would inevitably be drawn to the 64 Crayola crayons, the box with the sharpener built right into the back. Just as predictable was Mother’s reaction: “Put those back, Sweetheart. There are people starving in third-world countries.” Apparently Mother thought 16 crayons were plenty when such havoc was being wreaked on the other side of the world. Who needs burnt sienna when plain old orange will do?

“I never understood that logic,” my father would tell me when I relayed my crayon-deprived existence to him. “Your Grandmother Lyles did that same thing to me, too. We’d be having dinner at her house in Oxford and she’d day, ‘Earl, don’t leave anything on your plate. There are people starving in third-world countries.’ I knew that to be true,” Daddy would say. “And I was sorry about it. But I did not understand how I was supposed to get my leftover lima beans to the people in need.”

Back then, I don’t think I had any idea what a third-world country was. And even if I had known about Bangladesh or Nepal, I feel sure I hadn’t a clue what the hungry people there had to do with my learning to draw stick figures in Hinds County, Mississippi.

“All my friends have this kind,” I would say to her Mother, mooning over the box of 64 and hoping the threat of potential ostracization at school might cause her to see the light and give me what I surely deserved.

“I can’t help that,” Mother would say as she turned toward the notebooks that had been marked down for quick sale. “There will always be someone with more than you,” she’d add, pausing for emphasis. “And someone with less.”

Today I’m a bit better informed about the plight of people in developing countries through my volunteering with Ten Thousand Villages, a network of more than 100 fair-trade stores across North America providing vital, fair income to artisans in Africa, Asia and Latin America. Ten Thousand Villages markets handcrafted home decor and gift items from more than 110 artisan groups in 32 countries.

“Back in my day,” my stepdaughter tells me one afternoon—she’s 21—“they had all our school supplies in sacks for us at the Jitney Fourteen grocery store. Everything you needed was included, depending on what grade you were entering. You just had to pick up your sack and that was that.”

That certainly sounds convenient, but I suspect I would have missed the thrill of the hunt for the most colorful plastic ruler or the shiniest protractor. There is something about sharpened pencils and crisp legal pads that instills me with renewed energy and heightened curiosity. I suspect I will be buying them long after I collect my graduate school diploma.

It’s a good thing Mother wasn’t with me when U went shopping for the most recent round of school supplies. Now Crayola offers erasable crayons, washable crayon pens, and all sorts of other high-tech varieties of waxy hues. There’s even—gasp—a keepsake box of 120 crayons with a free surprise inside.

What would Mother have to say about such unnecessary decadence? Before I left myself imagine the answer, I threw the box of 64 into my cart. What Mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

 

Copyright 2008, Amy Lyles Wilson