How to Pack an Identity into a Bag

My burgeoning backpack has me feeling kind of ridiculous. Chris has talked, literally, for a year about what he is planning to pack. His backpack houses our training gear, emergency preparedness kit, two laptops, all the chargers, everything he plans to wear in cold weather and warm. What does mine have? My clothes. Oh, and it makes a token nod to supporting the family effort, having painstakingly squeezed in Chris’ hat and gloves and the toiletry bag. Wait…I forgot to pack my gi….  *Ahem* Who else could maybe be in charge of the shampoo?

This process of letting material possessions go has been wonderful for me. An abundance of time magically appeared in my day-to-day being once I removed the need to shuffle stuff around. So, what is it about clothes that has me a wee bit stuck? 

It’s an old trait. My mom reminded me that, on a high school choir trip to Europe that required miles of walking every day, I insisted on packing the shiny beetle-green boots that made my feet hurt. I still have vivid memories of climbing on top of that old red suitcase to make it swallow my twenty different outfits for a ten-day tour.

I know it’s vanity—I can’t pretend otherwise. Mindfully mining for all my clothes in secondhand stores can’t hide the fact that I am clinging to the shallow goal of looking good. In college, amongst a sea of drab-colored-fleece-wearing Pacific Northwesterners, I was known as “the girl who wears every color of the rainbow.” I liked that identity. In my mind, it made me cool. *Sigh* Will I ever stop caring about being cool? Isn’t this trip supposed to be about molting old identities to find the virtue that lies waiting underneath?

Confessing all this truth has me feeling a bit naked.

I chanced to find a wee bit of encouragement while reading Mary Poppins on the floor of the crowded Chinese visa office, “Mary Poppins was very vain and liked to look her best. Indeed, she was quite sure that she never looked anything else.” She may be a literary figment, but for me, Ms. Poppins captures a desirable essence of character. She is both magical and practical, she knows about everything, and discerns truth where others cannot, all while lovingly caring for a family. Perhaps vainly displaying that remarkable parrot-head umbrella wherever she goes is an essential part of her recipe? I wonder.  

Maybe I’m struggling because clothes are my tie to the past. For me, they make a photograph of the times when no camera was present. I still remember that when Chris proposed to me I was wearing the black pleated wool skirt that I bought as a student in the Ecuadorian highlands. That brown dress with the butterflies? I got an award for soprano section leader while wearing that dress. My gold pants walk me back to many joyful weddings and the old faded bathrobe cloaks me in intimate memories of late nights as a new mother.

Identity, vanity, memory… I think I’m getting somewhere. Or am I? Seriously, what am I actually going to pack in this bag?

I decided to take a concrete approach, mathematical. First, I set aside the no-question necessities: the martial arts uniform, exercise clothes, warm fleece, rain jacket, and a thermal vest. Then, laying out all the skirts/pants/shorts and all the tanks/tees/long-sleeves, I gave them each a sticker. One by one, I counted how many tops coordinated with a given bottom and marked the sticker with a number representing a grade in versatility. After repeating this process for every item, I lined them up from least to most practical. Aha! Like a detective cracking a code, I rejoiced in discovering that the yellow African print pants, fluorescent pink hoodie, and translucent blue floral blouse are not worth packing. What was at the top? Truth does offer some comedic quirks sometimes—highest on the practicality list were precisely the black pants and black shirt that my more pragmatic husband would pack. 

In the end, Mary Poppins, I think your care-taking, smartly-clothed character would be proud. I successfully packed every color of the rainbow AND the toiletries AND my gi, and I think there is room for the med-kit besides. “For a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hmmmmm….”