SELF-CHECKOUT

I believed I was becoming accustomed to life in a self-checkout world. I had my go-to stores, the ones where I knew how to access an impersonal cash register with my Rewards Card. Knowing when to grab the handheld scanner and when to pass my box of pasta over the glass scanner allowed me to easily navigate a veritable maze of hoops meant to test whether I was aware of the latest updates.

I am a good customer. I thought I knew my role in this process.

A huge heat wave was rumbling into our part of the country just days before the 4th of July. Wise people cut their grass on Monday and hit the store on Tuesday. Everyone had fair warning that the heat and humidity would make Wednesday through the weekend horrible. 

I took my Aunt Lou to Walmart with me. She was more excited than I expected when I told her we each needed our own cart and that we would meet at the front of the store in an hour. “Oh! A whole hour! That is perfect!” she smiled as she glanced at the time on her watch.

I traveled up and down the aisles with a sense of purpose. As I stuck to my list, I did not succumb to the temptations of impulse buys. I did not need everything in the world; I just wanted the bare necessities. With fewer than twenty minutes remaining, I was wheeling through the produce section on my way to the long rows of checkout registers at the front of the store.

Aunt Lou was already finished and, seeing that I had a fairly full cart, told me to take my time. And here is where the confidence of my role in the self-checkout world changed.

Three choices were in front of me. The first, and the quickest, is the supposedly fewer-than-12-items corral. Here, a wrangler herds customers to smaller, individual troughs where people with varying degrees of self-checkout expertise can scan, bag, and exit at their own rate. But I needed space, so I passed this section.

I moved to the multiple longer aisles with the conveyor belts and larger bagging areas. I do not mind these. I like the privacy and ability to spread my stuff out before scanning. The larger bagging area is a perk I enjoy as well. If I must bag purchases on my own as someone watches me, give me room. Please, just give me room.

Unfortunately, every longer self-checkout aisle was closed. All of them. That just didn’t seem right to me, not right at all. 

In a fit of rebellion, I no longer wanted to participate in the self-checkout dance. I moved down the rows of registers, desperately looking for an open aisle where someone would be to help me. I found one. Just one. Of course, there were three other customers there, each with overflowing carts far more packed than mine. Standing here was not going to work for me either.

I had a choice. Stay and patiently wait my turn while the temperature rose outside or return to the corral. My aunt was waiting, and I wanted to get home to my dog sooner rather than later. Truth be told?  I began to resent the role I had played in this entire pact I was forced into at stores. I am ashamed that I considered just abandoning the cart out of frustration.

As I pushed my cart back towards the corral, I wondered how I became so impatient. When did I start to think waiting in line was such an inconvenience? Why couldn’t I just stand still and do some breathing exercises?

I wound my cart back into the corral like a lost cow, eyes all big as I looked for an open register, finally positioning it against a scanning machine just beside the register. I was careful to provide myself with a standing space that allowed quick access to my purchases relative to the scanner and the bagging area. I was a dejected pro, resigned to doing this the hard way. 

I could no longer see Aunt Lou. Hopefully she did not wander off too far; perhaps she found a bench or chair. I hope she didn’t get ice cream because this was going to take a while. Starting with cold items, I picked up my container of almond milk, passed its barcode over the glass, listened for the beep, and then placed it in the thin gray plastic bag. That’s one. I had a long way to go.

As I continued checking and bagging toothpaste, vitamins, and deodorant together, and began on dry items, I realized the bags would soon overflow in the area next to the scanner and that there would be no room in the cart. I could not put them on the floor, right? Nor could I put them back into the cart yet. 

The self-checkout was all becoming too much. I should have waited in the line at the other end of the store. I cannot believe I thought taking a full cart through the quick checkout was a good idea. I had made a bigger mess of everything than I anticipated.

My entire self-checkout experience had ground to a halt. I began to grow warm with embarrassment. I stood lost between the mountain I had yet to scan and the valley I had already bagged. Somewhere in the not-too-distant past, this would have been easier for me to do. Why am I so stuck?

I felt the eyes of the corral supervisor rise above her handheld device. I told myself she was judging me as I stood there, watching me as if I were a shoplifter. I also feared that a hidden camera somewhere in the scanning area was recording the manic look of my confusion. Were there people behind me who wondered what I was doing?

I was the man in the arena, stumbling and wondering how I could have done this better. The critics stood silently around in my mind, there but not there. Mere minutes seemed to last an eternity.  I wiped the dust, sweat, and blood from my face and told myself that if I were going to do this, I would need to ignore the naysayers in my mind.

I pushed the cart back out of my comfort zone so that I could try this from another angle. I pulled the remaining items from the cart and stacked them carefully on the small area to the right of the scanner. I was content to leave the bigger items in the cart. Soon, filled bags and unpurchased items sat on opposite sides of the scanner. I could do this now.

I used the hand-held scanner on a big oscillating fan box, a watermelon, and my new American flag. I went to the bottom of the cart and read every single can of beans and the jumbo jar of peanut butter I had stacked in a cardboard tray. I was breathing easier, moving more slowly with newfound purpose while putting the numerous full bags on top of these cans in the cart. In no time at all, I had finished, took a huge chunk out of my debit card, and was headed out the front door with my aunt.

“I was beginning to worry about you,” she said. “I kept looking over at you. You seemed to be getting frustrated at the register.”

“I will tell you something, Aunt Lou. You will find out when you get to be my age that all of this technology stuff is getting out of control. Sometimes I don’t even know what I am doing.”

She laughed and said, “Tell me about it.”

PIECES OF A BIGGER PICTURE

I was a little ambivalent about going to see Bruce Springsteen’s Land of Hope and Dreams show in Pittsburgh in mid-March. People on social media criticized Springsteen’s harsh words toward the current administration and its policies. Others were praising him for his inspiration about the country he knows and loves. 

I just did not know what to expect. Unfortunately, I have allowed myself to be inundated with social media posts, news programs, and articles about the state of the country, and, irrespective of my personal opinion, it has all become too much at times. The world has affected my ability to filter out the talking heads, turn the channel, or swipe the page.

So I was apprehensive about going to the show, worried that hearing one of my favorite artists vent about politics might dim any remaining positive outlook more than impersonal commentators on a news channel’s roundtable. I was wrong, though. 

Bruce was angry, yes. He channeled his anger into his music, opening with a blistering take on Edwin Starr’s "War.” Throughout the show, Springsteen would stop to criticize recent events in our country. Many people would say he was harsh and unpatriotic, while others would call him passionate and inspiring. But do you know what? He always leaves me feeling that there is some hope to be found if we just look hard enough.

Right before his song “My City of Ruins,” Bruce ended his speech with this plea:

“Honesty. Honor. Humility. Character. Truth. Compassion. 

Humanity, thoughtfulness, morality, true strength, and decency.

Don't let anybody tell you that these things don't matter anymore because they do. They are at the heart of the kind of men and women we are, the kind of citizens we want to be, and the kind of country we want to leave for our children.”

This was Springsteen’s request. We can be critical; we can disagree. That is our right as Americans. But can we retain hope? Can we latch onto that which epitomizes the traits and characteristics we value? We simply must.

I left the concert feeling better. I was surrounded by people who felt the same, people who stood and applauded the principles of our country that the Boss passionately espoused. Some voices you just listen to and feel better.

Days later, I was still recovering from an early morning return to Wheeling after the concert, and I would have enjoyed sleeping in a little longer. My two government classes had already taken their exams, and I had graded about half of them. An extra hour or two would have done wonders.

This poor student had to miss his last day of classes because of a medical emergency. Shortly before going into surgery on the day of his final exam, he emailed me to let me know he wouldn’t be there. I would have been more worried about surgery, but God has a special place for students who always remember to email teachers if they are going to miss class.

He came the day after his surgery to take the exam. So, despite a nausea patch still stuck behind his ear, he showed more energy than I did at 7:30 am, when he was waiting for me outside my door.

As he dug into his exam, he searched his Citizen’s Chronicle for answers to the questions about rights guaranteed in the Constitution. The Chronicle was a standard composition book wrapped in class stickers, quotations, and a bunch of masking tape. Inside, he found his handwritten notes, drawings, pictures, and the amazing story of Billy Rightway.

At the beginning of the school year, I was comfortably uncomfortable being retired from teaching full-time. Central called to ask if I could teach a couple of government classes this school year. I was hesitant at first. An entire year? Government? Ugh.

Betsy had a bunch of old, slightly used composition books collecting dust in her room, remnants of an APush class years ago. I made my plans, took the composition books, and decided to forgo being overly formal and go with real and gritty, maybe even messy. But the bottom line was to do something meaningful and relevant.

The students filled over 62 pages of the composition book not only with the guiding principles and laws of our country but also with their personal takes on a wide variety of topics. What does it mean to be a good citizen beyond just claiming you are one? Who are the people in your life who have modeled this for you? 

What about the Bill of Rights? Do you know what they guarantee to you? When you look around the country or watch the news, do you witness civil discourse, or do you hear insulting rhetoric? Do you feel as if your voice is heard? From this point on, what type of citizen do you wish to be?

These are just a few questions I could ask myself, ones that I thought would be good to ask my students. We walked a fine line, doing our best to objectively examine issues from multiple viewpoints and to listen as one another shared their thoughts. Then we wrote, we drew, we thought, and then we did it all over again.

That was our journey this year.

The following week, prior to graduation, I enjoyed the students’ commencement presentations. They all had an opportunity to share the reflections they had written in English class. Some offered heartfelt tributes to their parents, grandparents, and siblings, acknowledging the roles those loved ones played in shaping who they are. 

They shared elements of their own stories. One person talked about her friend, who thoughtfully created motivational sticky notes for others in the hope that their days would be good ones. Others spoke of the honor of having played a sport with classmates and referring to teammates and coaches as family.

I listened to students who talked about challenges they have fought to overcome. They bravely spoke of individual medical conditions that made every day a challenge. Many voiced the sadness they felt over losing a family member close to them or the fear they have when someone they love immensely has been fighting a battle with cancer. A quiet student told of growing more confident from time spent on the drama stage, while another retold parts of his incredible journey from war-torn Ukraine to America.

And when they were all done, each student returned to an audience that congratulated them with fist bumps and compassionate hugs, some of which were sprinkled with the tears of humanity. I witnessed a small but compelling picture of what the future can be like with the current generation.

“Don't let anybody tell you that these things don't matter anymore because they do.”

Luiso Photography