ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD

Like a human cousin of the Corvid family, I was once upon a time a child who loved anything that sparkled. Mica, tinsel, brooches on ladies’ coats. I played an angel in my second grade holiday pageant, and the gilded poster-board wings hung in my closet until after I had graduated college, when my mom tactfully asked if I wanted to keep them.

I’ve got three hunks of pyrite at home that say I haven’t entirely outgrown scintillation; but I newly hate glitter. It contributes to the microplastics polluting the planet’s water and species. Many in the profession of Youth & Family Therapy espouse the making of glitter bottles as coping tools, and until recently, I was more repelled by the larger, more obvious plastic involved. Now it’s the razzle-dazzle that concerns me most. It’s the bellies of seabirds and fish that matter to me. Our health isn’t separate from theirs.

I know what it’s like to grow up in tight financial circumstances and feel a fervent longing for anything that seems to bespeak prosperity and success. I still feel some reflexive awe when recalling a cardboard crown with convincing paper gems that I could glue on where I chose. I remember the power of certain aspirational goods: name-brand sneakers, clothing, toys, and even snacks.

One of the harder parts of my job, though, is swallowing my environmental dismay to meet kids where they’re at, including acknowledging their sadness and/or excitement over things all too likely made by other kids halfway around the world. My concern is—has to be—the emotional hunger that makes conspicuous consumption so much more appealing. But sometimes I feel, as I listen, an ache for the larger world, of which my lead-free, plastic-free, glitter-free office is just one, infinitesimal part.

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January 21

 

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THE TROUBLE WITH UNICORNS

I hadn’t seen Tess in three months, and the first thing she did was take an inventory of my office: “That’s new, that’s new, that’s new, that’s new, that’s new, that’s new, that’s new.” Pointing to sand table, miniatures, artwork on the walls.

I don’t think she missed a thing, except the fluorescent-green pothos cascading splashily from the window ledge. In that way—pointing, naming—she reestablished her relationship with my space and perhaps, by extension, me. Indeed, many things had changed, herself included—she was that much taller, that much smarter, and, happily, seemingly, that much more confident.

Unaltered was my delight in her elfin presence. So earnestly did she press one of her gold-foil chocolate coins upon me, a holiday treat; so sweetly did she show off her new dress, pink and purple, patterned all around with unicorns. I smiled to see it and sang its praises. She seemed happy, and I was glad. And then suddenly I was both there, with her, and far away, in an unidentified garment factory, drearily lit, poorly ventilated, and about the furthest thing from magic.

The trouble with unicorns is not just the trouble with unicorns, but with cartoon pandas and big green trolls and talking sponges in boxer shorts. It’s the trouble with cheap t-shirts emblazoned with “Love,” denim trousers bearing swirls of silver circles—stickers meant, I guess, to look like studs. It’s the trouble with our clothes in general, as well as our toys, our tools, and those devices one might use to read this blog that count as both. Whose labor feeds our restless appetites? What working conditions support the built-in obsolescence of trends? Unicorns as symbols have had a far longer life than most corporate creations; but they, also, have become commodities. Our “magic” is, too often, predicated on misery.

I mostly try to write in tight vignettes because expanding my scope makes me self-conscious, and the more editorial my voice, the more I question its worth in a crowded media world. There are any number of people out there speaking to my values—human rights, fair trade, environmental protections, and restorative justice, to name a few—and I feel that my gift is rather to experience and communicate the depths to be found within moments in time.

At least, that’s what I aspire to do. Thus, the profundity, for me, when Tess created a scene—a vignette of her own—from my miniatures. Six months into foster care, it wasn’t clear whether she’d be placed into a home shared by her siblings; it was even less clear whether she’d be returned to her biological parents one day.

There were babies in Tess’s scene, but no parents visible. I asked where they were, and she said they slept somewhere else. “The babies can live in the doghouse for now,” she said. Her case worker, who’d brought her, intercepted my meaningful look with one of her own. My hopes for Tess intensified—a safe and stable home with brothers and sisters close; parents who get clean and make up for lost time; a secure identity as she grows. But also this: that her new dress wasn’t made by a girl her age. That no one else’s unhappiness fed her little bit of needed joy.

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Names of clients are always changed. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it. To subscribe and receive future posts, please click the “Follow” button, accompanied by a plus-sign, in the lower right corner of your computer screen. For information on supporting reduced consumerism in kids, check out the Campaign for a Commercial-Free Childhood.