Rolling my way to social suicide

7:50 a.m.: A couple bewildered stares, some hushed tones and the blaring hum of the wheels.

8 a.m.: Caustic comments from some, a couple laughs and the blaring hum of the wheels.

12:20 p.m.: A few demeaning looks, a pity glance and the blaring hum of the wheels.

2:40 p.m.: “What is this, third grade? Who carries a roller backpack?”, a uniform stink-eye and (I may be wrong) a couple students’ spit. Oh, and the blaring hum of the wheels.

Let’s just say life is not a joy ride for those making their way around school with roller backpacks. Not only do the unwieldy bags reduce you to an unfortunate soul stuck bruising people while you attempt to wheel your “luggage” around, but they are also loud enough for everyone to hear as you make your way through the crowded hallways.

The majority of baffled looks solidified this assumption, as students peered at me pensively, wondering what sane person would deign to carry such a loud, obstructive, neon-shining beam of social suicide.

I never fully understood the declining phenomenon of roller backpacks. When did they lose their upper-crust popularity status? Until middle school, they were a prized item, personalized by your favorite color or character. However, they turn you into an ostracized anomaly in high school.

As you can see, my experience with this elementary school trend landed me the social status of a high school pariah, leaving me quite few options. I might as well have eaten lunch in the fume-infested bathroom stalls or enjoyed my tutorials hiding in the library with my latest self-help book.

Maybe that’s an extreme, but there’s more to roller backpacks than just their negative stigma. By the time students reach high school, the weight of textbooks they lug around has tripled. The glory days of math workbooks and gold stars have been replaced by the 5-pound calculus book, the equally heavy APUSH book and the notoriously heavy (on the brain and back) AP Physics book.

If students wouldn’t mind easing their thirst for social acceptance, maybe there would be less complaining of back pains and neck sprains. Already suffering from high stress level of junior year, I prefer the increase in arm muscle the roller backpack induces rather than the clearly attractive hunchback given by my normal backpack.

Even though the roller backpack had many advantages, I missed the comforting task of pulling my backpack straps. Throughout my high school career, my normal backpack, Borealis (name given by The Northface, the company that created my closest and most dependable companion), and I have become quite good friends; we each pull our own weight.

However, more than the backpack, I missed the lively chatter of the hallways. During my experiment, it was something I never heard because I was either avoiding that crowded area altogether (already a social outcast with no need to become the reason people begin finding mysterious roller scratches on their legs) or muting out everyone else with the loud, airport-esque sound of my newest accessory.

Through this experience, I solidified my generally awkward personality. The backpack was just a visible manifestation of my already peculiar character. I was, I am and I will eternally be Awkshara.