A Personal Affront

“Clear bags and clutches only!” I repeated often as guests emerged from the parking garage. 

It was my first Friday, my first Niner Commencement. 

The ceremony started at 3 p.m. I reported for duty at 1 and went to my post at the West Deck entrance shortly thereafter. “Ask a Niner!” my sign read. And on the reverse was my cheat sheet for what was and was not allowed in the arena. 

• Diaper bags are approved (as long as there’s also a baby). 

• Cameras are okay, but no camera bag. 

• A tiny 4.5 x 6.5 purse is allowed, but any larger than that had to be clear. 

• Bags with medical purposes would be approved at the security area. 

• Flowers are ok, but no balloons, gift bags, or boxes.

Purses are funny. 

As is the accessory itself, purse nomenclature is personal. For me, I lean towards “pocketbook.” Though it doesn’t really make sense, I like it better than “purse.” Then there’s “handbag.” 

I think I’ll just stick with “bag.”

No matter what you call them, there are as many types of purses as there are personalities. (Perhaps these go hand-in-handbag.) There are taut clutches. Strappy crossbodies. Serious satchels. All-purpose totes. Urban belt bags. Spunky backpacks. Classic shoulder. Intrepid messenger. Dainty wristlets. Hobos. Slings. 

I know gals who have purse CLOSETS.

And then there are countless brands carrying hefty price tags. I’m not judging. I love pretty leather, bright colors, yummy textures. It’s just not where I am a big spender. Nor am I an aficionado. Part of this is in my DNA — a chain strap I did not pass on to my kids. My daughter once talked me into a shiny Kate Spade black and white striped patent leather wallet from Marshall’s. At $35.99, it was, yes, a steal, and it’s gorgeous. But this was still considerably more than I like to spend on wallets and purses. And now it has an ink mark on it from a neighboring pen in my bag, so there’s that. 

When it comes to the contents of my bag, I’ve become a minimalist. I just need the basics: a debit card, license, lips, mints, keys, readers. If given more space, I load it unnecessarily. Books, snacks, lotion. My mom’s pocketbooks always had a tissue, too.  My sisters and I still find them nestled in side pockets, alongside an orphaned Wintergreen Breath Saver.

Back to clear bags and clutches…

I staged myself as close to the parking area as I could. It was a friendly attempt to head folks off at the pass, so they wouldn’t have to backtrack much. In the earlier hour, most everyone was lovely. At times, they were even grateful. I made small talk with some, complimenting the lovely bags they’d have to relinquish, and even FaceTimed with their graduates while proud grandmothers waited for their husbands and grandsons to go back to put their bags in the car.

“Happy Commencement!”  “Congratulations!” Oh, and “Happy Mother’s Day!” I would call out after they went by. That made it even happier. “You too!” they called back to me.

It was such a festive occasion. And I was savoring the energy. Until I wasn’t. Until we neared 3 p.m. when folks were now tardy, and tensions and temps were high. To be told you can’t bring that small suitcase into the arena with no time to spare threw them off their game. My script changed from an effusive warm congrats to the more curt:

• “I am so sorry.” 

• “They will turn you away another 50-plus yards from here and send you right back to the car.” 

• “Could you just get your wallet and cell phone?”

• “I’m just giving you the information that I have.” 

• “If you want to take a chance, please just know you’ve been warned.” 

Ugh. This was not a comfortable space for me. 

Many questioned the policy. A policy that is not that new. “WHAT is the purpose of this?!” they asked through quick breaths and clenched teeth. 

“Safety,” I replied. 

It was a solid answer. One that would, in this day and age, appeal to all personalities, to all humans. On this campus that has, itself, witnessed loss and tragedy. Don’t we all want to be safe? Do our part to prevent the next horrid thing that happens in public places. “Safety” needed no further clarification. (Though I admit I was quietly thinking of creative ways to buck the system.) 

One young mother, whose toddler was in an umbrella stroller, stayed with me as her husband begrudgingly returned to the car. She was upset, albeit controlled. It wasn’t anger as much as it was…well, sad. She wore a red dress. Her eyes — pools of bemused brown — spoke volumes. In her quiet, questioning accent, she continued to say to me, “But these are my personal things.” 

She was right. To her, this was an affront. A measure that was intended to ensure safety and efficiency offended her. Her challenging my directive may have stemmed from our cultural differences; I’m not sure. She wasn’t doubting the system. She was questioning me. And there was nothing I could do.

“But these are my personal things.” She said it again and again. Her voice was slow and rich and her words sure and intentional, like Meryl Streep’s in Out of Africa. 

Puhh-sonal. 

She was not going to win, nor was I, despite my attempts to smile, make eye contact, apologize, be me. Of all the connections I made that day, hers is branded in my mind. 

I thought about her a lot as I walked back across campus that afternoon, my clear bag slung on my shoulder. I’m not sure who she was celebrating that day. I hope it ended up being a happy occasion and that for the two hours she was in The Halton Arena, she didn’t need anything from that bag. 

Purses can be vogue accoutrements. They can be mere utilitarian transport. But no matter the price or the patent, the chic or the sheen, one thing is very clear, purses are personal.