It was a carnival crammed with college-ruled paper, a magical midway of multicolored markers, and a freaky funhouse of full-size folders...it was the school supplies store. I still feel a swing of excitement when I reminisce about my family’s annual back-to-school shopping trip. As a 9-year-old, school supplies were serious business. Every purchase was crucial to my future success, and I felt the pressure to make all of the right choices like a pint-sized Plato. Mechanical pencils or Ticonderoga? Would I opt for glitter gel pens, like the cool kids, or forgo my budding career as a temporary tattoo artist in favor of Bic? I thought to myself that having the flashiest, state-of-the-art school supplies would determine my performance in Ms. Underwood’s third-grade class. Little did I know how quickly my mindset would change.

On the first day of third grade, I was ready. With my new Jansport backpack and neon pink pencil case, I confidently made my way to my assigned seat. After the routine welcome, our teacher distributed our first daunting task of the school year: a coloring sheet. This outline of a butterfly was no match for my dynamic assortment of colored pencils. From scarlet red to seafoam green, I had every color imaginable. Sitting at the table next to me was another girl who also began to start coloring. She pulled out a tacky gray sack and dumped out dismembered remnants of various crayons. They were scattered across her desk in halves and fourths; the labels were peeling off and her color selection was meager. To my immature, prepubescent mind, I thought that her art would not possibly be as high octane as mine soon-to-be Crayola Monet. After cautiously lining up my pencils on my desk, I grabbed “indigo blue” and set to work. 

Something strange happened. My “masterpiece” looked more like my 3-year old sister’s chaotic scribbles. What went wrong? My cutting-edge school supplies should have produced a monumental work of art. But my hubris was affronted when I glanced at the girl and noticed her sublime coloring skills. She was able to utilize the crayons to create lines as bold as my all-assuming ego, while simultaneously shading spaces with pressure as light as a feather. Upon completion of her endeavor, Ms. Underwood echoed my reaction. She was amazed by the girl’s production and subsequently flattered her with praise. My butterfly was no match for the girl’s prodigal pre-MET opus, and I spent the rest of that day reflecting on my shameful arrogance.“Broken crayons still color”, I realized. 

That day, and during all future back-to-school shopping trips, I carried the same lesson. Materials don’t equate to talent or self-worth but are just illusions of such. Instead of dwelling in despair on her lack of fancy knick-knacks, that girl sitting to the right of me was able to produce beautiful art with the resources she DID have. It didn’t take glitter pens or a large array of colors to be successful; it took dedication and hard work. The same could be said about fancy cars or clothing; when we focus on the materialistic side of things we lose sight of what really matters: ourselves. Our self-worth is determined by what we say and do, not what we buy. I walked into my childhood school supplies store one last time for my senior year. Instead of drawing up an intricate list of the latest school paraphernalia, I stuck with the tangible basics and relied on my limitless self-worth.