What My Teen’s Aerosmith Backpack Taught Me About Starting High School
The photo came through at 8:47 on a Sunday night, blurry and badly lit: a black backpack on my son Leo’s bed, covered in iron-on patches and marker writing. Underneath, he’d typed, “What do we think of my bag for hs?”
I zoomed in. There was the faded Aerosmith wings logo, a torn ticket stub from some tour, and “I <3 AEROSMITH” in silver marker along the side pocket. A collection of keychains hung from one zipper. The whole thing looked like a craft store accident, and I loved it immediately. I also, because I teach freshmen and have seen what high school does to a backpack, immediately noticed the problems.
His laptop pocket was really just a pocket. The straps were thin. The water bottle holder had lost its elasticity. By second period, that bag would be stuffed with a Chromebook, a binder, a lunch, a hoodie, and whatever random papers teachers handed him. By October, one of the zippers would be making that sad sound it makes right before it dies.
Leo brought it downstairs and set it on the kitchen table like evidence.
“Well?” he said.
My first instinct was parent-as-logistics-manager: Not practical. Too much. Get the plain black one with the padded back. Maybe save the patches for a jacket. I could hear myself saying it, reasonable and dull.
Then I looked at his face. He wasn’t really asking whether the zippers could handle AP Human Geography. He was asking whether he could bring this particular version of himself into a building where he knew almost nobody.
I should explain that Leo’s Aerosmith phase is not new or borrowed from a fashion trend. His dad has played their CDs in the garage since Leo was small. Leo learned the opening to “Crazy” on a cheap electric guitar last year and spent weeks playing it too loud through a tiny amp. When he was nervous about eighth-grade graduation, he put on old concert footage and watched the stage lights move over the crowd. The band is not just music to him. It’s something reliable.
So the backpack was not really a backpack. It was a portable piece of home.
I thought about the freshmen I see every September. Some carry anime sleeves, sports duffels, vintage band shirts, or carefully neutral hoodies. The ones who seem most settled are often not the most conventionally dressed. They’re the ones who have one small, chosen thing that feels like them—a pin, a sticker, a notebook covered in drawings. In a school where the schedule changes by the bell and every room has different rules, that object stays constant.
I also know that self-expression can attract attention, and not all of it is kind. I didn’t want to promise Leo that everyone would love the bag, because that would be absurd. Ninth graders notice everything. Someone might make a joke about his dad’s music. Someone might call the patches weird. But if I made him choose the plain bag to avoid that possibility, I’ll be teaching him that other people’s possible reactions should decide what he carries.
“Can I ask what kind of opinion you want?” I said. “Style, function, or both?”
He smiled, because he knew I was stalling. “Both.”
“Okay. Style: it’s very you. Function: we need to fix the inside.”
That sentence became the compromise. The outside was his. The inside had to do the job.
We emptied the bag on the table. First, the laptop. We found an old padded sleeve and put his Chromebook in it, then slid it against the side closest to his back rather than leaving it in the loose front pocket. That one move kept it from banging into his lunch and made the weight sit better.
Then we sorted the usual chaos. Instead of one giant binder, he used one thin “home/school” folder with two pockets: left for papers to bring home, right for work to hand back. Each class got its own notebook, color-matched to the folder when possible. A small pencil pouch held three pens, two pencils, a highlighter, a charger, and a pair of wired earbuds. We kept extras in a box by the front door so he would not dig through kitchen drawers at 7:25 a.m.
I taped a copy of his schedule inside the top flap. On Sunday nights, he spent five minutes repacking according to the next day’s classes. I did not do it for him. I’d say, “What do you need tomorrow?” and he’d check the schedule. If he forgot something, that was information for the next Sunday, not a reason for me to take over.
We also talked through the social part, briefly. I asked what he’d say if someone commented on the bag.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Say Aerosmith is good?”
We practiced a couple of low-effort responses: “Yeah, old music’s better.” Or simply, “I like it.” The point wasn’t to win an argument. It was to have something ready so he wouldn’t freeze. Kids don’t need a full debate strategy for a hallway comment; one shrug-sized line is usually enough.
Before school started, we did a hallway test. I put books and a water bottle in the bag and had him walk around the block. It pulled to one side. He removed three keychains and moved a textbook to his locker plan. The water bottle went in the side pocket, but only after we replaced the flip-top with a screw-top because I had no interest in a soaked math notebook.
The first week came. Leo came home each day with new observations: the chemistry room was too cold, the gym locker was jammed, the lunch line moved too slowly. On Thursday, he said a boy in his biology class had seen the Aerosmith patch and started talking about a concert his dad had watched online. They sat together at lunch on Friday.
That’s the part I would have missed if I’d pushed the plain backpack. The patch didn’t magically make him popular. It gave another kid a reason to speak to him.
By week three, practical problems appeared, as practical problems do. One patch started peeling. We found fabric glue in the junk drawer and pressed it down with textbooks. The bag got heavy on days with PE, so he learned to leave his novel in his locker and carry only the workbook. A keychain got tangled in his locker, and he removed it without being told. Small adjustments, made by him.
I still notice the bag sometimes when he leaves for school, slightly lopsided and covered in rock-and-roll debris. It is not the bag I would have chosen. It is better than the bag I would have chosen because it is his.
High school will ask Leo to change in plenty of ways: new schedules, harder classes, different social rules, louder hallways. He’ll need to learn those things. But he doesn’t need to erase himself on the way in. A backpack can be practical and still carry a little noise.
This morning, I found him in the kitchen repacking while music played from his phone. The Aerosmith bag sat by the door, scuffed at the corners and missing one keychain. He may switch to a plain bag by November. He may cover it in more patches. I don’t know. For now, the zipper works, the laptop is padded, and the kid carrying it looks like himself.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » What My Teen’s Aerosmith Backpack Taught Me About Starting High School