Magazine Drive

Magazine Drive 1986

Age: Twelve

Every year my elementary school (and every other elementary school in the state) promoted some kind of money making scheme. Our school hosted a magazine drive and the money raised went to fund special activities.

Sounds pretty innocent right? Sell a few magazines and the proceeds go to a good cause. Now, I am not against the giving or the raising of money for educational purposes. I am an advocate for education and my graduate degree in the field and years teaching should be proof of that. I just have an issue with the way schools encourage students to get these donations. I have witnessed the practice both as an adult and as a child and things have not seemed to change much in twenty-five years.

I remember the hype as a kid. There were posters on the wall, announcements over the loud speaker, reminders sent home and teachers taking time out of their own schedules to make sure that every kid in school knew this money making scheme was going to happen.

Then there was the pep fest. All students young and younger were to attend the pep fest that introduced the magazine drive. We all lined up outside our classroom and walked single file down the hall into the gymnasium. It was exciting for the students because we got out of class, we got to see our friends from different classrooms and grades and the gym was filled with stuff. I mean good stuff; stuff that every kid in the whole school wanted to wrap their hands around. We all smiled at one another with the same silly looks; looks that said “I understand why you are smiling that silly way, because you want that stuff and you want it now!”

Then the principal grabbed the microphone and welcomed us all to the rally. She was a good principal: she was likeable and really knew how to handle a crowd. She had us laughing and got us excited for the pep fest to begin. She was the warm up act at a comedy club. Very smooth school, very smooth. Then the head of the magazine drive was introduced. By this time we could not stand the anticipation any more. We wanted to hear about the stuff.

The magazine lady was as smooth as our principal. She smiled ear to ear as she began talking about the cool things that students would win by participating in the drive. The items always started out small and grew larger and larger as the demonstration went on. Occasionally, she would ask for a volunteer to come and demonstrate how the items worked.

Every kid in school wanted to get up on that stage including me. Please, please, please call on me I thought as my hand went up to volunteer. But it never happened. Not one time in my elementary career did I ever get to be that volunteer. Each year I hoped, and each year I was disappointed. Then I had to watch as some lucky soul ran up on the stage and demonstrated how a battery operated car worked. Damn that lucky fool. Here I sat, on the cold gymnasium floor, with all the talent and enthusiasm of that kid just waiting to “wow” the school with my foam airplane launching skills. Who does that kid think they are anyway? Anyone can fly a stupid airplane and you would have to be an idiot if you could not work a remote control car.

As the demonstrations continued I fell out of my jealousy and back into my desire to take everything on that stage home with me. I would do anything to have a hula-hoop that lit up, an over-sized gumball machine, a ten-speed bike or a television with a VCR built into it, what technology!

We spent the next half hour with the prize build up and then “the catch.” I even knew about “the catch” but somehow got lost in the demonstration of the stuff every year without fail. The only way to get any of the prizes was to be a salesperson. After all, what elementary school kid is not a salesperson? Aren’t we all born with the innate quality of salesmanship? In order to wind even the smallest prize a student had to sell a number of magazine subscriptions. The bigger the prize the more magazines a kid needed to sell. This is where my depression started to set in.

I knew full well that my parents were not interested in helping me sell magazines. My mom did not believe in sending her small, elementary aged child out into the neighborhood asking people for money. She did not want her friends to feel obligated nor did she think it was safe to approach strangers on the issue. My parents said that they would order a couple of magazines to support education but I could not bother anyone else for money.

Why did I have to have such unreasonable parents? They did not realize what was at stake here. They were not at the pep fest filled with heavenly toys; toys that I had to have to complete me as a human being. I needed that walkie talkie and five foot stuffed bear in order to live. And the only way for me to get any of the good stuff was to sell lots and lots of magazines. That’s what the lady said at the pep fest, sell, sell, sell. I was possessed.

I would literally sit around and daydream about all of those toys. If I could bring the toys to my house I would never get bored again. Then reality would set in and I knew I had to face the fact that my toy dreams would never come true. I would probably get a sticker or some kind of pat on the back for ordering two magazines. What a rip, what a disappointment, what a life.