It’s 2002. I’m twelve years old and pacing the aisles of my local Walgreens at 8pm on a Sunday night after begging my parents to take me there after dinner. 

It was an emergency. 

Tomorrow was Monday, and I was about to show up at school for the first time in almost two years without a new purse.

But let’s back up. 

In the Fall of 2000, I started middle school bright-eyed and filled with delusional self-confidence—the kind one could only get from going to a small elementary school where you always read the morning announcements and had the preferred hang-out house because both of your parents were artists, and we always had “good snacks.” 

Lanier Middle School put me in my place. 

With my baby pink Bebe glasses and chubby frame that stood almost a whole foot taller than everyone else, I wasn’t exactly the cool kid on campus. 

And don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was being bullied; rather, I just seemed to go unnoticed entirely. (Dear reader, it’s entirely possible that I *was* being bullied and did not know it. See again: Delusional self-confidence.)

To say I was having a hard time with the transition would be an understatement. I’d fake being sick to stay home or call my mom from the payphone at lunch and beg her to pick me up. 

"And maybe I wasn’t the cool girl on campus, but that purse was."

But then something shifted. 

I started carrying a purse to school. 

It wasn't anything fancy or designer, just a cute little bowling bag in shimmery lavender vinyl. 

And maybe I wasn’t the cool girl on campus, but that purse was.

You see, Lanier Middle School had uniforms—horrible khakis and polo shirts with the school’s initials on them. Although the dress code was aimed at deterring kids from picking up on wealth signifiers, it only highlighted them. 

The chunky “Return to Tiffany” charm necklaces, Baby G watches in a rainbow of pastel hues, and maybe the biggest key to being cool—the Kate Spade nylon box bag. 

There was a sea of them at my middle school. A mix of genuine articles and dupes from Harwin Drive. (Houston’s version of Canal Street.) They would dangle off the skinny arms of 12-year-olds. Filled with Bath and Body Works body splash and Bonne Bell lip gloss in Vanilla Frosting. (A truly excellent lip gloss, in my opinion. Nowadays, a tube can go for upwards of $100 + on eBay…)

So, although I was overlooked, in the sea of Kate Spade box bags, my lavender bowling bag stood out. 

I’ve always loved handbags, but this newfound attention put that love into hyperdrive. I’d shop for them at the mall after school and ask for handbags every birthday and Christmas. Suddenly, people said I seemed to have a new purse “every week.” This wasn’t true then, but I quickly ensured that it became the case. 

"Every week. All year long. I was now the 'Purse Girl.'" 

On Mondays, the coolest girls at Lanier would find me before class to see what bag I was wearing. They would ask to hold it and often look inside to see if I had a new lip gloss to try. 

Every week. All year long. I was now the “Purse Girl.” 

And that’s a lot of bags… So, I had to beg, borrow, and get creative. (Again, both my parents were artists. Creativity was high, and cash was low.)  

Leather Coach bags snuck from my mom’s closet. Tiny little shoulder bags I’d borrow from my much older and cooler cousin, Cole. My very own Kate Spade dupe—an orange polka dot canvas number a family friend brought me back from her trip to New York. A slouchy suede hobo bag from Urban Outfitters dyed a deep eggplant purple that quickly rubbed off on my khaki uniform pants. And my first “designer” bag: A baby pink linen wristlet from Coach that I got for my 12th birthday.

If it could reasonably be considered a handbag, I’d wear it to school one week.

They weren’t all hits, either. There were plenty of gift-with-purchase Clinique make-up cases I’d get handed down from my mom or cheap buys from the mall that I’d think were cute but would break midway through the week because they weren’t meant to carry textbooks.

This quietly went on for the rest of sixth grade, all of seventh grade, and well into eighth.

Quietly, I say, because I had kept this a secret from my parents for almost two years. Which was unlike me; I liked to tell my parents everything. I still don’t know why I was embarrassed to tell them. Maybe because I thought they’d think I was silly for trying to earn friends through accessories. Or worse, they’d make me stop.

But whatever the reason I hid it for so long, the jig was up in the Walgreens aisle that night.  There was nothing remotely purse-like or cute enough besides a large Caboodles case similar to something I already had. As I begged and pleaded for my mom to buy me the Caboodles, she looked me dead in the eyes and knew something was up. 

“What is going on?”

I steeled myself to confess. “I have to have it! Because I don’t have any more purses to wear! And everyone at school knows I always have a new purse every Monday! I’ve been carrying a new purse every week for two years…”

"We got home, and I made terms with the end of my reign at the first bell tomorrow."

“Oh, honey.” She said it in her sweet, Texas-by-way-of-Oklahoma accent. I was shuffled out of Walgreens and back into our little wine-colored Subaru. 

We got home, and I made terms with the end of my reign at the first bell tomorrow.

Maybe nobody would notice… But I knew someone would. It was just the type of social ammo that would tear down the fashionista persona I had so painstakingly created. Seemed like something that bitch Katelyn would really run with…

But the following day, it was like the Tooth Fairy had come, but for handbags. I had gone to sleep wishing (and considering faking sick to buy myself a day) and woke up to find not just a new handbag for school but maybe the cutest one yet. 

A small metal Jelly Belly tin sat on the dining room table. It had holes drilled into the top, and a clear plastic tube formed into a handle.

It wasn’t a fairy I had to thank, but my sweet and creative parents. I squealed and hugged my mom and dad and thanked them profusely. My social status was secured for one more week. 

A rendering of THE Jelly Belly bag by my mother, Sharon Dennard.

I went to school proudly, swinging my little bag around and soaking in as many compliments as I could as I walked down the halls. "Oh, this, it’s custom." 

For the rest of the school year, my parents and I conspired to come up with different ideas for handbags. They were fully in.

For the eighth-grade dance, it was an evening bag made out of a metal paint can with a long, chunky ball chain strap. You had to use a paint key to open it. At 35, it’s still one of the most fabulous bags I’ve ever owned.

"I pulled out the shimmery lavender bowling bag, the one that started it all, as my swan song."

For the last week of eighth grade, as I braced myself to yet again enter the terrifying unknown of a new school, I returned to my roots.

I pulled out the shimmery lavender bowling bag, the one that started it all, as my swan song. (Yet again, my mother’s idea.) 

It seemed fitting to end my weekly purse showcase where it began.

After all, the high school I would be attending in the fall was an arts magnet school (The same one Beyonce went to, thank you so much) and they were famous around town for having a very “open” dress code, let's say…

Soon, I’d be utilizing head-to-toe looks to make friends. And sometimes, even enemies. (Was there a contentious Election-style campaign at the end of senior year for the “Best Dressed” superlative? Not no. And yes, I won, but who’s counting…)

"Or the vintage 1950s ivory beaded clutch with satin lining, complete with movie ticket stub for a screening of 13 Going on 30 from April 2004. How fitting."

Two years ago, when I was home in Houston for Christmas, my mom asked me to go through my handbag collection from Middle School and see what I wanted to keep. Digging through the box provided thrilling finds, such as a Chanel-inspired pink Hello Kitty flap bag with glitter accents. 

Or the vintage 1950s ivory beaded clutch with satin lining, complete with movie ticket stub for a screening of 13 Going on 30 from April 2004. How fitting.

I was so happy to see how many of them I still loved. But sadly, missing from the box was the Jelly Belly bag, which I had hoped to take with me since it was such a pivotal piece in the collection. 

I made a few selects, okay a lot of selects, and piled them in the back of our car to take back to Los Angeles. I rarely wear them. They sit in my closet. A reminder of my baby fashion roots.

When I look back on my purse girl years, I think of it as the first time I really saw the power in what I wore—the ability to connect with people, create, and assert myself out into the world. 

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