Diana Campos

One of the few things that really rattled me and made me excited when the new school began was where I would be seated. Not that it mattered where in the classroom I'd sit for the rest of the school year. Even if I got to sit with my friends or not. But what was waiting for me? My very own desk. My teachers, already sweet as can be, would tape our desks with our name tags on the front, cementing “this is mine, and I can do what I want to this desk now!” I wouldn’t say that I could do exactly whatever I wanted to the desk now; could I? It still was school property at the end of the day. But the idea of filling it with whatever I wanted and creating whatever I wanted on top of it gave it a touch more magic. It would even cement magical feelings in me that matter now in adulthood, as much as they did as a kid. It was prime real estate, a micro-kingdom of my own, and a physical manifestation of my developing identity. I loved how my desk became my personal space, a small world I could shape and make special.

When I was in school in the 2000s, this truly was the golden age of scholastic accessorizing. It was almost my home away from home, somewhere to sit and call it my own. I remembered my early days of elementary school were the most fun, but still daunting when a new year began. To ease into my surroundings, I would start by bringing my own trinkets with me, without my parents knowing, of course. My tiny friends would accompany me to comfort me, from my Littlest Pet Shop figures to my Pixel Hollow phone charms (even though I did not, in fact, own a phone in the early 2000s). Regardless, each trinket meant something to me when I moved it from my home to its new residence inside my desk. It made my space feel more personal and special, fueling my childhood imagination and attachment to those small treasures.

It would be filled up with all my schoolwork, of course, but on the other side of things, there would be way more magical items stored in the underbelly of my desk. Random flyers and Scholastic Book Fair order forms would be all the rage. Flavors of Lip Smackers would be stored to be displayed later so your classmates could see what new flavors and scents were out at the time. We would chat about the books we checked out from the library, keeping them in our desks until the end of the week. I remember my purple Spacemaker pencil box, always filled with my fuzzy pens and jelly-like erasers. I remember the tiny beeps of each and everyone’s own Tamagotchi, just getting all of us into trouble with the teacher. We were even trading Pokemon cards right out of our desks, in secrecy, of course. Thinking back, whatever each kid had in class, we shared and traded it, fostering community within the classroom walls. That sense of sharing made everything feel more connected and special.

When it was time for arts & crafts, my whole day was truly made. I whipped up drawings with my magic markers; I copied from the books I borrowed, noting each line and curve to replicate. After our popcorn-reading hour, I penned poems and short stories, creating new adventures or endings when I didn’t like the ones I read. I was making jewelry out of pasta shells or Froot Loops to my delight. Painting with watercolors or making items out of clay were the highlights of my school week. My desk was my beacon of creation, giving me space to make whatever my tiny fingers could, filling it with my imagination and joy.

That desk was my entire world during my elementary days. From my favorite color-coded folders to my Tamagotchis, everything fit inside a single hollow metal box right at my fingertips. It was like my cave of wonders when I was a little girl. It really did foster a lifetime of love, care, and joy for my trinkets, past, present, and future ones.

The Magic At My Desk

Ladybug Umbrella