Book Fairs, Broken Pens, and What We’re Teaching Our Kids

I love being a parent with kids in school. I love the fall book fair (I had some anxiety at first, but mom-friends came through!)

I love the excitement of going through the choices, and the giggles and joy of students all week. I love that reading is treated like a celebration instead of an assignment and boy howdy do we devour those new books.

This year, the teachers gave my girls money so they could participate. I was concerned about how it would impact our budget, and genuinely appreciated the kindness of the teachers and the PTO. It meant they could have a book shopping “date” and come home glowing, ready to show me what they picked.

In our house, my usual refrain is: admire, not acquire. I am of the generation both attached to and overwhelmed by stuff. Now we try to practice noticing beauty without automatically needing to bring it home. So it was special for them to choose something.

(Perhaps slightly less special when one of the new pens went under a pillow sans lid and now several layers are permanently marked with a small orange circle. A reminder that acquisition often carries consequences,)

But here’s where my enthusiasm gets complicated: There’s another book fair already.

And I find myself wondering: what exactly are we rehearsing?

Celebration or Conditioning?

I love reading. I love schools raising money. I love teachers being creative about budgets.

But book fairs aren’t just about books. They are structured shopping experiences.

Children are given money. They are given urgency. They are given scarcity. They are told: choose quickly.

It’s gentle. It’s cheerful. It’s normalized.

And I’m beginning to feel a little uneasy about how early we introduce the rhythm of consumption as celebration. Because that rhythm doesn’t stop at books.

It becomes:

• Seasonal drops

• Limited editions

• Fundraisers through purchasing

• Identity through acquisition

At some point, school begins to mirror the broader economy rather than offering a counterbalance to it.

What If We Taught Repair Instead?

I have a different fantasy.

What if instead of another week of shopping tables, we hosted a week-long makers fair/ repair cafe?

Students and community members could help repair broken lamps, torn backpacks, squeaky bikes, cracked toys. Families could bring in items destined for the landfill.

Kids could learn:

• How zippers work

• How wiring connects

• How fabric mends

• How things come apart, and go back together

Donations could be based on what you’d pay to replace the item. Revenue still goes to the school, but instead of rehearsing acquisition, we rehearse restoration. Instead of practicing desire, we practice skill. Instead of reinforcing supply chains that stretch across oceans, we build local competence.

The high schoolers gain real-world experience.
The younger kids see repair as normal.
Families reduce waste.
The school raises money.
Prestige grows around ingenuity instead of volume.

Why isn’t that a thing?

Culture Is Built in Small Rituals

This isn’t an indictment of book fairs. It’s a question about defaults.

Schools are one of the few institutions where we still shape culture intentionally.

If every celebration is tethered to purchasing, we are teaching something, even if we don’t mean to. We are teaching that joy is transacted.

I want my children to love books.

I also want them to know:

• Not everything beautiful needs to be owned.

• Broken things are worth fixing.

• Skill feels different than shopping.

• Satisfaction can come from making something last.

We can raise money without raising consumers. Surely we can imagine that.