Look at this POS.

I’m done with cordless vacuums. Plus, some cool school projects that I could use help funding.

Look at this piece of shit.

Just fucking look at it.

The worst.

I circle my classroom, eyes fixate on every scrap of paper, candy wrapper, and smashed Taki. Blood boils inside my veins. How am I going to clean it up now? Do I drop to my hands and knees, scouring the ground for bits of debris like a goddamn animal? Not going to lie: the idea of succumbing to those primal behaviors. Just turn feral, my dude.

The vacuum is broken, obviously. It’s my second vacuum over the course of the year. I got it because the custodial staff only has time to do the floors once a week. But have you seen teens? Each one is a literal Charles Schultz Pig Pen—mystery trash just falls off them. To go an entire week would mean to endure an increasingly soiled room closing in on me, one layer of filth at a time.

No, I need my classroom clean. In a profession characterized by chaos, unpredictability and seat-of-the-pants decision-making, it’s a form of control that I crave.

But this goddamn thing.

My first vacuum was also a cordless model, a Shark that I bought from a guy literally selling them out of the back of his van in deep-outskirts National City. “This is top of the line, barely used” he had said, just before informing me that the $40 advertised price on Craigslist had been for another model. “This here’s $70.” I paid it. Vacuum shopping is very low on my things-I-like-to-do list, and even though I haven’t done a lot of haggling with people selling shit out of their vans, I didn’t want to start them.

For months, the Shark was a gem. Imagine me zipping through my classroom between each period, sucking up the chemical, organic and biological debris left by students. If you pictured me with a smile, you would be correct.

But nothing gold can stay, especially vacuums sold out of the back of some guy’s van. The Shark’s decline was rapid. The battery life became so diminished that I could maybe get a few seconds of suck power after each charge, and then it stopped working altogether. The Shark used its final breath to suck up any notions of control, sanity, and cleanliness. With a few weeks left of the school year, I had to get a replacement.

I didn’t want to haggle or endure another shady deal at a stranger’s car. I just wanted something easy. I went to Amazon and shook hands with that devil.

Cut to this motherfucker, the Nadaly cordless stick vacuum.

At first, it worked like a dream. Those final two weeks of school, when kids seem to be especially dirty, I’d whip this baby out at the drop of a hat. It was lightweight, nimble, maneuverable. I could even reach the mystery trash kids cram in the center of a four-desk grouping.

The year ended, and I closed my classroom door for the summer. That’s where the Nadaly remained.

When I returned, I was happy to see my old friend. Have a good summer? I thought, sashaying around the classroom, sucking up any dust that had collected over the break.

The Nadaly lasted one week into the new school year, and then it died. I went to turn it on one afternoon, and the battery just flashed blue. I consulted the online manual which said the blinking lights meant it needed servicing.

Servicing for a $70 vacuum that I only used a few times? Fuck outta here.

I tried returning it to Amazon, but the summer vacation—when the Nadaly sat blissfully dormant—put me over the 90-day return policy. I could imagine Bezos, red-faced and cackling at the top of his throne made from Amazon driver piss bottles. Part of me knew it was karma for patronizing Amazon, but also: has the consumer experience been so enshittified that we’re just expected to eat our losses so long as the means of consuming remain convenient?

In what could only be described as a delusion of righteousness, I called Amazon customer service. The guy on the other end asked for the order number. I heard him click around.

“Looks like you bought this last May. It’s been over three months.”

“Yes, but I only used it for two weeks,” I said, feeling the breathlessness of hysteria creeping in. “Shouldn’t that factor in?”

There was a brief pause before the man spoke again, but when he did, there was a new urgency in his voice. I felt my heart swell. Finally, a level of concern that matched my own feelings.

“Okay, Mr. Bradford, I’m going to guide you through this next process. I want to make this right, but there are many steps. I just sent an email with a link in it. Did you get it?”

A message from no reply appeared in my inbox.

“Yes.”

“Click on the link inside.”

“The link?”

“Click on it, Mr. Bradford.”

His voice had the calm seriousness of an explosives expert relaying instructions for dismantling a bomb. Was that my pulse quickening? I wiped my brow.

“What do you see?” Amazon guy asked.

It looked like a forgotten page from the early 2000s. Had my dude just hacked into the past? I felt good. This guy was giving me the VIP treatment, leading me through back channels on our quest for customer satisfaction. Over the phone, he guided me on what to click. It felt like we were getting deep, with each successive page a little less modern than the previous. I was Inception-ing Amazon.

Finally, we came upon a page that consisted of an empty text box with a blinking cursor. Dark web, I thought.

“Mr. Bradford, what you do here is very important. Please bear with me and type in exactly what I tell you.”

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, type this. ‘I ordered this vacuum three months ago and it has stopped working, and I would like a replacement ASAP please.’”

I typed feverishly into the text box, whisper-repeating the man’s words verbatim.

“Mr. Bradford, go back and add how disappointed you are!” His voice was now a battle cry. “Add ‘this is unacceptable!’”

“Unacceptable!” I repeated.

“Did you add it?!”

I read the message back to him, emphasizing the word unacceptable. There was a brief moment of silence. Then, calmly, the man whispered, “Hit send.” I did.

I was Oppenheimer; I had become death.

“All right, we’ll see how they respond,” the man said, his voice cheery again. “Anything else I can help you with?”

“Uh... no? Wait—”

“Okay, have a good day.” He hung up.

The reality of the situation hit. The man on the other line had not navigated me through a series of secret channels, he had not emboldened me to become some sort of righteous consumer crusader—he’d just walked me through how to leave an angry comment. Literally the only thing all internet-users know how to do.

The Nadaly company wrote back a few hours later, requesting to see pictures of the vacuum. What was there to show? A vacuum that doesn’t work looks the same as one that does. And I knew pursuing this action would just lead to endless email threads, the hassle of shipping it back to the manufacturer, and waiting the allotted weeks for a replacement. It just felt too much. I’m a busy man. Sort of. Plus, I needed to look for a new vacuum. Corded this time. No more messing with batteries for me.

I sent back a photo of me flipping off the Nadaly. The company still haven’t responded.

SCHOOL STUFF

As the above story illustrates, teachers spend a lot of their own money on supplies. This shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone with ears and eyes—the blight of public education is very real and well-documented.

DonorsChoose is a teacher-centered crowdfunding site, similar to Gofundme. I only learned about it last year and thought I’d give it a try. I currently have two projects there.

1. Shedding a Light on the Immigrant Experience Through Shared Narratives: This year, me and a group of teachers are working to incorporate more storytelling across all disciplines. Since I’m working solely with English learners this semester, my goal is to capture their stories—from their respective journeys to the United States, to their experiences in this new and often-terrifying country. While the final project is yet to be determined (video, podcast, newsletter), I’m asking for smartphone mics that will capture crisp audio and give these kids’ stories the quality they deserve.

2. Help Create a Safe, Comfortable Reading Nook for English Learners - I’m also asking for funds to build a comfortable reading nook in my classroom for English learners to practice. Many of these kids’ lives have been upended, and many are still in survival mode when they get to school. The least I can do is provide a safe, comfortable spot where they can chill and practice English with hi/lo books (high interest/low complexity).

Thank you in advance if you contribute to any of these projects!

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