Keys Wallet Cell Phone

When I was 24 I ran an after-school program for elementary kids in the East Bay. My co-director Jen and I would close up every night around seven, the September sun still burning through the smog and the Concord heat still clinging to the empty asphalt. Every night around 7:30 I’d return to pick up either my wallet or my cell phone, which I’d forgotten in the drawer of my desk. If it was my keys that I’d left, and Jen had already roared off for home, I would track down the night janitor and beg him to break protocol and open the office door for me. When he wasn’t around or was feeling unhelpful, Jen got a phone call.

For the first month my co-director took mild amusement at my forgetfulness; by October, she’d crafted a plan. “Keys-wallet-cell phone, keys-wallet-cell phone” became her new mantra as we turned off the final lights and prepared to lock the office. I’d pat down my pockets: front right – keys. Back left – wallet. Back right – cell phone. “Check!”

I didn’t forget them again.

These three simple pats have stuck. The days of me forgetting almost everything are over, but I still pat down my pockets every time I walk out of my house, or leave a tutoring session, or head home from the gym. Sometimes I can hear Jen’s voice, friendly but tinged with mocking. Keys. Wallet. Cell phone.

A decent number of my students are forgetful, but only one gives younger me a run for my money. I ask to see his assignment planner, but he’s forgotten it. He couldn’t do his math homework last night because he left his book at school. He’s got reading to do, but….where is that book?

So I crafted a plan. Every day as he leaves school, his mom will ask him this question: Do you have your M-BRAN? It’s going to change his life.

M – math book?
B – binder?
R – reading book?
A – assignment planner?
N – notebooks for reading and writing?

This was a simple system to create. I asked him what materials he needs to do his homework, and then I arranged the letters as best I could. Sometimes he doesn’t have math homework, or need his reading notebook. Doesn’t matter – it stays in the acronym. In the beginning I’ll have him bring home everything, every day. As he gets more self-aware and stops forgetting materials, he can scale back and only bring what he actually needs that night.

This sounds like more work for the kid, right? Nope. When I explained the new system, a look of deep relief spread over his face. We practiced the acronym several times until he knew it by rote. M-BRAN, M-BRAN, M-BRAN.

At the end of our session he happily walked me to the door. He usually does this, but there was extra spring in his step. He now had a system, a way of doing something every time that would create consistently excellent results and didn’t require him to remember anything other than a word. A simple acronym for all that he needs to bring home frees him from the frantic, chaotic searching of his mind and organizes his approach into a clean, methodical checklist. If all checks out, he’s good to go – and he knows it.

He opened the door and held up his hand for our usual high-five.

I slapped it. “M-BRAN!”

He giggled. “M-BRAN.”

I walked out into the cool San Francisco night, but not before checking my pockets. Keys. Wallet. Cell phone.