Packing like MacGyver

Jennifer Ditlevson Haglund

For as imaginative as I can be, I like a bit of realism in my heroes. Batman never had otherworldly powers. He worked out and had expensive toys. He was also emotionally stunted and had intimacy problems, but so do most popular male superheroes. Although I don’t get into that kind of guy in real life, I do like Batman.

The more conventional choice for me, however, would have to be Angus MacGyver. He didn’t have to wear a cape to save the day. He operated maskless in daylight with his vast knowledge of science and a trusty Swiss Army Knife.

Like Batman, he didn’t prefer to use guns and always seemed prepared with only a few handy items in his brown leather jacket. He was Han Solo’s nerdy Boy Scout brother for 1980s and early ’90s television, and I loved him, no matter how much it hurts to say that when I remember that blond mullet.

I was too young to have the same kind of excitement I’m sure some adult fans had. MacGyver appealed to me because his ingenuity sustained him throughout his adventures, whether it was using cigarette smoke to get past a laser system or using a paper clip to stop a missile from detonation.

From MacGyver, I learned that to survive I only needed to leave the house with my smarts and the essentials.

When I was in grade school, I loaded my pockets with peppermints, lip balm, a pocket knife, string, a pen, note paper, and a dollar. I don’t know what I expected to happen, but I was going to be ready. I read “Hatchet” and other survival stories at every opportunity.

“Survival,” to a child like me in a safe home and enough to eat meant imagining scenarios of risk. Mostly, it was a game of averting boredom and finding ways to feel strong.

As the oldest kid in my neighborhood, I positioned myself as the leader. I wore a lot of camouflage, started days-long games of war, and relied on my CB radio walkie-talkies for updates on our “enemies” from my little brother.

When long days of playing turned into hanging out, I ditched the hand-me-down army fatigues and got a messenger bag. In it, I carried most of the same things I did when I was nine, and threw a journal and CDs in there. I had the leisure to write about the world around me or whatever drama — both actual and conjured — that I faced. All of this happened to the backdrop of my favorite music. Then, “survival” meant creating and controlling my own atmosphere.

I was still playing at survival then, too.

Although I’m not in any immediate peril in my new place in New York City, I’m constantly in a rush and more likely than ever to suffer the consequences of living off the cuff. I’m not reporting to the Department of External Services, but I’m starting to feel more like MacGyver. There’s more problem-solving taking place in my life than ever before.

Every task here takes longer and it’s dirtier. With a toddler, the nasty factor grows exponentially with every handrail lick and sippy cup drop. Fetching something left at home isn’t a quick turnaround. It could be catching a train, walking a mile, and running up three flights of stairs. Liquid falling from the bridge could be water, but it might be something else. God only knows.

There’s too much walking and limited space on public transit to carry stylish luggage called “diaper bags” full of every possible remedy for messes, bad hair days, hunger, and surprises in the forecast. When checking my load before leaving the apartment, I keep MacGyver in mind. If I don’t want to run a block with it, can’t safely dispose of it, or climb flights of stairs with it, I don’t need it.