2026, written by Alex Bregy. A personal essay detailing a time, when I was thirteen, where I went door-to-door selling Tupperware. Explores themes of class divide, worth, and coming-of-knowledge.
When I was thirteen, I went door-to-door selling Tupperware. It was a fundraiser my mom had stumbled upon from someone at our church. There was a little booklet of all the products someone could buy. I recognized them all as too expensive for what they were—things we could not afford—but I suppose that’s how fundraisers worked.
It was freezing cold and lightly snowing—standard winter in Maine. I wore hand-me-down snowboots, cloth gloves, and a Goodwill coat. The coat was two sizes too big, at an adult large, and didn’t zip. So, as I walked, I had to juggle keeping the coat closed while holding my booklet, order sheets, and the long blue zip-up bag my mom had given me to hold the cash.
I walked half a mile to the “cookie cutter” neighborhoods. These were neighborhoods with modern houses that all looked similar, hence why us locals called them “cookie cutters”—they could have all been cut from the same cookie cutters. At thirteen, I’d learned that the people who live in the cookie cutters have money. In retrospect, they were middle-class nuclear families; but in my young mind, these people were rich. So, of course, this is where I started selling.
As soon as I stepped into the neighborhood, I was shocked by the stark increase of the quality of the sidewalks. They were all properly raised with pristine, unchipped ledges. What shocked me most was their sewer drains, which were tucked under the sidewalk, out of the way. This amazed me—what innovation. The kids in this neighborhood didn’t have to worry about their wiffle balls rolling into the drains, or worse, the drains crumbling under their feet if they stepped on them wrong. Though, once I reached the first house, I realized that kids in this neighborhood probably didn’t even play in the streets. No, they all had giant yards, littered with snowmen and forts. I also saw trampolines and pools covered for the season. I’d always wanted a trampoline, but my parents said that it would up their insurance, which we couldn’t afford, let alone a hospital bill when one of us got hurt.
I knocked on the first door. A white woman with perfectly laid, shoulder length blonde hair answered.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asked.
“Uh, yes,” I said, fumbling through my pile, locating my booklet. I waved it in front of her. “I’m selling Tupperware for a fundraiser. I was wondering if you’d like to buy some?”
“Let’s see what you have,” she said. I handed her the booklet. She flipped through the pages, letting out a soft oooo or hmmm every now and again. I tried not to stare at her, but when I looked away, the dampness in my feet ached and the wind brushing my face burned.
She reached the final page, then began flipping backwards. “I think I’ll take two of these,” she pointed to microwavable bowls with vent lids. “I’ve got two sons who are always at practice,” she added. “These will be great for them.”
“Yeah!” I said, pulling out my order form. “My sister and I have ones like that. They’re really helpful for days we have dance classes!”
I left out the part about ours being from Walmart’s clearance section, but I figured they worked the same.
I turned the order form towards her, pen resting on top. “Could you write your name and how many you want on the top line?”
She took the order form and began writing, using the booklet as a clipboard. I slipped one of my hands, holding the booklet and money bag, under my coat. It thawed, just a little.
“Thank you,” I said as she handed me the order form. “That’ll be $16.50.”
“Give me one moment, I just have to grab my purse,” she said, closing the door. I imagine she closed the door in an attempt to keep the heat in, but I missed the small bit of warmth that was tumbling out.
After a moment, the door opened, revealing the woman digging through her purse.
“Ten,” she said, extending a ten dollar bill. I let it fall into my hand, then she placed a series of dollar bills and quarters on top.
“Perfect!” I said, flashing a smile before stuffing the money into the blue bag.
“What are you raising money for?” She asked. “A school trip?”
“Oh, no, it’s for my sister and I’s dance,” I said. She stared at me, silent. “We clean the studio with our mom and that pays for our classes, but with costumes and conventions, it gets expensive, you know?”
She nodded, slow and careful. “Well, good luck. And try to stay warm,” she wrapped her cardigan around herself. “It’s freezing out there!”
“I will, thank you.”
“Have a good day now,” she said, closing the door.
I walked down her path and stopped at the end to organize my things.
The next house had a “no soliciting” sign right next to their front door. I didn’t know what “soliciting” meant, so I stepped away from the door, just in case I was doing it.
After I saw three houses in a row with “no soliciting” signs, I pulled out my phone to look it up. My hands were stiff as they tapped on the screen—finger tips cherry tomato red.
Solicitation: Noun; the act of offering, or attempting to sell, goods or services.
I was definitely doing that.
The next door had both a door knocker—in the shape of a lion head—and an electronic doorbell. I hesitated. Which was I supposed to use? I settled on the door bell, thinking the sound would be more pleasant.
I waited, then heard an old woman’s raspy voice: “I’m coming!”
Eventually, the old lady—shorter than me—opened the door. She greeted me with a big smile. “Hey, honey! How can I help ya?”
“Um,” I paused. “I’m selling Tupperware.” I held my pamphlet out to her.
“Oh,” she hummed. She licked her finger, then flipped through the pages. I watched her, a small shake running through my body.
“These are perfect!” she exclaimed, pointing to a cookie tray with a thick lid. “I bring cookies to my grandkids all the time. All I’m really good for these days.”
She laughed and I laughed along awkwardly, unsure if it was the right thing to do.
“I’ll take one,” she said. “How much, darling? I don’t have my reading glasses.”
I leaned in, reading the price upside down. “$35.50.”
Her shaky hand extended and I took the booklet.
“I have to get my purse,” she said. “Why don’t you come on in? I can make some hot cocoa.”
“Oh, I can’t,” I said, looking down at my hands. The redness had crawled up, touching the edge of my palms.
“C’mon, I don’t bite,” she says through a shiver. “It’s freezing out there! You could use something to warm you up.”
I was silent for a moment. A nice steamy glass of hot cocoa sounded heavenly right now, but I knew better. Never go in a stranger’s house, even if they’re an old lady who’s smaller than you.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I can wait out here.”
She studies me, clicking her tongue. “Suit yourself, honey. I’ll be right back.”
The door closed and I heard her careful, slow steps recede. I looked at the surrounding houses, trying to distract myself from the numbness creeping into my extremities.
I started to count the “no soliciting” signs. They seemed standard here, as very few houses did not have them. How often were these people being solicited that they felt the need to hang a sign dissuading it?
It was rare for a stranger to come knocking on my door. We had the occasional mormon, asking us if we wanted to learn about their book, or girl scout selling cookies. But that totalled to two or three knocks a year—a frequency nowhere near enough to warrant hanging signage.
Some houses in my neighborhood had “no trespassing” signs or “beware of the dog.” These were basically “don’t come on my property” signs, which made enough sense. But “no soliciting” was different, it means: “don’t try to take my money.”
This filled me with rage.
I bet they were families that went on big vacations every year and whose kids always had name brand snacks in their lunch. I bet they had the full cable plan and a huge flat screen TV. How dare they say I can’t solicit here? How dare they not share?
The door creaked open, pulling me back to reality. The old lady handed me exact change, which I slipped into my blue bag.
“Thank you,” I said, flashing my “sale-closing” smile.
“Thank you!” The old lady beams. “And stay warm!”
The door closed and I stepped away. As I walked home, I finished my count of the “no soliciting” signs: 15 out of 20 houses.
Leave a Reply