More than a sneaker story
“This is not a fashion show.” I’d hear this phrase often from my mother as I’d make the painstaking decision of what to wear for the day. Trips to the grocery store, the doctor, the mailbox...didn’t really matter. There was always something I was particular about as far as looks were concerned.
I’ve always had this fascination with sneakers. From back in the day when L.A. Gear was all the rage and if your shoes didn’t light up what were you even doing with your life.
In elementary school there was no ‘sneaker budget’ in my household. We used to go to this place called “Kings Shoes” where I have vivid memories of walking through the doors and getting immediately punched up the nostrils by the blunt smell of hard rubber soles. I recollect finding a left or right nameless shoe in my size in a bin amongst a sea of the same style and color and following the elastic string under the pile to find it’s attached mate.
As I grew, I just didn’t really care much. I wore the same beat up pair everyday. Partly for financial reasons but also because I was far more concerned with doing more pull ups than all the boys in my gym class (which I did - I’m still proud of that) and running faster than all the girls (which I also did. Thanks very much). The one thing I did care about was socks. I guess it was the next best thing to shoes. I would miss-match my socks - red and blue, turquoise and gray, because...well...to this day I'm not sure. But it was very important to me, I would get upset with my mom if she placed matched pairs in my room (cute upset, not for real upset because mom didn’t play and those socks woulda been upside my head. I had some sense). I did that for years, it became a calling card of mine and always gave me some type of weird confidence expressing myself in this way.
Once I made it to high school, though, the socks stopped and the only shoes I was really concerned about were my track spikes - I needed those to be everything. They were. Bright orange with a yellow nike swoosh, I confidently mediocre-d myself to track captain in those - something I’d endeavor to be since I started my track career in elementary. When I laced up my spikes I felt capable. I felt ready to win. (Which I did, occasionally). But at least I knew I looked like a winner.
Fast forward to college, it wasn’t until about Junior year that I actually started caring about anything aesthetic...I started wearing makeup (gasp) and transitioned to 4” stilettos being the only thing I considered worthy of my feet. I got a job at a shoe store that specialized in that very form of footwear after college and typically brought home new shoes in place of my check. I don’t recommend that, by the way.
“This is not a fashion show,” I’d hear - I’d moved back in with my parents and, on the way to a family gathering, Target trip, the mailbox - it didn’t matter - I’d take my time to pick out the right sky high heels to go with whatever I was wearing that day - feeling like I was owning my space and silently daring someone to look at me sideways. I wouldn’t have done anything about it because I was shy, but I felt powerful knowing that I was sure about what I was wearing even if and, sometimes, especially if the occasion was mundane. It’s the closest thing to confidence I had at the time. The click-clack down lacquered hallways would alert others of my presence as I didn’t carry the gravitas to actually take up space. I didn’t deserve to, anyway. I thought.
It’s funny though - at this period of my life I was working a traditional 9-5 that was not at all what I wanted to be doing with my life or time. The hours were bearable, however, because I had a couple allies. Confidants. People who I trusted with who I thought I was at the time, and solid humans they were. One day, clad in some ridiculous pair of high-heeled somethings and an outfit that was a little bit extra, I muttered that I would be happy if I had a life where I wore sweats all day. I was surprised by the genuineness of this assertion and even more taken aback by how I balked at their response, “No you wouldn’t! You’d hate it. You like heels too much.”
As mundane as this interaction was, I remember it years later. It was the first crack in the foundation I’d built from the outside in - crafting some curated image of how I thought other people might find value in something superficial and then, perhaps, dane to dig deeper and find there were valuables hidden under the facade all along. It seemed, contrary to my clandestine belief, I was not satisfied being defined by others, sparing myself the possible friction of doing so. Something so small - Crack.
After a few years, though, something magical happened - my first pair of Jordans - a pair of Jordan 1 mids that I still own a decade plus later. I purchased them from a well known sneaker shop here in the Twin Cities.
Prior to this I’d started learning, dancing, then teaching Salsa within the span of a few years and I was in love. It was the single thing in my life at the time where, when I did it, I felt like the version of myself I liked the most - free, creative, inspired, decisive. Space filling. So, being the community haven for the artistic that the establishment owner was, he invited a dance class into his space. My dance class. And I, surrounded by sneakers, doing what I filled me - let a long lost love began to float back to me.
Simultaneously, I’d found myself in a relationship that - honestly - relationship was a generous word for. This man had found me when feeling like I might be a competent and, dare I say, valuable human being had really begun to drift across my psyche. I was entertaining it as a possibility and, then I decided, in my insecurity to invite someone into my life who would make up for all the self-assuredness I lacked with their abundance of it.
Perhaps I don’t have to tell you what a good idea that wasn’t. But, to keep this long story brief, as I’d begun to find this new side of myself, the side where I found some semblance of purpose, success, a voice - that connection began to wither in the most unfortunate of fortunate ways. First, I got my heart obliterated in a story that was tragic then, but funny now. Funny in a, “oh bless her heart” kind of way.
The gift it gave me, however, is that I realized what I’d been giving away for years and getting nothing in return: my identity. Leaning into who I assumed I needed to be to pacify others enough to tolerate my presence. But, it seemed, it wasn’t good enough. Crack.
And so, beginning again from a place of dessamation, I started to lean into the things that I actually authentically felt good about and in. Heartbreak had jolted me, threw me to the ground, stripped me of pretense and the energy to keep up appearances as I sobbed about the who I’d been for so many years. I grieved - not that he left, but that the girl he was with was someone I didn’t actually know.
One of the fist external places I thought felt like comfort is where I began. It was time to wander - and I wanted my traveling clothes to feel like home.
And so. As time timed on, I started to slowly build my modest collection. It was a slow build for a few reasons - because my coins did not line up with my footwear aspirations, perhaps I was a bit intimidated by the culture as I felt like a late bloomer & imposter. At the time I didn't know when the drops were, I'd never participated in a lottery and I still can’t tell you the official colorway for every shoe. To be honest, I don't have the energy or desire to keep up with every aspect of the culture, though I do enjoy immersing myself in it often enough.
What I do know is, when I see a woman confidently walking down the street or posting an outfit punctuated by a clean pair of trainers (that's sneakers in British) I am immediately awed and feel an unspoken connection through something subtle and specific.
I also know how they make me feel when I put them on - in short, I feel the most like myself. Dressed up and dressed down. Trendy and classic. Heat or sleepers. The space I occupy in a pair of sneakers I love, is one of casual confidence that I don't need words to communicate, whether it's a pair of Nikes, New Balance, or something obscure but amazing. And now, the only person I’m interested in conveying that confidence to, is me. No longer do I bear the weighty, self-impossed burden of figuring out who I think everyone thinks I should be. It is an impossible task, to be sure. One that was never given to me to begin with. Instead, I opt for authentically relating to who I was made to be, walking ever so comfortably down the narrow path towards the only One who’s opinion matters.
Growing up, I allowed myself the voice I didn’t know how to use out loud through my style choices. And, even now, I feel like I’m imparting some key phrases of my personality or disposition through what’s on my feet and the canvas I build above it. The focus, however is so much different.
No one to impress. One person to please.
So, really, it was never a fashion show it was always so much more.
