On Shoes

When I was very small, I wore very small sandals. My favorite zori were light blue ones, with a rainbow and the word "Hawaii" where my very small foot slipped in. When I got a little bigger, I would always dread the coming of fall, when I would have to stuff my feet back into their school shoes again. And, crushed together and unable to breathe, my toes would whimper all day until I came home and let them free. It wasn't just me, either: I used to close my eyes and listen to the sound of people walking by, knowing that when I heard a slap-slap on the ground I would open my eyes to a brother, a mother, or a father standing over me. Zori meant family, freedom, and a chance for my toes to show their personality. By extension (to my naively dichotomous mind), shoes meant strangers, confinement, and forced conformity.

I walked across the dried lava fields in Hawaii, wearing my zori down on the rough stone until there were holes where my heel could feel earth. I wore sandals around Mono Lake, careful as I walked not to tread on flies or to splash in briny, shrimpy water. I don't wear them when I drive, but this is only because I drive barefoot. I am barefoot in my apartment. I am barefoot when I sing onstage. I am barefoot as I run across grass.

This is all to say: I am packing shoes on this road trip. Specifically, I am packing the Converse I bought to keep in my locker at work, the ones I tied on and took off with my clock-ins and -outs. It is time for them to be dusted with the dirt of freedom. And, though my toes will long to wiggle no less in the chilly air of North Dakota, I cannot bear to lose one of them because of their foolishness. They are important to me, so I will lock them away, like a dozen-or-so little Rapunzels.

Exactly like that.