The Red Shoes

As our usual practice, my mother and I had a long talk on the phone. I always tell myself we'll only spend twenty minutes talking. But, it never turns out that way, no matter how hard I try.

Our conversations are the anti-therapy therapy. You feel oddly fulfilled by the words exchanged, but in the end you are wondering what the heck just happened. The trail of circles left behind is a constant reminder that you've said so much, yet you've said nothing at all.

Still, speaking with my mother always triggers something from my past. Whether I want to remember or not, I'm usually forced to wrestle with the images, at least for a little while . . .

* * *

This street was the kind of street you would drive down without looking around. The houses, tiny nondescript squares with a patch of grass in the front, all looked the same.

Almost.

Some homes had window boxes filled with flowers, plastic deer centered perfectly on the lawn and a path of smooth stones with messages that guided visitors to the front door.

Other homes had peeling paint, broken gutters and bent aluminum mini blinds peeking out of a window or two. Dirty toys littered the front patchy brown lawn and an old car sat as a permanent fixture in the drive.

It was a clear case of the have and have nots.

Except, all the occupants of these homes, the families, their children, were have nots. Some just had more hope.

This is where I grew up.

Back then I never realized we were a have not.

I remember watching my mother pay for groceries with special "coupons." I remember the brown cardboard box that held our cheese (which made the best grilled cheese sandwiches, by the way). I remember the whispers exchanged between my parents, the tearful pleas on the phone with family. I remember answering doors and calls with the requisite "My mom and dad aren't home," while they quietly waited in a back bedroom. But, none of it meant anything to me. I just didn't get it.

I didn't know we were poor. Until the third grade.

My mom enrolled me in a private Christian school. I was a scholarship kid. I didn't know that, either. A few days before school started we were to meet with the principal. I remember walking into his office. His secretary reached across her desk, shook my mother's hand and then peered down at me. She shook her head. A nearly imperceptible shake, but I do remember it. My smile faded into a puzzled frown.

I was wearing the wrong clothes. I was a little dirty. My mother was young. Her heavy White Shoulders perfume, red lipstick and bosom hugging v-neck spoke volumes.

This woman had our number. We didn't belong there.

Of course, I didn't know that either. Not until later.

Not until the red shoes.

Playground. Two weeks later.

The day I finally figured it all out. . .

The honeymoon of the first days of school had faded into regular routines. It was the end of the week. I only remember because it was library day; the day we were marched down the hallway to the tiny room with seemingly endless shelves of books. Only two weeks in and Library Friday was my favorite day.

After lunch, we headed outside to the playground. I sat on the steps and pulled out one of my books.

"Why do you always wear those red shoes?" a small voice asked. I'll never remember her name. I won't remember because the weight of her question pushed my eyes to the ground--to the red shoes.

My faded red canvas shoes. I had worn them every single day since the first day of school.

"They are my favorite shoes," I retorted. The response came so quick I was left wondering if it was even me who spoke it.

My mom bought them at a garage sale at the beginning of summer.

They were my only shoes.

I looked up and looked around. For the first time. I saw the haves.

The leather shoes with shiny buckles and thick soles. The ironed collared shirts and pleated pants. The perfectly coiffed hair and gemstone jewelry.

For the first time I noticed my pants (hand me downs from my cousin--a boy my age), my shirt (garage sale), my hair (pulled haphazardly into a pony tail).

I couldn't stop looking around, drinking in each image and choking on the painful knowledge of who I was . . . of who I wasn't.

The bliss of ignorance had come to an end.

* * *

I don't like red shoes. I am totally cool with garage sales. And I still hanker for grilled (government) cheese sandwiches. And I had to add "Canvas" to the title because