The Right to Shoes

                                                                 The Right to Shoes

            I always thought it ironic that my mother spent most of her days trying to keep me out of women’s clothes, and then the first time we went shoe-shopping after I started junior high, she forced me to buy a pair of women’s sneakers.  My parents yelled at and berated me to the point of exasperation—theirs not mine—over my fondness for women’s apparel. Whether it was a high-heeled boot or a flared skirt, I spent my preteen years sashaying around the house clutching a clutch.  I adored women’s fashion, but I cross-dressed to exact my revenge on my parents for one of their most criminal of flaws.  They were cheap.  A childhood friend of mine always asked bearers of his birthday gifts how much his special day had put them back.  I overheard my mother playfully ask his mother, “Is Kevin Jewish?”  Naturally, I assumed that all Jewish people were cheap so I secretly began to question why my parents attended a Baptist church. No matter the occasion, my parents could always find the off-brand.  When Coca-Cola shirts were the rave, my mother bought the Dr. Pepper equivalent because it was “more durable.”

            “Bargain brands never go out of style,” she assured me.

            My younger brother and I wanted a puppy and a trampoline throughout our childhood.  We were thrilled when we woke up one cold Christmas morning to find just that. A puppy and a trampoline. Our neighbors gave us the puppy because it had the mange.  My parents skimped on the trampoline and did not buy the protective pads.  Two weeks later, the dog was dead and the trampoline was given away after my brother straddled the bar and sang falsetto for three days.  On car trips, Dad thought it would waste gas to stop. So when Mom would relieve his driving duties, they would swap places while the car was moving.  At 60 miles per hour on the interstate. Dad stopped that little trick after he paid $125 to the city of Tupelo, Mississippi for reckless driving.

            I was about to start junior high, and I desperately wanted the new Nike sneaker. White leather with a red stripe. I convulsed when Mom agreed to buy them for me. She took me to the local clothing store that had all of the cool brands. Andy, our salesman, was a loud obnoxious senior at my school. He brought two sizes of the Nike sneaker over for me to try on. When Mom saw the price tag, it was her turn to convulse.

            “Can we see the women’s shoe?” she not-so-innocently asked.

            I thought it was neat that my mom wanted the shoe identical to mine. While Andy the Loud went to fetch the shoes, Mom explained that women’s sneakers were cheaper than men’s and since I wasn’t in children’s sizes anymore, she wanted me to try them on. Again, convulsions.

“MAMA!!”

I couldn’t believe the depths that she had sunk. And to make me try them on in front of our school’s equivalent to Liz Smith?  It was all too much. She instructed me not to make a scene, so I tried on the shoes, red-faced and wanting to sink into the linoleum. For the first time in my life, I did not want to wear women’s shoes. But I did. I wore the women’s Nike for nine months until, finally, my foot grew. In reality, I stuffed wads of tissue in the toes of my shoes, but what the parental units didn’t know sure didn’t hurt them.

            Luckily, I grew out of my cross-dressing tendencies. Save for one Halloween when I was Mrs. Doubtfire, I haven’t dressed in drag since age twelve. My parents, however, are still cheap. I planned a trip to the theatre for their first trip to New York a few years ago.

            “There are so many exciting new plays this season, Mom,” I relayed to her over the phone.        She paused. She thought. She calculated.

            “The new plays are all so expensive.  Have you seen “The Phantom of the Opera”?”

            Oy.  If I were Jewish, I would plats.