Red Shoes

We were living in Kansas City and the first day of school was fast approaching.  In the grain belt, the start of school and my early August birthday regularly aligned with our arrival in the new city where my father’s corporate transfer took us. School shoes were often my birthday gift and it never occurred to me that a doll would be more welcome than new shoes. Such was the occasion as I began second grade.

New school — new uniforms — new phone number and address. “10032 Mission Road, Leawood, Kansas DU1-4565” I repeated to assure my mother that I would not be lost forever, besides my brother Pat was just up the stairs with the big kids. He wouldn’t forget me and I knew that he knew the way home.

I liked the new beginnings — new kids and new teachers and whatever had happened at the last school was irrelevant (until I had the startling revelation in Middle School that there was this thing called school records that seemed to follow you like a bad dream). The only downside was that you never knew what was cool in the new school and what should go in the first day lunch box, where to stand at recess if you wanted to be sure not to play kickball so you wouldn’t ruin your new shoes, and certainly not what color your shoes should be to be qualified as acceptable for social matriculation.

I loved my red shoes and so did my Dad. He told me that I looked smarter in my red shoes which was important since first grade had not been a roaring academic success. I believed it and in an attempt to squelch the first day of school terrors, I slept in my red shoes for the week before hoping that the smart shoes would navigate from toes to head.

The day arrived and I, a great school lover, brimmed with eager expectation only curtailed by my 7th grade way cool brother’s less than enthusiastic approach to this new year. We walked into the school and I greeted my new teacher who fortunately lived across the road from our house (I thought that might be useful in the event academics were not going my way) and met two kids who seemed like reasonable candidates for my social agenda.

My world didn’t crash until recess when the gorgeous girl who had read the entire public library over the summer (with a 3×5 index card identifying the characters in each book in writing that didn’t look very much like any 2nd grader I had ever met) decided it was a good time to tell me that anyone who wore red shoes was permanently banned from the club. I didn’t really know from what club I had been banned but I determined that permanent isolation was in my future as there was no way that new shoes would be. One pair of shoes for the year was the family limit, and suddenly they didn’t seem to help my quotient of either intelligence or admission to the club.

It didn’t change much — every day the same recess regulation of the club admission and the two of us with red shoes were banished to sticks and sidewalk. Until one day when she made a grave error. I was waiting for Pat to find me — we were “walkers” so we had to wait until the bus kids and the car kids left so our odds of our survival were increased. The great reader from the North thought it was just the right time to yell out the bus window, “Too bad about your stupid red shoes for a stupid kid who can’t read.” I didn’t realize it, but Pat was standing behind me as I completed the routine by burying my head in my hands in a refusal to make eye contact or to shed a tear.

On the way home, just about the time we passed the bank and the Safeway grocery store, he wanted to know about the red shoes. I begged him not to tell our parents — they didn’t need to know. We had a pact about many things, so this could easily be placed in the vault. I told him the whole saga about the club and the shoes and how she made fun of me because I couldn’t read as well as she could and I could only play with sticks on the sidewalk. He didn’t say much except some advice about making up my own club.

A few days later we were walking home and I was tagging behind, as usual…when we got past the bank onto the long stretch before we hit our road, he stopped, threw down his book bag and said, “Come here right now.”  I adored him and he almost never raised his voice at me and so I moved quickly.  He proceeded, “I have had enough.  Either you do this or I do it, but you really need to handle this.”

“Okay,”  I said somewhat confused with the interaction, “but exactly what am I supposed to handle?”

“The red shoe club.  You walk up to her.  You put your toes to her toes and look her in the eye and say, “I love my red shoes.  You wanna talk about it?” ” Now.  Right here practice.”

And so I did.  With eager voice he commanded, “Not good enough.  Again. and Again. and Again”

And now, he said, “You tell me what day you are going to tell her.  I am going to stand and watch.  You can do it and I got your back.”  And so we set the date and I was permanently expelled from the club, but no one ever made a comment about my red shoes — and I loved them back into being my smart shoes — and never forgot what it feels like when someone has your back and gives you the tools to do for yourself what no one else can do for you.

Happy First Day of School.  Don’t forget to wear your red!