The Soul of Shoes

My first inaugural pair of Vans found their way into my closet and heart, purchased by a nervous and awkward 12 year old. I was visiting the mall with my older brother, Conor. I bought only one item that day, a pair of canvas tennis shoes, the culmination of all my courage. As the youngest child, third in the pecking order of hand-me-downs, I was never allowed to choose or buy my own shoes. They were always vetted by my parents who prized practicality and years of use over style. My brother wandered the mall for hours, aimlessly for an adult, purposefully for a teenager. I finally asked if we could look in the Zumiez store. It was a hot summer day, though I hid under a long sleeve shirt and hoodie, shielded in sweaty armor as I stepped into a store that was as intimidating as it was cool. Conor, oblivious to my fearful exhilaration, encouraged me to look around the store. I quickly settled on my pair of Vans. Simple and subtle, they were white and grey with too long laces. An employee gave me the incorrect size, but I was too eager to get out the anxious store to say anything. Though I bought those shoes in the 7th grade, I didn’t start wearing them until I was well into high school when they finally fit me properly and I felt as if I would be able to pull them off. I feared my peers looking at me in them and laughing, saying that I couldn’t act so normal as if I was one of them. But once I started wearing them, I didn’t stop. The soles, no longer flat, rocked with a comfortable rolling wave on the pavement. The canvas on the toe tore into holes that bled the smell of moldy feet no matter how many times they tumbled in the wash and dried. Those beat up old Vans worn daily for years, gave me the air of invincibility, or at least the notion of invisibility, letting me blend in more than I had in the past. I was able to be normal, at least in my footwear choice. What is more teenager than a pair of dirty Vans? They created a protective palisade for my fragility and nervous self-worth, a beat-up but beautiful blockade against the judgement of my peers.

I loved those shoes and wore them, seemingly until the rapture. By the end of first semester of college, the shoes banned from my girlfriend’s room, found little solace in being left outside the door. My friends (for my health and theirs) attempted to throw them away on more than one occasion. During winter break of my first year, I finally retired them. The funeral was poignant, in tenor and aroma. That Christmas, Conor gifted me two new pairs of Vans, but I was left wanting more. They weren’t my shoes. Instead they belonged on a store mannequin, perfect from head to shiny toe. After a semester and summer of wearing what felt more like intrepid imposters than something I truly owned, I finally caved. I wanted a new pair of shoes.

I craved an air of effortlessness. I wanted others to see me, but not look too closely, and if for some reason they did, they would see an ordinary yet somewhat cool college student. These shoes could give me comfort, a way to keep my idea of self grounded in their practical flat soles. They would empower me to climb trees and railings or go out to Local Burger on a busy Saturday evening. I would prop my feet up on the coffee table in my house’s living room with ease, the shoes on my feet reassuring me, giving me the confident easy-going smile well known by my friends, soon to be discovered by others.

I started my shoe hunt the summer before my sophomore year, descending into stores and the internet. I quickly decided on going with laceless Vans. I am a lazy person in many ways and the convenience of slipping on my shoes was too tempting to resist, though my beloved Birkenstocks felt slighted and just a bit jealous. During the summer, I was on a high from my first year of college. More confident, more social, more like me, I was happy and eager to go back. But I needed shoes that held all of those complicated feelings to build and strengthen throughout the coming year. I finally found them half way through September. I ordered them on Zumiez, too cheap to pay the extra five dollars to get them off the official Vans’ site.

They were brilliant white when they arrived. Too white. Way to clean. Like the bright glaring cleanliness of a doctor’s examining room. At their current state, they would make me stand out more than I would ever want to. I would look like those high school lacrosse boys with dyed hair and headbands, obsessed with their $250 sneakers they cleaned with toothbrushes and bleach after each use. “Lax Bros” are not unseen at Smith, but I did not want to be one. Despite the way the shoes blinded me, the moment I slipped them on, they felt perfect. Just loose enough, the heel gripped my achilles softly. The inside sole cushioned my foot, not yet formed to my stance and pattern of walking. As I looked down at my shoe adorned feet, the confidence I had been building all summer came to fruition. These shoes represented my assurance in the place I was occupying; the love and relationships with my friends, my academic confidence, and my social identity. I first wore them outside on a sunny September day, with blue athletic shorts and mid-calf socks. I was an athlete going to class like any other. As I walked in the sweaty sun, my back straightened with sprightly steps full of new shoe spring. The sun reflected off the perfectly white surface so brightly I couldn’t look down. I received comments from my friends, my teammates, and strangers. My friend CJ, famous for not being able to recognize me out and about, told me “I just look for the shoes now. If I see white, I know it’s you.” At first, I was unsure if I made the right choice. Would my confidence grow or wane with this much noticeability?

Over the next few weeks, I tried to dirty the white canvas. I wore the shoes everyday and everywhere. I purposefully stepped in puddles, I wore them across the muddy soccer field, but the shoes sparkled, stubborn in their luminescent cleanliness. The second time I wore them, a girl in a dining hall dropped a knife slathered in peanut butter right next to them; she was horrified by the possibility of dirtying my obviously new shoes, but I was disappointed the knife hadn’t landed a few inches to the right. The shine continued to glare up at me until a trek through a Halloween haunted house. Finally, just the right level of dirtiness was achieved. After six months of use, they are still surprisingly clean looking, but showing some miles from being worn so much. The white rubber of the toe and sole greys more with each passing day, speckled with dirt and stains, scuffs deepen on the toe and heel from my lazy step. The white canvas tells of travels and (many) missteps, with dark grey stains, and brown spots drifting along the sea salt surface. The right shoe, for some reason has more visible damage and wear than the left. The rubber around the toe box pulls away from the bottom sole, their relationship once so adhesive, cools quickly like any other summer fling. Road salt slyly sneaks into the gap. Cold grit stains my fingertips and invades my nail beds when I pry the salt out. Permanently stained, the area resting above my big toe deceives the eye with apparent dampness. The inside of the soles hold brown dirt picked up from my socks, forced into the once clean foot beds by slow meandering steps. The inside of the right toe box drapes down, the inner canvas torn off the structure of the shoe by my subconscious habit of curling my right toes in class.

The Vans logo on the back of the heels have worn off. The shoes softened, broken in perfectly for my feet. The small patches of padded leather at the heel, now crinkled, give way to my lazy way of putting them on; standing up, twisting my ankle until my foot falls into place. I have become so comfortable with these shoes. The ease of wearing them, of knowing that no matter what outfit I wear they’ll match, their versatility, all add to my confidence and attempt to keep an easy-going demeanor. With every step taken, I carry the feeling of summer, the pep-in-my-step that came from growing so much during those months. My stubbornness and laziness keep them on my feet during the winter, despite ice or snow. Though harrowed by freezing cold and snow soaked, each day they still bring me comfort when I put them on without a thought.

My white Vans gave me a vital boost in my transformation from a growing high schooler, to a confident and self-actualized college student. My first pair of Vans paved the way, and these finished the race. Aspirations for the shoes came to pass through Katie, a first-year teammate that I took under my wing early on in the year. Just before winter break, I heard that Katie had asked her parents for a pair of white Vans just like mine for Christmas, because “she thought mine were cool on me.” My ego appreciated the comment despite my confidence issues and humbleness. Katie saying that she thought my shoes were cool, was her saying that she thought I was cool. But more importantly, her comment validated all my hopes personified in these quickly tattering shoes. After the first initial comments and attention new shiny shoes bring, they faded from of people’s scrutiny. Instead, they became a part of me, more than just an accessory; they represent my fears, hopes, growth, and maturity. The white Vans reflect my personality. Fun and friendly, a little impulsive, and happy-go-lucky, the shoes carry just as many scuffs, stains, and flaws that I do, but hopefully with some charm.