In Her Shoes

I took my daughter to buy basketball shoes the other day. 

I had researched them, attempting to ascertain not only what was the best shoe for the price, but also which ones were popular right now. 

When I asked her what kind she wanted she shrugged and said, “Black ones.”

“Yes, I know, you want black ones, but what brand do you want?”

“Oh, I don’t care…just as long as they are comfortable and black.”

And, with that she picked a pair that met her criteria – they were black and comfortable. They were not the brand that I would have picked. When I noticed that they were trimmed in red, I asked her if she wanted to keep looking since her uniforms are maroon and therefore, would not match the red. 

She looked at me like a second head had suddenly sprouted from shoulders and said, “Goodness, no. I don’t care. No one cares. I like these.”

It was the second time in my life that basketball shoes made me cry. 

I also played basketball in middle school (although it was called junior high at that time). There was no money for basketball shoes. Fortunately, my uncle sent me a pair. And, while I was thankful to have them, I was also embarrassed by them. They were all wrong. They were not the Nikes that I had boasted about getting. 

Also, they were white and blue. I can’t fault my uncle for this. I played for Bluefield Junior High School. Therefore, he assumed that our uniforms would be blue. Nope, not blue.

These shoes became a bright white, too big beacon into my crumbling, embarrassing life. 

And, that 30 year old incident is so sheared into my core memories that I became slightly obsessed about my daughter having the exact right shoes. When she shrugged off my concerns about the color and brand, I was overcome with gratitude. 

I was thankful that we were able to run out and grab the shoes she needed without much stress. This is a luxury that not all parents are afforded. I know that basketball shoes can mean not paying a bill or picking up an overtime shift. My heart seized a little knowing that a middle schooler would be lacing up what they considered the wrong shoes. 

I was grateful that despite the fact that my circumstances have changed tremendously from those awkward junior high days filled with embarrassment after embarrassment that most of the time I remember to walk around in someone else’s shoes before I cast judgments. However, what I am most appreciative of is having a secure, loving kid who allows me to walk around in her comfortable, black sneakers when I need a reminder about what is important. 

Soshally Awkward

Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.