Pink Shoes

At the end of the day, Ms. Unser walks to the front of the classroom. She stands behind her podium, reaches down, and plucks off her shoe.

“This is our first art project for this year.” She displays it proudly as the room mumbles.

“Some of you may say this is just a shoe. But I say it’s a work of art.” She stands without saying anything else. She just rests her elbows on the podium and turns the shoe over in her hands so that we can all see. Hers is a boring black pump with a nearly imperceptible heel that blends into the front part of the sole. The dull leather upper comes to a slightly rounded point at the front. The shoe yawns at the sides from wear. I notice “Easy Spirit” branded into the foot bed.

Easy Spirit. Grandma Janie and Virginia wear Easy Spirits because they “need the arch support.” Mom always checks out the Easy Spirit store at the outlet mall. “What do you think about this one?”

I mean. She’s so embarrassing. I can’t believe she’s so cheap. Like this morning when we had the same argument for the ten thousandth time.

“Your dad and I can’t afford to get you name brand tennis shoes and that’s just how it is. You’ll just have to make do with what you’ve got,” she tells me talking about my brand new fuchsia high tops. How completely un-cool by comparison the generic tennies were when walking alongside the Nikes and Reeboks that everyone else wore.

“Dad and I really want to give you kids the best. That’s why we’re sending you to private school. We can’t really afford it, but we’ll make do.”

“If you would just send me to public school then maybe we could save some money.” I tried to whisper to myself, “Then, maybe I could get some decent clothes.” But she of course heard me.

“You know…”

Here we go again.

“…you don’t always have to follow the crowd.” I’m sick of Mom’s words of wisdom.

“Easy Spirit.” Ms. Unser says after showing the shoe for a good five minutes. “What do you think that says about me?” She smiles softly and cups a strand of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear, sweeping it neatly under her bun.

“Can anyone tell me why a shoe is a masterpiece—or will be—when we’re done with our first project?” She is not gonna let this go. The class stops smirking and starts staring in pre-teen annoyance. The popular girls roll their mascara eyes. And everyone tilts their heads at an angle that says, “Well. Why don’t you tell us already? Hello-o?”

“Well.” Ms. Unser steps out to the side of the podium, holds the Easy Spirit at shoulder level, and lets it drop with a snap-plop. She slips her sheer pantyhosed foot into the shoe and stands up straight.

“Since there are no guesses. Everyone take off a shoe and set it on your desk.” Everyone rolls their eyes at this instruction. I can’t even imagine how it’s possible for the popular girls to roll any further. They must have amazing eyeball muscles. Amidst groaning (probably in part because of the straining eyeball muscles), everyone slouches to the side of their desk and unties their laces with one hand.

I need two hands to undo my trusty double-knot. Fiddling with the cotton strings, I eventually loosen them. Then I pull the pink tongue forward so I can wiggle my foot out of the shoe’s collar.

“This is how your shoes will become masterpieces,” Ms. Unser holds up pencil sketches in bright colored mats.

“These are sample shoe portraits from past students. This essential piece of your wardrobe conveys your uniqueness…your ‘you-ness.’ What do your shoes say about you?” She pauses. I have no idea what to think, but I’m pretty sure I instinctually drop my head at the mere thought of thinking about my shoes.

“You helped your parents pick them out. What limited your choice?” She continues, “At Immaculate Conception, we have the school uniform code to think about. Also, there’s financial constraints, hand-me-downs…”

Aargh!!! I just know she’s talking about me. I hunker down in my seat, but she isn’t looking at me, so I abandon my duck-and-cover position to look around the classroom.

Yes, Nikes and Reeboks stand proudly on some desks. But I also make out more than a fair share of kicks with no names. Some people don’t even have tennis shoes. In the front row sits a shining, patent leather Mary Jane. In the back row, the new boy scribbles busily on his white All-Stars with a rainbow of Sharpies.

I begin to really see my shoes for the first time. I look at the shoe, turning it as if it were rotating on display in a shop window. My pointer finger pushes it in a circle clockwise. Then counter clockwise. I notice the rubber half moon at the front of my shoe that looks like a rubber toenail. An inch of white rubber encircles the bottom edge, providing a platform of cushion for my feet. The hot pink cotton rises out of the white sole like sails. The white laces tie the sails together and rope down the tongue.

After studying it for most of the hour and drawing a few outlines on my sketchpad, the shoe feels like an artifact in my hands. I hold it carefully. I examine it closely.

At the Art Museum last year our tour guide had pointed out that, “certain portrait subjects were painted with a beauty mark even if the person didn’t have one in real life. The imperfections in the paintings made the subject appear more human. In the artists’ eyes, the imperfections made a person beautiful and perfect.”

I notice the uneven racing stripe that doesn’t quite match up in one spot. I notice the bits of gravel stuck in the criss-crossed crevices of the tan sole. I notice the black scuff on the back of my heel and almost spit on my finger to rub out the mark. But I change my mind just as the bell rings signaling the end of day.