Shoes that fit

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The rising sun was already blazing the Monday I walked to school for the first time in my new Converse sneakers. November in Phoenix had been unusually hot, and I had convinced my mother on the weekend that it was too uncomfortable to wear the black leather dress shoes and dress pants that I had worn to school in Belgium just a few weeks earlier. To my surprise, she had consented. Up until then, she had only ever bought me new shoes when my previous pair didn’t fit anymore. On that same shopping trip, I had also wrangled out of her a pair of corduroy shorts and a shirt emblazoned with a surfing motif. As I watched my new, tan and white sneakers hit the black asphalt I was, for the first time since we had moved to the US, eagerly anticipating, rather than dreading, my arrival at Arcadia High.

For three weeks, I had been the object of fascination, derision, and repulsion. The only foreigner at my school, I was an exotic creature that attracted and intrigued my classmates. Many of them had never heard of Belgium until I mentioned it, or believed it to be a part of France, or worse: thought it was a country in deep Africa. My formal outfits stood out from the shorts, T-shirts, tank tops and flip-flops everyone else was wearing, although it took me a while to realize it.

But today — today would be different. I would finally blend in with the rest of the crowd, and as long as I didn’t open my mouth, be one of them.
The sneakers smelled of rubber, and in the morning heat my sockless heel grew a blister because my frugal mother had bought me shoes ‘to grow into.’ But that didn’t stop me from practicing the swagger I had noticed on the popular boys, the confident football and basketball players. I was one of them now, and I was going to walk through the front gates with the same confidence as everyone else. I slowed down my walking pace so I could arrive when most of the other students would already be there, loitering by the entrance and checking each other out.

I could already see, in the distance, other shorts-and-T-shirt-clad students ahead of me, their backpacks casually slung over one shoulder. I was still carrying my briefcase that was the standard school equipment in Belgium, and wished I had pestered my mom for a backpack as well, but I was afraid I had already pushed my luck far enough. Now I slowed down even further, to arrive when most students would already be in their chairs, so I could quickly hide my briefcase in my locker and enter the classroom bearing only a notebook and my new outfit.

I managed to do exactly that, and when I sat in my chair, just seconds before the teacher started the class, one of my classmates hissed: “Nice shorts.” I was elated. Someone had noticed! I stretched out my legs in front of me, showing off my new sneakers, but garnered no more comments. I would have to wait until break to enjoy my newfound acceptance.

“Nice shirt.” “Where did you go, K-Mart?” “Shouldn’t wear shorts until you get a tan, man.” “Did your mother dress you?” Those were just a few comments I heard between classes. Apparently I hadn’t bought the ‘right’ shorts, or the ‘right’ shirt, and thus nobody noticed the gleaming Converse sneakers that matched everyone else’s. The next day, I switched back to pants but kept the Converse, and I slowly melded into the background at school.

Thanksgiving Eve

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Dan needed his Brigham’s vanilla ice cream! I had finished all the grocery shopping for Thanksgiving days earlier. The last place I wanted to be at 4pm on the day before Thanksgiving last year was a big supermarket, but Dan wanted his Brigham’s! So I dutifully trekked the mile to the Star Market, grabbed up four quarts and picked a checkout line.

I always pick the wrong line. This line was short, but I was behind an elderly Asian woman in a motorized grocery cart. She only had about a dozen items, but the checkout process would prove to be a trial.

She pulled into the narrow aisle next to the conveyor belt to unload her items. She had trouble reaching up and dropped an item on the ground, then couldn’t reach down to get it. Without hesitation, I scooped it up and placed it on the belt, then moved to a better position to help her unload her whole cart. She never smiled at me or acknowledged my help. When I was done, I moved back to my place behind her, still holding my four quarts of vanilla ice cream.

The person checking her out was new to the Star Market (I go there so often that I know all the clerks) and perhaps new to the country, as she wore a headscarf and spoke heavily-accented, hesitant English. The customer pulled out her change purse to pay with cash, which meant she needed exact cash back for the purchase. The poor woman ringing her up counted, counted again, then a third time to ensure the count was accurate. American currency was something she had rarely encountered, so making change was really difficult for her. This took a long time (my ice cream was freezing my hands and the line behind me grew long). The old woman never spoke, indeed, never let on that she understood English. The manager saw the trouble and came to help.

The manager asked the elderly woman if she’d need help getting to her car (the store is up an escalator on the second story). The woman didn’t answer, but the manager called one of the other attendants to help her. The manager couldn’t get her to move out of the aisle. The manager checked the clerk’s count, and double checked it. The elderly woman counted it out herself, very slowly, but would not be persuaded to move out of the aisle. The whole operation at that counter had ground to a halt.

The manager gave me frantic looks. I shrugged. There wasn’t much to do but wait. Finally, they got the woman to move along, content that she had the correct cash back and would be taken care of. We really did not know if she was hard of hearing, had dementia, or just what was going on with her. But she needed to be handled with patience and tact.

The manager apologized to me. I smiled and responded, “Hey, everybody deserves a little kindness.”

With all the ugliness and divisiveness in the world today, I felt good about what I had done. I had helped a stranger, then shown some patience. No biggie. I had also done a favor for my husband, but that’s another story.