Memoir: SHOES

In the l940s a shoe called a spectator was quite popular. They were dressy shoes with a high heel, or medium heel. These were my Mom’s favorite shoes. Their colors were two-toned, either brown & white, navy & white, black & white or red & white. These shoes epitomized anal rigidity to me. And being my mother’s shoes they were always spotless, looking like they had never been worn.

Around the time I became aware of my Mom’s spectators was when I had my first memory of being sexually abused by my father. Funny to link these two together, but here they are, almost walking hand in hand. The spectators had little tiny holes on the darker part of the shoe, accentuating the dark and the light, where they touched. Also, on the dark part where it laid on the white of the shoe, it was trimmed with what looked like pinking shears. Remember those? They made everything look like a zigzag. As I began to unfold as a little child, with memories of sexual abuse being intermingled with the need for perfection, the spectators became a great metaphor. My psyche was being shaped with little tiny holes as the darkness formed in my young life. I felt I was being torn between good and evil, as if I had been cut with pinking shears. But the spectators moved on in an orderly manner, whereas I was back and forth between confusion and senselessness. Not much changed as I continued to grow up. My Mom never knew about the abuse until I was in my late 30s, although the experts say the mother always knows. In my awareness she was too busy making everything as clean and perfect as possible. My Dad’s alcohol problem worsened, the abuse had stopped around l4.

Now, in my later years, I realize I have never worn spectators, even though they are back in style. They wouldn’t be conducive to my way of life. Much discernment has come about through the years, helping to fill the tiny holes formed so long ago. The shoes I wear now are for comfort, with a little style, creating a great ease in walking forward.
Patricia