Tell Your Story Fall 2022 Writing Contest — Finalist
The Keys to Myself
The adults scurry around inside the little house. The other children run joyfully across the back garden. I’m standing just inside the sliding glass door next to the cake on the table. A sheet cake covered in blobs and squiggles meant to look like balloons. The smell of vanilla is too strong. It’s warm inside in July, even in England. As I stand by the cake watching the joy on the faces of all the partygoers through the glass, I keep thinking about my shoes.
I’m particular about my shoes. I’ve always been concerned with the look and most especially the feel of my shoes. Every pair of shoes needed to fit a specific, often abstract, set of criteria. Sizing was only the start. Did they make my feet look flat? Did they squeeze my big toes or squinch my second toes? Can people see how long and bony my toes are? Do they feel the same on both feet? Can I wear them with socks or tights? Do they make blisters if I wear them without? Can I dance around in them? Do I feel too fancy or not fancy enough for the activity I’ll be doing in them?
On this day, I’m wearing some classic British child shoes. These party shoes were both my favorite pair of shoes ever and extremely frustrating to me. They were hand-me-downs, which I hated, but they were still like-new. They came from one of my best friends, but they were a little too big. They were beautiful, but maybe too beautiful for someone like me. I’ve never believed I deserved anything beautiful. If I have or wear something beautiful, then people will notice me and if they notice me they might look at me for more than a glance and then notice everything else I’m embarrassed about.
These particularly complicated shoes were black, patent-leather Mary Janes, with a T-strap. The best parts, though, were the insides and the bottoms. Red plaid lining on the inside felt cool and grown-up somehow, but the surprise on the bottoms made me feel cool. Something to show off that was hidden. A surprise. A key. A golden key inlaid into the center of each sole. Encased in a clear gel-like substance, surrounded by gold glitter, and suspended in my beautiful shoes.
I worried over these shoes every time I put them on. What I wanted was to wear them all the time. I wanted to run up to everyone I saw and tell them about my secret. I wanted to be noticed in my fancy shoes. But I couldn’t do any of these things. I couldn’t stop thinking about the ways they weren’t perfect. I couldn’t wear them unless they went with my clothes. I couldn’t run up to a person ever and I definitely couldn’t talk to them. I didn’t want people to notice my imperfections.
Standing almost in the corner between adults who were too busy to be bothered by me and children who might not really like me even though they showed up at my birthday, I can basically only think about the smell of icing and if it would be embarrassing to go outside and play when the friend whose mother gave my mother the shoes I’m wearing will notice and tell everyone. It’s probably strange to be worried about such specific things at 5 years old. Especially at your own birthday party.
The space between is one of the loneliest places.
I could still fit into my beautiful shoes when we moved to North Carolina about 6 months later. The thing is, though, that England and North Carolina aren’t the same. They’re different in ways that are noticeable to everyone, even a small child. The weather is different. The fashion is different. The language is different. In elementary school, different is weird. Starting a new school in the middle of the year is weird. Having a different accent is weird. Wearing Mary Janes to school is weird too.
So I waited.
I waited for the right season.
I waited for the right weather.
I waited for the right occasion.
And it never came.
My incredible shoes got tighter.
My beautiful shoes stayed inside.
My secret keys remained hidden.
And I became hidden.
I learned how to change all the things about me that other people thought were odd (at least in public). I was 6 years old and began to mold myself into what I thought I was expected to be. I disguised my British accent until it became Southern and I hid my talents until they became dulled and mediocre. If I found out I was the best at something, I’d quit. It’s not good to show off or to ask for attention. I should do an acceptable job and if someone happened to recognize it as better than just acceptable then it could be celebrated.
Only, that’s not how things really work.
I struggled while I hid in the in between. In middle school, my favorite shoes were ugly clogs. They were comfortable when all I wanted in life was comfort. I started trying less comfortable shoes in college. They weren’t necessarily beautiful or exciting to others, but they were new to me. If I didn’t try new shoes, I’d be stuck. I knew the comfortable shoes were holding me back. I knew the interesting or beautiful or noticeable shoes were the real me even if they weren’t comfortable yet. I was still scared to show the real me, but I was learning that it was okay if I was noticeable. Even the interesting shoes can get comfortable with enough wear.
So now, I wear the shoes I want to wear. The looks and comments don’t matter as much because I’ve considered my shoes and myself and I’ve found that even if they don’t have a key in the bottom of the sole they can be perfect (even if only to me). And it’s okay to stand out.
I wish I could go back to that party and tell myself how okay it is. That girl could be self-assured, confident, and talented without remorse or regret. I’d make sure she kept more than just a hint of my accent. I’d make sure she kept more of her desire to be seen. I’d make sure she worked through her anxieties about shoes and people. It’s really okay to ask for attention. It’s really okay to cause a stir. It’s really okay to be yourself. Even if yourself is different. Even if yourself is weird.
And I’d make sure she wore those patent leather Mary Janes with the T-straps and the keys in the soles until they were worn out.
