"To help those sick women"
As far back as I can remember, my mother’s wardrobe has been pretty predictable. For the office, she generally wore slacks, a button-down blouse, and black SAS shoes. Those shoes carried over to her “casual” attire, which also consisted of “mom jeans” (high in the waist and tapered at the ankles) and another button-down blouse or, in cold weather, a turtleneck under a sweater. She might have owned one pair of shorts, but they appeared less frequently than Bobby Fischer.
As my mother began having problems with money, my sisters and I accompanied her on almost all trips to clothing stores. Before each venture, we would have a round-table discussion on what type of clothing we should try to find. In the case of jeans, we decided our mother could finally be talked into a pair that touched the tops of her shoes.
We were hoping to downplay the changes happening to our mother by trying to make her blend in with other women her age.
Concerning shoes, our mother had somehow acquired a pair of chunky canvas shoes that looked like a pair I had worn in middle school. Though holes had been worn into the soles, she continued wearing them every day. In time, we talked her into a less-conspicuous pair that was comfortable and even fairly trendy.
My mother wore those new shoes for almost a year, and in the process, lost her ability to tie them. On several occasions, my father would laboriously re-lace them after my mother had weaved the strings into giant knots. When he finally lost patience with the task, he decided to get her shoes with Velcro.
***
I first see the new Velcro shoes the day after my parents get them. They are sterile white and have one-inch soles. They are boxy in a way that makes my mother look as if she is wearing blocks of ice on her feet. Each shoe has two Velcro straps across the top, the ends of which stick out on the sides like wings. These are the kind of shoes worn by people thirty years older than my mother, and I know that she would never have worn them in her right mind.
I hate them. I hate how they look, how they make my mother look, and most of all, I hate the reason she has them.
My mother pulls the shoes out of the box and points them at me. “Did you see my new shoes?” she asks for the third time today.
“They look pretty comfortable,” I reply, skirting a definitive answer.
“Yes, my other ones were getting holes.” She turns one shoe over and stares at it.
“Do you like them?” I ask.
“I guess.” The corners of her mouth slide downward as she answers. She makes eye contact with me and asks (again), “Do you like them?”
Her continuous pressing of this issue makes me realize that my approval might matter more than I think it does. I wonder if some part of her brain is remembering her old fashion tastes and screaming something is not right here—don’t wear those!
My stomach turns a little as I try to downplay my revulsion of the shoes. I anchor my thoughts by looking at the floor and reply in as warm of a tone as I can manage, “They look comfortable. Are they nice to wear?”
“They’re pretty good,” she says, her mouth still drooping.
I can barely stand to look at the giant shoes, but as my mother tries to fit them back in the box, I notice a hint of color. On each tongue, barely a quarter of an inch long, is an embroidered pink ribbon.
I point to one of the images. “Is that for Breast Cancer?”
My mother doesn't even look at them, but only nods. “That’s to help those sick women.”
Her words are simple enough, but the situation becomes more insightful as her reply sinks in. Even in her declining mental state, my mother is still concerned of the welfare of others. Those little pink ribbons are a visual reminder of another kind of tragedy and the determination to cure it. Knowing what those ribbons symbolize make them the shoes’ only redeemable quality.
As my mother began having problems with money, my sisters and I accompanied her on almost all trips to clothing stores. Before each venture, we would have a round-table discussion on what type of clothing we should try to find. In the case of jeans, we decided our mother could finally be talked into a pair that touched the tops of her shoes.
We were hoping to downplay the changes happening to our mother by trying to make her blend in with other women her age.
Concerning shoes, our mother had somehow acquired a pair of chunky canvas shoes that looked like a pair I had worn in middle school. Though holes had been worn into the soles, she continued wearing them every day. In time, we talked her into a less-conspicuous pair that was comfortable and even fairly trendy.
My mother wore those new shoes for almost a year, and in the process, lost her ability to tie them. On several occasions, my father would laboriously re-lace them after my mother had weaved the strings into giant knots. When he finally lost patience with the task, he decided to get her shoes with Velcro.
***
I first see the new Velcro shoes the day after my parents get them. They are sterile white and have one-inch soles. They are boxy in a way that makes my mother look as if she is wearing blocks of ice on her feet. Each shoe has two Velcro straps across the top, the ends of which stick out on the sides like wings. These are the kind of shoes worn by people thirty years older than my mother, and I know that she would never have worn them in her right mind.
I hate them. I hate how they look, how they make my mother look, and most of all, I hate the reason she has them.
My mother pulls the shoes out of the box and points them at me. “Did you see my new shoes?” she asks for the third time today.
“They look pretty comfortable,” I reply, skirting a definitive answer.
“Yes, my other ones were getting holes.” She turns one shoe over and stares at it.
“Do you like them?” I ask.
“I guess.” The corners of her mouth slide downward as she answers. She makes eye contact with me and asks (again), “Do you like them?”
Her continuous pressing of this issue makes me realize that my approval might matter more than I think it does. I wonder if some part of her brain is remembering her old fashion tastes and screaming something is not right here—don’t wear those!
My stomach turns a little as I try to downplay my revulsion of the shoes. I anchor my thoughts by looking at the floor and reply in as warm of a tone as I can manage, “They look comfortable. Are they nice to wear?”
“They’re pretty good,” she says, her mouth still drooping.
I can barely stand to look at the giant shoes, but as my mother tries to fit them back in the box, I notice a hint of color. On each tongue, barely a quarter of an inch long, is an embroidered pink ribbon.
I point to one of the images. “Is that for Breast Cancer?”
My mother doesn't even look at them, but only nods. “That’s to help those sick women.”
Her words are simple enough, but the situation becomes more insightful as her reply sinks in. Even in her declining mental state, my mother is still concerned of the welfare of others. Those little pink ribbons are a visual reminder of another kind of tragedy and the determination to cure it. Knowing what those ribbons symbolize make them the shoes’ only redeemable quality.
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