My Docs

I'm about to [insert appropriate verb] away my docs. You have no idea how hard it is to say that.

I can't decide whether the right word is giving away (too battered, I think), getting rid of (there's no joy in it for me), throwing away (too painful), separating myself (WTF? addiction?), parting from (divorce?)...

In my closet is a pair of black doc martens. They were everything to me. I drooled over them as a teenager; I bought my first pair myself -- with money I earned working as a cashier at Sainsbury's and at a car parts shop. It took me over two years (summer job pay) to save enough money for them. I wore them -- with black tights and short skirts, with jeans, with leggings, with .... I wore them to university (grad and under), I wore them in my first job. I wore them when the disability stuff started. I wore them with the orthotics that stretched them out and ruined the inner sole mold. I stopped wearing them when I started to use a wheelchair. They hurt, and besides, I felt weak; I didn't think you could kick some shit from a chair.

They've sat in my closet unworn since 2002/3. I take them out occasionally and put them on to see if my feet again feel right in them. They don't. But I don't throw those boots away and nor do I buy a new pair to replace them. It wouldn't be two years or so of saving this time. I could just buy a pair of docs. But I don't.

The woman-girl who bought those shoes doesn't exist anymore. Buying something for its fashion worthiness instead of its function was one of my first strikes for freedom from the penny-pinching of my childhood. I sooooo wanted those shoes. And I bought them. It cost me. But I have them (still). The girl-woman who bought those shoes experimented with her sexuality, her body image, her lifestyles and values. She walked miles; she kicked ass; she travelled; she was gawky, gutsy, overweight, smart, scared, powerful, shy, insecure, and desirous of a meaningfilled place in this world.

Yeah, those boots were with me in the perilous transitions from teen to young professional. I made it, you know? And the literal and figurative weight of those boots (they are heavy) gave me confidence as I stomped my way to what I saw as the top.

If you've been around for a while, you might remember that I like shoes. I really like shoes. And my most recent take on them has been to treat them as ornaments. I wasn't going to be walking in them, so I was going to wear the most ridiculous, high-heeled, fancy, ugly, exceptional shoes I could find. When this started, I was willing to take some pain (the shape of my feet changed), but I was going to wear, goddammit, the pretty shoes that had never been mine.

Hip surgery, weirdly, has brought more changes -- now, I wear Uggs (jeez, yes, I have sunk *low*). But honestly, they are sooo comfortable and warm. They have a modicum of fashion status -- sort of, more if you live in LA??; they are flat, wide and loose in the box, rounded at the edges, and have that capacity for a high arch/high top of foot bit (way, technical, me). They are the ideal disability boot. There was a thread a while back on Feministe in which Jill wished the economy would kill Uggs. Oh, I know how to kill them. Simply inform the designers and brandmarketers that there is a substantial disability niche for the Ugg boot. That would turn them off. I don't think I will be buying the pale pink Ugg boot (or shoulder bag -- last year's?), but I will certainly be visiting the Soho store to get me some ugly goodness.

That pair of docs is one of the last few material artifacts of my pre-disability life. As I did less stomping and my walk became more a stumpy shuffle, those boots supported my feet. Eventually, though, I stopped wearing them. The orthotics (which didn't work) reshaped the inner part; the weight was too much; the boot didn't fit.... Now, however, I look at the uneven wear and tear on them, their misshapenness, and the other myriad signs of age; I can see that they served me well and that I -- and not they -- am to blame for their disuse.

I think now I can part with those boots because I know that that woman isn't coming back and that I don't need her to exist anymore. More to the point? I need the space in my closet.