Share Your Stories
When my Mom got sick with pancreatic cancer my sister Ann and I found brand new red high heels in her closet. We told Mom that she had to get better so she could get up and dance in those shoes. She smiled, tried , but didn’t get well. Those shoes allowed her to dream and hope. SOLE SISTERS is dedicated to my Mom and all those women who have special relationships with their shoes.
Please share your stories….happy, sad, empowering. I want to create a global community where women connect with their shoe stories, and, like my Mom, feel hope and be uplifted.
- Cynthia Salzman Mondell
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[...] looking for more stories about women and their shoes. If you have one to share, submit it on the Sole Si... lakewood.advocatemag.com/2010/06/east-dallas-film-maker-ready-to-launch-a-shoe-documentary
After learning about this website, I returned to this email message I received from my mother in 2006. The subject line was “My Wish for Red Shoes.” This is my mom’s story about red shoes.
MY WISH FOR RED SHOES
Why did I, at the tender age of 66+, all of a sudden bring back a memory of a 60 year-old wish for a pair of red shoes? I think it had to do with reading the newspaper this morning, October 11, 2006, and in particular the grocery store specials section. I always check to see what is on special so I can make my dollar stretch even longer. What’ s the use –I ask myself sometimes. You don’t need all that stuff that’s on special and anyway when you live alone, or almost alone, you cannot use all the stuff you buy before it goes bad in your fridge.
Anyway, this morning, I saw the ads for Halloween costumes. It does not concern me, I thought, so why do I go through each one wondering who would buy those. Then I get this thought: how many kids see these ads in the papers and wish and hope for their moms or dads to buy them this particular costume and can almost see themselves wearing it. How many kids wait even until the last day, October 31st, and never get that costume? My five brothers and two sisters and I grew up thumbing through many ads, wishing, hoping and never getting this or that costume. Unavoidably, that threw me into my Red Shoes memory.
When I was six-ish, my father was already gone almost completely from our lives. My Mom and older four siblings were struggling to keep the family fed and most of all, together. Our Halloweens meant painting ourselves up and wearing baggy, raggedy clothes, which was not that difficult, since most of our clothes were already considered “costumes.” Hand-me-downs from younger boy cousins, which would fit mostly my younger three brothers were common during those years. I would search through the bags or boxes, hoping for some pants, shirt or shorts that would look like they would fit me. Many of the garments no longer had a size tag attached, so my Mom would eyeball the piece of clothing against each of the three boys to see who it would best fit. Nevertheless, I would still manage occasionally to grab a pair of boys’ pants or shirt that more or less fit my then small frame.
Oh, yes, back to my Red Shoes wish story. That Christmas season, when I was six and a half, was the first Christmas that I was in elementary school. The school I attended was an old school named Central School, also known as La Escuela Amarilla, or yellow school because of its yellowish or orange colored brick. It was a three-story building. My class was in the basement where kids my age started in “sonidos” or phonetics class, pre-first grade. As I remember, sonidos class would go for a few months and then the kids that showed promise would go on to first grade. This school was one of a few elementary schools throughout Laredo, and the kids that attended were 98% working class/poor/very poor and 2% of what us poor considered ricos or rich because they had a mother and a father and lived very close to the school, actually across the street from it, in a subdivision of beautiful masonry or brick homes with manicured front lawns and rose gardens. Each day, as we made our way home, walking the approximately nine blocks, with many of the streets still unpaved in those days, I would see the 2% walk into their nice, clean, maid-waiting-with-after-school-snacks homes. One November day, as I waited with one of my older sisters to cross the street to the school grounds, I saw one of my classmates coming out of one of the rich houses. She was wearing the most beautiful red shoes I had ever seen. I looked down at my own shoes which were hand-me-downs from one of my sisters and were a little larger size than my own, but there were no other shoes available and so we had to make do, as my Mom would say. Our family’s shoes were usually purchased one of the variety stores downtown. And because of the materials used, mostly cardboard-type, these were considered cheap by all standards. In any event, at least I was wearing shoes, whereas one of my older brothers sometimes had to go barefoot to school or to his job shining shoes downtown to earn a few coins to help support the family.
That winter the image of the girl’s red shoes stayed in my mind. When the Christmas season arrived, I wrote my letter to Santa. I was envisioning not a doll or toy dishes or socks, which were my usual treasures on Christmas morning, but in my mind was the constant picture of a pair of beautiful red shoes. So I wrote my letter and put as the number one item my beautiful red shoes. I followed with a couple of other things, a doll, an iron, a dish set, an apple, an orange, candy, nuts and fireworks. The last five items we received on a regular basis in our Christmas stocking. Christmas morning that year I woke up very early and found my usual Christmas stash, with a little doll, a puzzle, a pair of socks, but no red shoes. I still feel the disappointment when I relive the memories of that morning. However, for days after that, and feeling that Santa and Christmas are magical, I firmly believed I would find those red shoes in just about any other place in my house. So for days I went around looking under beds, in the “guardaropas” or armoire that was in our crowded bedroom. I looked under all the clothes which were customarily stuffed into the armoire by us kids, Mom’s helpers, after every washday, and with an even more sour attitude at not finding my red shoes under the clothes, I did an even worse job of stuffing the clothes back in and left some on the floor and some sticking out of the doors. And all the time during those days of immeasurable sadness, disappointment and wakeful nights I wondered why Santa refused me my red shoes, but I did not tell a single soul what was on my mind.
After the Christmas season and my unsuccessful search, I decided to ask my Mom why Santa had refused me the one thing I had wished for with all my heart. My Mom sadly told me that although Santa tried to make every child’s wish or dream come true, sometimes he has to make a decision to give that particular gift to a child who is in more need, like a child who has no mother or father or is ill or incapacitated. My Mom was the most loving, sensible and smart person I had ever known, so I knew she was right.
The next spring, my oldest sister at fourteen years of age, and an eighth grade drop-out, went to work as a saleslady at a new store which opened downtown. The employment minimum age was sixteen, and it took a little makeup and cotton stuffed in the right places to make her look that age. I was almost seven years old. From the pittance she earned during those years, working long hours six days a week, she was able to help feed the family, and the family depended on her for our school clothes and school supplies each year for the seven long years she worked at that store. And oh yes, during that school year when I was seven, my sister bought me a beautiful pair of reddish brown shoes which I proudly wore to school. They were not exactly like the ones I had so strongly longed for, but they were new and for a seven year old with nothing to look forward to, they were beautiful. I will forever be grateful for my wonderful Mother who taught me to use common sense and be grateful for what God gives us, and for all my brothers and sisters, who each worked hard to help the family, especially to help the youngest four. We were eight. I was number five and the first of the siblings to graduate from high school.
After graduation and working through several jobs, I could afford a pair of better shoes. So I bought myself the most exquisite, red, high-heel pumps from one of the best shoe stores in town. I wore my beautiful red shoes with pride and as a symbol of accomplishment.
The End.
Revised:
My Brand-new Shoes
By Mary Olivia Patiño
My shoes were brand-new, until the day I wore them. Navy blue, with low heels, just right for a professional job interview, or so I thought. A few days before, while visiting my mom, I spilled it out “Mamí, tengo que comprar unos zapatos nuevos, porque tengo que vistirme bien. Me voy a entrevistar para una posición de maestra.” Saying this, I was a little nervous. I still remembered the moment, many years before when my mother told me “Tu no estás para ser maestra.” “You are not cut out to be a teacher.” This sure was a low punch to my self-esteem as a young woman about to enter college, with dreams of being a teacher.
The second reason I was nervous was because I was going for a job interview, while I still had a job. The interview was to take place at the location where I worked. Arranged by one of the administrative staff, I was to meet a representative of an all girls’ school in El Paso. So, if accepted, I would relocate and move away from my lifelong base of support, my family!
As Mamí and I pored over several boxes of her shoes, I selected the right one for the clothes I wanted to wear to appear ‘professional’: a pair of lovely brand-name navy blue shoes. “Nunca los es usado,” says Mamí. “I’ve never worn them. They are brand-new.” My mom assured me. I was happy! Wearing the same size shoes was great.
The fateful day arrived with a glorious spring air. Everything seemed new with the promise that a crisp morning brings. As I waited in the beautiful office across a large desk, I soaked in the familiar oak trees and fragrant flowers through the large windows. In the brief moments before the Assistant Principal walked in, I reminisced. Why was I filled with wanderlust and seeking a new position?
She sat across from me, an attractive, friendly woman from the School of Loretto in El Paso. The interview went well. While chatting and responding to her questions, I remembered to sit up straight, with my feet firmly on the floor, just like a ‘lady’. However, being only 4’11”, my feet don’t always reach the ground, even when sitting. So, at one point, I crossed my legs with my feet dangling a bit in the air.
A few minutes later, the interview finished, I inhaled a deep breath of relief and started back to my own office. Just as I stepped outside the door, I noticed something strange with my shoes. One shoe kept ‘flapping’. It was hard to walk with my pride intact until I reached my office. There, I took a good look at my shoes. One of the soles was almost clean off the shoe! “Oh, no! These were brand-new shoes!” Embarrassed.
“Mother!” I gasped into the phone, telling her what happened. “No! No puede ser. That can’t be. They were new. I never wore them.” “How long, Mother! How long did you have them in the closet?”
I did not get the job. I stayed in my beloved San Antonio. I remained a ‘teacher’ for adults. Irony? Don’t let anyone discourage you. I also decided to throw away any shoes in my closet that had not seen the light of day or a floor in a long time.
And you know what? I am so grateful to my Mamí. She tried her best, as on many occasions before. Just maybe, because of her, I remained in town, close to my family, where I always want to be. And, consequently, because of that incident, I always check out my ‘soles’ with every new venture I undertake.
My oldest sister and I in our pre-modeling days in our mother’s high heels. We somehow knew of our future.
once I wore two color shoes to go to school, I was embarrassing that day.