I Wasn’t A Feminist Until I Found Four-Inch Red Stilettos

The following is a piece I've been thinking about for a long time. Last night, it all came out. I plan on submitting it to an English Convention so any and all constructive criticisms, and also praises, are welcome. (It's still in a fairly rough draft form, but I need to get it out there.)

I Wasn’t A Feminist Until I Found Four-Inch Red Stilettos

I always picture a quaint scene in Barnes and Noble on a snowy day. A young, buff and surprisingly afro-ed version of my father walks up to the long haired, stick version of my mother. He says in his authoritative cop-tone, “Hey honey. When did you start reading children’s books?” A playful smile curls into his lips and somewhere beneath his busy mustache, his dimples indent slightly. As the snow continues to fall and create perfect, picturesque fog circles on the windows of this book haven, my mother then, not unlike now, is quick to retort without looking up, “Oh, I just wanted pick out your Christmas present early this year dear.” She gives him a frisky look and then they both realize they are in public place with their three-year old daughter and now is neither the time nor the place to start. My mother, always sure to make a point, then goes on to expound why she perusing the bargain priced kids’ books: she wants to make sure that I, her three-year old blonde and bashful pride and joy, have positive female role models to read about – she’ll have none of that manipulative-bitch-like behavior that is seen in sordid characters like that damn Tinkerbelle. My father, knowing full well that he married into this, rolls his eyes, shakes his head in an amorous way, and walks back to the magazine section of Barnes and Noble where those people hang out and waits expectantly until he has to inevitably cart a little girl and Christmas bags to the parking lot. The facts: Barnes and Noble couldn’t have been found in a hundred mile radius of where I lived in 1988; I grew up in Southern California and it snowed only once when I was six; my dad still may never have set foot in a bookstore in his adult life; and, my mother, well, the part about my mother is true. I grew up with positive, non-manipulative, non-bitchy, but vocal none-the-less, female role models.
* * *
I’ve been six feet tall since I was in sixth grade. School was tough until boys caught up and boys did not catch up until junior year of high school. Kids can be cruel, and kids were cruel. Because I was vertically “unique,” and because I had no problem speaking my mind or being the smart kid, there were three basic assumptions: one, I was the fat kid that weighed like a thousand pounds – how do those chairs hold her up again?; two, I was tall ergo I was good at basketball and volleyball and basically any other sport that required me to be athletic and my usefulness ended there; and three, (three is my favorite) I did not like boys and in fact, I did not need boys because I was masculine enough for the entire 7th Grade Basketball Team….although in retrospect, this could be true because there were some seriously late bloomers at South Sevier Middle School in Monroe, Utah. The facts: I weighed close to 140 pounds and was basically all muscle; I was freaking awesome at basketball, but the mop the janitors cleaned up with could have volleyed a ball better; and, I was so much in need of attention of boys that I stunted my own dating growth well into my sophomore year of college. In my adolescence, I was not the girly-girl, the pretty girl, or the girl who got asked out; I was the move-in-from-Southern-California-where-surely-there-must-be-something-wrong-with-the-water-girl that was completely mislabeled because I was me – I didn’t play any games because I never saw a need to. I just wasn’t “normal.” Oh, I also wasn’t blonde anymore.
* * *
I always picture a grassy middle school football field on a rare sunny day in April. Eighth graders are abundant and ready to leave the dregs of society behind for something much cooler: high school. There are about ten of us and the boy that I loath is in attendance. Intellectual exchanges are important in middle school, so we begin to discuss what names mean. For instance, Jordon – who is my beautiful, tiny, flirtatious best friend – her name means “hot,” ‘cause damn. We go around the circle, expertly classifying each others’ names and the boy whom I loath, the one I mentioned before, he gets his profound observation ready for the kill: “Sarah is a Fat-Ass name.” Before the awkward chuckles can finish, I whip out the secret, end-all-be-all trump card: “Yeah? Well, Tyson is a Limp Dick name.” Laughs are beyond being stifled because I have just handed out the biggest slam of any middle school career. Chubby/Tall girls are redeemed forever and stupid boys will think twice before they cross a girl that can think. The facts: my mom told me to say that.
* * *
There was a time in my life where I would wear nothing but flip-flops. Flip-flops, at the most, caused a half-inch change in stature. I wore flip-flops in the winter, and even when my toes would turn blue, I wore the flops. I wore drab colors and I didn’t know how to dress my awkward body. Girl’s clothes didn’t fit because I was too tall and I had started to mature, which meant I was getting stretch marks and cellulite in awkward places, like my arms and hips, because I was getter “curvier.” Boy’s pants gave me an inner-tube that Goodyear would have been proud to support and a figure reminiscent of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. I didn’t want to stand out so I walked with my beautiful brown hair in my eyes and my head down. The facts: I was popular by association; I incurred a devastating knee-injury that put me out of sports for the rest of my life during my freshman year and consequently gained 50 pounds due to inactivity; I was pity-dated to my Junior Prom and I couldn’t even find a dress to fit that I liked because I was too big; and, halfway through my first date ever, I was lied to, ditched, and left at a friend’s house to be the third-wheel wondering what I had done wrong.
* * *
Now, I live in a society where I am now past my expiration date because I am not married. I’m twenty-two. I have been graduated from high school, high school, for five years and am one of the last to be married and have at least one child. Because of this society, I once dated a man who, after five weeks of casual dating, said he didn’t know whether or not he should marry me so he was going to go pray about it because he just had no clue and he didn’t want to go wasting anybody’s time – I thought, “Well, dude, thanks for the heads up on that one.” He then told me I was everything he never thought he could have. He still left me, and then expected the nineteen year old version of myself to think there was nothing I had done wrong. I then dated a man who told me I was beautiful and brilliant – that was something new in my dating life – until this guy then figured out he couldn’t control me. He immediately proceeded to become emotionally abusive. Then there was the guy who was immensely relieved when I said, in jest, “Yeah…if I ever talk too much, just lemme know…wink, wink.” The facts: I’ve had a tough dating life, just like everyone else; the society in which I live, not the religion I align myself with, is the proverbial thorn in my side; I’ve learned from my mistakes and the mistakes of others; and I have finally been happier than ever because I became complete on my own and realized that settling for a bad relationship is worse than being single – I like being single.
* * *
Now that I’ve succeeded in making my life sound much more despondent than it actually is or ever has been, here are some more facts: I made it through high school gracefully, intelligently, and with a highly developed sense of humor and wit (or so I’ve been told); I lost 40 pounds; I have been always been able to articulate and communicate well; I was surrounded with family and friends that loved me, saw me, and appreciated me for who I really was and am; I graduated in the top 8% of my class and had four scholarship opportunities as an English Sterling Scholar; and, I never sold out and became something that I wasn’t. The only problem was that as entered college and began living away from anything that I knew, I still was not comfortable in my own skin.
* * *
I always picture a rainy afternoon during my senior year of college. I had just spent a night swimming and making up my own dives for jumping into a pool, connecting on a new emotional level with someone whom I loved very much, and finding that being a twenty-one year kid made me feel more happiness and genuine joy than few other pursuits. I walk into a store where I am bound to find a good deal and therefore can justify picking out an outfit that will make me what I think is smokin’ hot, and I suddenly find myself staring at my very own altar to the gods – a shelf full of shiny, shiny pointy-toed stilettos. Now, ladies with skis for feet can understand – Size 11 does NOT exist to the fine shoemakers of the world. A pair of shoes that gargantuan is not only offensive to the fashion world and to women as a species, but is probably abhorrent to humanity in general. Therefore, to find a pair of Size 11’s to strap on that one loves is cause for choruses of Hallelujah to ring through the halls. Hallelujah’s are currently ringing through the halls, perfectly timed glittering flakes have been released for a dramatic and celestial effect, and a spotlight from above shines down like a beacon of righteousness on a pair of Size 11 shiny, pointy-toed red stilettos – my pair of Size 11 pointy-toed red stilettos. The facts: this passage is completely, 100%, swear on the Bible, the Koran, and, even though she isn’t dead, my mother’s grave, accurate.
* * *
It is amazing how putting on and strutting around in a pair to shoes can increase one’s self-esteem. It is even more amazing to me to reflect on the person that I was and compare that girl to the woman I’ve become. Life, in all its glory and its stink, has helped me mature, laugh, cry, appreciate, and understand. The facts: I am so comfortable in heels that I can skip down the street, I’m a feminist because I believe men and women are equal and I believe that women are beautiful creatures; I was in the “Vagina Monologues” and my life changed – my dearest ambition for the next year is to be the Angry Vagina; I make it a point to dance naked in my room on a daily basis; I’m a six foot tall woman that on occasion becomes 6’4”; I seek to understand before I’m understood; I’m honest and ambitious and liberated; and, I plan on spending the rest of my life finding ways to make choruses of Hallelujah materialize as if from nowhere.