Clomp

It was sometime in the fist half of grade school, early seventies. My grandmother, ever vigilant to identify trouble or sickness on the horizon sounded the alert that I was pigeon-toed. Frankly, I’m not sure how pigeon-toed I was but will admit that to this day, if I’m not mindful to toe out, I toe in; especially if I’m tired.
My parents, being good and dutiful parents, wasted no time in getting me to a “foot doctor.”Again, the precise speciality of this individual is unclear in my memory. I think I know where the office is today, or I’ve created memories to match it. Doesn’t matter. Said foot doctor agreed that my feet were in dire need of a straightening. Corrective shoes were the only thing for it.
Don’t see kids wearing corrective shoes any longer. I suspect that the same movement that eliminated child labor and servitude was involved in eliminating corrective shoes. Whoever you are, I salute you.
Corrective shoes were required by federal and state law to be as ugly as possible. My corrective shoes met the requirement admirably. I had to go to a special store and I think we had a prescription. Prescription shoes. Cool. I think the store was on Michigan Avenue in Dearborn and it was bright yellow. We went that very day to buy my shoes, lest greater tragedy befall my hideously deformed feet, which were also flat. Flat and pigeon-toed. My parents would likely never marry me off. Perhaps I could sell matchsticks on the corner of Telegraph and Ford Road. If people didn’t run in horror.
Back to the bright yellow shoe store. The salesmen directed us to the corrective shoe rack upon which sat a variety of ugly shoes, two specific styles from which I could choose. One was oxblood with leaves on the sides. Sweet. One was oxblood with gold studs on the sides. Off the hook.
In a final brave attempt to regain some modicum of dignity by doing my own shoe choosing, I opted for the oxblood with leaves on the sides. Sat down. Had my hideous pigeon toed flat feet measured by the salesman with grave concern on his face for my foot future. There were murmurings that the corrective shoes were coming too late for me. Serious measuring happened. The serious man went into the stock room to get my serious oxblood shoes with the leaves on the sides to save my hideous feet. He came back and straddled the salesman stool with the little ramp to put my feet on to try my shoes. He opened the box. He pulled out oxblood shoes....with gold studs on the sides. Off the hook.
I took a ragged breath and squeaked out, “I wanted the other ones, with the leaves.”
“Sorry, out of those. Have to go with these.”
Corrective shoes wait for no man.
My corrective shoes then, purchased on that day to be worn EVERY DAY, and ALL DAY LONG and EVEN INSIDE THE HOUSE were oxblood with gold studs on the side. They were also wide and boxy around the toe with skinny stretchy shoe laces and stiff soles that did not bend and inserts to push my feet “up and out”. My corrective shoes were evil.
I wore them everyday to school after that. My mother, God bless her, was something of an outlaw and quickly let up on the in-house requirement. My shoes did not win me the admiration of my peers. For a stuttering shy stringy haired kid, corrective shoes were the final nail in my social coffin. Did I mention you cannot run in corrective oxblood shoes with gold studs on the sides? Well, you can’t. They are too stiff and you walk flat footed, clomp, clomp, clomp. Which is kind of ironic since part of my offense was flat footedness. So clearly one cannot run flat footed in corrective nonbending oxblood shoes with gold studs on the sides. Now, I didn’t really like to run and wasn’t looking for the opportunity to do much running because nonathletic would have to be added to my list of misfit talents. But sometimes a kid needed to run. There were two main reasons at Taylor Parks in the 1970s that a kid needed to run.
Reason #1. Gym class. Yes ladies and gentlemen, I wore my corrective shoes to gym class. Clomp.
Reason #2. Cool kids want to beat you up if you’re wearing oxblood corrective shoes with gold studs on the sides. Clomp.
I could not run for reason one or reason two. I could only clomp into the distance and pray for the bell to ring. I spent lots of time throwing myself in front of the dodge ball so I’d be out and standing next to the teacher at recess. I also worked very hard at turning invisible. No luck on that last one.
I did perfect the dodge ball graze, enough to be out, not hard enough to leave a welt.
My oxblood corrective shoes did not just hinder my running. They also refused to stay tied. So I literally stopped on average every six steps to retie my shoes. Actually, they didn’t untie so much as stretch. My hideous flat pigeon toed feet were also freakishly narrow and my oxblood corrective shoes with the gold studs on the side were too wide. It was possible and probable that I would step out of my corrective shoes or trip or end up with a nice heel blister if I didn’t pause every sixth step to tighten. Clomp.
My corrective shoes started off ugly, but got uglier. They were stiff leather and despite the soles, which were made of plywood, I did manage to bend slightly at the toe when trying to escape bullies or get dodged out without receiving a concussion. After a few weeks of the slight bend, my corrective shoes grew stripes across the tops of my insteps. Where the oxblood leather bent, it wore away to a pinky beige color, about four or five stripes per corrective shoe. Ahh, but that wasn’t all my corrective shoes did! They also developed a permanent bend! So while they did not give enough to eliminate the clomp; they did achieve a sloppy U shape so even at rest, my toes pointed up. Like clown shoes. Clomp.
My mom made me wear the shoes for a long time, but less time than recommended. Even she cringed at my corrective shoes I think. I don’t know when I was allowed to get rid of them, but I remember the gratitude I felt when I was told I didn’t have to wear them any more.
And since the oxblood corrective shoes with the gold studs are gone gone and can’t hurt me anymore, let me tell you something. Those stupid shoes didn’t do me a lick of good. My feet are flat. My toes point in if I’m not careful to point out (which I do, especially around my grandmother) and AND I have webbing between my second and third toes. Stupid useless corrective shoes.
I think my corrective shoe trauma is at the root of my current shoe fetish. It’s like post traumatic stress, I keep trying to relive my shoe experience and come out happy. Sketchers are a great comfort. Literally and figuratively.
Funny that I don’t think about my hideous feet much anymore. And to be honest, I now have all the aforementioned issues along with a plantar’s wart on my heel. We’re really bonding now. The stuff I thought was all that defined me doesn’t even occur to me anymore. The foot shame just kind of faded away with disco and leisure suits; and corrective shoes.
I imagine I could still dodge an incoming red ball if I needed to. I don’t stutter any more, in fact the bigger the crowd the more I like to talk. Still not athletic, don’t care, would rather read. Yeah, my hair is still stringy in its natural state but thank the Lord, it doesn’t exist in its natural state. Hair care has come a long way baby.
I do hope you’re not sad for my corrective shoe days because I assure you, every one of you has a story about childhood and the crazy embarrassed wanting to crawl under a rock moments. I let go of some, laugh at the rest.
There’s a lot to be ashamed of in life. Lots of reasons to stand behind the teacher or try to get out of the game early. Don’t do it. There is life after corrective shoes. There are Sketchers to be worn, books to be read and laughter to be had when it’s all over and you can look back. And there’s just letting it go. Leave the past and buy yourself some pretty shoes. Laugh. Don’t let your hideous feet define you.
Oh, and by the way, my parents were able to marry me off. And the Mr. has flat feet too. Too bad he walks like a duck, he should’ve worn corrective shoes.