Grey Sneakers

A memory of being the new girl, being rejected for being who I am, and finally being accepted for the same.          

Grey Sneakers

            The asphalt was a dark grey ocean boiling up under my Nike Velcro sneakers.  I liked the way they looked---the light shoes dancing over the dark ground as I skipped over the smooth surface to the woodchip-surrounded tire playground.  It was the first day of first grade, and the playground seemed like a fairy tale kingdom, consisting of everything a six-year-old heart could desire- a jungle gym, big silver slide, black rubber swings, and the group of girls from my new first-grade class holding court while their queen, the perfect, blond-haired Jenny, decided which of them would have the honor of twirling her on the tire swing.

            Smoothing out my blue shirt, my finger caught on a strawberry jelly stain on the right side, the residual effect of my eagerness to finish lunch and get outside to play.  My pigtails bounced like Christmas present ribbons and my long, skinny legs skipped over the hopscotch squares as I approached the group. I knew one of the girls- a freckle-faced child named Ali who lived down the street from my new house.

            "Hi!" my voice squeaked.  "What are you playing?"

            Ali eagerly began to respond, "Lava monster.  Jen's ---"

            "You can't play," Jenny interrupted, a look of disdain pursing her perfect heart shaped lips.

            Ali and I both turned towards Jenny.  Ali immediately shrunk behind Adam, the only boy in the group (though with his long blond hair and precious blue eyes, he could be mistaken for a girl at first glance), as if to deflect the distaste oozing out of Jenny in my direction.

            "Why?" I asked, not really sure what to do, as the idea of being excluded had never occurred to me.  I didn't know it was possible, as all the group activities to this point in my life had consisted of everyone being involved.  From handing out Valentines, to playing duck duck goose, to going down the slide, everyone took a turn, and everyone got to play.  That's what sharing and caring was all about.

            "You can't play because--- you don't have pink shoes."  She leaned forward as she said it, and lowered her voice, as though speaking the words alone might be enough to upend all that was right in the world. 

            The other girls in the group immediately looked at my feet, and turned away in protest of the sight.  Their little blush-colored shoes, with their buckles and patent leather, their rainbows and white soles, turned with them, mocking me. Ali's little cherub shoulders curved down as she tried to reconcile deserting her new friend and keeping pace with her old one.

            "But… Adam's a boy.  He doesn't have pink shoes," I pointed out, thinking being a boy must be a much greater offense than the wrong tinted shoe leather.

            "Yes I do!" Adam sang gleefully, stepping forward and pointing his bubblegum colored toe like a ballerina.

            "See?  Adam is allowed to play." Jenny leapt off the tire in one fluid movement, her graceful exit indicating she was bored with this line of questioning.  "Come on, let's go to the swings," she commanded, and shot off like a blond mustang across the woodchips.  The others followed suit, a stampede of pink-shoed horses prancing away toward pushing and pumping.

            Ali turned last, and her green eyes only glanced up once from the ground, her brow wrinkling as she mouthed "sorry" and galloped off after the others.

            Shuffling from foot to foot, I felt the burning from the blacktop seeping through my body until my face turned red and my eyes welled up.  The tire, rotating with the ghosts of what might have been, mocked me with its giant empty "O" as I kicked at a rock in the mulch, and hastily retreated back toward the school.  There were still a lot of minutes left of recess, and I didn't want them to be spent watching people I couldn't play with.     

            Stupid sneakers.  Mom had bought them for me because I liked the Velcro strips and the way they made a crunching sound when they were sealed and opened.  Also, when I played outside with dad, hiding and seeking, practicing my hitting, and chasing worms as they wriggled in the ground, the stains didn't show up that much, which made mom happy, and made me happy too. 

            Stupid pink.  Stupid girls.  Stupid Adam and his stupid pink shoes.

            The brick building loomed over me, its giant marble "Girls" sign and its wall of classroom windows staring down at my tiny frame.  The other side by the gym had a matching "Boys" sign.  They were left over from the 1930's, when the boys were kept on one side and the girls on the other.  Beyond the blacktop ramp that connected the upper playground to the lower basketball court, the boys from class were getting a wiffle ball game going. Watching the Yankees with my dad always made me smile, so I started my descent, thinking that that watching ball might make me feel better. 

            My bottom plopped down on a long log that looked like a sideways telephone pole, and I was careful to avoid splinters by keeping my shorts between my skin and the wood.  Placing my feet in the grass, my legs stretched out so I could make rainbows in the dirt with my toes.  I yanked my socks up because the grass felt scratchy on my ankles, and picked up a twig to use to pop tar bubbles on the wood.  The pop pop sound made me smile, as did the little sucking noises they made when I pierced them, and was grateful to whoever spilled the tar when they were attaching the wood to the ground to make this bench. 

            On the other side of the log, the boys picked teams--- the tallest boys chosen first, leaving the smaller ones looking around a little fearfully at the prospect of being left behind.  They were eventually picked too, though, and they bounded over to their new teams with beaming smiles, the trepidation of the minute before forgotten over high fives.

           None of them seemed to care what the other boys had on their feet.  If anything, sneaker-wearing boys seems to be drafted higher, most likely because it's easier to run in sneakers than in smooth-bottomed dress shoes.  The sleek soles tend to slide on blacktop, and that's how you get skinned knees (this knowledge was gained from an experience the previous Easter involving chasing our dog down the driveway in footwear with a flat sole, and a buckle that ate into the bone of my ankle).

            The two groups huddled up once the picking was done, and they both looked over at me.  My head bent down as I tried to make myself as small and invisible as possible, in hopes that they wouldn't ask me to move, too.  The embarrassment of Queen Jenny's dismissal was enough for one recess.  The worst would be if they chased me, the way boys always chased girls in the tv shows. 

            The rainbows my toes had made were transforming into circles in the dirt now, courtesy of the tar on the edge of the twig in my hand.  My other hand was firmly planted in my mouth, my teeth biting down on the fingernails, when a little voice sounded over my head.

            "Hey," it said.  "Hey.  It's Kristen, right?"

            "Yea?" I answered, keeping my head down so my bangs covered my eyes in a thick black curtain.

            "Hey. I'm Nick,"he said, before reaching his one arm behind his head and scratching at his neck like the tag on his shirt was itchy.  "We wanted to know…" he gestured over to the group that was now watching us with rapt attention.

            I dared to look up at the chubby little boy with the bowl haircut standing in front of me, and started to get up, dropping my stick so that it made a little dust cloud when it hit the ground.  My feet turned away, prepping to outrun most of the boys if they needed to.  My mom said I was fast--- I'd won the shuttle race at my old school's field day--- so I knew she was right.

            "Well, we don't have enough for two even teams.  Um… do you know how to play wiffle ball?"

            My pulse quickened.  Dad had shown me how to play last year.  His demonstration had been memorable.  He'd gotten a little frustrated with my swinging and missing when he tossed the ball, so had taken the bat, saying "Here, this is how you hit."  He then threw the plastic orb in the sky before whacking it.  I watched it fly, a line drive moving with increasing velocity up, up until it smashed- straight through the living room window and mom's lace curtains, and onto the blue chair with the birds on it that was only for company. 

            My mom's voice yelling "KRISTEN!" out of the house was met by my dad looking at me sheepishly, and calling back, "Sorry Laur- that was me!"  We then both dissolved into giggles, and the lesson had continued, facing away from the house, until I could effectively hit the ball all the way past the swing set and into the back fence. 

            "Yea," I responded, allowing hope to creep in.

            "Well, do you want to play?"

            Over his shoulder, the group of boys stood around laughing and playing sword fight with the bats while Nick recruited me.  I wanted to hug him---wiffle ball?  That was so much better than swinging.  And with my sneakers, I could fly around the bases (a shoe, two hats, and a sweatshirt) if given the chance.

            "Yes!" Smiling, we ran off to the group.  The boys on my team immediately set to showing me how to make contact with the ball by tossing it into the big fat red bat, and saying "See?" a lot. Most of what they were telling me was stuff Dad had said too, but I let them show off anyway, enjoying the attention.  It was also fun because the girls had taken notice from up top, and were now moving toward the fence to get a better look.

            When my turn came, someone on the other team yelled, "Move in!  She can't hit.  She's a girl!"

            My team countered with encouragement.  "Just make contact," they reminded me, I set my feet like Dad had shown me, about a foot's length apart, and bent my knees like Don Mattingly, taking a couple of swings to get a feel for the air. 

            I don't remember how many pitches there were, or strikes or balls.  My memory is of the whack sound the bat made when it hit the ball square in the center, and the look on the left fielder's face when the ball sailed over him, and I started running.  I was around the bases before the ball was back in the infield, my team's sneakers bouncing on the pavement while they clapped their hands and jumped up and down.  Everyone gave me high fives, and we taunted the other team about getting beat by a girl.  My smile was huge as my little chest expanded with pride, and the huffing and puffing exhaustion of having run as fast as I could.   In my exile, I had become queen of a new land, a much more fun land, that could be ruled with my red plastic scepter.

            After the great sneaker incident, there was a feeling that I was the odd girl out, caught somewhere between tomboy land and pretty princess world.  Recess was never spent with the girls, but instead passed with me earning nicknames on the blacktop and grass fields, learning the ins and outs of soccer, football, and baseball.   Ballet was an epic failure, but mom got me into after-school girl activities to balance the sports, like Girl Scouts, sleepovers and birthday parties.  

            In the moment after my hit, though, I didn't think too much about the future.  When I looked up the hill that rose to kiss a chain link fence guarding the land of woodchips, I gleefully noted the perfect pink lips pursed between the links.  Despite our feet's differences, those lips would eventually whisper secrets in my ear, and Jenny's cheeks would be tear stained to match my own when her family moved in 6th grade, and she had to be the new girl.  Ali kept coming over for play dates, and eventually even joined me in playing sports with the boys (though she split time to allow for swinging and hair braiding).  She still has her "BE FRI" to match my "ST END" necklace piece, and gave a best friend of the bride speech at my wedding. 

            I wore cleats to the wedding, a tribute to the man who taught me how to hit, and a beautiful princess dress bought by the same woman who helped me acquire the grey sneakers with the super fast swoosh… and  I married a man that watches baseball and football with me, and only wins at wiffle ball in the backyard when I let him.