Black Shoes

The problem began, and ended as well, since it was never really a problem, at least not a serious one, in the living room, so named I suppose for tradition, since certainly no more living was done there than in any other room to justify this name, as the afternoon sun bounced off the bare white drywall, although perhaps only as while as can be imagined around children where white is an ideal but seldom is seen and when seen not for very long. Jon, at least Jon now, it was Jonathan then, and still is to family and a few others, sat in the Brown Chair, its springs sagging and the leather cracked and torn but still the throne of the living room to those who knew and were small enough to sit sideways across the arms whether their mother approved or not, and she eventually learned to accept it at least, and maybe thought that such passive destruction of an old chair was better than active destruction of any chair and kids will be kids, nothing can be done or should be done about that, best to let it be. He sat, or lay, in the chair, the television on but hardly acknowledged, his thoughts rather on his new shoes, black Nikes, shoes being more important or more interesting to a thirteen year old in 1991 perhaps than whatever might be on the tv. The black shoes however unimportant they may have seemed or maybe should have been were nevertheless necessary for the problem, if it can be called that, or occurrence, if it can not, because occurrence was what it was because no one lost or gained or fought or needed to but still it was noteworthy enough to be remembered six years later, strange that something which neither helped nor harmed could stay in the memory of a thirteen year old boy with so much else on his mind, inconsequential as such things may be to someone older, more experienced, perhaps too experienced to remember what it was like to be thirteen, never too experienced to forget being thirteen but experienced, old enough to forget that what was being remembered was being thirteen and not something else.

Jonathan's father--wearing the same emotionless expression as always that fooled so many into believing that the emotions were not there when in fact they were simply not visible to someone who did not know him well, as perhaps his son did, or perhaps not as such a young age when maybe it is not so important to know one's parents at a personal level but when it is necessary to know them as teachers and protectors and leave it at that--spoke words remembered still, although the reason is not so clear.

The reason for the words, "When I was your age only street hoods wore black shoes," was not a mystery, only that the words are still important is cause for thought, of course it was true that only street hoods wore black shoes then but now thirteen year olds trying to be cool perhaps on the same principle of rebellion that was motivation then or perhaps fashion or perhaps both because at that age the difference is not clear or not there and is not necessary because both bring about the same end but black shoes made a street hood then but only a boy now, even a boy trying to be a man and maybe glad that his father disapproved, knowing his father was not at fault for how he grew up, nor Jon's grandparents for helping him grow up that way and certainly not society as a whole for producing street hoods to wear black shoes and if no one is at fault then everyone is at fault, Jonathan included, and therefore no one can be blamed, really, in all fairness, because there is no significant different between everyone at fault and no one at fault.

Now knowing why the words were said it is left to wonder what significant they have, what power they hold to be remembered so long. Six year later as Jonathan (Jon now) sits at his computer, peers out into the evening, the streetlights orange glow over Pennsylvania Avenue, the cars going by, louder here than outside through some echo or perhaps merely imagination, but still more cars than one would expect, or maybe not, today, 1997, even Westminster has traffic, only the street and a few buildings here and there visible through the window have any light, mostly it is dark, the open fields and hills, less now than perhaps when his father was thirteen, but this is progress, or at least transition, change, progress implies positive change, and more buildings, more roads, more noise, positive may be too strong a word, they say the child is better off than the parents was at that age but at what cost, what has been lost forever, what if still only street hoods wore black shoes and thirteen year old boys did not? Jonathan did not live then, he can not know what it was like firsthand, naturally he would find it ridiculous not to wear black shoes because it was not done then, now it is now, today, anyone can wear black shoes, but black shoes are not what is important but rather the change is important, now is not then, nor is it like then but somehow better than then or not as good depending on who you are or who you would like to be or what you know or can find out from someone who does know, who lived then, remembers then, but maybe only through the eyes of another, a different point of view that has been borrowed, stolen, as one's own, but can never be as good, as true, as real as one's own.

And so what belief led to the statement from Jonathan's father? It of course was not malicious, being a good father he would never make such a statement maliciously, therefore another reason must exist, it was his father's view, perhaps, but still something is lacking, as Jonathan's father is not oblivious to the changes, good or bad, since his childhood, nor is he nasty or stupid, and even the comment did now have the bit that many comments from father to son can and do and should have, in the right circumstances, but here is not such a circumstance, not requiring or receiving such a sharp edge. If not malice then perhaps as a lesson, father teaching son, but what in that lesson can possess such longevity, such a seemingly insignificant exchange, yet carried over six year and beyond, and still such that, while those same black shoes still sit under the bed, well-worn, dusty, past their prime yet not banished to the garbage, not worm, except on occasions, few and far between, replaced by white Nikes, or brown leather boots, or which his father would certainly, and does, approve. Something in that lesson, or in that and other such lessons delivered over years, something made an impression, such an impression that six years later it is stronger than it was before, and it is impressions like this that sons need from fathers in order to carry on some of the past into the future, not all of it but some of it to bridge the gap between then and now.

The memory of this long-ago incident is a subtle thank you from son to father for sharing experience, a sense of the way things should be, a symbol of the fatherly concern felt but maybe not shown so much on the surface but nevertheless prominently there, even of the sense of how things should be is a sense of how things should have been more than should be and still the past is relevant to today but maybe you have to look deeper than "only street hoods wore black shoes" and find what it really means or maybe come to the conclusion that it never meant anything at all.

Jonathan Renaut



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