Following the Bootprints
My pappaw's closet floor was lined with rows of earth-colored cowboy boots
- tans, reddish browns, blacks and grays. He wore them to church, to work, to
the grocery store.
My dad had a single pair of medium-brown leather cowboy boots with a natural-colored
stitch weaving a subtle design. It took him years to break them in. He idolized
my pappaw's masculinity, and I idolized my dad.
My first pair of cowboy boots had a light brown upper and chocolate brown lower,
with a slightly rounded toe tip. I found them in the boys shoe department at
K-Mart. I begged my mom to buy them for me, not telling her they were just a
bit too small. I liked the solidity of the slightly raised heel on the ground
and the springing push off the ball of my foot. I liked stomping. I felt strong.
I felt masculine. I felt like me.
Those boots ended up strewn in the bottom of my closet - abandoned and rigid.
I felt I had no right breaking in those boots. I felt I had no right to that
masculinity.
December 6, 2007