Saturday, August 11, 2007

   And another
The story I am about to tell you is one very much similar to a fairytale you would tell to young children to wean them off sugar and settle into bed. There is the shallow, fairly simple plotline. In which, there is the villain, the heroine or hero, and all the small characters that can either be extremely helpful or in forces with the villain. Then, there are the characters that do not have a classification, the “no namers”; the outcasts. They are lonely, they are looked down upon by each and every clique and do not have a place where they are welcomed. How can they ever find a home if they do not belong? How can they ever be loved?
And that is where this story begins.
Most people introduce others with a, “This is so-and-so, he/she is….” No, I am not going to fall into the leagues of “most” people, because I am not like “most” people. I will reveal my name once you have heard my story, as I want you to hear it, and I do not want you blurting out little fragments of fiction which you believe are facts about me; all because you know my name. So, without further ado, I present to you the story about a pair of shoes, a common girl, a father who drinks so much that he rarely remembers where he is, and a cardboard box.

When I was fourteen, I knew that I was different than other girls. I went to a public school, unlike most of them which attended an expensive private school, only by begging their mother and father that, “my friend is going to this school, and Mum, it is so not fair, because it’s better than mine!” They would jut out their bottom lips, pouting, and all the while the parents would exchange glances, reminiscing about their daughter’s friend, whose parents were indeed horrible enemies with then, and they would come to a consensus that to prove they were better than their family, they would send their daughter to a “better school.” Of course, most of the schools they eventually went to were not better than another girl’s, they just cost a great deal more. I would always think:
Those schools must be rich.
Nevertheless, even when all the rude, snobby girls would head off to a private education, I would still differ than the girls at public school. I would bring a lunch in a brown paper bag, and they would bring theirs in a lunch box or an oversized decorated shoulder bag. They would sit at their table, I would sit at mine. I did not quite understand why I was so untouchable; it was not like I had leprosy. On that topic, no boy wanted me, either. It did not matter if they were geek or jock; they shunned me all the same. No verbally, but as if I was not there. At home, my life was different, I guessed, than the average teen. I was an only child, and although that sounds like a blessing, it was not. I often found myself wishing I did have siblings, so I had someone to talk to and play with. The reason I felt that way was because my father acted as both parents, but I think that is glorifying him too much. No, he did not act even like one parent. My mother left when I was three, or so he tells me. My father soon began drinking, wallowing in his despair, and he was not a violent drunk, just the kind where he loses all contact with the real world. So mostly, I was alone in the large, violent downtown city of Baltimore, on a street called Hope. Odd, how things always are the complete opposite of what you think they should be.

One day, a few hours after school, I stood in the mirror, twisting this way and that. I critiqued myself occasionally, tried to cheer myself up about the things I felt proud of. The reflection that stared back at me was at best average. If I wanted to exaggerate, I was fairly pretty. I had long, strawberry blonde hair to my waist, freckles sprinkled carelessly over my nose, and brown eyes. Stepping back, I realized I was short. Five foot, one inch. Pathetic. I felt my feet were too large for my body, my legs too thin, my clothes too threadbare. And yet, I knew that on the inside, I was beautiful. I would always mutter, “That matters the most, right?” And I would answer my question: “yes”. On that day, I was pondering whether or not to go to a dance being hosted by my school, Greenwood’s Public Learning. Of course, I chided myself, why should I? I would only be gawked and gossiped about. Still, I wanted to go. I decided within a matter of seconds. I would go, because I deserved a break and a chance to have fun too. A small voice in the back of my head reminded me that I would not have fun, being as self-conscious as I was. Dismissing the voice, I grabbed my jacket, and rushed out the kitchen door. Behind me, I heard the familiar, “sss” as it slowly closed. I prowled the sidewalks of town, trying to block out the loud, brutal noises of the world. I had to think, where would I go to get affordable, nice clothes, and a pair of shoes? I entered a small store that smelled of must, and the bell above the door alerted my presence. An elderly man came out from behind a thick purple cloth in the back, and he smiled a crinkly smile. “Can I help you?” I replied with a, “no, just browsing.” I paced along rows of clothes, pausing, shaking my head, and then continuing. I stopped, kneeled, and gave a quick glance at the row of shoes on the floor. My eyes locked on a plain cardboard box. It was so different; it was not splashed in color or decorated with the designer’s label. I pulled it out with trembling fingers, and opened the lid, and gasped. In the box, folded in simple white paper was a pair of silver sandals. It was my size; seven and a half, and they were encrusted with cross-shaped crystal beading over the straps. The shoes looked fairly new; there were few wrinkles on the sole, and the bands were not stretched. The heel of the shoe was not horribly worn down; the silver coloring was not faded. I loved them, as they seemed to have been made for me. Yes, it looked plain from outside, but inside everything was sparkling and pristine, and stunning. I took the price tag, and gasped. They cost five dollars. My budget was three. I jumped up, found the man reading a book, and said, “Can you please lower the price?” He shook his head, explaining that they were on clearance, and if I wanted, I could wait and come back. I pleaded, until he lowered the price and I bought them. He grumbled as I left, but I paid him no heed. Sure, they had taken up all my money, but they were worth it. They made me realize something: I was worth it, too.

I raced home, flew in threw the front door, and in a rare moment of affection, kissed my father on his bald head. For once, he was sober. He blinked and looked up, staring at me warily. “Are you my daughter,” he said in a cracked voice. He tried to smile, which made me smile, because he was trying, and trying made all the difference. I just grinned at him, and rushed to my room, threw my jacket onto my bed, and plopped down on the floor. I slipped my feet into them and gave myself an appraising glance in the mirror. For once, I felt beautiful on the outside as well as in. I twirled around my room, not caring that I was in sweat pants and an old T-shirt. My father was resting heavily against my door frame. He chuckled, did not question my motives, and drifted away. The night of the dance was later that evening, around seven. I ransacked my closet, and frustrated, stamped out of my room, searching for something to wear. The door to the attic was ajar, and I trotted up the stairs. I headed for the trunk which held my mother’s clothes. I rustled through, and my fingers brushed against a silky fabric. I pulled it up, and hugged it to my chest. It matched the shoes perfectly. The dress was long, pink, and utterly beautiful. Later that night, I prepared. I prepared not much differently than I usually did, except for tonight I would wear something a bit different. I brushed my hair, pulled it back and up in a bun, and sat on the couch in the living room, waiting for the moment to leave. My dad sat next to me and sighed.
“You look like your mother tonight.”
I smiled at him, squeezed his hand, and took a question book for moments of being idle.

What are your personality traits?
I have many, but for the most part I am optimistic, friendly, and thoughtful

What do you do in your spare time?
Homework, for the most part, but sometimes I watch a movie or play games. I also think.

What is your favorite food?
Mac and Cheese, of course.

What is your favorite book?
A Northern Light- it is so inspiring.

What is one bad habit you possess?
At times I despise myself, and always pick on myself. Not the best habit.

Name an accomplishment you have achieved that few people know about you.
I have learned, I think, to love myself and the family I do have; to appreciate everything in life, all because a pair of shoes.

The aftermath of this story is mainly that I did go to the dance, and people did, for once, acknowledge my presence. I danced with a very sweet boy, who revealed to me his thoughts about private schools, and that he actually did acknowledge me, but he never had the courage to say anything. I made a few girl friends that were also people, who did not have a group, and together we formed a clique of our own; the Unloved revolutionizes into the Loved. My father made finally decided to change the direction of his life, and he became permanently sober. He started a full time job, and is learning to be part of my life again. He is also dating a woman who I am very fond of, and believe it or not, was his therapist. I emphasize on the word “was”. She decided to put aside her job, as patients could not very well date their caregivers. My world is no longer upside-down, it is turning right side up again. More than anything, I think my shoes had something to do with it. I still have them to this very day, and occasionally I will wear them, but I will always love them. They taught me to love myself, to love my family, and to take chances, and look in unexpected places, because you never know what you might find. Who knows, it may change your life. My name is Alexandra Nicole Redwood, I live on the street “Hope,” and for once it does not sound cheesy. It sounds like a reminder, and I do not plan to forget it.

Comments (0)