White Shoes, Orange Shoes

"She’s going to need white shoes to go with her dress..."

I looked to the right of me to see a teenage girl standing in the middle of the ivory tile path, under humiliating fluorescent lights, a white dress spotted with purple flowers draped over her arm. She looked mildly retarded the way her head was bobbling around, confused. This girl probably doesn’t suffer from much mental hindrance other than what her mother engenders by stuffing dresses in her mouth and telling her she likes the taste.

Mother is so wrapped up in her growing doll she doesn’t see she gave birth to a human being, who like her has distinctive taste and will become capable of making her own decisions if given the opportunity try and err or not.

I was in Kohl’s yesterday when I witnessed this. It’s possible I am putting my own veil over the scene, but it looked and sounded familiar. I was about nine years old for The Incident when my mom refused to buy orange tennis shoes for me because she didn’t like them. (Editor’s note: I bought a pair of orange New Balance in the last year. Hm.) Once my mom and I fought in K-Mart because I didn’t want to wear brown tights with my Outfit. I hated brown. I was full of angst. I wanted to wear black. She, however, was concerned about how my wearing black tights with my Outfit would reflect on her, being my mother.

"You always tell me what I want to wear is ugly!"

She paused. "I do?"

I guess I’d never told her. Right then we had an epiphany together. I needed to tell her to back off; she needed to back off.

A time comes when baby becomes a real live person with real live thoughts and should not be third-personed, should not be objectified into a scientific experiment. My mom, pat on the back, has cut it out for the most part, with occasional lapses. Sometimes I catch a look and I know I haven't chosen what she would, but it isn't an issue.

My grandma, however, while I’m in the room, still enlightens people about my likes and dislikes, my dreams and loves. I wonder if she ever picks up on when I’m horny. Sometimes I get passive-aggressive about it but usually I let it slide because she's my grandma. But I still don't need any white shoes.

Entering the marketplace, particularly on the weekends, used to disturb me, all the voices, the complaining, the crying, the blind ambling. It still disturbs me, but I've decided to use the chaosecules of noise to refine my sense of what I don’t want to be, e.g.