In This Body: Boy's Shoes
“if I just paced long enough, they’d see me”
Our monthly column "In This Body" is comprised of true stories about sex, gender, the body, and love, written by Fiona George, for NAILED.
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When I was a little girl, I had these glorious chunky boy sandals. Pokemon sandals, with a little rubber picture of Ash and Pikachu over the toe strap. Used to wear them with all my girly skirts and dresses. Wore them till they fell apart.
There’s a photo: me and my sister in front of a wide trunked tree in our grandma’s front yard. Our grandma always used to buy us dresses when we visited, and both of us had these flowery sundresses on. And me in my chunky black and blue sandals.
Some things never change.
It’s the same look as my big black motorcycle or combat boots I wear with a long flowing dress or a tight cocktail dress now.
One thing I remember: I never learned how to play Pokemon—at least not the card game—even though I collected the cards.
Me and my sister and our friends from daycare, we played Pokemon like girls. Not how you’re supposed to. It was a game of make-believe, running around the park with our favorite Pokemon—not so many battles and more stories.
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I had the shoes in kindergarten. I only went to that school for a year, and never quite made any friends. During recess, there were two boys playing Pokemon—the card game—on the wide expanse of classroom carpet.
From the other side of the room, I could hear them say the names of Pokemon that I knew and saw the Pokeball emblem that was the same as on my shoes. Their cards just like the stack I had at home.
This was my chance to make a friend—I could hardly breathe. My small girl feet in the big boys sandals on the carpet of blue, Ash and Pikachu looked up at me. I already had friends. Made my way slow to their spot on the carpet.
I didn’t have the guts to say anything, make myself known. I paced slow back and forth, watching their game from a few feet. What I wanted was for them to notice me, to see my sandals, know I was like them, and ask me to play.
Seemed like a fool proof plan—if I just paced long enough, they’d see me.
And they did, one boy looked up and I was so excited I must’ve smiled. But that boy took one look at my shoes and said, ew, girls can’t like Pokemon.
Always wondered what kind of little girl I’d be if those boys had let me play Pokemon with them.
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There was a boy on the other end of the block from me. Sometimes, he was mean, but mostly we were friends. We rode bikes and picked on each other like boys and girls do—everything us against them, all we could see were differences.
I asked him to teach me how to play Pokemon with cards, because I knew he knew how. Out on the concrete sidewalk in front his apartment, we laid our decks down and he asked if I wanted to play for keeps. I said yes. I didn’t really care about the cards and I liked the real-life-stakes-ness of it.
We had only begun to lay down cards when his mom came out the front door.
I really have no idea what happened next or why, but his mom told him to give me all his cards and the game was over. I learned about all kinds of Pokemon I’d never seen because of his deck. But always wondered how I ended up with it.
He was mean sometimes, so maybe his mom was trying to stop him from tricking me out of all my cards. But all I wanted to do was learn how to play, the cards were just things to me.
If I lost a card in the game, I’d still have the imaginary Pokemon when it was make-believe.
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You know, I’ve never had many close male friendships. I struggle in romantic relationships with males. What I kinda learned was that I couldn’t make friends with boys. Boys didn’t make friends by pacing shy back and forth till they’re noticed, they make friends by sitting down and saying, hey, can you teach me how to play?
Really, it’s how girls and boys made friends. Real friends. But there are little girls that will be friends with you because you’re pretty and quiet.
That’s another thing I realized looking at that picture. Must’ve been the summer before I went to my new school, for first grade, based on the timeline of the shoes.
I was a pretty kid.
And looking through family photos—I watched myself grow into my chubby years, and tracked it to when my friends stopped liking me. Not that they stopped hanging out with me—that’s not how it worked in grade school—basically kids let me hang around but were just mean.
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I’m skinny and pretty again, and I have friends. A couple close female friends and a couple close male friends. Real friends. Sometimes I gotta wonder if it’s just people letting me hang around because I’m skinny and pretty—but I know better.
My friends are fucking adults. And some of the most alive, imperfect, complex people I know—aesthetic has nothing to with what makes us close.
In middle school it was all about music taste—and the wardrobe that matched your music taste. This is the first step, when you start to build realer friendships using common interests—it only scratches the surface, but it is beneath the surface—and by aggressive expression.
What I can say is that all of my real fucking adult friends are passionate about something—aggressive expression—art. But it’s got nothing to do with screaming to the world, look at me, I have an identity, like middle school music tastes.
The expression has gotten more complex, beyond the self.
But what about me? This exact thing that I am writing? Has my expression moved beyond the self? Look at me. I have a fucking identity.
I’m the girl—another girl—in a dress and big black boots. (Courtney Love did it first.) And people let me hang around because I’m skinny and pretty.
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But that’s not true.
We all know it. The people who care about us, care about us. And every story comes from the self—there’s not a creation I’ve seen that doesn’t contain the creator. And I know how to sit down in a room full of new people and say, hey, can you teach me how to play?
Swearsies, I’ve done it like five times before.
This is how women and men make friends. Real ones.
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Header image courtesy of Matteo Nazzari. To view his photo essay, "When No One's Looking," go here.