Mis zapatos de baile, my dance shoes. They weren’t always mine. In fact, I used to dread wearing her shoes. She carried a long legacy of Méxican Folk dance with these zapatos. All those classes, all those practices, all those performances...engraved deep within the scratches of the zapatos. They are her shoes, not mine. They could never be mine. I don’t want them to be mine. She had worn them for what seemed to be a century of her life and now here I am forcefully squeezing my feet into these zapatos with worn out soles and scratches all over the surfaces as if the ground had clawed the shoes every time it came in contact with them. But that’s not the worst part. The worst is the smell. Everytime I open my dance bag the smell of musty leather floods into the room. “Why did she give me these shoes?” I ask to myself, “couldn’t she have bought me a new pair?” I had always dreaded seeing these zapatos, but not because I did not enjoy dancing. On the contrary, I loved learning dances from the culturally rich country of México. I loved connecting with my family’s history through the art of dance. I just hated those shoes and the scolding and embarrassment that came with those shoes!
I was eleven years old the first time these zapatos embarrassed me, back when we used to practice at our old rental dance studio on Saturday mornings. I would always look forward to Saturdays. The morning donuts and milk before practice, the intense capture-the-flag games with my friends while the adults practiced, the running around outside the studio when the morning sun and the crisp morning air had just met. By the time our practice began, we were very energetic, hyper, and very talkative. It was hard 1
to focus during practice when all we could think about were the games we were just playing a few minutes ago. Then I would hear those tormenting and agitating words. I could always feel them coming like when the birds feel a storm coming or when you feel vomit slowly rising up your throat until it spews out and humiliates you! I felt the words rising up my mom’s angry and annoyed throat. They were ready to embarrass me in front of the whole class. “Arianna! Deja de hablar [Stop talking]!” shouted my mom. Oh how those words always made my blood boil! “Why me?” I’d ask myself “Why does she always call me out?” I don’t know if she thought I caused all the talking and misbehaving, or if she scolded me because I was the teacher’s oldest child, regardless she always managed to scold and embarrass me. It’s not like I was the only one goofing around and talking during class! Maya is laughing, I get called out! Leslie is not paying attention, she scolds me! My sister Alice is talking, she calls me out! Moments like these are what made me dread being the teacher’s daughter and made me hate her zapatos. Hearing the furious clicking and tapping of the nails on the bottom of the soles of her zapatos were always a reminder of the scolding to come.
Now here I am nine years later listening to the same clicking and tapping of her shoes as I dance, but this time the zapatos aren’t on her feet. They are on mine. It seems like everything has changed…our dance studio location, the morning practices, the members of our group, my friends in the group, my shoes, my mom, my role in the
2
group, even the scolding is gone. The only thing that remains are these old musty shoes clenched to my feet begging not to be forgotten like everything else that is gone.
Now these shoes are now mine, not my mom’s…mine. What they used to represent is gone. The Saturday classes, gone. The games with friends, gone. The talking and goofing around, gone. Now the zapatos are on my feet as I dance next to my mom in front of everyone in the adult’s class. I see now what these shoes mean. I see the history, the role, and responsibility that comes with these shoes. I used to dread these shoes, I see why she gave me these shoes. As my zapatos tap and graze the floor with every dance step I demonstrate to the class, I understand why these shoes are mine now. I understand why my mom gave these musty, old shoes to me. She was preparing me for the day when I would no longer be a student, for the day I would take her place and become the teacher.
“Ya entiendo mami. [I understand now mom].” I whisper under my breath as I continue helping my mom teach the adult’s class while wearing my zapatos.
3