The Fearless Journalist

The "Boston Girl" boots. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)

Three years ago, I bought a pair of black boots. I was going to Boston, sitting the desk for my editors at Christian Science Monitor, and I needed to look the part. Mostly, I needed to FEEL the part. Talk the talk. Walk the walk. So for $12, I procured a shoebox of confidence from my friendly corner Walmart.

My feet ached by the time they touched the concourse at Logan. By the end of the week, my heels were bloody, my skin shredded by the daily trek to work. Every afternoon, I stumbled into my Comm Ave apartment, threw myself on the bed, and cried. I was desperately homesick, and my kickass boots were kicking my ass.

But I refused to give up on those shoes. They were more than cheap, faux leather — they were freedom. They symbolized everything I wanted to have, wanted to be. By the end of my Monitor stay, I was stronger. More confident. The shoes still hurt, but I no longer cared.

This is the way of change. It’s not easy to remold your feet, your life, your core personality, to something new. Skin must be shorn again and again before enough of a callous forms to make the pain bearable. It takes time. There are times when it doesn’t seem worth it.

And then one day, the pain is gone. You look in the mirror and realize you’re not who you used to be. Instead, like Cinderella with her glass slipper, you are magically transformed into something finer, better.

If your luck is like mine, that’s the day your neurotic dog eats your well-worn, now-scuffed, perfectly-creased, favorite pair of bonafide, Made in China boots. And if you’re like me, you sit on the floor, cradling the soggy scraps to your chest like beleaguered dreams, and cry as if the world is ending. In a way, it is.

It was.

I didn’t buy another pair of boots after last spring’s fateful canine feast. What was the point? I was darkly depressed, mourning the death of print, the Monitor’s shift to a web-first strategy, the loss of a beloved editor, a tattered friendship, and a spiraling relationship. I wore boots when I was dressed up, and most days, I didn’t bother to dress at all. I wore boots when I needed — or wanted — to kick down the gates of Hell and demand my due. The only thing I was kicking was myself; ratty slippers seemed more appropriate.

A few weeks ago, I passed a shoe store and felt a faint flare of lust. Maybe it was time to try again. Buy a new pair of boots. I was considering a job in Washington. I would need to look the part. I would need to FEEL the part. It’s been so long since I’ve felt confident. I miss the old, cocksure certainty. I want it back.

There was only one problem — I couldn’t find anything I liked. Pointy heels, square toes, garish colors, Lucite and latex monstrosities more appropriate for a strip club than any place I’d ever want to be. I shrugged and let it ride. If I’ve learned one thing over the past year, it is this: Trust your instincts; when something’s right, it’s right, and you’ll know it.

Today, I found the perfect pair of boots on the top shelf of a dusty thrift store. They were prettier than my old boots. Dressier. They had a dash of cowgirl cool, which I adored. I stroked the smooth, supple material and inhaled deeply. Real leather. A fancy Italian name. An underlying current of playfulness. An undeniable durability. Exactly the amount I had in my pocket — two dollars.

So I brought them home.

Life is funny like that. I wasn’t looking for a pair of boots. If you’d asked me this morning, I would have said I no longer needed a pair — I wasn’t going to Washington. But fate has a weird way of wending its will, whether you’re ready or not. The soul knows what it wants, and it doesn’t particularly care how rocky the path will be.

I will not stride through Dulles or Reagan National in these shoes. That is not my fate — not now anyway. But I will wear them to Memphis, a city I have never been, for Memphis in May, an assignment I didn’t expect to receive. I will work with Billy Suratt again, and this too is a good thing. I’m happy. I’m ready to kick ass. Have boots, will travel. And if it hurts a little along the way, well, that’s life. For $2, I’m willing to hedge a bet.

Memphis-bound. (Photo by Carmen K. Sisson/Cloudybright)