It's the Shoes

Years ago, I transferred our old home movies to VHS. As my mom and I watched them, the memories washed over us with chuckles and sighs. There was Grandma Aggie (Mom went on again how cranky she used to be) and “Uncle Bus” (where the hell did that name came from?) Kids growing, elders dying off and then it happened: Total Silence.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” mom looked at me and shook her head in shame. “It’s all my fault.”

The image on the screen was of me—her little Scotty at age four —dressed as Raggedy Ann. I waved at the camera like a good boy. Mom put her hands in her face. So I guess it started way back in the Kennedy era—Jackie in her pink suit and Scotty in Red braids and gingham.

Next stop, high school. In our pep assemblies, I wasn’t the least bit hesitant to don a frock and wig and lip sync to everything from opera to Julie Andrews. The girls thought I was funny. The football players called me a fag and pushed my car into a ditch.

Coming out to mom was a no-brainer, she sensed it from day one, but Dad was another story. Although he was married to the ex-wife of a gay man, he was a bit squeamish that his son would rather sauté a fish rather than gut one. As I told him not to worry and slugged him on the arm. I told him I was just “the same old guy,” and wouldn’t be all of a sudden wearing dresses, he seemed somewhat consoled. On my way out the door, I covertly asked his wife if she’d help me with my Halloween gown.

A week later, I was standing in Dad’s kitchen as Rose stitched the hem of my size 14 wedding dress. He came home from work and his jaw hit the floor. Yep, I was the same old guy—who went on to dress as Cleopatra, Little Orphan Annie, Norma Desmond, Baby Jane Hudson, Jon Benet Ramsey, Monica Lewinsky and the Flamingo Hotel and Casino.

One Halloween, I called my friend to inform him I had finally found a pair of size 12 double wide flats with little polka dot bows on the toes. I couldn't keep my eyes off them as we went on to discuss other news of the week. As we spoke, I walked around the living room, breaking them in.

I hung up and decided it was time for dinner. I headed for the Avenues Smith's. 

When I arrived I breezed through the parking lot. Life was pretty good and I took a deep breath of crisp autumn air. I grabbed a cart and waved to a friend—Ol' Whattsizname—and headed through the sliding doors.

"Clickety-clack, clickety-clack!"

I looked around to see if Ben Vereen was tailing me, but to my horror, the tapping was coming from my own two feet. And not only that, they did nothing for my flannel shirt and 501s. I ran back to my car as fast as one can in crepe soles and started shopping at Albertson's from that day forward.

All this, but I must confess to you one thing. I've never been to Coronation. You'd think with the hours I've spent at the D.I. evening wear rack, that I would have attended at least one of those organza extravaganzas. But I leave this highest of holy days to the pros. You see, I have a hard time separating my flannel from my flounces. I tend to be more Indigo Girls than  Bob Mackie. It must be hereditary, my mom couldn't tell her Raggedy Ann from her Raggedy Andy.