Let's Get Some Shoes

Unlike Forrest Gump, I don’t remember my first pair of shoes. I do remember the ones from when I was 10: black sneakers with scarlet, orange, and yellow flames that even my teenage cousin thought were cool.

Through the years I’ve had lots of shoes. Some made me proud, like those flaming black sneakers from fifth grade. Some made me shy, like those brown and pink argyle tennis shoes that didn’t match most of my wardrobe.

Some have made me taller, or helped me run faster, wade through snow, squelch through mud, grip rocks, or have slapped against my soles, pinched my toes or nearly wrenched an ankle.

They’ve not all been good shoes. But they’ve always fit; they’ve always been mine.

All that summer barefooting was by choice. I never missed school because I didn’t have shoes. I was never shamed out of church because I didn’t have shoes. I never had frostbite on my toes in winter or burns on my heels in summer because I didn’t have shoes. I was always covered (literally.)

Now I have shoes for all occasions. Sandals for around the house. Sandals for walking uneven roads. Sandals for casual goings-out. Boots for snow and mud. Boots for furry insulation. Boots for church. Sneakers for sport. Old sneakers for muddy sport. Flat tennis shoes for casual goings-out. High heels for church. Closed-toed, arch-supportive, easy-clean black flats for teaching. A special soft pair just for the beach.

As my feet have not changed much in 12 years, some of these shoes are quite old. They all have purpose. Still, there are shoes to spare, I’d say.

And I don’t fear mud, sludge, sewage, or shattered glass when venturing out, because there’s always sturdy shoes on my feet. The right fit, the right size. Mine. My shoes. I trust them, I entrust myself to them.

Careful consideration has served me well for the past several years of shoe-buying, and each new pair carries my weight as I stand, walk, and jump around in the way teachers (and fidgety people) do.

Yes, my feet may be tired at the day’s end, but they are uninjured feet happy to breathe freely another night of rest. My feet are well cared for and well shod.

Those I teach, however, are not so blessed.

They get dressed in the dark and start off to school an hour early. They navigate goat paths, clamber over rocks, edge along ravines, jump over puddles of gray sewage, tiptoe about broken glass, and eat dust along the highway. From the time their wee legs can toddle, these children walk. Mom doesn’t have spare hands to carry the little one. If she’s there at all, she’s balancing a hefty basket on her head filled with market wares. Her arms are busy with another bucket or two.

Thus the children walk themselves to school and back again: The petite eight year old slips down the alley; the cluster of boys treks two miles and up a mountain; the fourth grader holds her kindergarten brother’s hand as they cross the street.

They walk. Even if there were money for taxi, some live in places unreachable by motorbike, down narrow alleys or up slippery crags. There is no passable route except by foot.

They walk. They walk in ill-fitting, second (third, fourth…)-hand shoes.

These days I choose shoes as the wearer and purchaser, approving for myself the fit and look, the practicality and durability.

“Yes, those red pumps are gorgeous. But sadly there’s nowhere to wear them and they’re definitely toe-pinchers.”

“Hmm, these black cushioned flats have a wide toe and prime arch support. They’re frumpy, perhaps, but perfect for teaching!”

Once I shoe-shopped with my mother: me the wearer, she the purchaser. Sometimes we disagreed. Sometimes she rejected my choices. Sometimes I cried. Never did she approve shoes that hurt my feet, pinched too tight or flapped too loose, or were haggard from previous ownership.

Shoes were usually new, always fitted, and always mine exclusively (not shared among siblings or housemates.)

Not so for these dear children I now teach.

There is no Red’s Shoe Barn, no outlet mall, no shoe department with shelves of neatly labeled boxes. There are piles. Piles of used shoes extracted from barrels or boxes of donated apparel  laid out on the street side for easy passers-by viewing.

Our mamas, the mothers of our school children, buy what they can. To fit the uniform, school shoes ought to be black and close-toed. National pride in appearance and educational formality expects shoes that look nice, too. Most of all, they must endure the walk.

As most of these shoes are donated, have sat in the back of a closet or gathered dust on the thrift store shelf, been cramped into a barrel and shipped, they are far from new.

Once purchased by one of our mamas, the shoes are cleaned and given to the child, to be worn every day, probably by feet at least a size too big.

The shoes do not endure. They can’t any longer.

The soles peel off, seams split, and toes tear.

Once at school, uncomfortable children slip (or yank) off these wearing-down shoes to relieve cramped feet still growing. This is not pre-modern China, where petite “lotus” feet were prized, toes and arches deliberately broken to fulfill the “golden lotus” standard of three-inch feet.

This is 21^st century Haiti, which boasts roads comparable to the 19^th century U.S. American West. The terrain is unforgiving. The voyage is unforgiving. The social expectations are unforgiving.

In addition to the rough patches of gravel, rocks, brambles, irritating ivy and thorny brush, there is the trash: rusted metal, shattered glass, waste and refuse, fresh, decayed, or smoldering from the latest trash-burning. There is sewage; human and animal waste carve gray mazes through the streets and alleys. Accompanying all these contaminants are hosts of bacteria and parasites. There are a thousand reasons not to barefoot in this place. The first hundred are simple health concerns from the ground to the sole.

It’s not fair. Not fair that these parents should be so hard pressed to provide food, cannot afford medicine, and can only manage the second-hand, ill-fitting shoes their children need to attend school.

It’s not fair. Life never has been fair and never will be.

However, thanks to the efforts of organizations like Because International, thanks to dreams born on dusty Ugandan roads, there is a chance for something better, something fairer.

Shoes that grow. Shoes that adjust five sizes. Shoes that fit changing feet. Shoes built with love, built to last. Shoes designed over a decade with that unforgiving terrain, unforgiving voyage, and social expectations in mind.

These are shoes that can take the journey, clean easily, and even come in black to fit our uniform.

Next year there will be 191 students at Christian Academy of Petit Gôave, this school in the center of small-town Haiti with unforgiving terrain and stringent expectations. There will be 191 children from third-world poverty, from families struggling to provide food and unable to afford medicine, children in dire need of good, sturdy shoes for school five days a week.

Follow the links to read about this amazing product firsthand from the Because International website, and see our CAP fundraising page.

God-willing, we pray to raise funds to purchase a pair of Shoes That Grow for every student next year. Will you help us?

Will you help put such a pair of shoes—shoes that fit, shoes that grow, shoes that endure—will you help put such a pair of shoes on a child’s feet?

Maybe they won’t be as flashy as my fifth grade black sneakers with the scarlet, orange, and yellow flames, but they will be every bit as appreciated and remembered.

https://fundraise.becauseinternational.org/fundraiser/2130836

https://becauseinternational.org/