The life in our shoes

lsproule@thereview.ca
This week, it was hard to miss the tributes, the reflection, the emotion and the remembrance of 9/11. But the writings of one columnist, who was on the scene in his role as the New York correspondent for the London Daily Telegraph, made me stop cold. As he made his way on that day to the scene of devastation at the World Trade Centre, he came upon people running. He describes it: “Then I turned a corner and saw a herd of office workers stampeding towards me, police officers urging them on, to get away, as fast as they could. I can still remember their faces, puffing and strained as they ran, some sprinting, heads back, bounding on the balls of their feet, others shuffling as best they could. The women cast aside their heels, men dropped their phones and bags. And then suddenly they were gone.”
Writer Philip Delves Broughton had started this piece with, “It’s the shoes on the street I remember, and the tiny human figures pinwheeling through the air.”
During the weekend, I read other accounts by other journalists but this particular one has stayed with me. I read of journalists drained by the experience, changing professions after this catastrophic event proved too much to bear.
Journalists talked about the intrusiveness of watching someone’s last moments.
But the image of casting one’s shoes aside to run for your life seemed unshakeable.
I thought back to a time when I did not stop to photograph a child’s shoe left by the roadside at the scene of what I later learned was a fatal mishap where a young girl had been struck by a car. I remember feeling that a child’s life was still attached to that shoe, somehow. I could not intrude.
And I have been at other accident scenes where bystanders collect a victim’s shoes and make sure to get them into the ambulance before it leaves. Or, left behind in the quiet after emergency vehicles leave, people gather shoes and place them together, waiting, at the side of road, as if someone will surely return for them.
I shuddered inwardly when I heard that New Yorkers were being told to write their name, address and social security number on a piece of paper and place it inside their shoes as part of the pre-Hurricane Irene instructions from city hall. I took that to mean: your clothes and perhaps your body might be destroyed beyond recognition, but after all the devastation, you might be found with the shoes still on your feet.
There must be a reason for the expression that goes, “Those will be big shoes to fill,” when we lose someone from a crucial job, someone new is replacing a larger-than-life predecessor, or on the sad occasion when someone important dies.
After someone close to us dies, we clear out their belongings and while it may be possible to re-distribute clothing, books or other belongings to relatives or to give things to secondhand stores, when it comes to shoes, there is nothing one can do. It is impossible to imagine anyone wearing anyone else’s shoes.
I know that as my dad’s things were slowly packed up and taken away, it was only when I saw the shoes going out that it sunk home. He wasn’t coming back.
I have really come to believe that our public persona or even our existence is somehow rooted in our shoes. I have ripped a dress, worn something inside out, lost buttons, split a zipper open – and still carried on with my day. But I wouldn’t last 5 minutes in the world if I were wearing only one shoe.
As we go about our days, we walk from place to place and from person to person. We use our feet to step on the gas and to slow down. We stand on our toes to see above the crowd; we dance our joy. We use our feet to tap out our impatience and at the end of a long day, when we are tired, we put “those dogs up” for a rest.
But rest is always short-lived. We know we will be called upon to stand and consider and maybe to run. And when we run, let it always be towards life.