by Robyn Goldenberg

Created on: April 29, 2008

Robyn's Ruby Red Boots and Her Lost Childhood

There is a picture as old as time on my rickety, hardwood kitchen table. I don't know who took this picture or where I was when it was taken, but here it rests in my home. The picture is of a little girl with ghostly white skin and, long, golden hair, like straw freshly cut from the fields. There is nothing too remarkable about the photograph, except for the brilliantly, red rain boots that adorn her feet.

I am the little girl in this photo, and I loved those boots more than I loved my own mother. At one time these boots were in mint condition; they shined like a new penny fresh from the bank. I stumbled across them while shopping with my Aunt in New York City. Osh Kosh B Gosh had delicately placed them in the display window on 5th Avenue below a lemon colored rain coat. I yearned for those boots, they were so enticing, and it seemed as if they were crying out to me, begging me to take them home. I pleaded with my Aunt to take me into the store, and finally she indulged my deepest longing, she bought me those sublime examples of footwear for an early birthday present.
As soon as I pulled on those magnificent cherry red boots, a feeling of seventh heaven took hold of me, my fingers tingled as I caressed the beautiful pristine ruby rubber. The city stood still and all the sounds from the taxis and busy CEO's were suddenly muted and a serene calm filled the room. Those ruby boots were made for me, they fit like a glove and even though I was sporting my spiffiest dress, I wore my new boots for the rest of the day. That night I slept with my boots next to my bed, not wanting to part with my new present.
The next morning, I woke to angry clouds swarming my town; the sky opened up and rained down on the unsuspecting New York suburb. Despite the torrential down pours, the threat of flash floods, and my perfect (and I mean perfect) rendition of the Rain Dance, school was not canceled, it wasn't even delayed. Alas, my father made me go to school; he drove me to the bus stop and threw me onto the bus. I couldn't believe it, my own father betrayed me, and sent me to my death, I would surely drown, on the bright side, I would die in high fashion, with my boots suctioned to my feet.
I arrived at school, drenching and cold, but I was alive, the tax payers' dollars would not go to waste today. We were hustled into our class rooms and had to remove our shoes and jackets. Mrs. Diskin handed out towels, and as I spoke with her about the importance of keeping my boots on, she walked around the room setting up the supplies for that day's class, and completely ignored me. I finally retreated to the coat closet and removed my boots, slowly as to enjoy the last moments leading up to being boot-less. Unbeknown to me, this would be the last time I would lay my eyes on these boots, the last time they would touch my feet. By the end of the day my boots were stolen and I had to wait in the office for my dad to come pick me up, and bring me shoes. That was the day that I made a resolution, childhood was over and it was time to grow up, I learned just how cold and cruel the world can be.
Those boots represented not just the fashions of an eight year old girl, they represented a time of innocence; a childhood of happy memories and walks in the park. A time when you didn't think about social classes, or terrorism; a time of individuality, a time that is now lost to playing the conformity game in an adult world. The time of red rain boots has been replaced by black Jimmy Choo's pounding the hard pavement of a Wall Street centered world.

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