The Case of the Ugly Black Shoes

There is a children’s song my mother used to sing on nights she came home early. My sister on the top bunk and I on the lower, we’d listen to “los pollitos dicen.” This is a rough translation:

The little chicks say pio, pio, pio When they’re hungry and when they’re cold the mother hen looks for corn and wheat. She feeds them and covers them with warmth under her two wings.

Whenever I heard it, I drifted off into complete serenity to a place where all was safe and warm. I felt at ease because I could feel the weight of my parents’ presence at the end of my bed, their voices guiding me into dreamland. I was bajo sus alas.

This was the song I heard the night before their court case. At six years old, I had no idea what was happening nor did I know I would have to leave their protective wings in order to help them.

It was a February morning, bitter cold as it usually was in New York City at this time. I rubbed my eyes disturbed by the dim lighting in this strange room with long rows of benches.

At the front there was an elevated, large desk. Behind it sat a woman in a billowing, black robe with dark, watchful eyes. She oozed a presence of strong authority and terrified me.

Thankfully, I was burrowed between my mama and my dad. His leg moved up and down as the lady lawyer we had met in the lobby talked on and on. I peeked over at my older sister who was listening intently like she was going to speak. I turned my attention once again to the lady lawyer after my mom squeezed my shoulder leaving a moist imprint.

“Your honor, this case urges special consideration for their daughter requires medical treatment. She has been wearing orthopedic shoes for over a year due to a walking disability . . .”

I looked down at the horrible, ugly shoes that graced my feet swinging slightly above the floor: my sworn enemy.

“Would you care to explain how this disability was detected . . .”Boy, would I. It had been a busy day, rushing to keep up with my mom. I had fallen behind when I couldn’t hold onto the stroller of the kid she babysat anymore when she called my name, “Valerie, ¡apúrate!”

She finally had to stop because I was a good five feet behind her, she looked at me funny.

“¿Por qué estás caminando así?”

Walking like what?

“¡Como un pato! Stop it.”

I continued to walk making sure I was at her side, but she kept giving me a sideways glance, “Hmm. Ay, no.”

Did I do something wrong?

“A year ago, the doctor at the clinic reported that her right foot was turning inwards when she walked, therefore orthopedic shoes were required.”

“I see, how has this affected her besides the physical aspects?”

Silence. The judge’s intense eyes turned to me, “Valerie, will you walk for me please?” I shakily got up, wincing as I heard the steel-toed shoes make that dreadful metallic sound every step I took. I kept my head down as I made my way back.

“Sweetie, what do you feel like when you wear those shoes?”

I felt strange, I hated wearing them in school because I was scared everyone was staring since they were so ugly and weird. I tried everything to get out of wearing them but my mother was relentless when it came to my well-being.

I shakily got up, wincing as I heard the steel-toed shoes make that dreadful metallic sound every step I took.

“I don’t like how they look. I think the other kids will make fun of me. But I have to wear them because my mom says it will make me better. I won’t walk like a duck.”

The judge smiled and nodded, understanding.

My parents snuggled me between them once again, giving me small smiles. They knew how hard speaking to the judge was for their little chick.

“After hearing your case, I’ve come to the decision . . .”

I don’t remember the verdict; the big words were beyond my six-year-old mind. The one thing I can never forget was my dad bursting out in tears. I had never seen my dad cry.

That was how it was for my parents for over 10 years. They provided their little chicks with food, shelter and warmth in a country where they were stuck in a perpetual state of fear of losing everything. But we were so lucky: my parents had been granted residency.

I was lucky to have my hen and rooster to block me from this fear with the power of their strong wings. While I didn’t know it at the time, walking with those shoes I greatly detested was my way to reciprocate the protection they had shown me. In the end, the case of the ugly shoes was won and they relinquished their fear. From then on, I knew I would never “chicken out” when it came to helping my family.