to the $3 pair of old navy flip flops, with love

anita kelly

Each year, as spring inches closer toward the pulse of summer, I await the two sensations that bring me closest to the taste of freedom: the feel of sunshine hitting my bare shoulders, and the first time I can slide my feet into a pair of $3 Old Navy flip flops.

Preferably, they’ll be a pair I’ll dig out from underneath my bed, already worn in from the summer before, the dip beneath the heel thinned and flexible, the edges worn from ninety-degree angles to smudged curves. It’ll feel a little awkward, the first couple of times I slide the strap between my toes, my feet unused to the fit. I work in schools, and by the time the flip flops come out in June, I’ll have spent the last nine months concealing myself as much as possible: my skin, my thoughts. Trying my hardest to be a good example, to follow the rules. Like my students, I often strive to fit in, to not cause a ruckus. To be respected and competent, while also not bringing too much attention to the queer staff member who’s often seething with anger inside. It’s simply easier to fit in at school. To wear the right clothes. To do the right things.

But after a few trial runs of wearing flip flops again, fresh air meeting my toes, my feet will remember. Remind me that I can let go now. I can let sunshine seep into my skin, let it help me sink back into myself. I don’t have to be on. I don’t have to be a good example or follow the rules. I only have to be a body in the world.

I do feel a little guilty about the Old Navy flip flop. I’ve tried others, but Old Navy’s simply conform to my feet so well, so immediately. Even though I know nothing that costs $3 can be completely good, that these slabs of foam were made from unjust labor, of unsustainable material. This has long been the plight of dykes and femmes alike: rarely do we have the actual means to live up to our earnestly high standards of social justice. (We keep trying anyway, though, forever trying to be better at being queer, at making the world a slightly softer place.)

I will love these $3 flip flops, though, until they fall apart. I have not purchased responsibly, but I will not waste. I will wear them until a hole appears in the heel, big enough for my wife to pick them up from the floor one day and stare at me incredulously through, saying, once again, “Seriously?”

(I like to think my penchant for using things until they literally disintegrate is one of those charmingly frustrating quirks of mine, but I’m pretty sure my wife would only call it frustrating.)

In the end, though, I want my bare feet to hit the asphalt, the grass, the dirt. I want, at all times, for my body to be as close to the earth as physically possible. It’s only then I feel truly rooted to the world, and to a version of myself that feels right.

During the school year, my body inevitably feels clunky, constricted, Not Right in whatever I wear, especially when it comes to shoes. I’ve never been able to conquer heels; flats pinch my toes. Cute sneakers never look cute on me. Even when I concoct an outfit I feel moderately okay in, I stumble when I realize I have to finish off the ensemble with shoes. Nothing ever quite matches, or is comfortable enough. Eventually, I bumble outside with the fervent hope no one will ever look below my knees.

But in summer. In flip flops. There’s no stress about throwing off my outfit, about awkwardness. Because they’re barely there. One step closer to nakedness, my only true comfort level. One more inch my body can unclench.

Flip flops travel with me wherever I go in the summer. Once, I hiked two hundred miles of the Pacific Crest Trail. The first thing you learn on a trail is that long distance hiking is the act of obsessing over your feet. You stare at your feet far more than you do at the scenery. They carry the weight of you, your pack; they ensure you don’t stumble or topple down a ridge. It’s recommended you buy hiking shoes a size up before a long trek; your feet will swell. They will pound like a heartbeat, punish you for your sins with blisters and strained muscles. 

And at the end of each day on trail, I would finally treat them right. I’d pull my battered feet from their prisons, my ankles caked with dirt, sand stuck between my toes, and slip them into a $3 pair of flip flops. Flat and light, flip flops are easy to fit into a heavy pack, where space is short and every item has to count. For a few hours each day at camp, flip flops let my tired feet breathe, literally and figuratively. I could cry, just thinking about that feeling: unadulterated release. They counted the most.

Back in the city, my feet live a different story after a summer of wearing flip flops, but one just as wild. My heels grow rough and calloused. They have seen the prickly surface of old sidewalks, the dust of gravel drives and alleys, the grime of buses and subways. When I step in the shower, my feet leave grey footprints on the tile. 

My dirty summer feet are another signature of mine that my wife will inevitably shake her head at each year. And I will look down at them and smile in gratitude. When my skin is tough and blackened with the grime of the neighborhood, it’s evidence that I went outside today. That I didn’t spend too many hours on Twitter today. That I didn’t spend too long squinting at Google Docs, making my face appear agreeably neutral on Zoom calls. 

That I didn’t conceal myself today, even once.

The accumulation of dirt between my toes is evidence that I walked by flowers today. That I felt the breeze on my face, that I absorbed Vitamin D into my skin, that I listened to the songs of birds and the sounds of the city. That I paid attention to my community, to the world, always so much bigger and closer than I last remembered. 

My cheap flip flops and my dirty feet are queer as hell. They are tough, and they are soft. They prove that I loved myself, if even just for a little while, just a little bit more.

Eventually, each year, the air will cool; the days will shorten. I will once again need to cover up, ineptly, uncomfortably. I’ll put my worn flip flops back underneath my bed. Their existence there will hold the promise throughout the winter, that I’ll feel freedom again, one day soon: sun on my shoulders. Fresh air on my feet. Sensations truer to my body, each step a tiny bit closer to the earth.

about the artist

A teen librarian by day, Anita Kelly writes romance novels that celebrate queer love in all its infinite possibilities. Their full-length debut, LOVE & OTHER DISASTERS, will be released on January 18, 2022, and their karaoke fueled novella, SING ANYWAY, is out now. Originally from a small town in the Pocono Mountains, Kelly now lives in the Pacific Northwest, the perfect setting for wandering the woods, drinking too much tea, and dreaming of stories.