James Daniels (he/him & they/them) is a lover of languages and proficient at Russian, Spanish, French and English, though he currently writes primarily in English. He is published in both poetry and prose and plans to pursue a master's in interdisciplinary humanities studies in the USA in 2023.

these boots were made for walkin’

james daniels

It began, as far too few love affairs do, in the dusty upstairs of a local vintage shop with a friend. We caught sight of each other at the same moment, and I brushed past a rack of denim jackets and another of jeans to lay my hands on what were destined to become my first pair of cowboy boots. The leather was cracked and dry with age, the heels worn smooth by use. I had no money with me and hardly wanted to even try them on. I tried to zero in on their flaws, to see where the leather was peeling, where the shoe was coming away from the sole slightly. My friend/fairy godmother insisted I give them a shot. What were all my cowboy-themed poems and tattoos for if I wouldn’t even try on this pair of boots clearly positioned here by fate?

As soon as I took a step in them, I was in love. I wasn’t saving myself, I’d enjoyed footwear before –but never like this. I could have spent all day pacing back and forth across those floorboards, weaving between racks of velvet, lace, and denim. I had never before felt so powerful. I knew I couldn’t leave the shop without those boots, fixer-uppers as they were. My fairy godmother swooped in with her purse and the words that cement so many friendships: ‘you can get me back.’

Yet for a long time after that, I only wore those boots in my room. I came down from my euphoric high and realised none of my clothes really went with cowboy boots. I realised my family were bound to laugh. I realised the leather was drier than my skin gets in the winter and flaking almost as badly. I realised I was afraid of standing out in a bad way. I wasn’t confident enough to debut those boots to the rest of the world without making sure their staging, the lighting, their make-up was perfect. So I wore them only in my room and them gave copious massages with fancy leather conditioners. In an embarrassing and obvious metaphor for myself, I hid them away because I was afraid they would be seen and deemed imperfect.

I did some growing up here and some glowing up there. I accepted that perfection is a moving finish line and that some source of my discomfort with my appearance has always really been about my discomfort with my assigned gender. I cut my hair and varied my wardrobe and purchased my first binder. I went to my first Pride event and met a man there who accepted my identity and was still attracted to me.

A few months later, we went to London to attend a country music concert together. I felt it would be wrong not to wear my cowboy boots. Finally, the perfect occasion for their long-delayed debut. I gave them the works the morning of the concert: conditioner massage, left to stand, careful polish and finish up with a good brush. They looked better than when I first laid eyes on them. I was so caught up in the boots that I ran out of time to consider the rest of my outfit and ended up throwing on a pair of jeans, my binder, and a checked shirt. So at least I’m living up to some stereotypes.

I felt powerful walking through the house, and I felt purposeful striding to the train station. I felt smart and sexy sitting on the train with my date. And then we got off the train. And then the clopping noise made by my heeled boots became extremely conspicuous compared to his silent steps. And I was suddenly aware of how much shorter I was, even in heels, and how much more feminine my bare face was next to him and his beard, and how my first binder wasn’t the most suppressive binder out there. I didn’t feel powerful, I felt stupid. In my head, I became a freak tottering about on stilettos that weren’t enough to hide how bad I was at being my assigned gender. I was quiet. As if he couldn’t read my mind in the slightest, my date said: ‘you know, you sound like you’re wearing high heels.’

But then he told me that thousands of years ago, the butchers of Ancient Egypt wore high heels so they could step over all the blood and animal carcasses. And I remembered that high heels used to be an indicator of class, not gender. And I remembered that my uncle still had a pair of platform shoes in his attic from being a teenager in the 70s. Not so very long ago at all. And I thought of all the brave men who wear heels now, and all the men who don’t want wearing heels now to make them brave, and how a cowboy could live his whole life with earth or barn-dance floorboards underfoot and never know that in the city he would sound the same as a woman in a pencil-skirt business suit and stilettos striding to a board meeting. And I was so glad of the evening and the man beside me and those boots, because they reminded me once again how important it is to dress for yourself and not for other people. I walked the streets of London noisily, and I felt seen, and imperfect, and powerful. Just a cowboy in the city – but I am excited now to wear them other places.

After all, these boots were made for walkin’ – and not in circles in your bedroom.