Dear Chuck Taylor All Stars

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ops that were never the same after an elephant rubbed her trunk across them at the zoo. Dad said he always wore you when he was our age, some years in black and some years in white, always high tops — no colorful choices back then, but I can’t imagine what else he’d have chosen.</p><p id="32e7">I remember my first pair of you: high tops in deep Christmas green. Later I had blue. Then red. Then black. Then black again and again into adulthood, but sometimes others in between like a pair with two layers of canvas in green and tan, and a pair with flames printed on the sides.</p><p id="f2d6">In middle school, a girl who sat in the back of math class taught me how best to lace you: never all the way to the top, and never folded down like you’d be seen in fashion photos and on TV. She said to keep the top set of eyelets open, leaving the right amount of shoelace for a double knot.</p><p id="ada5">More recently, I discovered the Converse one-star line of shoes, made softer a

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nd more cushiony for people over thirty or so, whose feet hurt if we walk too far without a more forgiving insole beneath our feet.</p><p id="1390">I have two pair of these, but I still have one of you: black with black laces and distressed silver rubber to cover the toe caps and soles. I wear Vans now, too, but if I’m without you for very long, I start to feel too far away from the self I’ve always known.</p><div id="17e2" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/dear-trucker-hats-9dc9158116a6"> <div> <div> <h2>Dear Trucker Hats</h2> <div><h3>Was I the only fourth-grade girl who wore you?</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*iY_ge0l8uTr1WvqL)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Is anyone as cool as you?

collage by the author

We used to buy you on Aurora Avenue in north Seattle at a store called Chubby & Tubby. They had you in all sorts of colors back in the 1980s, before anyone could just order any color shoe online.

All four of us would go: my parents, my brother, and me. We’d go at the end of the summer for my brother and I to pick the pair we each wanted for the new school year.

My brother had a bright turquoise high top pair of you that he wore to his grade school basketball games, sinking baskets from the outside with his unorthodox way of throwing the ball with his hands on either side of it.

One year, my dad bought you for himself, too, in black low tops that were never the same after an elephant rubbed her trunk across them at the zoo. Dad said he always wore you when he was our age, some years in black and some years in white, always high tops — no colorful choices back then, but I can’t imagine what else he’d have chosen.

I remember my first pair of you: high tops in deep Christmas green. Later I had blue. Then red. Then black. Then black again and again into adulthood, but sometimes others in between like a pair with two layers of canvas in green and tan, and a pair with flames printed on the sides.

In middle school, a girl who sat in the back of math class taught me how best to lace you: never all the way to the top, and never folded down like you’d be seen in fashion photos and on TV. She said to keep the top set of eyelets open, leaving the right amount of shoelace for a double knot.

More recently, I discovered the Converse one-star line of shoes, made softer and more cushiony for people over thirty or so, whose feet hurt if we walk too far without a more forgiving insole beneath our feet.

I have two pair of these, but I still have one of you: black with black laces and distressed silver rubber to cover the toe caps and soles. I wear Vans now, too, but if I’m without you for very long, I start to feel too far away from the self I’ve always known.