On Athletics and Authority

Can we ever surmount the traumas we experience as young children? I don't know.

I do know that if you are blessed with a strong character, you can push forward in spite of them.

This morning, as I worked out in Jazzercise class, the subject of shoelaces came up. They don't seem to stay tied as readily as they did when I was a child, because now they are made of polyester which is much more slippery than the good old cotton ones I had in my sturdy leather orthopedic shoes. (The cotton ones broke a lot, though.)

Those shoes were the bane of my existence. I hated them. Not only were they ugly, the slick leather soles made me unsure on my feet; I could not run well in them and I was constantly falling down. I earned the reputation, and felt the stigma, of being non-athletic. This was the kiss of death in the American elementary schoolyard of the 1960s.

I was born with a congenital deformation of the bones in my legs and feet. My feet curved in, my knees knocked, and my hipbones are angled differently than most people's. To this day I sleep with my toes facing in, and I still throw my left foot in slightly when I walk.

My mother adored, even worshipped, our pediatrician, who should have known that I needed outflare shoes and special diapers or a foot bar to keep my hips positioned so they would develop properly. Instead, once I started walking I was prescribed special shoes which were ugly leather oxfords and cost a fortune. I wore them every day, including summertimes, until the sixth grade.

It wasn't until I had kids with the same problems that I learned that orthotic inserts could be made to correct the problem. My kids wore the outflare shoes and had a bar attached while they slept, which worked wonders. I was so chagrined to find out these appliances had been available since World War II.

One day, my preschooler son was attempting to climb some chain rigging at the playground in his leather-soled shoes. He slipped and couldn't climb well, while my friend's daughter, shod in sneakers, nimbly climbed right up. It dawned on me: the shoes had been my problem. My parents never gave it a thought. To them, leather shoes were better because that's what good parents put on their children, while sneakers were a sign of poverty. Even living in Los Angeles, they never even tried to find an alternative to my pricey shoes that would be more stylish (all the other girls had go-go boots) and give me a purchase on that playground tarmac. I don't know why they didn't take me to a podiatrist or an orthopedic specialist, who would have had access to more options.

So I grew up thinking I was awkward, un-athletic, nerdy, uncool. Even though this doesn't matter now, it had a profound effect on my self-image as I grew up. Truth to tell, I could dance and ice skate well. I now do aerobic dance for exercise, and I am good at it.

My parents' generation did not question authority, and so accepted what was told to them. I so, so wish my mother had found a more personable, sympathetic doctor than the one we had--who was too cold and businesslike to be dealing with children. Maybe such a doctor didn't exist.

As an adult, I now do physical things I hated as a child, and though I don't necessarily enjoy sports, I am not afraid to try them. But those years of being unsure on my feet marked me for life. It's hard to unlearn something learned so early, but it can be recognized and compensated for.