Brazen Hussies ~ Sally Shelkow ~ Clean Sweep!

Clean Sweep

by Sally Sheklow

(800 words)

I have to get rid of my wedding shoes. Ever since my gal and I tied the knot, the two-tone suede oxfords have taken up closet space and served as a painful reminder that catalog footwear never fits. I should have tossed the heel-rubbing, instep-squishing relics immediately after we smashed the glass at the end of our marriage ceremony, or at least after dancing that first blistering hora.

But those shoes, foot-free since our day of days, still summon up festive tones of klezmer clarinet, the rabbi¹s sweet voice singing the seven blessings, and our friends¹ teary, smiling faces beaming love and support for us brides.

Unlike more traditional lesbians who settle down, marry, and have a baby‹or get a puppy, or build a new deck‹we¹ve augmented our cozy nest with a full grown teenager. My great-niece Shaina has come to live with us while she goes to college and recovers from her first 18 hellish years of life, which in no way is meant to disparage the child-rearing skills of her cruel, narrow-minded, queer-hating family. Grrr.

Moving in with her lezzie aunties is a dream come true for a kid whose mother¹s idea of honoring diversity was diversifying punishments. It¹s a miracle that Shaina survived her childhood, finished high school, evaded a stint in an ex-gay conversion program, and escaped to our lesbo-loving home. Hallelujah.

Wifey and I have welcomed our new progeny. In our enthusiasm to receive the bouncing baby dyke, we failed to consider how much stuff one underage person could accumulate and haul 1000 miles on a Greyhound bus. A lot.

Shaina climbed off her 25-hour freedom ride with all the essentials of starting a new life: two giant suitcases of clothes; two guitars‹one electric, one acoustic; a TV; VCR; stereo; two footlockers of yet-to-be-revealed contents (no strange sounds or smells emanating from either, yet); a backpack; giant plush white rabbit; Betty Boop lunch box; leather motorcycle jacket; and one pair of knee-high, lace-up, lug-soled shit-kicker boots. This kid has moved for good.

She¹s ready to finish unpacking. All her worldly possessions have to cram into our so-called spare room. Until Shaina¹s arrival that room housed our household overflow, outgrown and seldom-worn clothes, Holstein-patterned past-warranty computer boxes, and an overpopulated warren of dust bunnies.

It¹s all gone now, except the shoes. I sorted, cleaned, and made way. I cleared out crates, cartons, and containers. I gave away, donated, or trashed everything I could bear to part with, and found attic space for the excess (at least we have an heir now to host our estate sale.) I had to turn my back so Wifey could haul away certain items too painful for me to witness‹clearly the clean-out effort was not be aided by my saying ³Don¹t get rid of those pants‹I remember the first time I took them off you!²

Now I have to tackle the cobwebbed shoe stash. First in the line of fire are my wedding shoes‹what do I do with them? I can¹t just stick them out on the curb with a ³FREE!² sign or abandon them at S.V. de P. Those shoes walked me down the aisle, held me up when my knees were weak, and supported me during the wedding dance. They remind me of how excited we were the day we finally pulled together the coordinated ceremonial outfits that would at last answer our friends¹ deep philosophical same-sex wedding question‹³What are you wearing?²

It¹s the packrat vs. the shoes. What if they have some value to future archaeologists studying late 20th century domestic lesbian couture? Those shoes might somehow be the link to understanding the bleak ancient years of marriage prohibition before people could marry whomever they wanted. I know it¹s a flimsy rationalization. I should admit that my strengths do not lie in the getting rid of things department, seek professional help, and chuck the shoes.

They¹re just holding up progress now. Shaina needs room for her stuff. As with the last-gasping Bush regime, the time has come for the old to give way to the new. When I muster the wherewithal to ditch the wedding shoes, surely my old tassled loafers, deer hide hippie moccasins, hard-soled wing-tips, and worn-heel zip-up ankle boots will follow.

The hip-hop beat boom-thumps through Shaina¹s bedroom door. Sudden parental consciousness hits me‹I must do it for the kid. We have an impressionable young woman living with us. I don¹t want to model packrat behavior.

But isn¹t she really the role model? She left behind her friends, her sister, her entire life. She let go of all that to come to a better place and make a new life for herself. Who am I to let a pair of old wedding shoes stand in the way?

Writer Sally Sheklow lives a pared-down life with her wife and their teenager in Eugene, Oregon.