I wanted white go-go boots so bad.

I wanted to look glamorous and tough.
I wanted to sing and dance and strut.

I wanted go-go boots.
Knee-high.
Long zippers, from the side of my sole to the inside of my knee.
Shiny white patent leather.
With a heel.

I wanted boots made for walkin’ …
like Nancy Sinatra’s.

All I knew about glamour and toughness
came from American Bandstand
or Mary Tyler Moore
or The Partridge Family
or Carol Burnett
or Super Friends
or the Waltons
or maybe The Price is Right.

God knows why
Mom let me watch all that TV.
But she did.

She also bought me those boots.

And I wore them
to sing and dance
and strut.

They were the perfect canvas
for my self expression.

Maybe that’s why
I accented them
with indelible ink.
Fine blue lines on shiny white:
my name,
a self-portrait …
my own branding for those brand new boots.

Mom found my artsy boots
and gasped
and yelled
and probably cried.

What did she expect?
I was four.