a true story about belonging
Five Yellow Boots, and Mine
Five kids, five matching yellow boots by the door, and my girl quietly shoving hers under her jacket.
the realization
I finally stopped trying to talk her out of feeling left out and just sat in it with her. Once she knew I saw the odd-one-out thing too, she didn't need me to fix it.
It was five of them. Five little kids in five matching yellow rain boots, lined up by the cubbies like they'd planned it. And then mine, sitting on the floor, dragging her jacket over her own boots so they'd disappear. One kept popping out the side. She kept stuffing it back down.
have you ever felt this way too?
She didn't cry. That's the part that got me. She just went small and quiet, this kid who is never quiet, working so hard to hide two little boots. So I did what I always do. I got bright and cheerful. 'Hey, look, yours are cute too, they're my favorite.' She turned her whole body into the wall. And the harder I sold it, the smaller she got.
So I quit. I sat down on the floor next to her and looked where she was looking, at that whole yellow row. 'They're all the same,' I said. 'Yours are different.' She nodded, barely. 'Made you feel kind of funny inside, huh.' And that was it, that was the thing. Not the boots.
She didn't perk up. She just leaned her head into my shoulder and let it stay there. We sat like that a minute. Then one odd little boot took a step toward the noise, and then the other one, and she went. Nobody walked her over. Nobody fixed it.
what I found myself saying
""They're all the same. Yours are different.""
""Made you feel kind of funny inside, huh.""
"I stopped selling it and just said what she was seeing."
