I recently had these boots resoled and reheeled (a dying art
in a world of fast fashion), and as part of my commitment to make/mend/thrift,
I felt these boots encapsulated a lot of those values as well as some other,
nonsartorial, things.
I’m pretty
sure my mother bought these Robert Clergerie boots for me at Bergdorf Goodman
in 1995/1996. I remember that the
ladyfriend and I were still maintaining separate apartments and more
importantly, separate finances.
For years my
mother and I have had a semi-annual date to go shopping in New York, a
tradition that has lasted into the almost 11 years I’ve been in Hamilton. On each of these trips, my mother buys
something for me. My receptivity to this
has varied over the years. There was a
time when I didn’t want her to buy me anything because I thought it undermined
my independence and sense of adulthood; there was a time when it made me
anxious because I knew she’d feel the
day was a failure if I didn’t have something to show for it; there was the
passive-aggressive phase when I tried to maximize my haul. Over the past twenty or so years, I’ve come
to a more nuanced understanding of this dynamic.






