Femininity | Footwear

I walked in my first pair of heels in a Shoe Show in Hendersonville, Tennessee when I was 14. To my surprise, I was a natural. Not sure if it was the abnormally large feet that supported me or the sturdy frame of my non-athletic body, but I could walk in some heels. And I was so excited! Heels are a vital part of the rickety bridge from childhood to womanhood, and I was ahead of the curve, which was a big deal for a slightly frumpy and awkward tom boy.

For the next several years, I didn’t wear them, but when I got to college, high heels began to be a staple in my arsenal of accoutrements. I was coming into my own—finding I could be even taller than my already taller-than-average 5' 9" when I wore huge heels. I secretly enjoyed the attention of being the tallest one in the room. It was empowering yet feminine. I didn’t fully understand it then, but I knew I felt different and was treated differently when I was wearing crazy heels than when I was wearing something more comfortable and practical.

Over the years, I have worn way more than my fair share of heels—all kinds—crazy, strappy, wedgy, spikey, stiletto, basically anything that was high and drew attention. I didn’t consciously realize it (I don’t think), but it was there; I was using heels as a way to accentuate my womanhood—to have power over others but also seem helpless and sexy.

Bernard Rudofsky says “By depriving her of a secure walk she becomes an irresistible female. The cheeks shake, the breasts shake, the body lumbers and hops. The jutting abdomen, the staccato tripping, it is all delightfully feminine. . . . Every woman knows that to wear ‘walking shoes’ or ‘sensible shoes’ puts a damper on a man’s ardor. The effect of absurdly impractical shoes is as intoxicating as a love potion.”

Although I’m good at walking in heels, it still changes the way I walk. It makes my legs look “toned,” my steps are shorter, my posture is altered, I require assistance from humans and railings and walls to stay upright—my gait is completely changed when I'm wearing heels. Why? Why am I wearing shoes that make my feet and back hurt, cause blisters and sometimes draw blood? Who am I trying to impress, and what am I trying to tell them? When I wear comfortable sandals or my beloved running shoes, my walk is just a walk—there's nothing special about it, it doesn't attract attention, it just gets me where I'm going.

“An artificial feminine walk seems to gratify many psychological and cultural needs. The female foot and leg are turned into ornamental objects and the impractical shoe, which offers little protection against dust, rain and snow, induces helplessness and dependence. In an interesting double message of the sort that abounds in the exacting but not quite explicit feminine code, the extra wiggle in the hips, exaggerating a slight natural tendency, is seen as sexually flirtatious while the smaller steps and tentative, insecure tread suggest daintiness, modesty and refinement.” (Brownmiller, “Femininity”)

I’m beginning to think about the shoes I put on for other reasons than what I have been told to think is “cool” or “hip.” I’m starting to think about what I’m subconsciously but also consciously telling people by the shoes I wear—how I am perceived, and how much I value myself by the amount of pain I’ll endure to look a certain way. These are questions I’ve never asked myself before, but I think they need to be asked. They’re good questions, and I’m worth it. So are you.