these are not my beautiful feet...

i glanced down as i strolled through the drizzle blanketing downtown seattle and it took me a moment to recognize my own feet. my father just bought me $125 timberland boots and $114 lucky jeans. i just snuck into my house, shamefully hiding the nordstrom bag behind me.

i feel guilty and happy and wary and comfortable in this soft-as-butter leather and stretchy durable denim.

aside from some hiking gear, i haven't had a new pair of shoes or pants in years. all of my clothes come from thrift stores, friends, free-boxes or (sometimes) more nefarious means. most of my shoes are old enough to fold in half; most of my pants have multiple holes or patches in the crotch. the reasons for this are complicated and various. i don't feel comfortable saying "i can't afford new clothes," because i know that definitions of "can't" and "afford" are so fucking contextual. that's where class comes in.

choices. yeah i have the privilege to make the choice...i guess. the choice to pay my $350/month student loan bill or buy new clothes. but it's also about values. i like my thrift store/free box clothes. it's not just some hipster/radical aesthetic - i like soft, worn clothes that smell like my friends. i like sweaters with stories and pants with layers of patches. but i do have to come clean with that fact that at some level, this is a choice. if i really wanted to, i could buy brand new clothes. i could get a well-paying job with my fancy degree. i could do a lot of things that i don't want to do.

it gets more complicated. and i want to talk about this without disavowing my own complicity and role in all of this.

see, two days ago, my dad only had $42 dollars in his checking account. the day he arrived here to visit me, he was on the phone with his bank to make sure that the check for the house he just closed on (he's a realtor) went through. and all of a sudden he's magically rich again, for who knows how long. one second, well four years actually, he can't give me a dime for my college education, and the next he says, "what do you want?" this access is so fleeting that i know i have to take advantage of it before it disappears again. we're at the mall downtown (his girlfriend is shopping and i feel like i'm on an alien planet...well an alien planet where i spent my formative years and haven't since returned), and he asks if i need anything. "um..." i mumble, mind racing strategically. thinking about my little list of things i'll buy for myself when i save up enough money. things i plan on buying as ethically as possible, researching labor practices and local manufacturing. maybe i'll even pay more for something custom that a friend of mine can make, happy that i'm supporting my community. but here we are in fucking westlake mall, surrounded by nike and kitschy shops and department stores.

we wander into nordstrom, as i'm still pondering my answer to his question. see it's all about the now. not later maybe we can go to this local store or even REI to get good biking shoes, let alone maybe later we can donate your money to a good cause. but now, at nordstrom's, "what do you want?"

something about this store brings out the fag in me and i start to think, well i could use some nice dress boots since i tend to bike in all of my shoes and scrape them up on my toe clips. i tell my dad that shoes might be nice and he starts to walk toward the women's shoe department. "no," i calmly correct him, "men's shoes." he turns, seemingly unfazed, and we walk to the men's department.

the smells and textures of this world intrigue, excite and terrify me. i follow him toward the pristinely dressed clerk who addressed us with, "how can i help you gentlemen?" my heart leaps at this momentary passing with these same conflicting emotions and i smirk a bit. i think my dad ignores it, too confused about how to "correct" him, or maybe he just pretends that he doesn't hear it, and asks about boots. he tries to explain what i want and then awkwardly defers the clerk to me, who quickly hides his surprise as he addresses me personally. "business, casual or athletic?"

"um..." i respond, still trying to orient myself in this simultaneously familiar and distant world of high-end retail.

luckily, we're in seattle and the clerk is wonderful and either queer and cool with going with the flow of this genderqueer/trannyboy/whateverthefuckiam asking for men's shoes or he has experience with other folks like myself. he kindly shows me over to the boots where i immediately find the simple black slip on timberlands that i've seen before and have wanted for a long time.

while we are waiting for the suave and sweet clerk to find the size 7 i'm hoping will fit, my dad starts drooling over a table of beautiful italian shoes. i join him and we take turns "oooing" and "aahhing" at the intricate designs and textures. did i mention what a fag my father is? no, he's not quite out yet, but i think he's getting there. we have always bonded in an ostensibly father/daughter way but i can't quite admit how good it feels to connect over an appreciation for overpriced fabulous designer boots.

this...this is different. somewhere i hope that he knows (that i'm not a girl) and somewhere i think that he knows that i know (that he's not straight).

then the clerk returns with my size 7 that i make fit with an insole and, barely glancing at the price, my dad buys them.

then he asks if there's anything else i want. well...the pants i'm wearing are falling off my ass - the back belt loop is broken so my belt rides on my hips while the pants sag below. i shyly admit that i do need new pants. "but, but...," i think, "i could buy 10 pair of pants at a thrift store for the price you are willing to pay for one pair of pants here." but that's not how this game is played. now or never is the sentiment and i not-so-begrudgingly acquiesce to his offer. again, he wanders toward the women's department and again i correct him.

i can't quite put language to the feelings that come up in the men's clothing department. longing is definitely one of them. earlier i admitted to dad that someday i would really like a nice tailored suit, after he jokingly asked when the last time i wore a dress was. (in a teasing, how-silly-our-old-ways-were kind of way)

see, i want to be one of them and i never will be. i think that simple sentence is the best way to express my gender identity at the moment. no, i don't think i was born in the wrong body or that i really am a boy deep inside...for me, those narratives mean that there is some truth about gender outside of all of our experiences of it. like there's such a thing as a real boy or a real girl. no, instead it feels like a club. especially here in the nordstrom's men's department in seattle - a wealthy gay men's club that i simultaneously despise and yearn to be a part of. but again, thank god we're in seattle, or at least, thank god for the sales-savy clerks who treat me with respect as they search for jeans with a 30 inch inseam.

i find the perfect pair that hugs my ass and bulges a bit at the crotch and handsomely contains my biker thighs. (<--------not my ass)

i'm kind of scared to feel hot like this. but, god, do i feel hot in these...

one of my foundational, earth-shattering (sounds like an oxymoron, but it's not) conversations around gender was when i was talking with a friend about my fear of "dressing up." see, i have this idea that the more dressed "up" you are (at least in my experience of white middle-class american culture), the more polarized the standards of gender become. and the more lost i feel. i cannot feel hot in a dress. (well maybe with a wig and excessive makeup and heels, but that's another story) i don't know if i ever have. and i've been scared to explore the other side fully. in large part because going out and buying a bunch of new clothes, especially clothes that i can't wear everyday, can't bike in, is not a luxury i can afford. so through this conversation i figured out that i might feel hot in a suit or men's dress clothes. but i never really tried it until now.

this feels silly because i'm really just talking about jeans and black boots, not a three-piece-suit, but still. they are fucking expensive and made of really nice materials and feel so fucking good against my skin. not to mention the lingering smell of cologne and leather that permeates the air in this department. it's also being surrounded by men in this forbidden world. and feeling like i'm connecting with my father in a whole new way...a way that neither of us is quite willing to admit - to each other or ourselves.