I'm at my mother's house in Elk Grove right now, trying to find a picture of boots that will work as clip art on a custom ink shirt that look like drill team boots. It's frusturating creating this fourth shirt.
But I saved something and didn't realize where I saved it. I searched "boot" in the computer, and found a word document titled "These Boots Were Made for Marchin'." It's an essay my sister wrote this past year. I cried. She is a good writer, I think. And she admires me so much...it feels so great to have someone look up to you so much. Well, I thought I would share it. I realize it's her work, but it means so much to me that I would like to share it with all of you. Some of the writing is weird because its no longer formatted, but you'll get the just of it.
Samantha Clark Clark 1
AP English 11
September 16 2008
These Boots Were Made for Marching
Just about ready to leave my house, I analyze myself in the mirror, making sure everything is in place. My hair half-up and half down, bangs pulled back and hair sprayed slick, diamond earrings, one in each ear and cherry-colored lipstick packed on, layer after layer. The time has come to add the last touch. My boots.
I slip them on, and run out in a hurry. The click clack of the heels touching the ground in a hurry causes a few strangers to turn in curiosity. My face gets pink, my hands get hot, and I know they are looking at my dirty, worn out boots. What used to be spotless white leather too stiff to fold down has now become too flexible to keep zipped up.
Four years ago, my sister invited me towards her, and we opened the box which kept those boots safe through shipping. Pulled out of their package, the boots shined as if they had just been painted with a white glaze. The zippers ran smoothly in and out of every crevice, connecting pieces of a puzzle. The insides glow as white as the outside, and the smell arises as the smell of a new car would the first month. My sister wore those new boots with such accomplishment. I admired the way she walked in those boots, head up at gun-point, back straight and shoulders back. And then she smiled, showing not only her top and bottom teeth, but also the glimmer in her eyes. I looked at my flip flops, and knew that one day, I wanted to walk with the same posture my sister revealed to me.
I remember sitting on the sofa watching my sister go through her own routine of getting ready. Her frustrations began to build up through getting her bow even with her pony tail, and trying to find new tights without any holes, all the tension seemed to disappear after she donned the exquisite boots. Her outfit then became complete. Friday after Friday as the boots gained dirt stains and smudges, I watched this same routine, and every time it amazed me how that last simple step made her stand up higher, smile a little wider and act a bit nicer.
As my sister grew up, she left the school and boots to me. I strive to fill her footsteps. The boots have lost their shine, and yet, I still feel privileged to wear them. The insides stained brown from the sweat and dirt of many parades in the past, still carry the indentations of her feet, and the smell of a long day of marching. The creases at the bridge and the ankles from pointed toes, and marching passé make them more pliable to my movements. The zipper on the left side gets stuck due to the material from my tights constantly getting in the way in my haste to get ready. The smudge on my right boot left over from my sister fails to be covered no matter all the times I have polished it. These boots finish off my uniform, make me stand tall, smile big and be in the best attitude I can, so that I’m ready to march with the rest of the team.
As I walk to my team, we begin our pre-game. The BOOM BOOM of our heels marching on the track in absolute unison. The cheering fans watch us with pride.