My Reebok Sneakers

Everyone has a pair of sneakers that are so atrociously worn out, yet we refuse to throw them out. Mine are the Reebok Club C 85’s. The tongues of the sneakers, once proudly upright, are now nowhere to be found, swallowed deep into the last fraying laced string, drooping as low as I am on a cold Monday morning. The sneakers themselves were, at some point in time, a crisp, blinding white, a white so aggressively bright it bordered on unnatural. The kind of white that you purposely rub in dirt to make less blinding, or the kind of white on the number one shade of a tooth whitening strip scale, so stark as if not meant to be worn. That color had been drowned by mud, grass stains, and overuse. 

They are now no longer any kind of white. Now they resemble a sort of rotting yellow shade, or even a dark eggshell. The only aesthetic color left on the shoe is the fading, dirt-covered, blue Reebok logo. If you look closely, you can trace each individual stitch in the logo’s design, tiny thread loops sewn in a rhythm of over-under, over-under, like the heartbeat of a sewing machine. The soles of the shoes practically expose my colored socks, the seams holding on to each other by only a single thread.

They got this way during my job working as a day camp counselor; my sneakers consistently ended up stuck and intertwined between the branches of a tree. They ventured with me up to Riverdale and back practically every day. They were with me as I ran to my bus stop with sweat trickling down my back and soaking my collared work uniform shirt. 

I worked with three, four, and five-year-olds with wildly creative and expansive imaginations. The kinds of imaginations that believed in dragons, secret magic powers, and flying pigs. One week, they had the opportunity to create their very own toy airplanes. Without hesitation, they flung their planes towards the tallest tree in sight, like the grand, looming tree that provided a “you shall not pass” presence. The first few times, I was able to reach and bring them down proudly. However, as the day progressed, they somehow conjured more strength with each throw. The tree seemed to be growing and laughing at my failed attempts to jump. After several throws that were completely out of my reach, I took off a sneaker and threw it aggressively at the tree branches. The first throw was a complete success. 

After that, this became a tradition at camp. I let my campers give it a try and watched them throw my sneakers with all the force they had. It got to the point where it became a competitive sport, counselors included. My sneakers were passed around to several different grubby little hands and are still probably coated in some sort of hand, foot, and mouth disease, embedded within the fabric. When I wear them now, I can still see that tree. I can still hear the laughter, the cheers, and the sound of planes crashing through hydrated leaves. Somewhere up in that tree still lingers one or two planes that the tree managed to secure, relics of the summer of 2025. 

Beyond being coated in boogers and diseases, my Reeboks still hold other sentimental memories. When I look down at them, the sneakers I have had for maybe six years, having survived being worn every day, I am reminded of all I have walked through. The backs have collapsed inward from years of hurried mornings, of shoving my heels in without untying the laces, of kicks to take them off after long, draining days. This reminds me of the countless times I have slammed my foot into my sneakers and left for a walk outside when my emotions were dictating my actions. 

I remember many of those walks, the heavy ones and the quiet ones. I’d be in the park, hands deep in my hoodie pockets, head down, watching my own feet move across the pavement, deliberately avoiding each crack as if I was keeping some sort of bounding rhythm. The world around me became a blur, the only thing in focus being the worn curve of my sneaker. Sometimes, the wind would blow just right, and the Nuts4Nuts cart somewhere in the distance would send tendrils of aroma. The smell wrapped around me like a warm hug: honey-roasted peanuts, cinnamon-sugar glaze, the sweet buttery heat of candied almonds, and warm waffles drizzled with Nutella. In those moments, while in the city that never sleeps, and in a haze of my own memories, with the smell of sugar up my nose, I wasn’t a growing young woman. I was just a little kid. A little kid who was fascinated by the detailing of the concrete and swarmed with curiosity, including questions like: who created words? and why are they even called words?  

Sometimes I wonder if I should just throw the sneakers away. Their soles are nearly gone, the stitching split open, and the material irreversibly broken down by time. But something always stops me. Maybe it’s loyalty to these sneakers, or maybe it’s the way that they still perfectly fit, like memories that are molded to my feet. Maybe it’s because they remind me that things don’t always have to be perfect to carry on and move forward.