Shaving some bone off my foot for some Reebok Pumps

My sixth grade English teacher declared I was "retarded." The audience consisting of my father and school staff were caught off guard by her remarks. As the parent-teacher conference knifed forward, she ranted, "he is too far behind. He can’t say simple words like 'the' and 'girl' and he is always lost in class." In sixth grade, I had an uncorrected palate causing some speech difficulties. This later required extensive reconstructive surgery. Also, I was battling other physical issues that made school seem unimportant. In sixth grade, not only did kids say horrendous shit, but now my teachers did too. 

As sixth grade clunked onwards, I just wanted to fit in and have the same experiences and things as others. Just like other kids in the early 90s, one thing I really wanted was Reebok Pump shoes.

Pumps had a circular pump embedded in the shoe tongue. Reebok claimed that inflating the shoe tongue led to better support, stability, and even improved athletic performance. I believed the hype. In my middle school mind, by getting into some Pumps I would: 

1. Increase my athletic performance and this will offset some of my physical challenges. Therefore, I will receive the opportunity to play sports with my friends longer than what doctors predicted.
   
2. My shoe choice will help me blend in with all the judgemental assholes at my school that called me "stick legs," "retard," and “national geographic baby.” The latter name is because my legs were so skinny that some classmates believed I looked like the malnourished kids featured in an edition of National Geographic Magazine. Note, the majority of my classmates were rather kind.

I had two massive issues before I could get some pumps. 

First, my deformed feet wear through a pair of shoes within two weeks. I crushed the heel section and outside of my shoes after just a few days of hard running. My right foot damaged a shoe more than my left due to a poor surgical outcome leaving me running and walking on the outside of my foot. This left me with extreme supination until I could get a new pair of shoes. 

Second, my family wasn’t rich and therefore I found myself limping in a beat up pair of shoes for months. An expensive pair of shoes like Reebok Pumps were not an option. So I begged for the next best option, that being a Payless Shoe Source knock-off, but even then the cost was too much. If I wanted Pumps then I needed to fix my feet.

I asked my parents if I could see a clubfoot specialist to fix my feet. I never, ever, ever wanted to see a doctor because a visit always came with bad news, like “you should not be playing football anymore.” But this time, my innocent and optimistic mind believed a doctor’s visit would be different. In fact, I was amped. I counted down the days until I could see the specialist. I knew that this specialist was the person to help me achieve my goal of getting some Pumps.

My dad took me to the University of Pittsburgh Children's Hospital to see a clubfoot specialist. I met with the clubfoot specialist and explained my issue and how my feet prevented me from getting some Pumps. The clubfoot specialist laid out his plan in his absurdly decorated office. The walls looked like a medical insane asylum for those that enjoy staring at paintings of balloons and cartoon animals. "We need to shave off some of the bone on your outside foot to even it out. This should eliminate the uneven wear of your shoes." As he is saying this, I am staring at the wall and there’s three balloons carrying a smiling alligator across the sky. I hear his words. "Recovery is about 6 months and you would spend two nights in this hospital." As I stared deeper into the wall, I thought that this treatment plan was absolutely idiotic. All of my hopes of getting some Pumps, of running out on the field with my friends were smashed in that absurd room with that absurdly undereducated doctor. I felt dizzy and my vision blurred. I stared even deeper into the wall. I felt hollow inside as if I lost my capability of feeling sad. It's hard to describe. I was now just unable or empty. I politely said, "thank you so much, we will go home and think about it." 

After we walked through the parking garage and hopped back into the car, I said to my dad, "I'm not having surgery to shave bone from my right foot. The doctor is stupid and doesn’t know what he's doing." I was now devastated.

This became another experience where I would not get the chance to fit in due to how I was born.

I never saw another specialist again for my limb differences during my childhood. I never got a pair of Reebok Pumps. A few years later, playing team sports with my childhood classmates ended. 

This experience taught me three important lessons.

One, I was on my own to figure out my disability. Teachers, doctors, and even parents could not bail me out. 

Two, a decent number of authority figures will inflict pain. This includes my English teacher that inflicted pain intentionally and my clubfoot specialist that inflicted pain unintentionally. 

Three, even though I was on my own, I was resilient enough to find a way to be okay. 

Published on April 29, 2025