Having Timberlands was prestigious back in the days. Not just any pair of Timberlands, but the thick, light brown ones, with the little tree logo on the side. Those were the trending ones; they were noticeable and grand and if you put them on you didn’t have to speak to say much. The boots announced your arrival.
They were not just footwear. In our neighborhood and other parts of town, they were essentials. Timberlands were the boots of choice for rappers like Eminem, DMX, and the G-unit led by 50 Cent in popular American music videos. They were so highly valued that boys twice my age would save their money for months just to buy Timberlands. A pair of Timberland boots portrayed that you were not just getting by in life, you were moving with a purpose, socially and financially.
I must have been ten or eleven when my older brother Alex bought me a new pair of Timberland boots. This was in the early 2000s, when your dress code was a main statement and topic of your personality. There was no Instagram or TikTok, and social media wasn’t part of our daily lives. Timberlands were the trends of the era, and our streets the arena.
Also, Alex was searching for employment in town at the time, and my mom was a single, hard-working woman, selling bread all day at the local market to put food on the table and feed the six of us. Alex never elaborated much. Later, I found out he too worked long hours, at an Indian hardware store in town, moving and shelving supplies. Perhaps that’s why he trusted the boots so much; he understood their quality. But still, his sacrifice made him mysterious to me.
And I never said this, but I also admired, even envied other kids’ shoes, particularly the ones I’d see walking to school and going to church. I had shoes, but they were old and worn out. My soles were cracked and the shoelaces frayed. It was something I didn’t want to notice most times, but other times, when I saw good boots, it would get to me.
I came home from school tired one particularly hot day. Tired and sweaty, I placed my bag on the table, but then I saw something out of the ordinary. A tight white bag sat on my bed, on top of the pillow.
I just stood frozen, staring at it in the silent room. I thought it might be something to eat; maybe a leftover fruit or a market snack, but food usually came in a different bag. I slowly walked toward it. When I lifted it, the first thing I noticed was its weight. I sat on the bed and cautiously opened the bag. Once I saw what it was, my heart stopped beating. I held the boots in my hands for a moment. Then I turned them around, pressing my fingers against them to ensure they were real. Then, I put them on the ground and started putting then on my feet, one after another. They fit. Standing up, I took two steps and realized things had shifted inside of me.
I stepped out the door and turned towards Alex. “Alex?”
“You found them.”
“These are my boots?”
“Yes,” he said. “Take good care of them.”
Nodding, I stared at my feet for a moment. “Thank you,” I whispered.
I didn’t want to take my boots off that evening. I walked around the house as if I was floating. Each step felt too good to be true. My sibling teased me, saying I’d sleep in them if I could. Truthfully, if Mom had not warned me about the white bedsheets, I probably would have.
The following day I put on a clean pair of dark blue jeans, a shirt, and my new Timberland boots. I spent five to seven minutes looking in the mirror to make sure I looked well. It was the best outfit I ever wore. The moment I stepped out of our house, I walked as slowly as I could to get the attention from other kids my age.
I got it, the whole street did not disappoint.
”Hey, those are the new Timberland boots!” a boy shouted from a distance.
“Are those Timberlands?”
Many people were aware of the new Timberland boots, and I didn’t even have to say a word.
I was not the kid with worn-out shoes, for once. I didn’t need to cover holes with black shoe polish to make my footwear look presentable. I was the one with the new, noticeable boots, and I was getting the attention I wanted. I even walked a bit different than I usually did that day. Usually I didn’t care much about my gait, but now I was more deliberate with my steps, with how I positioned my feet. I was careful, trying my best not to step in puddles. When I was sitting at our church’s children Bible teaching class, I made a point to stretch my legs in a way that showcased my boots. I don’t know why it was such a thrill, but it was. I enjoyed it. My efforts to show off my boots were, for once, not in vain.
The boots were more than a way to keep my feet warm and dry; they told a story and could be used to make a statement. They were one of the first layers of “armor” that could give you a reputation on the streets we walked. A pair of boots could get you the right kind of attention, but they could also lead to kids trying to bully you. I always wanted to be the kid with the right kind of attention, and I would do my best to show off my boots.
It was never only about the boots for Alex, either. It was about being seen. The boots represented something that was hard for him to give. The phrases “I love you’’ and “I’m proud of you’’ didn’t come often from him. And not because he was cold. In fact, he wasn’t cold at all. He was just quiet, which had to do with the rough life we had to navigate. His caring was subtle, and that made him who he was. He cared by fixing the hinges so the door wouldn’t become squeaky, pouring Mom her favorite cup of tea, giving me his old Walkman. The boots were like all those gestures: small and quiet. But that was also why it felt so huge to me: it was like he placed a crown on my head.
The boots gave me courage too. I started raising my hands more and more during children’s Bible study lessons. I also started speaking even when I wasn’t as confident about what I was saying. I didn’t hide my feet under the table anymore, and I didn’t hunch down as much. Friends, Sunday school teachers, even the ones that used to laugh at my old shoes all started treating me differently. Those boots gave the world a message: “He belongs here.”
I also walked differently at church. I used to feel the touch of the old ladies on my shoulders, who said, “You’ll grow into a fine young man.” Now, all they did was look down at my boots and nod as if they were sure that, yes, I had become one. My friends from choir repeatedly asked to try them on. I loved their enthusiasm, but I never said yes. No one used to care about my old shoes.
It rained a lot once, the streets flooded with water and mud, which got on everyone’s shoes as they tried to jump the puddles. My Timberlands kept my feet dry. I realized they were not just stylish and fashionable, but durable, dependable, and built to last. I felt like they were the true reflection of my older brother Alex: protective, always visible, always in the background.
Alex never asked for a thank you. He never asked for anything. He just smiled at me, and that was enough.
I took good care of the boots. I cleaned them after each use. But after three years they started showing signs of wear. It was getting harder and harder for me to wear them every day. Their leather was starting to wear down, and the soles were completely cracked. But they were with me for all of my most important moments.
I saw value in getting them repaired, so when the soles started cracking, I spent my pocket money on getting them repaired. I didn’t want to let them get ruined.
Alex must have given something up to buy them. He never said what it was, but he could have spent that money on himself; he could have gotten new clothes for himself, gone out with friends. Or he could have used that money to help Mom with all the things she had to buy. But he picked me instead. That decision was big, and it still weighs on me more than the boots.
