Justine Busto

Educación

The zapaterías in Saltillo, México, reminded me of shoe stores in small-town America, before malls and big boxes took over. Giant display windows with all the shoes arranged in pairs on risers and Plexiglass stands. Most of the men’s facing forward and the ladies’ with toes turned out, as if they were posing for pictures. From the prices displayed beside each pair, I could stand at the window and calculate what I could afford on my teacher’s salary, then practice what I’d say once I got brave enough to enter.

It was September 1998, and the shoes I’d brought from Atlanta to Saltillo were failing miserably. They wouldn’t make it through my one-year contract. The cobblestones in the center of town punished thin soles. Heels were permanently scuffed. When I took off my sandals, ghostly footprints appeared inside. Dust and diesel fumes had charred the leather not covered by my tender toes. My feet felt like they’d been on the grill too long.

So, between my English classes at seven in the morning at the Instituto and English for Engineers at the GM plant, or after the midday meal and siesta at the house where I rented a room, before the evening classes back at the Instituto, I wandered the streets of this colonial capital in the high desert of the Sierra Madre Oriental, looking in shop windows for shoes.

Some were out of the question. Tall, strappy confections made for quinceañeras and parties that got started after midnight. (Surprising how little sleep these people got. Long hours and multiple jobs were the norm, not just for foreign teachers.) The shoes I coveted were chunky loafers, with higher heels than I liked, but a certain jaunty appeal. Maybe some Mexican sexy could spice up my thrift-store wardrobe—khakis and short-sleeved blouses, a couple sweaters. Many things were cheaper in Mexico, but clothing and footwear not so much, and my first paycheck hadn’t stretched very far. I had to save up some pesos.

As my shoes continued their collapse, I started riding the combi buses that crisscrossed the hilly avenues. These independently operated buses, seating capacity twenty-two—up to fifty if you counted people standing—had colorful art (skulls, guitars, thorny roses dripping blood) and provocative names hand-painted next to the bus number above the driver’s window. My favorite was “Tu Peor Pesadilla” — “Your Worst Nightmare.” But even riding the bus, my feet sent regular smoke signals, aching from the weight of books and materials I carried everywhere in my backpack.

Finally, I found some Mary Janes, with thick Vibram soles to withstand the rugged streets. And they were flat! I went in, negotiated, and came out with a cute pair in pebbled, black leather,  narrow straps with silver buckles on the sides. They were even affordable.

I walked back to my neighborhood, Colonia La Repúblic, through our massive wooden gate with its heavy iron slide-bolt, across the tiled courtyard, past the ancient fig tree, and into the kitchen, where Amanda Lara, my landlady, was preparing sopa, tortillas, and setting out perfect avocados for lunch, excited to show off my first purchase.

Amanda’s daughter, Lupita, was visiting with her children. I pulled the shoes out of their box and held them up. Amanda lifted her brows and Lupita smoothed her dark bangs to the side. Their faces registered surprise or disapproval—I wasn’t sure which—and then polite, stifled smiles. I took my ragged sandals off, put the shiny new shoes on, and walked a few steps. They were suddenly preoccupied with meal preparation, so the shoes went back in the box and I sat down at the table, helping myself to a glass of agua fresca, made that morning. Sandía—watermelon—my favorite.

I don’t remember who spoke first. I was still awkward in Spanish, often missing context as well as content. It was probably Lupita who filled me in. I’d bought a pair of school shoes. Part of the standard uniform for every Mexican schoolgirl. “I can’t believe they had your size,” Lupita said, her steady gaze piercing my ego, and then she couldn’t help it, she started laughing. I wore an 8.5 US, boat size for them. Ocean liners for a school girl.

Amanda and Lupita came over and lifted my giant barcos from the shoebox. “Good quality, no?” I mumbled in Spanish. They assessed, scrunching their foreheads. Yes, for a preteen maybe. Not a woman in her thirties. Lupita’s son and daughter tumbled into the kitchen. When she showed them the shoes, they howled and danced around. The gringa didn’t just sound idiota, she was one.

I wore my boats a few weeks, and then one of Amanda’s daughters, probably elected by the others to please help the schlumpy American, took me shopping. They did have sort of a mall, but I would never have found it on my own. They did have comfortable shoes for grown women, sturdier than the ones I’d brought from los Estados Unidos. She recommended a brand, Flexi, and I bought a pair in black suede. Low slingbacks, with firm arches and enough cushion to navigate rough terrain. They took almost one paycheck, but they were worth it. (Two years later, they came back with me to the States, still kicking.) She also insisted I buy one short skirt. “You dress like a man,” she argued.

That was the beginning of many lessons on asking for help, rather than acting like I knew all the answers. But I don’t regret trekking around the dusty streets of Saltillo in search of shoes, learning that the “tuna” a street vendor sold was not fish, but a cactus fruit. That you can be joyful waiting in lines, happy to relax into conversation, passing babies from arm to arm. Being on time was not of high value. Enjoying time was.

Americans were known as “complainers” who spent their time in an agitated rush to consume. Even though I was a proud non-complainer, I was learning more skillful ways to navigate difficulties, to balance self-sufficiency with community. My boss at the Institute of Mexican American Cultural Relations encouraged us American teachers to take a deep breath, to always stop and ask about family, to notice people before problems. Before diving into busy-ness. (I still have a ways to go on this.) In Saltillo, I found that students were pleased to carry books or give me rides. It gave them more opportunities to know me. My own two feet didn’t have to bear all my burdens.

Justine Busto taught English in the state of Coahuila, México, as well as Atlanta, Georiga, and Charlotte, North Carolina. Being an educator is one of the best ways to learn something, and that was the inspiration for “Educación.” Online: justinebusto.com