By Rodriguez 
Once upon a time, there was a man—my dad—who made a bold fashion choice that would become legendary in our family history. One summer morning, he stepped into the living room wearing a brand-new pair of bright blue hole-covered rubber clogs.
The room fell silent.
Then came the laughter.
“You look like you’re stepping on two blocks of Swiss cheese!” my brother exclaimed, rolling on the floor.
“Are those…shoes?” Mom asked, trying not to laugh.
“They’re ergonomic,” Dad muttered defensively, but the damage was done. For days, we couldn’t talk about anything else. Dad tried to save face by saying they were just for “house use,” but the jokes stuck.
At first, he wore them only for the most private of chores—taking out the trash, going to the garden, or fetching the newspaper. Even then, he peeked left and right to make sure no neighbors were watching. We dubbed them his “Trash Trek 2000s.”
But slowly, the shoes began their transformation. One weekend, we noticed Dad wearing them with black dress socks. Yes—dress socks. And not just any socks: they had tiny embroidered ties on them.
“Business casual,” he announced proudly. “Very European.”
“Very ridiculous,” I whispered to my sister.
Still, there was a confidence building in him. He started wearing them to the mailbox, to the gas station, even when picking us up from school. One day he showed up wearing his clogs, black trousers, and a tucked-in button-up shirt.
“My feet have never been happier,” he told the teacher who gave him a curious glance. “It’s breathable innovation.”
We all cringed—but none of us could deny it: the man was committed.
The final stage of the evolution came during our family trip to the coast. On the first morning, Dad emerged from the hotel room like a fashion phoenix. His holey shoes had been transformed—each ventilation hole filled with something different: tiny hair clips from my sister, colorful bendy straws from Mom’s travel kit, and even our train tickets from the ride in.
“Souvenir storage,” he said, showing them off with pride. “I call it wearable memory.”
At the amusement park, strangers stared—some with amusement, some with confusion. One kid pointed and said, “Cool shoes!” and that was all Dad needed to fully embrace his identity.
He posed with tourists. He offered shoe-decorating tips to other dads. He even won second place in a beachside “funniest footwear” contest—though I suspect the judges thought he was trying to be funny. He wasn’t.
By the end of the trip, he had collected more “charms” for his shoes: a seashell, a bottle cap, a mini soy sauce packet, and a laminated fortune from a cookie that read, “Bold steps lead to surprising places.”
When we got home, he placed his clogs proudly at the front door, holes still stuffed with memories.
“These shoes,” he declared, “have walked through mockery, doubt, and sand—and come out victorious.”
No one laughed that time.
Well, not much.
Nowadays, whenever I see him proudly walking down the street, clogs squeaking slightly, I smile. He might not follow fashion trends, but he certainly makes his own.
And every now and then, when no one’s looking, I slip on his shoes—just to feel what boldness feels like.