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Sunday, Jul 12, 2009
What changed leisure footwear forever and created the wonderful, hideous behemoth of contemporary consumer culture? It's gotta be da shoes.
Aug 5, 2002 | I'm running toward the local sneaker outlet with cash in my hand and nothing but Air Jordans in my head. It's 1985 and I can hardly believe it's happening. I've spent the entire year begging, arguing and subtly suggesting that my parents spring for the sneakers that I crave. Their colossal social importance, the extent of their style, coolness and athletic support -- I've explained it all to my parents. But they've never seemed to get it.
"They're too expensive," they kept saying. "Forget it, we're not spending nearly $100 on footwear."
Until now. Finally, I've won. After agreeing to split the cost, after working at a flower stand to earn my share -- and especially after finding a store that sold the overhyped kicks for $50 -- I've convinced my parents to let go of their anti-materialistic urges. They've brought me here, to a dingy, musty store housed in the basement of an old brick factory in Worcester, Mass. And they've conceded defeat. My 12-year-old palms are sweating. Through the skewed lens of my memory -- in which all things visual are clear while emotions are remembered as vague but intense -- I think I'm afraid. As I sprint through the aisles looking for my size, I remember thinking: What if they don't have my size? What if my parents suddenly decide to rescind their offer? What if I never get the shoes?
Thankfully, my fears proved unjustified. Perhaps because I actually prayed for the sneakers, God smiled on me and my size was not sold out. Within a matter of minutes, I had pulled down a pair of blue and black high tops, tried them on, paid and strutted out of the store. Later, I regretted my decision to forgo the black and red classics in favor of the blues, but in the midst of that first sweet, short moment of ownership, as I pretended to juke Magic Johnson in the parking lot, I can only remember feeling relieved, excited -- and intensely happy. Never before or since has a single purchase brought such bliss.
Of course, I know now that this feeling was sick and twisted. I've digested the writings of Thomas Frank and Naomi Klein. I know that Nike took advantage of my adolescent vulnerabilities. I know that forging emotional ties to Nike's flagship offering -- quite possibly the single most marketed fashion product of the 20th century -- puts me in the "shallow consumer" category dominated by teenagers on the WB, Imelda Marcos and Annette Bening's character in "American Beauty."
But my desire for Air Jordans arrived before the slick commercials, and my appreciation extends beyond the simple product. Consider, if only for a minute, that the vast majority of the developed world has a view of athletic footwear that couldn't have existed without Nike's black and red high-tops. Gone are the thoughts of pure function, of rubber soles and leather uppers. Because of Air Jordans, sneakers are now a part of the bright, brash, mesmeric and often-flawed Leviathan that is American culture. Those kick-around Simples that you love wearing to bars or barbecues? They exist because of Air Jordans. The idea that casual footwear somehow reflects who you are, what you like -- your vision of the world? It's gotta be da shoes.
Sure, there are serious problems with the sneaker culture that Nike helped create -- among other things, its tendency to breed violence -- but Jordans deserve to be lauded for their powerful cultural impact. No other fashion item in the past 25 years has made such a mark on the world's sense of style. Air Jordans are the Levi's of our era.
