The day started sunny, bright and warm, even before I remembered it was the Eight of March, the International Women's Day. No one around me in Wichita, Kansas, knew about it.
In Yugoslavia, years ago, when I was young, it was a big deal. That day was celebrated nation-wide. Every year we would listen to the same story of the Women's Liberation Movement, Klara Zetkin and Rosa Luxemburg. Not that there was anything wrong with these two fine women.
On the contrary. They dedicated their lives to saying an important, long ignored truth about women's life. As a woman, I can only respect them and be grateful. As an educator, I have always searched for innovative, better, more effective ways of teaching. I have observed: a mere repetition of the same, a routine, kills the appeal. That does not lead to listening, not to mention learning. It is the duty of the educators to do something about it.
That day, Women's Day, our day, dedicated to us for a celebration, has often turned into one more disappointment in a woman's life. For instance, starting the celebration the same way every year. Each woman gets a flower, usually a squashed, wilted carnation, delivered in a huge container, for the whole collective. Mine, and many others, had a broken stem, and the petals were already falling off. The flowers would be handed to each of us with a congratulation, a handshake and a kiss by some high official. He was a man, of course, and he had to kiss all of the women workers in the institution, lined up and waiting. There are many women workers everywhere. To kiss them all means they are all equal and equally deserve to be thanked. That is true. But it also felt unpleasant. We knew he was assigned to kiss us. Maybe he did not enjoy it either. So it is not like when you select a special woman to kiss. No woman that I know ever enjoyed this part. Among other reasons, it reminded us of so many mothers, wives, sisters and friends through the history, kissed by special men in their lives, knowing full well that they were kissing other women too. It never felt right, it still doesn't but it still is happening. And women still cannot do much about it.
After being kissed by that official, that man, on that special day, we would all run to the bathroom, wash our faces and mouth with soap. A woman cannot risk taking additional germs home to her husband and children.
Years passed. Then, there was one that was not the same. I remember that one with a smile. I was teaching English at the university. The administration decided to give all women a free day, since the International Woman's Day was on a Friday. There was a bus tour organized for a three-day weekend in Rome for all the women in our department. Not all took the opportunity. I seized it, so I could take my twelve year-old daughter with me. Some of the women saw it as a shopping spree. Why not? Italy has always been known as a favorite shopping place for all the surrounding countries, full of variety and good bargains. I was not particularly interested in shopping, more in sightseeing, since it was Maja's first visit to Rome. I thought it would be interesting to see things through the eyes of a pre-teenager, excited about her first "women only" trip with her Mom.
The weather was as though chosen from a sales catalogue. Having left winter at home, in Rome we were greeted by brilliant sunshine kissing our faces and bare arms, the air already fragrant with spring. Our hotel, an old, respectable building with marble columns, balustrades and plush carpets, had tarnished gold on the Louis XIV furniture and huge, comfortable beds. The two of us were ready to have a ball. Maja, privileged and proud to be the only child in the group, felt an instant camaraderie with the rest, and a "we, women," type of spirit.
In the morning, especially when I travel, I get up early, impatient to start the day. Excitement stays with me on the trip. Everything is so new, so rich, so appealing. Maja, on the other hand, enjoys sleeping late, not having to go to school. Even the breakfast is a treat for her: A good-looking, young waiter with pomaded raven hair addresses her Signorina, ignoring or not noticing her age. She does not have to eat cereal, but has the same choice like everybody else: rolls with jam and butter, coffee or tea, omelet, and ham and cheese sandwich, followed by a variety of fruits. Crossing her long, childishly skinny legs (promising to be better in years to come) Maja slowly drinks her orange juice through a straw, secretly looking at the waiter and practicing tossing her hair as the movie stars do.
"I'm so eager to get out and look at some stores before they get too crowded. If there is time left, we might go to the Flea Market. It is unique and famous in the world. You have never seen anything like it. There is everything from a needle to a locomotive," I say nonchalantly, carefully avoiding my usual mother-to-daughter tone used on regular workdays at home.
Maja instantly forgets the waiter, quickly finishes her breakfast, ready to go.
Adjusting her stride to match mine, she marvels the stately buildings, store windows, and Italian youth dressed in jeans and T-shirts just like herself. The streets are already buzzing with people, different languages, and wide-open stores striving to please even the pickiest shoppers.
All of a sudden, in the window of an elegant shoe store, I spot a pair of beautiful white mid-calf Western boots, with leather soft like woman's skin. Mesmerized, I walk in, Maja happily following, always excited about shopping. "Prego, Signor," I smile at the salesman, pointing to the white boots. But, the largest size they have is a size smaller than mine. "Grazzie, niente." I reply, crestfallen, turning to leave. Oh, no. That is not going to happen. The curly Romanese, ready to please Signora estrangera, gestures for me to wait, while he runs behind the curtain. Puffing like a coal-engine, he comes out carrying the white boots and another pair of tall burgundy ones. They both seem too small, especially since I know that the Italian sizes run smaller than other European, or American. Smiling Marcello Mastroianni style, the salesman spills an arpeggio of fast, pleasant sounding but hard to understand words with sporadic bella...magnifica...and ellengatissima, while he pompously seats me in an armchair, gallantly taking off my London shoe with a small heel, to replace it with one of the white Western boots.
Neither he nor I know, at that point, that the experience is going to be glued in my memory for many years to come.
Immediately, he starts pushing with a surprising power only to be found in a determined salesman on commission, who-I imagine-must have at home a skinny wife with curlers in her hair and several little bambini in sagging diapers running around crying. I am pushing, too, as only a determined Serb can do, not needing those darn boots, but showing him the history of persistence that keeps us alive and kicking, not to be shamed by anyone, least a next-door neighbor just across the Adriatic.
I push and smile, he pushes and smiles. My foot has no way of getting into that little white boot. I have never been a Cinderella type, I realize once again. Looking down at my feet, the size of which I have always despised, I remember all the years of similar experiences.
As a high-school girl I daydreamed how, as soon as I started making my own money, I would go to a good surgeon and ask him to operate on my feet: just cut the toes off. They are too long, anyway. Without them, my feet would be just right, feminine size. I would be like everybody else, able to buy shoes of my choice, not the only pair left in the stupid size, looking like a child's grave, ugly and old-lady-like. If I only were born in China, maybe I would have had my feet bound at an early age. My mom, a practical Serb, always bought me larger sizes, so the feet would have enough room to grow naturally, without any constraint and deformation! Well, they did grow!
Minutes pass. On the salesman's proud Roman forehead drops of sweat, like the morning dew, start to form. He ignores them and smiles some more. Push... push... almost like childbirth. Push, Mira, push. I smile, too. But, I am not on commission, I don't need those boots: it's too warm, anyway, and I'm not a cowgirl. Who needs Western boots in the middle of Europe, anyway? I hate them, in fact. Honestly. I never wear boots. Wouldn't wear them if he gave them to me free. Even if they were my size.
"Mom, do you think the Flea Market is still there?" Maja is asking shyly, not really wanting to interrupt the process. She is a woman in miniature, ready to understand whatever there is to understand. She would just like to know if we still intend to see the Flea Market, especially if no one in her class has ever seen it. She can wait some more, if need be. Women are trained to wait all their lives, even not knowing if it will ever happen.
The man turns to her, pouring a cascade of allegro ma non-moderate Italian words. Smiling, naturalmente, so Maja smiles back her sweetest prepubescent smile, showing her charming, still uneven teeth and her dimples added to the bargain. Not knowing yet what working on commission means, she can sense that there is something desperate going on. Happy to be in Rome with her mom, while all of her friends are at school doing math or science or geography, she is willing to stay patient a little longer.
The salesman brings a bottle of baby powder and lavishly pours the content into the boot, as well as all over my feet, my stockings, the deep navy-blue carpet, and my open bag sitting next to the chair. A new hope grows in all of us, like a high tide. But, all of a sudden, I feel nauseated. It must be the breakfast. My girdle, too, is just a little bit too small for me. It is constraining like everything else in my life. I am probably tired. So what else is new? I am thirsty. So what? Have you noticed, women, especially mothers and wives are always thirsty? They have no time to remember to get water when they need it, till they are almost dying of dehydration? Have no time to feed their own needs, always getting a glass of water for the husband or a child, on the way fetching his slippers, newspaper or glasses? Women. Women. They don't even listen to their bodies, nor know what they need. Of course men think women are a weaker, sillier sex.
This store is too warm. Or, have I already started the hot flashes? I need to go to the bathroom, it seems. I forgot to do that at the hotel because I was looking for Maja's socks under the bed. Do they even have a lady's room here for the customers?
"Scusi Signor," I start... but he is gesturing that he understands, no need for words, it will take just a second. Oh, how do I just tell him, in plain Italian, to just forget it? I don't want those boots even if he gives them to me free. I need them like a hole in my head. I need something else in my life, but when I realize I cannot have it, I change a hairstyle, go shopping, or eat chocolate and ice cream.
"Mom, I need to go to the bathroom," Maja whines in her most urgent style. "I didn't want to interrupt you before, but..." I know the look. She really needs to go now. Why did I bring a child with me in the first place? This is a "woman's" day and a "woman's" trip, after all.
"Not now," I glare at her, my patience with the salesman (and the rest of the world, in fact) running out and catching Maja on the way. In the last, desperate attempt, the Romanese kneels in front of me as if proposing, and pushes with renewed force, with all his masculinity... pushes himself on me, with almost hateful violence. I look at him, shocked. What does he think he is doing? Is he living out some misplaced desires? I am not in the mood for that. This is not my regular day. This is My Day and it better be a break from the daily, sickening routine.
"Mom, may I have some water, ple-e-e-ase." At least she is not asking to go to some dirty public bathroom. I am relieved. Also, she is using her best manners for the occasion. My child. And a daughter. She understands already and is patient, asking only when she really needs something.
Stifling a raging tornado, I satisfy my urge by only kicking the boot, the salesman, the world, helpless to change the unfairness in life, inhibiting women out of buying a pair of boots on their holiday, painstakingly earned through the centuries of slavery to men... and children! But, oh miracle, my foot, the kicking one, has actually found its way into the darn boot! Finally, in the white Western boot!
The salesman, sitting on the floor, having lost the balance, smiles happily like the mother who has just delivered a big, healthy baby boy. Now he can wipe his sweaty Roman face and rest for a second.
Oh, no. No rest for a family breadwinner. He charges again with a flood of Italian sentences. I don't listen, quite sure I know what he is saying, what he could possibly be saying. But, then, all of a sudden, fear stabs me. A legitimate concern. How do I tell him that if he doesn't start immediately taking the boot off, they will have to amputate my foot, maybe the whole leg? He doesn't know me, of course, but I know myself. This is not my size and I will never be able to take the boot off, not to mention put it on again and ever wear it. Tired, I am not going to argue with him. Poor thing, Maja deserves a big Coke and a gift from the Flea Market.
Anything she wants, my dear loyal daughter. I don't care if we have to slash the boot to take it off. I am leaving. In the Babel Tower of enthusiastic pandemonium, all three of us "talking in tongues" at the same time, the salesman successfully takes off the boot. A-a-a-h. I put both boxes with boots together, smile tiredly, and without a question pay the amount written on the boxes.
The air of relief takes over the sweaty Romanese. His eyes shine from genuine satisfaction. I imagine his Italian wife taking her rollers off, the kids stopping crying, all of them going out for an ice cream or pizza. Papa's treat. He will tell his skinny wife how he had a woman customer, una estrangera con piccola bambina, and how he quickly and professionally sold two pairs of boots first thing in the morning. He will not mention the problem with the size, because his wife tends to be jealous of tall women.
Outside, the sun is still gently caressing the exposed skin, the day still young and promising. This is Rome, the Eternal City, for goodness sakes. Let's enjoy it!
The rest of the day stays exuberant. At the Flea Market a young man approaches, smiling and talking fast. He has a coil of copper wire in his hands and, while talking, quickly and skillfully makes little pins with any name you want. With a mixture of English and Italian we communicate that we don't need a pin, grazzie. I have already secured for myself two pairs of too small boots, but my daughter is actually dying to have a pin with her name on it. Her name is Maja. We pronounce that very slowly and loudly. He smiles and nods.
While I am still struggling, using my hands almost as much as the Italians do, smiling profusely (it usually helps), Maja's pin is done. It is misspelled, though. The Italian youth makes a sad face accompanied by dramatic gestures worthy of Marcel Marceau, and voila: Maja has a pin with her name correctly spelled this time. With a deep bow, the Italian youth announces that Maja may have the other, misspelled one free, no charge for the bella signorina. Maja is so charmed; she flashed one of her shyest, cutest smiles. Wait till we go back and show it to the class on Monday!
Next, we buy some sweaters in bright, spring colors that will be "in" the coming season, the woman ensures us. We don't really need any, but it is a lovely day and the woman is persistent. It can always make a good gift later. They are on sale! Then, tired and hot, we sit down at a sweet little bistro with umbrellas in vivid colors and eat a huge ice cream. They say that Roman gelato is the best in the world. I've been told the same about Stockholm, Moscow, and Amsterdam. In fact, ice cream in Belgrade is so far the best we have ever had.
Exhausted from the excitement and the shopping bags, we return to the hotel, rest a little and go to eat. Pizza, of course. It tastes especially good. The bus is already waiting to take us to Villa Borghese. The walk through the beautifully furnished rooms, and especially the lovely garden with the classical statues and the cool, splashing fountains lingers in our memory long after the day is over.
Returning home, on the bus, the radio blasting loud Italian music, while rehearsing still fresh memories of our Roman weekend, neither Maja nor I know that twenty years later, the most memorable part of that particular day will be the episode with the white Western boots and the chubby salesman. Who knows why. Human memory is like Gioconda's smile: forever intriguing and never understood. La Gioconda means "The Cheerful One," yet many critics say there is actually no smile at all. Mostly, men say: yes, there is an intriguing, feminine smile there. Women say: No, that woman is sad. I am a woman and have studied that portrait all my life. Trust me, that woman is sad. She has the expression my mother had. People say I have it too. Now, that my daughter is married and has a daughter, I have noticed: at times she has that same smile on her face. I call it "a smile of knowing," yet a riddle for the world. Even the artist, Leonardo da Vinci, who created the smile, did not understand it, or -may be- purposefully left us with a teasing riddle to wrestle with it till we resolve it, thus liberating poor Mona Lisa from it. Then, she may freely become "The Cheerful One," like her name. Nomen est omen, as the Latin saying goes: our name is the omen with which we live. We are that name.
But back to the story of my life: The cowboy boots were brought, with me, to Kansas, never worn, to be given to an American friend who was happy to have something from Italy (she has never seen), and hand-made of real leather. To each their own! We always want what we don't have or even cannot have.
Life writes stories, we only put them to paper. Strange to think that out of 35 years of Woman's Day celebrations I can remember only this one!