Dear Socks,
You are not much. Just some cloth wrapped in a column. Sometimes bent if we’re getting fancy. You can be colorful or fuzzy or unique. You can be professional and utilitarian. At the end of the day, though, you are something I take for granted. You so subtly represent privilege yet are often hidden away under shoes that we do not stop to think what you can so peripherally represent.
I have always had socks like you. Even when my family struggled to afford food, I had you on my little child feet. I remember wiggling my toes in fuzzy socks as a child and sticking my covered toes in the face of my little sister to tease her. But you were ever constant. It is true that I would run around in socks like you until there were little holes in the bottom. Those holes would help me skid to a stop on the fake-wooden floors as my skin rubbed against it. Yet I would quickly forget about those pairs as new ones quickly replaced them. And that is my privilege. I was privileged to have enough money to afford you. To keep you as a constant. It is such a little thing, to own socks like you, yet so big.
My dad was not so privileged. He lived in the cold in the north of Scotland where the family moto was “heat or eat.” He did have his own little children socks, but they always had holes. You eventually wore down until tendrils of cold snuck their way into the flesh and bone of his little feet. He stayed in the one room with the rest of his family to draw heat from each other, yet was thankful for what little protection you provided him. And even now, four decades later when he can afford nice socks, with colors and fuzz and no holes, he still appreciates the warmth and comfort you give his feet until barely any of you remains.
Yet my dad was still privileged. He had a roof over his head. He had parts of socks to cover his feet. He didn’t have to get his socks wet outside as he covered you and your holes with some little boots in the Scottish rain. But not everyone has socks like you. Even with holes. Or a roof over their head or boots to cover their feet in the cold and rain. I remember the first time I realized that I was privileged to have socks like you. My church in Houston was giving out care packages to homeless people downtown. And I wondered “Why would we give them socks? I don’t exactly like getting socks as presents.” Yet when I saw their feet I realized. They had more holes than sock. And no boots to cover them. And I shivered there at 7am with my socks and boots and realized not everyone had socks. And that I was lucky.
Socks, you are a simple symbol of privilege. You are hidden by our shoes so often that we do not stop to consider you. Maybe sometimes someone might have socks with dogs on them or a silly saying and we may notice you, but that is not often. Yet you can convey so much. I was privileged and lucky to be clothed and fed and housed by my family. Even though we struggled, we did not doubt your constancy. And that is what privilege is. Not having to doubt the constancy of luxuries or necessities.
Privilege can show itself in many ways yet our society likes to mask its nastiness so that we all seem equal and happy and thriving. Our shoes cover our socks. And our coffee covers our exhaustion. And our smiles mask our struggles. But maybe it is time to take off those masks and show the real disparities in America.
Sincerely,
A sock adorned person