Crossing the boundary between “outside” and “home” is much more than walking in and out of a doorway. It is often the transformation of one’s being, whether it be the building of inner walls around your vulnerable self, the changing of personality, or the simple application of makeup. For me, home has been a different world of Chinese culture and irrepressible weirdness, and the simple notion of taking off our shoes and putting on slippers has always been the portal leading me to it.
I remember the feeling of slipping out of the tight, constrictive sneakers and the sweet soreness of stepping on the flat ground in only socks for one second after. I would proceed to slide into the woven slippers that perfectly fit to the shape of my feet after years of wearing them in. I’d switch weight between each leg, going back and forth on the balls of my feet to stretch out the stress and buildup from long a day at school or the gym. Soon, I’d be ready to walk up the wooden steps that my father built when the house was finished.
In my slippers, I remember walking through the doorway and hearing the quiet roar of the cooking vent. The smell of garlic and cooking oil lingered in the foyer, the sudden sizzle indicating that my mom or dad had poured the fresh vegetables into the pan and started cooking them. Bell peppers, by what I could smell. The steel spatula constantly scraped against the iron pan as he tossed the red, orange, and yellow slices in the simmering heat. I would hear the shout in Chinese that dinner was ready, and the scuffs of slippers on hardwood floor coming from all around the house.
On days where I was home alone, the slipper-covered toes would peek into the open layout curiously, before I shouted a quick hello to the empty house. I would sashay, slide, and maybe even moonwalk into the kitchen. The music would come on through the speakers and I would half-dance, half-shuffle through homework, chores, whatever I needed to accomplish before the slippers came off for the night.
I have kept the tradition even in college. After walking a minimum of twenty blocks a day, the feeling of being in them has never changed. I would enter the strange-smelling suite, mixed with dirty dishes and lemon-scented cleaning spray, and the soft murmur of my suitemates in their own room. Reaching mine, my feet would leave the city-abused sneakers and enter the comfort and snugness of the pair of woven homes.
