What to Wear? Fashion Anxieties as a Disabled Dad
Welcome to my Substack, Unclenching by Chris L Vaughan. This is my first post on cerebral palsy, fashion and parenthood.
My heart leaps when I spot a package containing a new pair of sneakers on the front porch. I excitedly peek outside every hour but then I’m deflated shortly after they arrive when I begin the slow process of pinching a lace long enough to form a bunny loop. Muscle weakness means it takes patience, concentration and numerous tries tying shoes as I’m a disabled person with cerebral palsy of the right side.
There’s a rack near my front door overstuffed with those sneakers and boots that don’t fit. However, I’m trying to acknowledge days when shoes and an entire outfit feels good.
I anticipate the sound of a rubbery thwack as I strut on an invisible runway modeling new sneakers and twirling in front of my wife Lisa. I’ve anticipated that sound of floppy footwear with too much room every time I’m in the shoe section of a department store since childhood. My clenched right foot is significantly smaller than my left. Although, I buy footwear that still only supports my left foot — and my right foot aches in an oversized sole. It’s a holdover from the days of hiding my disability.
Fashion has been a way to both celebrate and obscure my body when I didn’t have the words to talk about disability for more than thirty years.
Read more of my work here:
New York Times: With a Baby on the Way, It Was Time to Embrace My Disability
Writer’s Digest: Adaptations I Learned Writing a Memoir With Cerebral Palsy
USA Today: 'Dadda is disabled': How I teach my son about my cerebral palsy
After putting another pair of shoes back in the box, often defeated, I hear my father’s voice in my head asking, “how do they feel?” He had owned a small shoe store called Tootsies briefly in the 1980s and he’d buy me the same pair of white Velcro sneakers every year. He was precise with the foot measuring Brannock device and poked at the empty space between my curled right toe and the tip of the shoe. The former shoe salesman bought me the same pair because he thought they were practical for a boy whose right hand couldn’t grasp a fork. The idea that I might tie my own laces must have seemed absurd to him.
My older sister, who would raise me, found after practice I could pinch a lace for a short time using my tightly clenched right fingers to form a loop. As with many activities in my life, it takes patience. I wait — sometimes minutes — until my fingers relax and loosen long enough to release from their place fixed in my palm. I was a teen when she taught me how to tie my shoes. A new world of laced sneakers opened for me. She would design me a pair of navy blue and teal Nike 6.0 skateboarding sneakers I cherished. They were comfortable for both feet. I’ve since switched to a comparable Nike Air Max but anytime I try most other sneakers, or god forbid, a dress shoe, I flounder.
Pressing the space between the tip of my son Noah’s Nikes and his toe last week, I determined that he already needed new shoes when I repeated my dad’s old question for the first time out loud. At three-years-old, Noah is now elated for a new pair. Sharing in his excitement of being free to pick his outfits, I match my comfy striped shirt with his ensembles. And my wife is nearby to help when I can’t get Noah’s collar over his head after numerous attempts using one hand to dress him. Although, it’s getting easier since Noah is learning to put on his Levi’s denim trucker jacket.
I also adore shopping for my own Levi’s trucker jackets. I already have a collection of jackets the colors of the rainbow in the hall closet. What’s one more? I pair that colorful denim over t-shirts with detailed prints of bands ranging from heavy groups like Full of Hell and Integrity to the more twee Belle and Sebastian. I go back and forth on whether to put on Nikes Air Maxs or a cherished pair of olive Adidas Samba sneakers over [short] socks showing off a little ankle underneath cuffed jeans. Or maybe a pair of Clarks boots. I know — not the most original look but it’s a sort of armor.
My closet is full of floral-print dress shirts that don’t get enough wear now that I no longer work in an office. Those colorful prints made me feel at ease. I button the shirts with one hand. For years, I attempted to keep both sleeves rolled at the same length. Eventually, My right rolled-up shirt cuff would just hang down near my tiny wrist while my left sleeve was ready to rip at the elbow. My right arm and hand are different sizes than my left. A rolled-up shirt cuff always falls toward my right hand that’s perpetually bent in an impossible direction.
I used to think clothing was the one thing I could control when it came to my body, but I can still struggle to dress myself using one hand and my teeth. From missing countless belt loops to slinging a tie around my neck a dozen times before the top forms into something resembling a knot, daily tasks are puzzles that have to be solved. Forget about misaligned buttons. I’m looking to find comfort for my right foot and hand after embracing my disability in adulthood.
Supportive cuffs help. Stretchy and breathable Levi’s jeans give better range of motion. A well-fitting Oxford shirt can provide confidence. Putting a full outfit together is such a joy for me but it’s tricky fitting into clothing not made for my disabled body. I wince remembering there was a time when I didn’t own sneakers, squeezing a disproportionately arched right foot into a narrow black suede wingtip shoe in college. What was I thinking?
When I was sixteen, the combination of Nikes, super skinny jeans and youth medium shirts showing some midriff deflected from my disability. Or I might have just been ignoring snickers when I offered my left hand to shake instead of my right. My closet is still filled with clothing used to deflect. “Yeah, I love Bright Eyes too. Now stop looking at my hand” when someone asked about a concert t-shirt, or “oh yeah, I really don’t think these jeans can get tighter and don’t worry about why I walk this way,” is what I wanted to say. Instead, I couldn’t keep my fingernails from digging into my palm when my right hand turned and tensed tighter while I smiled politely at the person examining me.
A lot has changed since those days. I just finished writing a book about my experience navigating cerebral palsy amidst family upheaval. The other week I caught myself in the mirror while wearing a plain black t-shirt. I saw my massive upper left arm bulging underneath the sleeve and a skinny right arm loose on the other side. In that moment, I admired my body in clothing and shoes that will never properly fit.
I understand what I should do next to give my body reprieve from harsh clothing, however it’s been daunting. There’s a world of adaptive clothing made specifically for disabled folks like myself that I’ve avoided until now. I’m finally going to explore the brands I’ve tucked away on bookmarked lists because I know I deserve comfort.
And here’s what Noah has been singing along to with Lisa and I in the car.
Trying to wear comfortable clothes with scoliosis is a trip! The muu-muus I wear make me look like a granny in a house dress but at least they don't pull in odd directions. Dress codes were always the bane of my existence and I avoided jobs that demanded them like the plague. BTW, they now have sneakers with little tabs in the back that enable wearers to slip the shoes on without using hands. Would that work for you?
Thanks for sharing this, Chris. I say, wear the floral shirts even if you're not going to the office!