35 years in one pair of shoes

Dear Converse,

In 1991, I bought a pair of black high-top Chuck Taylors for my high school prom. Thirty-five years later, I'm still wearing them.

My friend Erik and I went to prom together. Shiny dress shoes weren't our thing. We were skate-punk kids, and Converse felt a lot more like us. I thought I was buying shoes for one night. I had no idea they would end up accompanying me through nearly every chapter of my life.

In 1992, I was wearing those same Chucks while learning to kickflip behind a Stater Bros. supermarket in California. That same year, I went to my first major woodland fire near Cabazon, outside Palm Springs. It was a valuable lesson in firefighting, but it also gave me a nickname that stuck for two years.

Back at fire camp, someone asked me what my first impression of the fire had been. I answered honestly: “It looked like the gates of hell had opened.”

What I didn't know was that my quote would end up in *The Desert Sun* newspaper. My captain was visibly upset, and copies of the newspaper page were posted all over our fire station, including on my locker.

Apparently, the story wasn't over. In the middle of the night, one of my firefighter buddies decided to add his own commentary. He took a marker and wrote “GOH” on one Converse toe cap and “OZZY” on the other.

Just like that, I became Ozzy. The nickname followed me for the next two years.

Here's the best part: those letters are still visible on the toe caps today, more than three decades later. Every time I look down, I'm reminded of that fire, the lesson it taught me, and the friends who were there with me.

And that was just the beginning.

I've worn these shoes during California wildfire season, relaxing at fire camp after a day's work. They were with me when I appeared as “Doc” on Sony PlayStation's reality show, *The Tester*. I've worn them during nighttime helicopter rescues as an EMT, and they've accompanied me on every tactical medical call I've worked as a tactical EMT.

When I moved from California to Washington, I wore them to my firefighter interview. I've worn them to secret Masonic meetings, and I wore them when I married the woman who is still my wife today.

Through all those years, they've been there for the hard work, the adventures, the friendships, and the milestones. They've traveled through chapters of my life that the kid buying shoes for prom could never have imagined.

And somehow, they've survived it all.

I'm wearing them as I write this letter.

The soles are worn down, the rubber banding around the edges has started coming loose and flapping around, and they've never been washed. My wife has finally decided that enough is enough and that I need a new pair. After thirty-five years, I suppose she's earned the right to make that call!

So this year, I'm finally buying a new pair of Converse.

There's something personal I'd like to share about why retiring these shoes is harder than it might sound. I have AuDHD, and for me, physical objects can carry a significance that goes far beyond what they are or what they're worth. They're tangible connections to memories, experiences, and people. These shoes aren't special because they're old; they're special because I can look down at them and remember where I've been and the life I've lived. Those faded letters on the toe caps aren't just marker. They're a connection to a fire in 1992, the friends I served alongside, and a nickname that followed me for two years.

I know they're just a pair of shoes to someone else. To me, they're a little piece of my history that I've been able to carry with me all these years.

I'm not writing because I expect anything in return. I simply thought someone at Converse might appreciate knowing what one pair of Chuck Taylors has meant to one person over thirty-five years. Something that began as a choice by two skate-punk kids who didn't want shiny dress shoes became a constant companion through my work in emergency services, my adventures, and my marriage.

Thank you for making a shoe that has been part of my life for so long. When I finally retire this pair, I'll be saying goodbye to a lot more than canvas and rubber.

And if those old Chucks could talk, I suspect we'd both have some explaining to do.

With appreciation,

Samuel