At the end of 2014, I bought these shoes from a random corner shop in London. They were black and white and cost me twenty pounds. Nineteen ninety-nine if we want to get precise. Work was throwing yet another all staff party and the theme was Great Gatsby. Naturally, I found some of those fancy looking black and white shoes but they were definitely a knock-off.
The party went off. The shoes were a big hit. I even wore them to the masquerade party the following year
and impressed this girl at work that I fancied with them. She’s now my wife and mother to my children, but that’s a story for another day. The story I want to tell today is the journey of those shoes, and more importantly, the mask they gave for that neuro-spicy brain of mine.
They may have been cheap but they didn’t look it. They were smart and presentable, but also very quirky. A dash of personality but still rigid with its black and white nature.
It wasn’t meant to be a new tradition but every job interview I attended, I started to wear these shoes. At first, it was because I didn’t have anything nicer, but quickly, it became a little test: if the manager commented on the shoes, it was a place that would accept me. If they gave the shoes a funny look and didn’t mention them, we weren’t suited.
On a completely “random” side note, what is with people always saying us autistic and ADHD folk only see things black and white? We’re the most creative people you’ll meet. We don’t think outside of the box, we live outside of it. We’re witty and funny, and half the time you miss how brilliant the joke was. Anyway, back to the black and white shoes.
I moved to Australia, bounced around in customer service jobs as that “foreigner” whilst jumping through visa hoops to be with the woman I love. All I had when I arrived in 2015 was a suitcase with some clothes and shoes, my guitar, and my nan’s engagement ring. Of course, those black and white shoes came too. Each interview I attended, I wore them. Some jobs I took despite them not commenting; they never worked out well.
I become a father. I go back to study (because the only thing that acting degree gave me was the ability to look like I know what I’m doing in any given situation) and land myself in the social work line of work. Still, I am wearing these bloody shoes to each interview, and still, any job that didn’t comment on them ends up being a nightmare experience.
All the way up to working as a case worker in youth homelessness a couple of years ago. The boss commented on them immediately. I had a great time working for her until my contract finished.
My next interview joining another team at the office, I didn’t wear the shoes. I didn’t think to. Instead, I was just myself.
Because here’s the storyline that was running parallel. My whole life, I have felt like I was different. Every step of the way in my first twenty odd years, I would infuriate large groups of people, burn bridges, and never understand why people didn’t get me. I felt like I had to act and pretend everywhere I went, trying to please and be accepted, constantly studying and learning how to be the best human being possible.
Then I got assessed and diagnosed at the ripe old age of thirty two. I’d been suspicious for a few years but it was only when my daughter got assessed that people took me seriously. Suddenly, I had two different neuro professionals saying how obvious it was that I was autistic and ADHD. I had an answer. I got to learn about myself. Everything started to make sense. The more I gorged, the more love and acceptance I had for the whacky and inappropriate person I am. The jokes that some find hysterical and others find bold and “not the right time”. The quirky habits that I hated myself for were now golden treasures that I did with pride. I finally loved myself. And whilst others like me would get labelled as “black and white”, I would instantly know that we were about to get on like a house on fire. For the record, that fire was most likely started by me forgetting I was cooking dinner.
That assessment happened just over a year ago whilst I was in that case worker role. And so I turned up to that next interview without those shoes. Because for what seemed like a lifetime, I felt like I had to present as perfect and “normal” in interviews and every aspect of life. But I didn’t want to anymore. If you hire me, you hire me for who I am, quirks and all. I didn’t need you to comment on my shoes to know if I might be safe. I could crack my jokes in interviews and watch with glee at either a laughing audience of managers or the sound of crickets as frowns descended into the room.
I don’t know where those shoes are now. Not bad for the reasonable price of nineteen ninety nine, but it’s time they gathered dust.
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