By Zen
“There’s an anarchist bookstore somewhere on South Street,” a friend or two of mine would tell me every once in awhile. “It’s totally your kind of thing, you should check it out.” Such a thing was EXACTLY what I was looking for, being out of work and college simultaneously. My home life sucked, and my neighborhood bored me to depression and restlessness. And so at some point
I made the decision to find this rumored bookstore, the Wooden Shoe by name. It was one of the best decisions of my life, but at the time it was only that, a decision.
In fact, the Wooden Shoe Books & Records all-volunteer anarchist collective was not on South Street proper but, rather, a block north on 5th Street, caddy-corner to the 8 &12 store, so named for its hours which were intentionally one hour later in opening and closing than 7-11. This snarky bit of marketing always amused me for some reason, and served as a convenient point of reference. The Shoe itself was tucked out of the way; its facade was mostly the same as the other stores along that block, its key distinguishing feature being the dreary black-and-grey paint job, which depicted something like masses of people but no real context. The inside made much more sense, with a glass display full of punk and pro-biking patches, a cash register for the filthy lucre of capitalist transactions, and a front table full of books and periodicals whose theme changed with the month. The place was small but found space for shelves of tomes about alternative education and covert US military endeavors, gay rights movement first-hand histories, and lovingly-made zines with instructions on how to make a ham radio or hack your cellphone or bake vegan cupcakes. Old pamphlets written by industrial workers and their advocates-some stubbornly in print for over a hundred years-sat on a shelf in the back next to more recent commentaries about Palestinian resistance and animal liberation.
I don’t remember my first visit to the Shoe, I can only remember going back, over and over and over. I could have simply handcuffed myself to the inside of the store somehow and died happy. But I wanted to do more than that. I was, I think, looking to prove myself-if only to myself. I had emotionally broken down by the end of college and was arguably a drop-out; though that saved my sanity and thus qualifies as another great life decision. So I eventually mustered up the courage to fill out an application, which went much better than prior experiences with for-profit employers. They were ready to train me ASAP, and I was eager for the register experience. Most people my age had some retail under their belt, but I was totally green. The register itself was initially intimidating, as was the Shoe’s policy to insist on meticulous record keeping of transactions. As a volunteer-based collective organization, the Shoe has to do its own financial accounting, and everyone has to do their part. Much of my school woes were keeping up with the paperwork and multitasking, and in the beginning I felt those stressors like rising lava in my chest. I was terrified of making people in the one place I felt safe resent me because of a fuckup I might commit or task I forgot to complete. But the Shoe had a support structure of people, all of whom had been in my place before, to fall back on and ask for and *gasp* receive good advice and direct assistance when it was needed.
This, above all else, is what kept me going. Everywhere else in my life, promises of emotional assurance possessed no more solidity than mist. I learned through pain that bonds I thought I had were made of broken words when I fell into them. And yet here, a group of strangers had created a place that backed you up when you needed it, and all that was asked in return is that you back them up when was their time to be in need. They worked with you until you got it, earning your trust with action and not talk alone, and this connection was something I was aching for.
With time, patience, mistakes, forgiveness, and my personal committment, I began to smooth out the wrinkles in my ringups, remember the names of fellow staffers, make monthly meetings on time, and get out of my comfort zone. This culminated in the passing of my first proposal, which I made part way through my first year. The proposal was for a first aid box, which we still have, full of gauze and over-the-counter pain meds for when biking staffers are bucked from their steeds and require some recuperation. It came with us when we moved to our new location that really is on South Street proper, yards away from the corner of 7th St. Our new locale reflects an enthused optimism, with bright clashing colors selected and applied my comrades and yours truly, while our old space was acquired by a bicycle repair collective who has helped me with brake pad troubles and wheel mishaps. I like to think that when we left our old haunt, we planted seeds that bloomed in the hearts of those now teaching novice riders about spokes and calipers.
This coming August will count 7 years (WOW!) since I first started volunteering. I have skill sets, friends, memories, books, buttons, photos of events and protests and comrades, and a sense of self-respect that I couldn’t get out of a 2-year art college or a dysfunctional family. I feel more complete now. For so long, I held myself back out of fear of wasting effort on those who would use me and throw me away. The Wooden Shoe gave me a place to be passionate and selfless about, to work hard at and be proud of, to grow myself up. I have the wisdom now to smile and use a gentle voice and words to help guide the newest volunteers, whose looks of brief panic and confusion mixed with an odd sense of hope are so familiar to me now, and yet so far away.