I like the sound of my heels as they go click-click. I am eight years old and the sound of my shoes already makes me feel like a woman. I suddenly have power in a patriarchal world where women are harassed on street corners, beaten for their uncovered hair and sometimes jailed for raising their voices. I suddenly have power and I feel pride as I hear my shoes go click-click. I am not looking up. I am holding Maman’s hand, my head down, watching the red and back shoes that are styled with a ribbon. We are headed to dinner at a relative’s. The streets are dirty with puddles of rainwater and neglected trash bags that attract hungry street cats. I am careful not to step in the puddles so as not to dirty my shoes. The rain has stopped and I only hear the constant click-click with every step. I am eight and I am making a statement with my shoes; I am speaking through them, walking bravely, disregarding my mother’s warnings about tripping or falling. She says I am too young to wear such shoes, that I am only a little girl.
We arrive at a house and Maman tells me that I must take my shoes off once we are inside. I want to protest to keep them on, but I obey. I do as I am told, powerless without the click-click sound.