Burke: Walk a mile in the other guy’s shoes? Not if they’re brown (and I’m wearing a navy blue suit).
Published 1:30 am Thursday, April 9, 2026
HERALD COLUMNIST | Tom Burke
There’s an interesting line in the movie Shawshank Redemption. It’s when Andy Dufrain (played by Tim Robbins) is walking back to his cell, wearing the warden’s shoes just before his escape and his friend, “Red” (Morgan Freeman), voices over, “The guards simply didn’t notice. Neither did I … I mean, seriously, how often do you really look at a man’s shoes?”
Good question.
And it got me thinking about looking at men’s (and women’s) shoes.
Or should I say sneakers – ’cause more than half of today’s footwear market has been captured by “sneakers” (athletic shoes for the upscale types) — which explains what I saw the other day at an art exhibition where I was showing some of the wood carvings I do – that I was the only person in a room of 30 or so wearing shoes. Not that anyone was barefoot, it was just they were all shod in sneakers.
Okay, it was a Saturday; it was a mostly seniors community event; refreshments were iced tea and Doritos, not wine and pate on Stonewall Kitchen Avocado Oil & Sea Salt crackers; and most folks were in jeans.
But still, out of 60+ feet, only two had actual leather shoes covering them.
Times sure have changed.
Take your basic blue, pin-stripped business suit.
When I wore one to work ’most every day at the Madison Avenue ad agency where I labored back in the last century, it was always black wing-tips or, for variety, black cap-toed Oxfords; never, ever brown shoes (as they say in the UK, “no brown in town”).
(Note: Citibank used to take new exec. recruits shopping at Paul Stuart, the preppy NYC haberdasher on East 45th, to fit them out in proper banker’s “uniforms” and never, ever did brown shoes mix with blue suits. Brown was okay with tan summer-linen or some glen-plaids, but never with blue wool or grey silk.)
(Another note: I never shopped at Paul Stuart. It was Brooks Brothers for me, especially their all-cotton, button-down shirts and silk ties. And I was lucky as a dear friend of my Dad’s was a tailor for 3Gs and Neiman Marcus, so like him, all my suits were “bespoke.” [I had one cut from the same bolt of cloth that President Ford wore on America’s 200th birthday!])
Now there’s nothing wrong with sneakers, as footwear fashion is today driven by comfort, Athleisure, and office casualization; but for me, shoes do say something about their owners.
I mean, how would you read a woman coming into a room in torn jeans, an over-sized T, and a pair of (big, clunky) Doc Martens versus someone entering the same room in black silk slacks and blazer, sporting 6” heels; or dressed in flip-flops, capris, and a halter top?
Or the guy showing up for work in the aforementioned black wing-tips versus someone in the office dressed in sandals and no socks or the dude in Gucci loafers, grey slacks, Tattersall shirt, and an ascot?
Now there was a time when I spent weekends in shoes fashioned ’round 1775. It was when my wife and I lived back east and reenacted the American Revolution, and I was mostly a Redcoat, fighting for his majesty George III against the rebel upstarts.
Our shoes back then weren’t “primitive,” but there was no left or right shoe, just straight-last leather, with wooden heels, buckles (not laces) and you made them fit right and left by wearing them.
Shel Silverstein, who wrote “kids” books ala “Where the Sidewalk Ends” and “Falling Up;” did cartoons for Playboy (the only reason I every looked at it. Really.); and penned the songs, “A Boy Named Sue” (for Johnny Cash), and “The Cover of the Rolling Stone (for Dr. Hook) said, “Comfortable shoes and the freedom to leave are the two most important things in life.”
And I couldn’t agree more.
My sneakers are quite comfortable, but I mostly only wear them to my cardiac rehab gym classes; sturdy chukka boots and beefy rough-out leather walkers are my daily go-tos, ’cause when your feet hurt, everything hurts, and my Rockports don’t hurt at all.
As for “freedom to leave,” I ask myself, “Leave where?”
Today, I feel no compunction to stay somewhere I don’t want to be. And if people say, “He’s getting old and cantankerous,” let ’em, ’cause I probably am.
But these days, I feel trapped as an American.
Trapped in a country I don’t hardly recognize anymore.
Trapped in a country I’d almost like to leave I’m so ashamed.
‘Cause who wants to live in a country that starts wars of choice with no clear idea of what our goals are; threatens war crimes; bombs schools killing hundreds of little girls; has “leaders” working not to help people but to amass power and grift money by destroying the Constitution; and a president who lies about everything?
Well, I ain’t leaving. I’m staying buoyed up by the other 7,999,999 people who protested on No Kings Day; and I’m taking advice of Barack Obama, when he said, “Take off your bedroom slippers. Put on your marching shoes. Shake it off. Stop complainin’. Stop grumblin’. Stop cryin’…and press on. We have work to do.”
So, let’s get workin’: Contribute now; Vote in November; and Never Surrender. (And guys, it’s black shoes with a blue suit. Please? You don’t want to look like Pete Hegseth, do ya?)
Tom Burke’s email address is t.burke.column@gmail.com.
