The Russian Cobbler

(Creative Nonfiction) "It was 2010, and hipster lumberjacks were everywhere on the West Coast, complete with thick-rimmed black glasses, ear gauges, and bottles of craft beer."

A soldier-cobbler mending boots in a Russian fort during a lull in the firing (1905) Library of Congress.

My shoes needed repair, but the Russian cobbler couldn’t be bothered to fix my red and silver vinyl sneakers.

“No, no,” he muttered to himself as he handled them. “I can’t. I won’t do it.” He seemed troubled by everything about the shoes. The faux leather vinyl, the thin rubber sole, the glue. The internal struggle between fulfilling his role as a cobbler and compromising his integrity was palpable.

“In Russia, we have only high quality shoes. Only shoes with stitches. Here!” he reached for a pair of loafers and showed me the undeniable craftsmanship, the carefully shaped leather. There were thick, waxed linen stitches that went all the way around the soul. Nothing about the shoe was for show, but the overall effect of quality was beautiful.

“Everything is cheap in America. In Russia, all the women wear leather skirts and fine blouses. Here, everyone dresses like lumberjack!” he waved his arm up and down again, gesturing at my getup: a men’s scissor cut, thrifted plain t-shirt, and skinny blue jeans. In his left hand, he held my busted vinyl sneakers. From head to toe, I was a disappointment.

I laughed at his “lumberjack” comment. I wasn’t wearing a flannel, though I knew exactly what he was talking about. It was 2010, and hipster lumberjacks were everywhere on the West Coast, complete with thick-rimmed black glasses, ear gauges, and bottles of craft beer.

After what felt like one too many insults I asked “So why are you here?” I genuinely wanted to know. I was not saying ‘why don’t you just go back to where you came’ from in a xenophobic, rhetorical way. I genuinely felt that if I were him and didn’t like living in the country I was living in, I would go live where I wanted to live. I had that freedom.

The Russian Cobbler groaned and shook his head. “It’s not that simple,” he said. But I didn’t believe him. I was nineteen years old and had slept through many of my public school world history classes.

I eyed the clock. My Intro to Drawing class at the community college started in fifteen minutes. It was a ten minute bike ride away from the cobbler’s shop. I had five minutes to spare, so I asked “Why not?”

As the Russian cobbler spoke, it became clear the answer to my question was his life story, and his life story could not be condensed into five minutes. I watched the minute hand creep past tick after tick, became increasingly impatient, and apologized.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have time to talk. I’m late for my class,” I said.

I exited the shop and rode the mile and a half to the community college. We practiced drawing straight lines until I was certain I had no interest in continuing to study art. I forgot about my conversation with the Russian cobbler and bought a new pair of hiking boots to replace my vinyl sneakers. Ones with stitches that went all the way around the sole. That was fourteen years ago.

Now it’s 2024 and Russian territory has been occupied for the first time since World War II. The United States of America is closer to electing a dictator than ever in its history, one who “threatened to abandon NATO. He encouraged Putin to invade our allies,” Kamala Harris said in her acceptance speech at the Democratic National Convention on August 22nd¹.

I think about my conversation with the Russian cobbler. If I had taken the time that day to listen, would I have learned something more important than how to draw a straight line?

1. WATCH: Kamala Harris’s full speech at the 2024 Democratic National Convention https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/watch-live-kamala-harris-speaks-at-2024-democratic-national-convention