55: The Great Divide

Floor people are my people

Growing up in a place like Edmonton, there was no question: You take your shoes off when you enter a home. There is a risk of snow there for roughly five months of the year, so the wearing of boots for much of that time leaves no option to keep them on. They’re wet, and they’re dirty. It then just becomes a reflex for one to always take their shoes off upon entering. Because why would you not?

Because it is a disruption. (I’m assuming, and) I get that. A flow is broken by this awkward moment of crouching and arranging. The flow of your outfit is broken when carefully planned footwear is now absent and all that is left is bare feet, stockings, or socks. The fashion has been broken. To maybe then add proffered slippers to the outfit? Mon dieu!

I think of France at this moment in reference to the always unbroken moments of entry we see in television and movies. I just finished watching the five seasons of the French drama Le Bureau des Légendes/The Bureau (excellent, highly recommend), and entries into charming European apartments were never disrupted by the removal of footwear. It is like eating in film or TV. Dirt and sustenance have no real place in the projected world.

But I don’t get it enough to keep my shoes on. I strongly chastised a family member right before I moved because I learned they had been wearing their shoes inside their home. A defence of the shoes not being dirty because of fair weather or only going from car to home to another “inside place” makes no sense to me.

I do understand in my heart that film-fashion life of avoiding disruption. My outfits often matter to me, and I have always been a person who owns way more shoes than necessary to complete my looks. But my brain always goes to the thought of there being a possibility, inside or outside, that we’re stepping on: dust/dirt/pollen; human/cat/dog/mouse/rat/bird excrement; bugs, alive or dead; spit; vomit; spilled food or drink; various kinds of chemicals (gas station anyone?); garbage; or gum. Stepping inside your car does not sanitize the bottom of your shoes and “inside places” other than homes can be just as dirty. In my mind, walking doesn’t remove anything, it just grinds it in. Which you then grind into your floors if you wear your shoes inside the house.

Keeping inside and outside as separate as possible even extends to clothes with me, wherein I’m one of those people who wouldn’t sit on my bed in outside clothes. I like getting twin rooms at hotels so that I can use the extra bed just for laying out clothes, protecting the bed I sleep in. (Rest assured, I know I’m one of those.)

I’ve never had the courage to be a shoes-inside person with my own home because I would feel the need to constantly clean the floors, which I’m not prepared to do. I am the worst beast: someone who doesn’t like dirt, but also someone who doesn't like cleaning. So, taking off my shoes is more about cleaning avoidance than dirt avoidance.

But I’m enough of a germaphobe to always think that the dirt tracked in from wearing shoes will ultimately end up on bare feet. And bare feet end up in many places: beds; shoes; socks; on couches; or on people. I am just not okay with getting dirt in all those places. Because I don’t want to change my sheets, mop, or vacuum every day. And I still think: Dead bug dirt is now in my bed, and I won’t be able to fall asleep.

So it was with feelings of agreement and amusement when I read articles in recent years about people, specifically of Asian heritage, being aghast and confused about people (in America, mostly) who leave their shoes on in the house. Because an outside/inside divide exists in many Asian cultures. All the weebs will nod their head with thoughts of a Japanese genkan.

The reverence for that divide is intertwined with the place that the floor takes in your life, family, or culture. My ancestral lineage traces back to the United Kingdom and Ukraine, but I come from a floor family. Even with the Edmonton weather wrinkle, I don’t think we ever considered wearing shoes in the house because a floor could be as communal of a space as the dining room table.

It is hard for me to remember an extended family dinner where sitting or lying on the floor was not part of it. Instead of the reclining repose in a lounger that one uncle would often take after dinner, my dad would stretch out sideways on the carpet, head in one hand. Few things of amusement were ever done on the table beyond maybe a card or board game. And the floor was the place of play, me with my Barbies and my brother with his action figures.

The nice thing about being on the floor is that you’re closer to one another. I think back to childhood Christmases and how my brother and I would open our stockings on the couches first next to the fire place, and then we’d all move over to the floor in front of the tree for the presents. There was a formality to the stocking moment, with us properly seated and more separate. On the floor, we could be anywhere, in any position, moving closer or apart.

The floor makes it easier to extend and touch, to be side-by-side or closely facing. The floor makes it easier to connect with less care for propriety.

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My residency in Saigon has given me a small window into the place of the floor in Vietnamese culture. The opportunities I have to understand the floor here are only as an outside observer, of course, and they are very limited. Small glimpses happen enough for me to ponder, though. And post about them! Ha.

No shoes inside is obvious, but it’s interesting to see slight differences. For instance, if someone were to come over to my apartment in North America, they walk in with their shoes on, expecting a space to put them when they’re taken off. My current place is too small, and so most of us in my building leave our shoes just outside the door. (My predilection requires a rack.) If a handyman or one of the building folks needs to come in, their shoes are always kicked off before entering.

A Vietnamese tutor once told me that many offices require workers to take their outside shoes off and then change into clean, inside ones—reminding me of the requirement for a pair of “inside shoes” that my elementary school had. Well, I do this, I’ve always done this. I wear comfy shoes for walking or weather, and then I change into more work-appropriate footwear. Think of Melanie Griffith and her sneakers in Working Girl. But the shoes of office workers here are not hidden in some drawer like mine always have been or tucked under a desk (at least from what I’ve observed). I’ve seen businesses here where pairs upon pairs are visible at the entrance, mostly inside but sometimes just outside the door. There’s no hiding the outfit disruption.

Furthermore, outfit disruption seems less of a concern during office hours. The tutor told me that the outside shoes are the outfit shoes—the heels, the Oxfords, and the loafers. If socked or bare feet aren’t kosher in the office, the inside shoes are glorified slippers, sandals, or everyone’s favourite, Crocs.

Shoes off, slippers on has been a requirement when I’ve visited local dentists here. Staff always seemed prepped for foreigner arrivals, wherein they will rush to the door and show you the slipper process before you walk straight up to the receptionist tracking in who knows what. I’ve only visited larger, busy medical clinics here, and shoes off was not a thing. I wonder if it ever is in smaller, more specialized offices.

Walking home from work at night is when I catch the most glimpses of the floor being used as a communal space for relaxation. There are a number of homes that open onto the hẻms I weave through, and when the doors are open I often see people lounging on the floor, illuminated by the television. They were doing so even when chairs or a couch might be around. Most of the time they’ve matched the position of my dad, head in hand. Whereas we were often on a carpeted floor taking advantage of its warmth in a cold climate, people here enjoy any amount of coolness that tile can offer in Saigon’s heat.

Clean floors are required for such a life, so if there’s something I see people do as much as riding a motorbike or drinking coffee, it’s sweeping. Saigon is dusty, so if you keep windows or doors open, a broom is a weapon some never seem to put down in the battle to keep floors clean. It’s especially important as being barefoot in shoes (sandals, Crocs) is very popular. The latent effect of wearing socks to dust floors, wink wink, is not as common here.

One class of mine, my favourite class incidentally, has several students that drop their shoes once they’re in their desks. I know that it can be seen merely as a force of habit. But I like to see it as a sign that they are comfortable in the classroom. It’s not something they can do in their public school from what I understand. I take the fact that they can and do at our school, in my class, as a nice thing. Because it is an act they would do at home. My classroom is not home, but I would like them to innately feel that it is as safe.

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Revering the floor can even be good for your health. According to this piece in The New York Times, lying on the floor opens up your posture and can produce feelings of calmness.

Shoes off for cleanliness is my priority, but it’s related to needing cleanliness because I like to lie on the floor when I can. There are few opportunities for me to connect with others anymore on a floor given my life situation and lifestyle, but I have always liked the sensation of being horizontal on a hard surface and spacing out. When I was running, it would not be hard for me to get lost in thought after my post-workout stretch on a yoga mat.

Of course, spacing out involved the phone more often than not, but I love that feeling of my body lying against something so unmovable. Hardness always reads undesirable, but it can force you to relax once you know you can’t lean into something soft. Not running anymore means floor time happens much less now. As I write this, I think about how I need more of it.

How clean are my floors, really though?

Babies can only be on the floors of shoes-off homes, right?