How To Train Your Disruptors
Kennedy Morganfield
aug 2020
Three suns and two moons cast an iridescent glow over the Harlem River. One of each occupies the usual haunts, throned amid stray hazy clouds in an otherwise clear sky. The remaining three celestial bodies dance across the silk scarf wrapped around my chest. Complete with rosy cheeks, pursed lips, and soulful eyes, the familiar faces gaze outward in brilliant shades of scarlet, hot pink, and dandelion. They complement the tangerine linens billowing around my ankles in the late May breeze. But it is neither my watercolor top half nor my tropical culottes that have taken on personalities of their own.
I’ve never walked a dog. I have, however, worn a pair of Fila Disruptors, and I assume the experiences are more or less the same. Nothing but the double-knotted shoelaces tether them to my feet. They snarl at concertgoers, baring oversized fangs on either side of the soles. Their platforms provide an additional two inches of menace. Every imaginable geometric figure is carved into the white leather and synthetic materials. Melted right triangles flank each quarter panel like a Rottweiler’s slobbery, gnawed chew toys. Four navy and red block letters on the tongues serve as identification tags, as if it’s possible to lose sight of these shoes. I clomp through the meadow between musical acts atop rigid, blinding units. Even as I sit and sway to the funk-infused melodies of Blood Orange, my disobedient Filas poke at the remnants of my vegan cheeseburger. I cross my legs to prevent them from charging the stage and howling along to “Holy Will.”
With every step towards the main stage—where Tyler, the Creator would soon introduce his latest project to a live audience—my Disruptors take generous bites of the earth below. I glance up at my best friend, who is at least a head taller than me, in their own carnivorous footwear. Street style photographers captured several shots of us today, and in each one, our Filas round out the family portrait. Finally, our matching strides slow to a stop. Our sneakers have frolicked on Randall’s Island all day, and now they rest, awaiting further stimuli.
As one of the three suns dips lower and lower, sweaty bodies swarm the pit. I brace to hear whimpers near the ground. But nothing happens. The roar of the crowd and the glitchy bass notes of “IGOR’S THEME” swallow the silence. Our Fila Disruptors enjoy Tyler’s set, one of mythic proportions, untrampled. That’s when I realize—there are no dogs at our feet, only dragons.
I am plucked from the sensory overload that is the Governors Ball Music Festival. I trade in tickling blades of grass for twentysomething tufts of gray carpet. Once again an only child, I confront the undesirable souvenirs my Filas collected on their travels.
Of course, I can only scrub away so much. My thumbs hover over the dimpled insoles. I trace the delicate stretch marks that annotate the shoe’s curvature. Stubborn dirt speckles what were once white scales. I grimace at the sight of my exotic pets, so battered by the elements. But what I lost in material purity, I gain in memories. My first music festival is fossilized here. Dried mud lodged itself in the gridded soles, but so did sticky pineapple juice and vulgar lyrics and adrenaline.