Suki Jones 

Growing up in an old industrial town, the rhythm of life was dictated by the hum of machinery and the clatter of factory doors. It was a working-class environment where every day was about making ends meet, and the boundaries of success were drawn in simple terms. My family wasn’t rich, but we weren’t poor either—we lived comfortably enough, but not without careful budgeting and sacrifices.

One memory that stands out starkly from my school years involves something as seemingly trivial as a pair of school shoes. I was just starting secondary school—Year Seven—and like all kids, I wanted to fit in. Our school had a strict uniform code: black shoes only. My dad and I went to Barratts to pick out a pair, but the black ones were a bit pricier than the brown ones. The brown shoes were £5 cheaper, and that’s what my dad bought. For that entire year, I was the kid with the brown shoes in a sea of black.

At the time, it felt like a mark of difference, something that made me stand out in a way I didn’t want. It wasn’t until years later that I understood the real reason behind those brown shoes. It wasn’t about my dad being mean or negligent. It was simply about making do with what we could afford. That small saving was likely crucial to managing our tight budget, though I didn’t see it that way back then. Looking back, it fills me with a mix of sadness and gratitude. My dad worked hard to provide for us, and it’s heartbreaking to think that a pair of shoes might have been a symbol of our financial constraints.

As I grew older, the factory backdrop of my town loomed large. The town was a place where the grind never stopped. My father’s market stall was a modest affair, but it was our way of life. I spent weekends helping him, seeing firsthand the sweat and effort that went into every sale. It was a stark contrast to the relentless pursuit of status and success that came later in life. Football was my passion back then, a way to escape from the pressure and find some joy amid the daily grind. I wasn’t particularly into cars or clothes at school; those interests came later.

I had a best friend from the same cultural background, a Sikh boy who I met at ten. Our first encounter was anything but friendly—we had a fight over something trivial. But that confrontation marked the beginning of a deep and lasting friendship. Even though he now lives thousands of miles away, that bond has never faded. It’s a reminder of how the connections we make, even in the most unexpected ways, can become a cornerstone of our lives.

School was a mixed bag. I wasn’t the best student or athlete, but I managed. I did what I could to navigate the awkwardness of adolescence—crushing on teachers and coping with my insecurities. Girls weren’t interested in me, partly because I was a bit of an oddball with my dad’s enforced decision to delay shaving. I had this unruly upper lip that made me an easy target for teasing. In response, I found ways to assert myself, even if it meant overstepping my bounds as a prefect.

Despite these challenges, the years spent in the industrial shadow of my town shaped me profoundly. The experiences, the struggles, the small victories—they all contributed to the person I’ve become. I’ve learned that sometimes, it’s the small moments of hardship, like those brown shoes, that leave the deepest impressions.

Now, as I navigate the complexities of life—facing the fallout from my divorce, dealing with debts, and finding my footing again—my father stands by me, a pensioner offering both emotional and financial support. It’s a full-circle moment, where I realize just how much his sacrifices shaped my past and continue to influence my present. The brown shoes of my youth were a symbol of frugality, but they also represent the unwavering support and love of a father who has always done his best for me, even when I didn’t fully appreciate it.

This journey from the factory’s shadow to my current struggles is marked by lessons learned, sacrifices made, and the enduring strength of family ties. My dad’s help today is a testament to his resilience and love, just as his efforts in the past were a testament to his commitment to providing for our family. It’s these lessons from my childhood—hardships and all—that continue to guide me as I rebuild and strive to create a better future.