GUEST POST BY DANNY STEWART
It’s strange to admit, but I have always had a love-hate relationship with cowboy boots. Throughout most of my life, I have despised them. The source of this hatred can be traced back to 1977, when I was 11 years old and my family moved to the countryside outside of Ennis, Texas. Our new home was in a rural community, where I quickly learned the ways of the country cowboys (not to be confused with urban cowboys).
One of the unfortunate aspects of living in the country was the hour-long bus ride to and from school. I loathed riding the school bus. It felt like a daily serving of terror, with danger lurking around every turn and bump in the road. It wasn’t because the bus driver, Mr. Woods, drove recklessly or because the road was treacherous. The real threat came from a small group of high school boys who rode the bus with me. These boys were not ordinary; they were country cowboys. They wore Wrangler jeans, chewed snuff, and, most significantly, proudly sported cowboy boots to assert their seriousness. I secretly called them “shit kickers” because, while walking through a pasture full of cattle, they would kick dried or mostly dried cow shit—or more affectionately called “cow patties.”
These shit kickers established their social dominance with just a glance. At any moment during our daily bus ride from hell, a fight could break out as one of them would provoke the other kids who were considered weak. This was often done through slurs or derogatory remarks. I did my best to avoid them, steering clear of where they usually sat on the bus.
However, I couldn’t always escape their mockery and name-calling: “pussy” and “faggot”. Being the object of their ridicule scared me to my core. The thought of getting into a fight filled me with fear. I did everything possible to avoid confrontation or being in their line of sight. Avoiding and escaping such situations had become routine for me a few years prior in elementary school. However, on a bus, there was nowhere to hide. While Mr. Woods did his best to prevent the bullying and fighting from escalating, he couldn’t stop it in real-time while driving. Therefore, whenever the shit kickers were on the bus, I always felt unsafe.
This group of shit kickers were the same ones who knocked down our brick mailbox one night shortly after we moved into our new home in late Fall of 1977. As the new kid and family in the rural community, we were easy targets to terrorize. My dad was not having any of it and posted a reward to identify the culprits. As it turned out, one of the shit kickers named Wade was responsible. My dad was satisfied to have discovered the guilty party and made him pay for the repairs. On the other hand, I did not feel safe. In fact, I was concerned that it may make things worse. Thankfully, Wade eased up on his direct threats and name-calling towards me.
Being a closeted gay boy during my upbringing, I found it difficult to connect with cowboy culture. Even before I understood or could articulate it, the cowboy represented an exaggerated form of masculinity that did not resonate with me. It was a narrow expression of being a man that felt alien to me, like cosplay of what it meant to be a man. Nothing symbolized the cowboy culture more than boots—except a cowboy hat. For years, I only wore work boots while doing chores around the property. I helped tend to the cows and horse by feeding them hay bales. Our property had a hard, dark clay-like soil my parents called “black gumbo” because it would absorb rainwater like a sponge, resembling gumbo. Walking through the pasture after a rain would cause the soil to stick to the bottom of my boots, making it impossible to walk. Work boots were necessary as any other type of footwear would get ruined. After working in the field, large clumps of mud would accumulate on the bottom of the boots, which I would clean off using a water hose and scrape away the caked-on mud.
I had convinced myself that I disliked cowboy boots. I found them impractical and uncomfortable. My feet would get hot and sweaty enough in sneakers, so how could I bear to encase them in personalized leather sweat chambers? More importantly, I had carefully curated an image, distancing myself from the Texas cowboy stereotype and everything it represented in the minds of Northeasterners – the community I have been a part of for the past 30 years. When I moved to New York City in 1994, some people automatically assumed I would wear cowboy boots because I was from Texas. They would ask me, “Where are your cowboy boots?” I always responded, “Oh no, I don’t wear cowboy boots. I don’t like ’em. In fact, I’ve never owned a pair!” I believed this to be true until I stumbled upon an old photo of myself as a 5 or 6-year-old sitting on my dad’s lap, proudly sporting cowboy boots.
This revelation came as a shock, prompting me to reflect on over 50 years of my life. How had this carefree boy who once wore cowboy boots transform into a man who detested them? The roots of my fear and aversion became clear as I delved deeper into my past. I associated them with shit kickers. But a crack in my fear and loathing of boots appeared in the summer of 1987 when I stepped into the Round-Up Saloon in Dallas.
The Round-Up is a gay country and western bar. It’s not just a bar; it’s a large dance hall. Seeing men dressed in complete cowboy attire—starched Wranglers, long-sleeved button-down shirts, cowboy hats, and cowboy boots—dancing with each other was both disconcerting and confusing. They were two-stepping and line dancing to the music of Randy Travis, George Strait, and The Judds. Seeing men twirling and whirling in sync with the music was quite a sight. This spectacle left me intrigued and confused, leading me to keep returning periodically over the next 6 years. I often went with my friend Addison, whom I met during my freshman year at Wayland Baptist University (WBU).
Addison and I were both incoming freshmen in the Fall of 1984. I was immediately drawn to Addison, a charismatic and charming social butterfly. It wasn’t hard to notice him as he always commanded attention and shined brightly in any setting. One notable example was during the annual Mr. Wayland competition. We both participated, but while I decided to have fun with it—singing “She’s Too Fat For Me” to a pregnant mannequin—Addison did a moving dramatic performance. He transformed himself from a young man to an old man, or maybe it was the other way around? In the end, Addison won the title of Mr. Wayland 1985!
Although I didn’t have a particular interest in drama or theater, I was involved in a few productions during my two years at WBU. One of them was a children’s play adaptation of Uncle Remus tales. Addison played Br’er Tarrypin, and I played Br’er Coon. Once again, Addison stole the spotlight on stage.
Our friendship grew quickly. During my sophomore year, I worked as an RA for our dorm, McDonald Hall. During this time, our bond deepened after Addison visited me in my tiny single dorm room and stumbled upon a Blue Boy magazine that I had unintentionally left on my desk. He casually asked if he could borrow it. We were both in the closet, so discussing our sexual orientation was out of the question. I was horrified and prepared myself for potential consequences. Still, surprisingly, nothing happened. Addison returned the magazine a few days later, and without any discussion, we knew and understood each other without uttering a word.
After I transferred to Hardin-Simmons University in 1986, our friendship continued. Addison eventually moved to Dallas, and whenever I visited, he graciously allowed me to stay with him. During our visits, we explored the Crossroads, the gay area with bars, clubs, and restaurants. And eventually, we would end up at the Round-Up to watch the Cowboys dance. I am grateful to Addison for the time we spent together during those years until he moved to LA in July 1992. He even invited me to join him on a road trip from Dallas to LA. Of course, I said yes to this adventure.
Prior to going to the Round-Up, a gay cowboy was not something I could even imagine, not within any realm of possibility. But watching the gay cowboys shifted my worldview and understanding. Something that was once a symbol of fear and hatred now took on a different meaning. I wasn’t sure what that meaning was exactly, but it was an admiration for how these gay cowboys had flipped the script on the heterosexual domination of masculinity. However, I still felt somewhat intimidated by them. They exuded intensity, and their dancing skills seemed out of reach and difficult to relate to. It felt like they existed in a parallel universe I didn’t belong to. Nonetheless, this experience helped change my feelings towards cowboy boots from hatred to indifference.
It wasn’t until my recent trip back home in April that I finally let go of my indifference and fully embraced the idea of wearing cowboy boots. While Pete and I were in Oklahoma City, I noticed a few men wearing cowboy boots. I suggested to Pete that he get a pair as we went to see my friend Karen in Flower Mound, Texas. He was game and shared that he once owned a cowboy hat but not cowboy boots.
When we shared our plan with Karen and mentioned Pete’s interest in cowboy boots, her eyes lit up. She excitedly told us about her favorite bootmaker and shared stories of her own favorite pairs. The next day, Karen enthusiastically took us to Cavenders, a large boot store. Pete was eager to get a pair, and on a spontaneous whim, I decided to get a pair as well!
It was something that seemed unimaginable just a few months earlier, but now I love my cowboy boots. They represent a reclaiming of my past, acknowledging the pain, fear, and hatred associated with them. In their place, I have cultivated a newfound pride in this aspect of my heritage.
