Sneakers at The White House: Belonging & Inclusivity

The recent NYTimes article debating the implicit formality and respect of dress sneakers versus hard-soled shoes in the Oval Office made me wonder if people sit around brainstorming new methods of discrimination: “Who has a new idea for furthering class-based exclusion?” “I know, let’s do shoes!”

“Going to pay bills” for my Uncle Bubba was my job when I was a kid. I had to keep my school clothes on so I could go into the government buildings of Nettleton, Mississippi to pay water, electric, and trash bills.  A World War II veteran and rural farmer, Uncle Bubba didn’t own suits or dress shoes and he believed that his work uniform—overalls, and work boots—didn’t belong in government buildings. I hated that he believed that. But little me internalized that belief too. 

Years later, when I went to work in the U.S. Congress, I always wore the perfect dress shoes despite the pain, inefficiency, and my podiatrist's warnings. I was a pro at hurried sneaker changes into the lies that are “comfortable” high heels and “supportive” flats.

In 2021, I started working at the White House as a director on the National Security Council, with my refreshed work-from-home feet, ready to keep up those standards Uncle Bubba ingrained in me all those years ago.

But one day my 4 PM vending-machine lunch was interrupted by a call demanding that I be “in-person in the Situation Room NOW.” As I rushed down the chessboard floors of the staff building and mountain of stairs, me and my high-heeled shoes took a tumble down the stairs. I caught myself on the railing and was not injured, but I arrived in the Situation Room shaken, delivering my brief between heavy breaths. 

That night, I ordered my first pair of brown-leather, white soled dress sneakers. I added express shipping. 

I didn’t like them, but they were inconspicuous, comfortable rubber-soled shoes that helped me focus on what was important: advising the President on national security issues while running around the White House and halls of Congress. Over time I started to resent the dress sneakers. They fit my feet, but not my personality. I knew I was wearing them for the wrong reasons, just hoping I would fit in while trying to do my job.

But nothing about me had ever fit into classified, top secret rooms. My Blackness always shows up in the perspective I bring — not just for me but for so many people of color who are not in the room. I ask about gender ratios, expecting to make men uncomfortable enough to apply basic math for the next meeting manifest. I challenge the formalities of language with my constant use of “y’all.” My policy edits include a recurring comment bubble, “Will this be available to everyone?” I remind peers that elected officials were chosen by the people and ask who in our rooms can say the same. 

These actions make it impossible for me to fit in. And fitting in has never been my goal. So, I started wearing Nike Dunks and sometimes Air Jordans to the White House. Every. Single Day.

And y’all…Nothing happened.

No meetings fell apart. No lawmakers cited my shoewear as a refusal to negotiate. Nobody said one negative word. (But I did find out there are a lot of sneakerheads in those marble buildings.) Envious Hill staffers asked, “They let you wear those at The White House?” And I always replied, “I don’t think anyone cares, so long as I do my job.” Sometimes snarkily, I would note: “Both President Biden and Chairman Thompson support the CROWN Act, which would prohibit discrimination based on hair, so I doubt they make an exception for discrimination based on shoes.” 

Turns out the most powerful and serious policymakers and public servants spend very little time thinking about the fashion of shoes. We think about shoes as it relates to policies like humanitarian assistance, intellectual property protections, and global supply chains.

I’m not a style expert, but I do understand why Speaker McCarthy, Leader Jefferies, and Leader McConnell wore their dress sneakers to the Oval Office of The White House. They were working to avoid an economic crisis, so they had on their work uniforms. And the people who sent them there do not care about their shoes.

The Great Shoe Debate took me back to the early days of my public service career, when I worried as an intern that my supervisors would notice that I was rotating the same four outfits the whole semester. I thought about the line of credit I opened (but couldn’t afford) to buy clothes and shoes for my first full-time job on Capitol Hill so I looked “right.” I remembered visiting a podiatrist at 27 and her warning that I was destroying my feet. More, I thought about my Uncle Bubba waiting for me in his pickup truck - in a work uniform that simply said, “I fought for this country, and every day I work to make life better for my family.”

Whether back on Capitol Hill or in the White House, whether speaking to a roomful of students (hi interns!!) or a roomful of scientists and Nobel Prize Laureates (that really just happened), I now wear my sneakers with pride.

No, I am not like the traditional homogeneous blocks of national security decision-makers. I don’t look, think, or act like they do. I don’t have the same background that they do. I don’t dress like they do. But I do belong in every room I enter. And if you want my counsel, my strategies, and my guidance, then you will value everything that is different and distinct about me—from top to bottom with shoes.

That’s inclusivity. 

And if shoes are where you draw the line on inclusivity and belonging, maybe you never really supported those concepts. Is it possible the barriers to entry and participation that make you feel most comfortable have nothing to do with the actual work that needs to be done.

I’d encourage you to try walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, preferably sneakers.