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When I was a teenager, footwear was a declaration of allegiance. Mine came down to two essentials—creepers and monkey boots—as much a part of the punk scene’s vocabulary as spiky hair, leather jackets, and D.I.Y. album covers. I didn’t choose them for comfort or even utility.
They were signals—to friends, strangers, and perhaps most of all to myself—that I belonged to a certain tribe.
I’d like to say I’ve outgrown them, but the truth is they’ve simply…
