I Want My Boots Back, Ron
The story of two men and their white boots
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There are myriad reasons why I would like Ron DeSantis to quietly fade into oblivion. Of course there are the obvious dings against the current governor of Florida and distant second place GOP presidential hopeful: his atrocious record on LGBT+ issues, his petty battle with Disney (after getting married at the Mouse in 2009), and his banning of teaching some Black history in schools.
But I have another complaint against Mr. DeSantis that’s more personal: his boots.
After Hurricane Ian last fall, the governor was photographed wearing shin-high, white rubber boots as he toured the damage. He immediately became the subject of ridicule for his fashion sense.
The boots have outlived the 24 hour news cycle and continue to take on a life of their own. If current GOP frontrunner Donald Trump can survive his multiple indictments and ends up on the debate stage with DeSantis, the boots will undeniably become a line of attack; a symbol of diminished manhood somehow. I’m surprised Trump hasn’t brought them up at a rally yet. Or maybe he has?
Here’s my issue with the boots, and it’s entirely personal: I have the same pair.
And I like them.
The story of my boots goes back to my early days at This Old House. It didn’t happen often, but on occasion, we would have a shoot day that we expected to be especially muddy or gunky: think excavating for a foundation or pouring concrete.
As the production assistant on the show at the time, it was my job to head to Home Depot and pick up a few pairs of rubber boots that would allow our camera crew and talent to slog through the day without muddying their own footwear. At the end of the day, the boots were often so disgusting that they were simply thrown in the dumpster.
Those boots were almost always black rubber and were quite flimsy. The only time I can remember them being reused was during a project in Austin, Texas. We had a particularly muddy day filming in a limestone quarry soon after a rainstorm. The boots were covered in a thick layer of sludge that was part Texas clay and part limestone dust.
As we were returning to our hotel, the show’s producer let me know that we would need boots again the next day for a similarly muddy scene and asked me if I had any way of cleaning them that night. For those of you that are unfamiliar, production assistants are generally at the bottom rung of the TV production ladder. In order to climb that ladder, I learned quickly that the correct answer to any question was always “absolutely,” even if I had no idea how I would clean the layers of muck off of the boots.
To make matters more challenging, our amazing travel agent had somehow procured a special rate at the Austin Four Seasons that was on par with the cost of staying in an airport Holiday Inn Express, so it had become our home in Texas for a few months. With only the bathtub in my hotel room to clean off the boots, I sheepishly asked the concierge if they might have a hose that I could use instead. The concierge just smiled at me: “Don’t worry, Mr. Racela” (the staff knew me by name at this point), “we can take care of it for you.”
The next morning, there was a valet cart with 10 pairs of cheap rubber boots that had been fully cleaned, buffed, and shined as though they were a $1,000 pair of loafers. It reminded me a bit of a scene from a cult, but it was pretty rad too.
The following year, we were in New Orleans working on a series about the rebuilding efforts after Hurricane Katrina. Again, we anticipated a muddy day and I was asked to make a run for rubber boots.
This time, the local Lowe’s didn’t sell the standard issue black boots, but instead had bright white ones. I felt ridiculous wearing them, but they served a purpose. At breakfast in the hotel, there were lots of Nancy Sinatra jokes tossed around.
To my surprise though, when we arrived on location and met up with our local TV and building crews, we were greeted like heroes. “Oh wow, you’re breaking out the Cajun Reeboks” our local gaffer said to me, a look of proud recognition on his face.
Apparently, these white rubber boots are a common sight in Louisiana, and depending on the region they can also be known as Delcambre Reeboks, Cocodrie Converse, or Swamp Nikes. They are worn by all of the local crews on fish and shrimp boats. There’s even an oversized pair at the Houma Visitors Center where tourists can pose for photos with the iconic footwear.
After learning their story, I began wearing the boots more often when we were on set, even if wasn’t a muddy day. They were a good way to keep my own shoes clean and they bought me a little local street cred.
When we wrapped in New Orleans, I tried to keep their spirit alive on set back in Boston. I wore them for the first shoot of the next season, on a cold and rainy March day where we filmed the harvesting of pine trees in a managed forest. The unlined boots were perfect for Louisiana’s balmy climate, but my toes were on the verge of frostbite after a cold spring day in New England.
The boots are now a constant fixture around my yard. The “disposable” rubber boots from a New Orleans Lowe’s store have somehow survived more than 15 years and have a permanent home on my front porch, right next to my front door.
I’ve found that they make great boots for launching our canoe in the mucky brook in our backyard. They’re also perfect for mowing the lawn as I don’t really care about grass stains on them. And of course, they’re good on a rainy day.
But ever since Governor Ron was photographed in the same boots, I’ve been very self conscious about wearing mine. I worry that my white boots look like some kind of implicit support for his policies; the 2024 version of a red MAGA hat. Or maybe people are judging me the way they judged him.
Bush had his bomber jacket. Obama had a bike helmet, “mom jeans,” and the tan suit.
Let’s hope the white boots don’t become the next iconic piece of political clothing and this all blows over sometime soon. After all, I like my white boots and would rather be compared to a cajun fisherman than a wannabe neofascist.
Have you ever owned a piece of clothing that you liked until the context around it changed? I’d love to hear from you in the comments!
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My husband was given a pair when we visited Louisiana!