Tag Tales Anonymous

In an old moon-cake box lay hundreds of hang tags; they are different shapes and colors, flaunt decisive typography, and showcase intricate logos, differentiating each and every one. To many, these tags are a nuisance - quickly snipped off of their products and tossed into the trash. But to me, each one of these petite tags has a backstory and occupies an unforgettable niche in my memory.

I look fondly back at my Grishko tag with its swooping lettering and glossy finish, previously attached to my once pristine pointe shoes. I think of the warm laughter and the close bonds I shared with my friends, but also of the pressures I imposed on myself to keep up with their progress. With my pointe shoes, I created memories of burning the ends of satin ribbons with my class and our shrieks of delight when we perfected our shoes. But also with my pointe shoes, I fanatically drilled pirouettes, despite how nauseous I became, to keep up with my class.

Under my Grishko tag are flattened boxes of Bunheads’ toe pads, cushioning I stuffed into the toe-boxes of my pointe shoes to alleviate the blisters and sores I developed from obsessive pointe shoe practice. I was self-conscious and insecure; I feared mistakes, loathed my flaws and grew...