Chaos and Charm

Let’s be real — the chancleta wasn’t just footwear.
It was a disciplinary device, a GPS-guided missile, a warning shot, and a family tradition all in one.

Our mothers didn’t need threats — they had range.
She could be in the kitchen, I could be halfway down the block, and somehow…
it still connected.
That thing curved through time and space like it had a personal vendetta.

The chancleta was fear and respect rolled into foam and plastic.
It wasn’t even about pain — it was about precision.
She’d yell your full government name, and you had 0.3 seconds to repent before launch.

We all had that one moment when we thought we were fast enough to outrun it.
Spoiler alert: we were not.
The chancleta didn’t chase — it anticipated.

There was no safe zone, no appeal process.
You could barricade your door, stack furniture, fake sleep — didn’t matter.
That slipper found you.
Because it wasn’t just a weapon; it was generational magic.

I laugh about it now, but even back then? Sometimes it was still a little funny — once the sting wore off.
Because let’s be real: the chancleta had comedic timing.
One minute you’re running for your life, the next she’s back on the phone gossiping with friends.
It was chaos. It was control.
The chancleta was control dressed up as discipline —
power in motion, loud and fast and final.
It wasn’t about teaching lessons; it was about reminding you who held the power.
And even when it missed, the message never did.

Now that I’m older, I realize it wasn’t just the chancleta.
It was everything that came with it — the frustration, the exhaustion,
the “I’m doing this because nobody gave me tools to do better” kind of energy.

Still, I can’t deny it: the chancleta kept order.
It trained reflexes, reflexes built character,
and character got us through trauma like the pros we are.

So now, when my dogs get lippy and don’t listen,
you might still see a flip flop flying through the air —
a perfectly executed throw born from ancestral reflexes.
The form? Flawless.
The aim? Legendary.
(yes, I still consider 1 out of every 40 throws legendary — excellence is about perspective.)

Generational trauma? Maybe.
But also… talent.
(bows gracefully… then falls over — because balance has never been her superpower.)