i’m not sure why this is so hard to write, or why the story sometimes feels like it doesn’t need to be told, or why i’ve given up this piece that i’ve been trying to write right now a good 7 or 8 times before. maybe i should start there, then.
i’ve opened this wordpress page many times this week, and each time been drawn away by exhaustion, something in my google reader, a new young holt unlimited song, the national conversations i’m supposed to track for my job. everything else seems more urgent than writing this, even though when i’m not able to write, i feel all of this burning a hole through my brain. the weight of experiences begging to be documented.
what makes a story hard to tell? when there’s some truth hidden inside it that we don’t want to face? when we’ve told versions of it so many times to so many acquaintances, that we can’t tell where to start when it’s time to tell it for real? when the story is bigger than we are?
i grew up in a sewing workshop, a sewing circle that operates steadily from january to july. it’s june now, which means the workshop is open 7 days a week, round the clock, and i basically live there when i’m not at work. i sew in an apartment building with many of my aunties and cousins. it is home, even though i’ve often resisted that truth.
i’ve been back three years now, and the first year, after four years away, was rough. i had plenty of ideas about where i wanted to spend my time, about what my priorities were. i chafed against the idea that my time was not my own, partially because the sewing workshop is run by my mother, who’s notoriously tough. a boss who works as many hours as you will (and longer), who has high standards and no problems telling you to re-do your work so it meets them.
becoming comfortable with my many hours in the sewing room was a process of coming to terms with who i was as an adult next to my mom, who’s still very much my mother. but it happened. i gave in, not unwillingly. i get it now, and make the choice regularly to give up a lot of other things so that i can be with my family. it’s tough to explain to people. i make my own choices about my time, and also am not completely in control. i want to put in all the time i can for my family, but it’s also a very demanding life. my family is much more than just a collection of people who happen to be related.
but these days, a side benefit to sewing 30 hours a week is that i’m also a fairly decent seamstress. passable pleats, gathered sleeves, shirt collars, zippers of all kinds, i can do them. and i’m not bad with just a needle and thread; my grand aunties have taught me a lot.
this weekend i made two leotards, one a two-toned one-sleeved thing that looks straight out of an american apparel catalog (that my cousins and i’ll be wearing underneath handmade silk dresses this summer), another with sequined arms for my cousin, who will play a star. i helped make a padded muscle shirt for my uncle, who will play a centaur this summer. he is sagittarius, of course. one auntie cut the fabric for a dress for my cousin who will be libra. another auntie sewed individual seed beads and sequins onto straps that will be attached to our dancing dresses next to another team of cousins who sewed ruffled blossoms that will be sewn onto the shoulders of our dresses. and someone else hammered studs into the sleeves of a shirt that will be worn by celestial guards.
we talk, we laugh, we sew, very often late into the night.
the sewing room is a converted two-room apartment, where beginner sewers sit in an annex–a storage room crammed with one sewing table, one ironing board, and one serger. some of my teenage cousins were in that side room, giggling their way through the night, and veteran sewers who’ve been around long enough know that when it gets that late, you’d better save your energy for your work instead of for your conversation. my mom also hates chatting, it distracts her from her rapid thinking and problem solving. but even she couldn’t resist marveling at how giggly the girls were; they’d been at it for hours. my mom asked our side of the room: “is any work happening over there? are they working their hands too?” my auntie margie, chuckling to herself, said: “they’re not working their hands, they’re working their mouths.”
more laughter, but also many sighs. the rhythm of work in the workshop is punctuated by yawns and slow stretches and quick gasps when fingers are pricked by sharp needles. the work is hard on the eyes and hands, many of my aunties wear two glasses at a time so they can see their work close up and among the crew, back and neck problems abound. yesterday, sometime after midnight my young cousin asked no one in particular: “when does this sweatshop close?” and without anyone raising their heads from their sewing machines and cutting tables, a chorus of voices said in unison: “never.” and then everyone burst into laughter again, both from the truth and the absurdity of it.
it is home. it is security, it also makes a lot of sense to me.
my family cooks together, cooks for each other–i often go to the building straight from work and always know that i can knock on someone’s door and there will be hot food for me. my family babysits each others’ kids, drives each other to doctor’s appointments and karate lessons. my auntie, her own two children all grown, tutors her 14-year-old nephew in history. her husband tutors my cousin in geometry and chemistry. people reach out their arms to carry each other. there are also many things that are never discussed, but getting help to make it through the day to day is not something people question, ever.
so i’m teaching my 7-year-old cousin to read. we make paper airplanes together; he reads the directions to me and we fold and fly the airplanes together. but his reading skills are behind for his grade level, and he speeds through words, confusing “each” with “edges,” cycling through lots of guesses for what “crease” could be, instead of trying to really read the letters in front of him. he, like me, has many mothers and fathers. there are many people who step in to look out for him, shuttle him to and from school and home, make sure he’s getting what he needs to be grow up healthy.
this weekend my brother also taught him how to play crazy 8′s, which also meant he had to teach him the four suits. he had a lot of trouble telling diamonds apart from triangles, but he eventually got it. next, i want to teach him how to play speed. life lessons, you know?
why would i ever want to leave this?
there are moments when i get glimpses of the future and of a life beyond the one in front of me right now. it’s enticing. i see that there’s room yet for pleasure and good conversation and new adventures, maybe even those that are accompanied by a lot of heartbreak and hard times. i know there’s a life beyond this sewing workshop, and it’s a life that asks to be attended to. but it feels like if i stay with my family i can hold all of that struggle at bay. it feels like my family could keep me safe forever, if i just stay close to the sewing room.
Filed under: family, figuring it out, home, sewing, paper airplanes, sewing
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