My grandmother came to the United States with a vast education in the economy of the home; sewing, cooking, raising a family, these were the indigenous skills her culture had inculcated as a matter of course. Her own particular talents, her artistry and industry allowed her to translate herself from Southern Italy to the United States in the early decades of the 20th century, and manage a home.
At first, immigrant life went well for her. Although she spoke no English, my grandfather did well in the ice trade (refrigeration was not in common use, and icemen delivered ice on routes throughout New York City).
The Great Depression put a permanent end to my grandparents’ prosperity. From 1933, when my father was born, until the day my grandparents died, they were never again financially secure.
My grandmother had to work.
She could have worked in the sweatshops, 16 hours a day, earning an abysmal salary while my father and aunt fended for themselves.
But she had skill.
Photo: Reuters
And she had a sewing machine.
I remember my grandmother’s hands at her machine, at her cooking, at her knitting. Her hands were never idle. I remember wearing the clothes that she had made, marvelling that she could make things that looked so store bought. She was endlessly industrious, and I often wished I could travel in time to watch how she managed to find a job that allowed her to work from home, to raise her children to prominence, prepare the meals and fuss over my dad when he came back from his long commute to school, and in the meantime, make and sell enough garments to keep the family from slipping into poverty. I wish I could go back and make her life easier.
I haven’t figured it out how to travel through time yet, but in some sense, my grandmother is still alive, and she lives somewhere in Bangladesh. She is a woman of great industry and talent, with very little education, but a great deal of pride and love of family. And I can help her.
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South Toms River, NJ, May 2013-
The treadle machine, manufactured in 1920, was in glorious condition. And I almost missed it. At the Habitat for Humanity Re-Store, when I inquired into the availability of such a machine, the woman told me that the last one was already sold. I decided to take a walk into the bowels of the store, that sells used items and donates the money to help build houses for low-income families.
When I saw it, I couldn’t believe how wonderfully built it was. The iron filagree on the pedal was iron vinework. I traced my hand along the arabesque designs. The frail leather belt that allowed the pedal to work the machine without electricity was on the verge of breaking, but my foot moved the needle up and down in miraculous rhythm before the strap snapped.
Photo: Reuters
The philosophy of the manufacturer of this sewing machine was clear. It was designed to last forever, not only as a reliable machine, but as a work of art that would inspire a seamstress to create her own durable artwork in cloth. Before the era of the throw-out society, this machine was an intentional heirloom, a machine meant to be passed from grandmother to granddaughter for many generations to come.
I believe that it is possible to “love something into reality”. Just as the stale aroma of tobacco can live for decades in a jacket, the aura of love can embue an object with a special spirit. The spirit that radiated from the machine upon all who shared the experience of its purchase and repair was joy. Its mere physical presence imparted a grandmotherly aura and I began to imagine the clothes it would produce, and the family friendship I could develop with the Bangladeshi seamstress that would someday sew a garment on this very machine.
The chain of supply in the ready-to-wear garment industry is ponderously long. It stretches through the anonymous and faceless world of factories, child labour, exploitation and unsafe working conditions. It steals women from their children, and therefore deprives these children of the benefit of motherly oversight- oversight that could lead to academic success and escape from poverty, as it did in the case of my own father. The chain supports a corruptocracy, and soulless machines of capitalism from China and Bangladesh to my local WalMart.
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I imagine the hell of being buried alive. What do you die from- thirst? Alone, unable to cry out for help, buried under the neglectful stories of a building. If you are lucky, if you emerge blinking and alive into the light of day, what then? Your means of making a living is buried in the rubble, and you have survived, only to exist in a diminished future. Your opportunities and those of your children are farther away from reality than ever.
Photo: Hassan Bipul
Bangladesh is a huge country, population-wise. My commerce, my dumb barter via Wal Mart and JC Penney has created the shaky foundation of collapsing buildings, my shirts have blocked exits in factories across the developing world, and my drive to save a dollar as served as kindling for the factory fires. I button, zip and lace despair, poverty and injustice to my body every morning. I dress my children in the well-disguised misery of the developing world. I have no communion with a single individual whose handiwork is in intimate contact with my own skin.
I hope that my treadle machine can change that. I want to be able to connect directly to the person who sews my garments, not in some unsustainable “charitable” way, but eye-to-eye like two peers, two artisans. I want my clothes to be the win-win solution. I want to wish my seamstress Happy Birthday and tell the story of her handiwork and her life to my grandchildren as I help them dress. I want to rest my head on a pillow whose purchase makes me feel good when I fall asleep at night. The cost of the treadle machine and shipping should be the equivalent of eight ready-to-wear shirts, bought at Wal-Mart. I want to trade a seamstress in Bangladesh the machine for eight shirts. Then I want to continue buying clothing directly from her at fair market price, meaning I will pay her the equivalent of what I would have paid for the shirt wholesale.
I want to send the seamstress pictures of her shirt worn on a special occasion. I want the beauty of an old machine, and a pure heart, to be the expression of what I wear and what I consume.
Having founded and worked for many years in an NGO, actually from home so that I could help raise my children, I understand that charity is non-sustainable. It rarely elevates the recipient out of poverty, recipients and donors rarely end up as peers. It also rarely bestows any direct benefit upon the giver. As a result, the church, the private giver, the foundation, responds in the moment of need to some humanitarian emergency, but eventually interest is lost, and the giver drifts to some new, more immediate cause. What was initiated with enthusiasm is abandoned.
I saw this firsthand in Haiti, where American churches built scores of schools after the earthquake, but have since abandoned them, as a different crisis distracted charity after charity. Headmasters are now unable to pay their teachers, and schools are shutting down.
We must embrace our selfish motivations in order to do the most good. After all, selfishness isn’t as poisonous as it is painted. What do I want when I purchase a shirt? What’s in it for me, and what profit do I wish for when I deal with an individual one-on-one? I want a unique product, belonging to me alone, but I also want the story that goes with the garment. I want to know that I am responsible for elevating a friend and her family toward a happier life. I want to wear the trappings of opportunity and hope, rescuing minimum-wage women from burning factories crumbling sweatshops.
I want my shirt to proclaim me Superman, I guess.
But most of all, I want to build a time machine, a time machine made of iron and leather, that can connect the fibres of my own past to the current life of some woman a world away. I want to step into the past, and let the spirit of my grandmother, alive in Bangladesh, embrace me each and every time I button my shirt in the morning.
Source: bdnews24
