An Ode to My Mother — the Patron Saint of Sewing Machines
My mother was a garment worker that sewed pieces for pennies for the sweatshops of Chinatown. For decades, she sewed day and night, stitching together cloth panels for companies that relied on manual labor to keep the fashion industry moving forward, season after season.
My sister, Lilly, and I used to play around the piles of soft fabric, climb in empty rolling canvas carts, and swing on racks like monkey bars. We played with the other young children whose parents brought them to work. The sweatshop was our daycare and our playground. Sometimes we were treated to the large pieces of kraft paper that sat between the fabric stacks, a big brown, blank canvas to draw on. We sat on the floor near my mother’s legs, watched her foot press the pedal as we drew girls and houses and birds. The light from the gooseneck lamp illuminated her back when we looked up, wondering when she’ll finish.
By the time big sister, Michelle, left China to rejoin my mother here in the states, and by the time younger siblings, Peter and Anna, came along, my mother had already started to work from home to manage all five of us. (My father worked as a waiter in Tarrytown, and lived in a room above the restaurant. He came home to Brooklyn, two, maybe three weekends a month, so quality time with him was rare, save the occasional trek to dim sum and movies at the Chinese theaters.)
My mother had an industrial sewing machine, a giant one with a smooth green top and grey legs. There was a large black wheel with a thick, black rubber band on the right that manually moved the needle head on the left, and a towering antenna in the back that held two large spools of thread. It was a giant hulk of a machine that turned on angrily with a big red button. The motor’s immediate whir matched the quickness of my mother’s temper when she found us playing with her tools. The machine was off limits to us as it represented her literal blood and sweat to make ends meet.(One time she haphazardly plunged the sewing needle into her pointer fingernail. She beckoned me over, half amused that the needle went all the way through, me frozen by the sight of trickling blood oozing out the wound of a perfectly pierced nail bed.)
I remember the moments of quiet cadence, the steady humming of the machine attaching one piece after another, creating a waterfall of textiles cascading onto the floor in front of her. It was one of the more peaceful moments in a household of five hungry kids with ages that spanned a decade.
Sometimes we assisted with my mother’s jobs when she was tired. We helped cut the strings that attached each piece like hanging flags, making neat piles that were to be added onto some other part of the garment later on. (Usually a back pocket, sometimes a sleeve, or a collar. The geometric shapes kept us guessing.) Piled up, counted and recounted to make sure she’d receive every cent she earned.
She made us recite our multiplication tables out loud while we were there, or read our English homework even though she couldn’t understand what we said. I suppose it broke up the monotony and repetition, our voices provided a different sound to the relentless steady chopping of the stitching needle.
Eventually, globalization moved in, and the sweatshops moved out. My mother moved on to the healthcare industry where she trained, and became a home health attendant. Her sewing machine, covered up with a homemade cover, remained gathering dust for another couple of years, until one day, my siblings and I decided it was time to let it go. It was an altar that represented so much of her struggle, one that we both revered and resented.
My mother, reluctant at first, seemingly had a different view. That sewing machine represented a vehicle of hope, a skill she learned after landing on the shores of Hong Kong as a refugee, with a new identity in hand. It gave her a focus to become independent, and courage to move halfway around the world to settle roots that flourished despite hardships. I gather she must have prayed many days and nights for a better life, while sitting at the machine, repairing the seams of one of our ripped trousers.
These days, the room where the sewing machine once sat, houses a plethora of overgrown plants that take advantage of the sunlight that shines through. As much as we joke about trying to contain my mother’s indoor forest, the lively green leaves replaced the green machine that once held her captive. The siblings and I have seemingly picked up this love for growing plants, maybe because it is one of the things that brings my mother joy in her retirement. (Alternately, none of us really picked up sewing.)
