Sewing

I volunteered to sew something today. And as I typed the email to volunteer to help out, it felt odd somehow. Couldn't quite put my finger on it but I think I just realized - it's because guys aren't supposed to be able to sew. For some reason, it's not a manly, macho thing. Worse than that, some might say it's something that you should be ashamed of cuz it's that girly, that as a real man you shouldn't tell anyone that you can sew unless they've drugged you up with some kind of area 51 truth serum.

I learned how to sew when I was really young from one of the most beautiful souls that's ever been in my life -- my grandmother. She was a seamtress. And some nights she'd call to me from the walk in closet we'd converted into a make shift sewing room, "JR! Come help me please with this thread." So much love in her voice.

Some days I'd be kind of annoyed because it was in the middle of a Star Trek episode (Yes I liked Star Trek even then). But most days I'd plop off my grandfather's bed on the other side of our tiny house where I was doing homework, jet out the bedroom, make a hard right at bathroom, skuttle through the living room, sprint the two steps it took to pass through the kitchen, and arrive at the doorway of the makeshift sewing room where my grandmother was waiting.

She'd hold up the lavender, scarlet, or whatever colored thread and ask me to do the same task every time -- 'Can you put this thread through needle for me? It's being stubborn again." So much love in her voice. To which I would carefully take the thread from her wrinkled hands and make my attempts at threading the needle. The needle was attached to a vintage Singer sewing machine. I say vintage because it didn't use electricity but a platform which you placed your foot on and rocked forward and back.

I was so short back then and my eyes barely made it over the top of the sewing table. I'd stand on my tippy toes and after two or three attempts I'd get the thread through and collect my reward. A big, warm hug and an 'I love you' ... mahal kita ... she'd say in Tagalog. The hug always made missing that part of the Star Trek episode and the trek to the other side of the house worth it.

As I got older, my grandmother asked me more and more often to thread the needle. It made me a little sad as I realized she was losing more and more of her vision. I watched her struggle to keep her hands steady. Watched as she had to focus harder and harder to rock the platform with the same steady motion. It was very hard for me to watch.

She never wanted to give it up. She'd been a seamstress all her life. In fact, back in the Philippines, she wasn't just any ordinary seamstress. My aunts and uncles would tell me how wealthy people one or two towns over would come to my grandmother to get dresses hemmed, suits tailored, waistlines adjusted. She started her own shop and even personally delivered the specialty items like wedding gowns. For nearly 10 years while my grandfather worked at the sugar plantations, my grandmother built a thriving business that helped put her 8 children through school. Not too shabby for an asian woman who had little past a grade school education, esp in the early part of the 1900's when women's rights were totally different from where they are now.

Over the years my grandmothers eyes got worse, and her hands less steady. I started trying to help her sew the orders that were placed. At first, I was horrific and she often re-did my work. How she'd laugh when I made a mistake! She never criticized me or scolded me or even took a harsh tone no matter how big my mistakes. She didn't need to, I'd have a deeply furrowed brow because even then I was so hard on myself.

So yeah, maybe sewing's not a manly thing. Even worse, maybe it's pretty darn girly. But I'll never be ashamed that I can. Never.