Up in the dusty attic, my mother and I looked through her box of old materials. She was looking for a piece of fabric large enough to sew me a pair of wide-legged culottes to go over my one piece gym suit I had to wear in Junior High. The rules of our church demanded outdated modesty, and the school demanded completion of gym class before I could graduate the eighth grade. Near the bottom of the box, my mother found a quilt, made of small pieces of different fabrics, sewn together in what is called the Crazy Quilt pattern. Each piece of fabric was outlined in zigzags of bright orange thread. She pointed out various fabrics that had belonged to my aunts, my uncles, my grandfather, and told a few stories of the special occasions the clothing was worn to. The quilt held many memories and I knew it was precious to my mother. She sighed, as this was the only thing big enough to fit the pattern, and my young heart was completely horrified as she gathered the quilt up and headed down to her sewing room. Surely she wasnt going to make me wear this? Surely she wouldnt ruin grandmas quilt? I wondered why I had never seen the quilt before, or heard its stories. I was torn between sadness and confusion and the hurt of a young girl who didnt understand her parents religion. I never wanted to be seen in a pair of old fashioned culottes made from a padded quilt. Ever. The next morning, I stood in the girls locker room, wearing my sleeveless, blue jumpsuit that buttoned up the front and had mid length shorts. Every girl wore one to gym class. Slowly, in deep mortification, I pulled the quilted culottes out of my back pack and saw that my mother had used a cherry red ribbon to make the waistband. It tied in back and the ends of the ribbon dangled down to the hem. When I stood up, the legs were so full it almost looked like a skirt. My cheeks were burning in shame. Yet beneath the embarrassment, was a knowledge of a love that made my throat thick with tears. My mother had stayed up all night sewing , so I would have these to cover my legs. My grandmother had lovingly pieced this quilt together, my ancestors and relatives had all worn these scraps of fabric at some point in time. Yet to me, nothing could have been more out of place or embarrassing. Our class walked to the playground, and all the girls, the ones who were my friends, gave me a wide berth, as they didnt want to walk beside me. They gave me glances of deep pity, at least. My gym teacher gave a great sigh when she saw me, but never commented. As we walked, I noticed a square of dark brown corduroy, which had belonged to my uncle, and I felt the ridged fabric. I wondered how many times my uncle had to be brave. How many times he faced a challenge that hurt to the core. I kept my fingers there, summoning a strength I needed. The boys were already on the playground and they fell silent as soon as they saw me. I realized everyone was staring. I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. Now that I am older, I remember this with fondness and laughter, and the vivid memory of hurt pride. But I also remember the love. Life is so complicated. I would never teach my daughters that their bodies are shameful, or their legs are something to be hidden. But my mother loved me, I know that, and it is the love I hold in my heart.
Posted on: Fri, 08 Aug 2014 21:55:11 +0000
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015