The doorbell rings and I know it’s finally the day. No more sticking out like a sore thumb for knock-off designer brands from back home, I’ll fit in.
“Halikana dito! Ay, Maria, come downstairs your package prom she-in is here. Ano ba? What even is she in? Who is she and where is she in?”
“It’s just some new clothes. Also Mom, it’s Shein. It’s just a brand.”
“Aye! Brand this and brand that. You know I just got you a brand new Louies from the Philippines!”
“Nay, the kids at school know the difference between the Louies from back home to the Louis Vuitton here.”
“No they can’t! This is just like the real thing. You go put your she-in away and go study.”
At school, the kids don’t necessarily hate me. I mean, I have as few friends from school, ones that keep me company during class but say goodbye right when the bell rings. I honestly can’t quite place why or how long they’ve been my “friends,” but I know that I want something deeper than these friendships.
I’ve seen it before. Before we immigrated, I dreamed of coming here. I binged the classics, She’s All That, Princess Diaries, and Mean Girls. We all know that once the girl gets a makeover–one with a new wardrobe she’s guaranteed to fit in, or at least make a few friends. That’s why I ordered from Shein. Some trendy clothes so I can maybe catch the eye of another girl and we’ll chat after class, exchange numbers, maybe even hangout? I don’t wanna get my hopes up too high though. It is just clothes at the end of the day.
“Maria, come help me pack the Balikbayan box! Your cousins back home are going to want her in stuff too.”
I don’t tell my mom that Shein is very accessible in the Philippines, and I don’t tell her that these clothes are my ticket to my American dream.
“Ay anak. You need to be more generous. Why don’t you give them more shirts? You don’t need those.”
“Can’t I keep a few shirts? Nay, I’ve already given more than half of what I just bought.”
“Don’t be selfish. You know all of the littles are going to be so happy when they hear that their big ate got them stuff from America. You’re who they look up to.”
“It’s just so hard here. I miss them and I miss my friends back home. You know the littles don’t really care about what they wear.”
“Maria, the least you can do is give them this. Think about how hard it was even just going to school in the Philippines. A part of you would guide them through their days and help them out.”
“But Nay. You don’t know how hard it is here. I can’t eat around these kids, I can’t talk, hangout. I can’t even exist without them staring at me as if I was some sort of alien.”
“You know, you put too much pressure on yourself. We haven’t been here for long. You just need more time to adjust. Aye, I mean, I can’t blame you, it is hard here. But you know why we came here, right? You remember what it was like?”
“It’s not like I can even forget. Every time I start a new assignment or journal, the scars on my fingers just remind me of what it was like.”
“I’m so sorry, Maria, they were so hard on you. I kept praying for them to allow me to work with you. But you know how the bosses were.”
“Nay, it’s okay. It wasn’t all bad. I remember when we’d sneak around, grabbing the quilt and clothing scraps. Who can get the most scraps from the same fabric, who could sneak one from under the boss–oh that one was hard, but I always beat you!”
“Hey you and your sticky fingers. You were lucky you were so small.”
“I only grabbed so much so you could make the stuffed animals when we got home! I still have my little sock monkey.”
“Mr.Nana, you know you couldn’t even say banana right.”
“Wow, it was that long ago. Nay, you think Mai and Jojo do the same?”
“I know they do; everyone needs a little hope back home.”
I missed having conversations like these with her. Immigrating had taken such a big toll on her and our relationship. Sometimes I miss what we had back home; it wasn’t even close to an ideal atmosphere for a child, but my mom wrapped up our situation with a warm bow that made it all seem much better than it was. When we first knew we were going to immigrate to the U.S., Mai and Jojo grabbed all of their blankets and stuffed animals and buried me in their closet. They said if Nay couldn’t find me, then I’d never leave. I miss them and their little shenanigans.
I look through my boxes and find the little scrunchies they made me. For my family, childhood was a fruit we’d never tasted that already went sour. I still remember my little eight and ten-year-olds working at the quilt shop. Mai and Jojo with a needle in one hand and a textile in the other. Their little hands had already grown calluses and scars from the extensive hours they worked.
Jojo came up to me a few days before we left, “Maria, take these scrunchies with you to America! That way, you’ll always have us with you.”
She was always so sweet. Always bringing little scraps for Nay’s and my projects. I think she actually enjoyed sewing. Maybe in another life, she could have pursued fashion.
Then Mai chipped in, the youngest of the three of us, but her steps rang of pure joy. Her curiosity might have gotten annoying at times, constant questions on the way to work, asking how different things were made, “Maybe if you wear them during school, we could be learning too!” She should’ve been in school, not working on these damn quilts. I wish I could sit down with her and finally answer her questions.
I sit here, staring at the Shein package, scrunchies on my wrist, and I decide that Mai and Jojo deserve these items just as much as I do. They deserve to know that their ate is there for them, across sewing tables and across seas. I grab my off-the-shoulder sweater, too old for them. Next, I found a flowy white maxi skirt. All the girls at school have one of these. Hm, no, this one would get dirty way too fast back home. Then, this dainty little cardigan catches my eye. There are these embroidered flowers peeking through the pockets, and it’s just adorable. It even has a matching skirt! Oh, this is just the thing for Mai and Jojo.
I grab the skirt and check the size, it’s a small. It might be a little big for them right now, but I know they’ll grow into it. I look a little closer into the tag and there’s more writing on it. The Shein branding, the size, and “help me.” Wait, excuse me. Help me? I grab the tag and put it under the light, my eyes have to be deceiving me, right? There’s no way it actually says help me. The light just showcases the letters that spell out “help me.” Who could’ve written this? I can’t imagine what they’re going through. Where the hell was this made where someone had to write “help me” on the tag? Suddenly, my vision blurs, and I feel the stitches of the cardigan and the floral embroidery make an imprint on my hand as my grip tightens. My thoughts are suddenly this needle piercing through my brain as memories of the quilt factory bleed out down to my cheeks. My breathing slows for a brief moment, then it starts to follow the same rhythm as the needle in my brain. My chest tightens as these memories flood over me, consuming me. I’m reminded of the first day I started working at the quilt factory. I was almost six years old, I had a later start than the rest because Nay did so much to protect me, to put off the inevitable.
I couldn’t sit still, my hands were scavenging through pieces of fabric that resembled little animals. A yellow polka dotted scrap was sand to my little blue slightly oval shaped scrap that to me, was a great big shark. What kind of person hires a five-year-old to work in a factory on quilts? I should’ve been playing out in the real sand, seeing real fish. Whoever had written this note had to have been in the same situation. Growing up in the factory, generations before working the same hours, same seats, same scars from the needles. How naive was I to think the cheapest, newest, trendiest clothes wouldn’t come at a price? The origins of where this cardigan had come from were sown into a pattern of child labour, a vicious cycle Nay and I barely escaped.
My knees hit the floor. I feel this warmth on my cheek, a salty taste hits my mouth, and the tears are all I can feel.
“Nay! Nanay come up here! Nay I need you!”
“Aye Maria what’s–”
Nay takes a moment to take in what’s going on. My hands are shaking, holding this damn cardigan, all of the Shein clothes are scattered across my floor, and my breathing is so heavy it’s a rhythm setting the tone to this room.
“Walang hiya! Why are you crying over these clothes? Are they not good enough for you?”
“Na..Nay” My breath steals control of my mouth, and I can’t muster any words out. I breathe in and out. And I try again.
“Nanay these…these clothes. Look at this one.”
“Ano? What about these clothes?” She grabs the cardigan out of my hand–my hand with stitching and flower imprints because of how aggressively I had been holding it.
“Look at the tag Nanay.”
“The tag? What it’s the wrong size? ‘help me’ anak what is this?”
She takes a second, drops the cardigan, and grabs me. I’m taken back to the factory after my first day. The boss had dragged me out of my station and decided that if I wanted to play with something, I’d do it according to his rules. He made me put my hands elbow deep into the box of needles and make sure to grab them and mix them up. I had to “play” with that for the rest of the week. He monitored my every move and ensured that every day, more and more needles would get stuck into my arms. After every day, Nay squeezed me so tight I forgot about the pain in my arms for a brief moment. After that week of torture, she promised to get us out of there.
“Ay I know anak. I know this reminds you of the factory. This whole she-in thing, is it worth it? Is it worth maybe a few girls at school complimenting your outfit?”
“No, Nanay. I know it’s not. I went up here to grab something for Mai and Jojo. I was going to give them this, but this cardigan is just a cry for help. How could this still be going on? I can’t believe there are still kids, girls, moms out there working at those sweatshops.”
“Maria, as long as there are people out there buying these clothes, people ignoring the child labour behind it, there will be these factories. Did you not research the place of origin of your clothes? Where it was made?”
“I didn’t think about that, I just wanted to fit in.”
“You know better anak. We know firsthand how hard it is to work in those sweatshops. Clean yourself up, and we’ll figure out what to do with those clothes.”
I sink into the floor and grab the clothes around me. I check every tag, reading the fine print, the washing instructions, and I realize that it was just that one tag. I grab the cardigan, and with a clouded mind, I ask it a question, not expecting a response at all.
“Where are you from? Just tell me what I’m supposed to do with you. Please.” I felt so stupid for begging this damn cardigan to speak.
“You’re supposed to break this cycle.”
“What the–what the hell.”
“Maria, by reading my tag, by knowing what happened to make me, you’ve brought me to life.”
“No you’re a cardigan, this doesn’t just happen.”
“It happens to you, Maria. I’m from Bangladesh, and I came with a message. Break this cycle.”
I couldn’t believe what was going on then, and I still don’t know if it was just my trauma overtaking my thoughts, but I decided that day I’d no longer be a part of this damn cycle. Nanay bought a gadget to unravel the yarn from that cardigan and I used it to make something new for Mai and Jojo. Brand new tops for the summer with little matching scrunchies just as they used to make for me. Now, I try to up-cycle my clothes; it’s surprising how much you can get from a thrift store. And now the girls at school actually like my style! I finally made a few friends and we started a fashion club and we always go over how to be fashionable sustainably.
The doorbell rings again, and I have no clue what’s behind that door. No more Shein packages for me, I can’t handle the thought of where those clothes originate. Nay opens the door and reveals a little brown box.
“Hi Ate! You didn’t do too bad on these scrunchies, we love our matching tops. Miss you sooo much. You better be wearing the scrunchies we made you!”
In that moment I knew, these stitches, these fabrics, these clothes, have meaningful origins and stories. And I’m going to be the one to make sure all of these items have origins not meant to tear people apart–but to stitch people together.
