When my grandmother was a teenager, she had to drop out of high school to work in the textile mill when her father was injured on the job. After she got married, she continued with her sewing, making handmade clothes for her children. My mother learned to sew from my grandmother, but my mother didn’t have the same affection for it. In fact, the green metal Kenmore sewing machine sat at the bottom of the closet for months at a time, unless we had a chorus show that required altering dresses. As a result, my mother didn’t teach me to sew. I took a home economics class in middle school that taught us how to thread a needle, attach a button, and the basics of a sewing machine, although the shorts I made fell apart after their first washing. I went away to college, determined to be a programmer. When I discovered my math skills weren’t quite up to par, I switched to technical theatre. During that program, I had to take several costuming classes, including a class where we made costumes for upcoming shows. Sitting at that sewing machine, I realized how much I liked it — the hum of the machine, the hiss of the steam from the iron, the ability to take flat pieces of fabric and turn them into something useful and beautiful. It was art.
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