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Spanglish
Posted by Caitlin Cortez
on
9:32 PM
Sad as though it may be, you truly never leave high school.
There will always be the pretty girls, the guys who have the world at their fingertips because they can catch a ball, the geeks, the art freaks, the granolas, and the inevitable wannabes.
Life is compartmentalized and clique-ish in New York. There is a status, a membership, a label attached to everything. You are either in or you're out. There are neighborhoods, bars, floors, and even sewing machines that restrict entrance/use.
After proving my ability in turning paper patterns into prototypes, my days seem to be spent listening to "Livin' La Vida Loca" in a hot, sticky sewing room. For the first couple of weeks I was shunned by the sewers and forced to sit in the corner sewing on a rusty Juki with feed dogs so ravenous so as to eat my fabric.
As if the language barrier wasn't excluding enough, I sat in the corner in a somewhat wannabe state of mind, with my back towards the professionals, the locals, the geeks you befriend so you can stay eligible for the Friday night game. The sewers are the heartbeat of fashion. So often forgotten and overlooked. They turn your vision into reality, your failing trig grade into the winning touchdown with no recognition. Their name isn't on the garment, or the MVP trophy you walk away with at the end of the season.
After doing my time as the "new girl in school" desperate for acceptance, I was finally allotted a seat next to Louis, master sewer, valedictorian. I felt oddly validated, and terrified of failing to deserve such a sacred seat. As I began loading my bobbin for winding at my shiny new Juki complete with a personal fan, Louis looks over at me and shakes a pre-wound bobbin in my face nodding at me to use it. He just gave me a sharpened pencil before the final.
He might not be the quarterback or voted most likely to be famous, but he is the one cheering you on at the big game, or voting for you so you can receive coveted yearbook space.
He is the one sewing the labels into your clothes so you can feel constant indulgence. He winds your bobbin so you can sew. He holds the seams together as they are falling apart.
People often say there is beauty in the breakdown. But I find the beauty to be in the formulation.
The formulation of relationships, seams, and Spanglish.
There will always be the pretty girls, the guys who have the world at their fingertips because they can catch a ball, the geeks, the art freaks, the granolas, and the inevitable wannabes.
Life is compartmentalized and clique-ish in New York. There is a status, a membership, a label attached to everything. You are either in or you're out. There are neighborhoods, bars, floors, and even sewing machines that restrict entrance/use.
After proving my ability in turning paper patterns into prototypes, my days seem to be spent listening to "Livin' La Vida Loca" in a hot, sticky sewing room. For the first couple of weeks I was shunned by the sewers and forced to sit in the corner sewing on a rusty Juki with feed dogs so ravenous so as to eat my fabric.
As if the language barrier wasn't excluding enough, I sat in the corner in a somewhat wannabe state of mind, with my back towards the professionals, the locals, the geeks you befriend so you can stay eligible for the Friday night game. The sewers are the heartbeat of fashion. So often forgotten and overlooked. They turn your vision into reality, your failing trig grade into the winning touchdown with no recognition. Their name isn't on the garment, or the MVP trophy you walk away with at the end of the season.
After doing my time as the "new girl in school" desperate for acceptance, I was finally allotted a seat next to Louis, master sewer, valedictorian. I felt oddly validated, and terrified of failing to deserve such a sacred seat. As I began loading my bobbin for winding at my shiny new Juki complete with a personal fan, Louis looks over at me and shakes a pre-wound bobbin in my face nodding at me to use it. He just gave me a sharpened pencil before the final.
He might not be the quarterback or voted most likely to be famous, but he is the one cheering you on at the big game, or voting for you so you can receive coveted yearbook space.
He is the one sewing the labels into your clothes so you can feel constant indulgence. He winds your bobbin so you can sew. He holds the seams together as they are falling apart.
People often say there is beauty in the breakdown. But I find the beauty to be in the formulation.
The formulation of relationships, seams, and Spanglish.
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