In the 8th grade my favorite subject was home economics. It was divided up into several units throughout the year—the last one, sewing, was taught by Mrs. Helen Rothman. I had heard rumors about her divorced status—but it was 1963 and divorce was only spoken of in whispers—if at all. She was a tall woman with sad eyes and a brilliant smile who always seemed delighted to welcome our small class of girls—boys took shop during those days—into her room. I was a bit of a challenge, but the considerable lack of talent and ability I had in sewing I made up for in enthusiasm. I loved everything about the large sunny room with its expansive tables and rows upon rows of bright-colored threads and notions. In May of that year our class was deemed capable of sewing our own graduation dresses. They had to be white, but other than that we had lots of choices. I was flustered and unsure I was up to the task. What if I chose the wrong pattern? What if I failed and it came out looking wretched? What if this was too difficult and I simply could not graduate? I articulated all of this to Mrs. Rothman one bright May afternoon after school when I wandered into the home ec. classroom and found her hunched over her embroidery work. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she began., “What you have to do is find a pattern that you like, figure out what things you’ll need to make it work, then go about piecing and cutting and sewing, until it starts to come together. First you follow the pattern. But if you don’t want to do it exactly the way it was designed—you can always change it. You just need to practice the skills to do that. Eventually (she looked wistfully out of the large paned window) you realize that you can make your own pattern. It may not be to others’ liking, but it will be your own.” Seeing that I wasn’t happy with my Simplicity Pattern #2427 she showed me how to alter it. Then she sent me to the massive closet to pick out colors and fabrics to add my own extra “pop” to the dress. For several weeks I spent every afternoon with her in that bright room, just sewing and learning. One day she told me about her Experience Box: “Sometimes I try a new fabric or pattern and really work at it a long time, but it just isn’t right and nothing can save it. I put those things in my Experience Box and keep it up in my attic. I’ll look through the box every now and then and remember how very awful some of it was, but how it helped me learn about my next project.“ I was startled to see that she looked terribly sad—like she was about to cry and then I saw her look down at her ring-less hands. She looked at me, “You learn from mistakes but you keep trying new patterns and making new patterns and eventually you’ll create something with your own hands that is totally you. And that’s powerful.” In June I was in a special school show at graduation and proudly wore my own creation with a baby-blue cummerbund and special tiny flowers embroidered in the hem. It looked similar to the others, but it wasn’t. It was mine.
Throughout my life Mrs. Rothman’s words resonated with me. Although still not a skillful seamstress, when our daughter came along I decided to make her christening gown myself. It took me long hours and I did this without the help of a machine. Using the skills I had learned, I sewed tucks and smocking and tiny buttons throughout the gown, but not following any pattern—just creating as I went along. It looked a little like some gowns I had seen—but not really. I wanted my daughter to begin with something entirely unique, then, as she grew, to follow her own designs—as she has. And so I’ve continued throughout my life creating patterns, following patterns, and adding to my own “Box of Experience” which I rummage through periodically. All of it—all of it—has had the power of bringing me here, right now, to this wonder-filled moment—embellished however we choose—with you. “This is the pattern we will all follow,” our teacher, Mrs. Carlisle, told us as she held up a Simplicity pattern number 4972 envelope. It was late February in 1963 and here, in our Home Economics Class, in Public School 63 in New York City, we were starting the work of sewing our 8th grade graduation dresses. She carefully explained the process we would be following over the next several months working once a week on our projects, and then instructed us in how to take precise measurements. “Now girls, be sure to go to the store and get the right size pattern.” As we left the room chattering excitedly, I noticed that Sally Ann stayed behind to talk to the teacher. She looked worried. She was the smartest girl in the entire grade, always winning spelling bees and geography games but she could never go over to anyone’s house after school because she had to help out at home. Her mother was overwhelmed with Sally Ann’s five young brothers and sisters and she always had to help. She seemed generally cheerful about this except for one time. That was the day, a few weeks back, when we had a special event after school where a famous writer came to talk to us. But she couldn’t stay. “Got to go help at home. My dad’s in a bad way and mom just can’t do any more,” she told us sadly. “You know her dad’s a drunk, don’t you?” Ruthie told me when we walked home. I did not. She continued, “He used to be an electrician, but something happened and he lost his job so now he drinks all the time. They keep getting poorer and poorer. My mom says it’s a real shame how they have to live.”
Now I waited for Sally Ann to finish talking to Mrs. Carlisle. She looked sad when she came out into the hall. “Are you OK?” I asked her. “Yes,” she sighed, “I’m fine, just sort of tired.” We walked silently together to English class. My mother had no interest in sewing and no understanding of the process, so I went to the fabric store on my own that afternoon. I pulled out the drawer with the appropriate number on the card displayed in the front, and immediately found the pattern in my size. The dizzying amount of instructions made me appreciate that I’d have a teacher to guide me along. I paid the 65 cents and excitedly wandered through the fabrics. In a few weeks we would get to pick those out—but not yet. Our dresses were required to be white, but we could each choose our own fabric and our color for the cummerbund. The next week we filed into Home Ec. and sat at our designated sewing tables. My partner was Sally Ann and I excitedly chatted with her about the fabric store. Then I noticed she didn’t bring her pattern. “Oh, I didn’t have time to go,” she explained. This was odd because the store was right around the corner from her house. The teacher started class and asked each of us to hold up our pattern envelopes, and turn them to the back where the requirements were listed. “You’ll see the precise amount of fabric and the various notions you’ll need—thread, zipper, buttons. Look at those carefully as I come around to help you.” Chattering began as heads pored over the details. Mrs. Carlisle came over to us first. “Sally Ann I was hoping you’d do me a favor. As it turns out I made a mistake and got the wrong size and since I opened it I can’t return it. Can you please use this one? I think it might be your size.” As she handed her the envelope Sally Anne’s face lit up and her blond curls bounced as she excitedly said, “This is perfect!” Class continued. We learned to determine exactly what we would need. Then the instructions were to go to the store to have the fabric for the next week. After school I walked to the fabric store with Ruthie and Amy and Betty. “I think Mrs. Carlisle gave Sally Ann the pattern on purpose. I think maybe she didn’t have the money to buy it,” Ruthie said. I hadn’t thought about this. What would she do? Fabric was expensive and so were all those notions. “Do you know her mom is going to have another baby? My mom says that they’re having trouble feeding everyone,” Betty continued. “How is she going to be able to have a dress for graduation? This is a terrible situation. We need to figure this out,” I stated. By the time we got to the store we had hatched a plan. The next week we put it into operation. “Mrs. Carlisle is going to be so mad at me,” I whispered to Sally Ann a few days later. “I bought twice the amount of fabric I should have. I read the envelope wrong. She’s going to think I’m stupid. Can I just cut it in half and give you the extra part? I don’t want her to know.” She beamed. “Sure. That would be great. It’ll save me the trouble of going to the store.” And so, for the next several weeks we continued laying out the patterns and pinning them; cutting and basting; giggling and measuring. An extra zipper was found on the floor in the back and buttons were plentiful when we all put them in a box and picked a few we liked. Slowly and surely we sewed and created our dresses, carefully following the rules laid out for us—carefully following the patterns. By the end of May we were almost finished. The fabric for our cummerbunds was all we had left to get, and our own personal color was a very significant choice. “Sally Ann,” Amy asked, “what’s your favorite color?” “Oh, I love pink so much,” she declared. Amy, whose clear choice was always yellow declared that pink was hers too and continued: “Wow! Great. My aunt says she’s going to treat me to that fabric. I’ll get some for you too.” Our dresses were finished just in time and Mrs. Carlisle was proud of all of them. “You girls are so beautiful,” she told us, “And not just because of the dresses. Dresses are important, following patterns and learning to sew are important skills, but real beauty comes from inside your soul. You are beautiful, girls. Remember that.” At graduation the next week we all filed into the auditorium in our dresses feeling very grown up. We took our seats and at the end of the program filed out into the cafeteria where there were tables of cookies and Hawaiian punch. I was surprised to see Sally Ann’s mother there with all five little kids. They surrounded her excitedly, tugging at her dress and dancing around. My parents waved to me from the back of the room and as I headed there, Sally Ann’s mom stopped me. “Oh, don’t you girls look so lovely!” she gushed, and continued, “we’re all so proud of our girl. She’s so smart. And look how you all sewed your dresses! And the school giving all of you all the fabric and necessities for free. So generous of them to do that for all of you.” I saw my friend look down and I quickly responded, “I know! We’re so lucky!” Sally Anne hugged me while fiercely wiping away some tears. And as I walked away and toward my parents, I heard her mom call out, “You are all so beautiful.” The following year I went to a boarding prep school in New England and as happens, I lost touch with many of my early schoolmates. Every now and then I would hear about one or the other of them. The late sixties and then the seventies were turbulent times for the country and for us all. Time marched on. The eighties. The nineties. And then, a few years ago I heard from Betty. She had just settled into a retirement community in Florida and while clearing out her old home had found some pictures from our 8th grade graduation which she sent me via email. I was delighted and called her immediately. After getting caught up on our own lives I asked her if she knew anything about Sally Ann’s life. “Well, she had a pretty hard time of it. Helped her mom raise her brothers and sisters, and right after high school worked day and night so they could all go to college and trade schools. But, wouldn’t you know it, when she was fifty-five years old she herself went to college. Got a scholarship and everything. Graduated in just three years. Then she kept going. And now she’s going to get her PhD. In philosophy. Imagine that. At our age!” she chuckled delightedly into the phone, and then continued, “Told me the title of her dissertation but I didn’t understand all those words. So, she explained to me that she researched and studied what beauty is. I didn’t remember anything about this, but she said Mrs. Carlisle and we were the first to help her learn the true definition of that word. Imagine that!” |
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