The sun at its fullest, the low hustle of the breeze, the occasional holler of a vendor, the chirping of bird from the tree above. The otherwise quiet morning in its splendor. I was happy with my husband at the factory and children away at school, I sat cutting vegetables for the day’s meal, my loom beside me. As I strung the last bean, I noticed a yarn a little amiss. Walking over to adjust it, I remembered my early days at work, weaving a new life for myself. Two years have flown by since.
It was my husband who taught me to weave. He came from a family of weavers. They wove wool. With the loom now in my hands I do something different. Weaving scraps of plastic, I create an array of patterns.
I used to stitch. I began stitching young. My mother passed away when I was in school in the 7th grade. My father a construction worker was left alone with us three kids, two younger brothers and I. I then had to drop out of school so brothers could get a good education. I tried studying at home, tried rejoining school. It wasn’t meant to happen. It was then that I took up stitching. That didn’t get me too far with long hours at work and less pay.
Weaving through the day, I have not stopped at that. I formed a group and now teach others. The women live close by. We plan on expanding; getting two more looms to keep us going.
It has become my life now. I work hard for my two children. I want to see them have the opportunity to choose what they want to do. The difficulties I have seen, would I let my children see them too?
