Lola

When I was five years old, I learned to sew from my Lola - my grandma. We used old hand towels to make dolls back then, because we didn’t have much money to spend on new fabric between the two of us. I would take unused napkins from restaurants to make our dolls’ robes and fastened hair ties along their waists to save them from unexpected indecency. I remember wanting to give the first doll we made together some hair; I didn’t want her head to get cold in the winter. But as a five year old, I couldn’t fathom how to inexpensively provide a hair transplant to my new, bald companion. My Lola told me to bring her scissors and to choose my favorite color from her well-aged collection of embroidery threads. I chose turquoise, and she thought it was an ugly color for a doll’s hair, but went on to oblige my outlandish wishes as any loving grandmother would. I still remember how awestruck I was when she effortlessly sewed long, loose seams perpendicularly down the center of my doll’s head. My Lola neatly trimmed my doll’s fresh locks of turquoise embroidery floss as if it was nothing. My doll now had a short bowl cut resembling mine - the affectionate hairstyle staple of all Asian grandmothers worldwide. As a final touch to our creation, I scribbled on a humble, lopsided smiley face with a neon blue highlighter that happened to be in arms reach. When my Mom returned home from work later that evening, I ran to greet her with my new friend.

Flashforward 10 years to my sophomore year of high school. As I learned more about sewing through patterning clothing at school and independent research, I somehow surpassed my mentor whose skills seemed so out of reach just a few years ago. When I began some more serious projects, my Lola bought me my first pair of proper fabric shears. They were bright orange, the color of a perfect mango - a treat we had shared together every summer when I was a child. While I had long strayed away from hand towel dolls and even traditional garment making, my Lola supported my interest in character and costume design for film. While she probably found the unconventional fashion of the costumes I created as ugly as the turquoise hair I picked out for the doll she made me years ago, she still loved and helped me in every way she could. Nothing honored me more than the few occasions where she would encourage me to wear the costumes I had made out in public or to school. While I would never do that - as I hated the idea of standing out like many teenagers before me- her genuine interest and support in those particular pieces meant the world to me. These rare but meaningful instances provided me with the energy and commitment to stay up late, sometimes until sunrise, running seam after seam, and snip after snip - learning to express myself through my creativity. My Lola struggled with English during my life, and I still struggle with Tagalog to this day. Despite our language barrier, creation through sewing and tailoring was our love language to one another. I would show her my designs and creations, and without words, her pride and happiness would spread from her heart to mine like a wildfire.

Before she left, I got to see her one last time. In this fleeting moment - her communication hindered by missing teeth and pain killers - her eyes met mine, she grinned, and I felt a warmth - a pureness - that would never leave me. Words alone could never do justice to telling her final moments, but she was her faded photographs from her wedding. The most beautiful smile hidden behind UV damage and time. While I can never be certain of when or what her last sewing lesson was with me, in bittersweet memories at her funeral, I thought of the day we sewed my first doll together. I thought of my first pair of fabric shears she bought me. I thought of the eccentric costumes and clothes I made to her distaste, and the prom dresses I made that she would proudly parade to all our friends and family. While I’ve moved on from making clumsy hand towel dolls, whenever I sew- whether it be for quick tailoring jobs or complicated film and fashion costumes- I feel as if I’m that first doll my Lola and I made together. I’m fragile and warmly swaddled in a makeshift robe of restaurant napkins and hair ties, resting in the palms of someone who loves me.

While some part of me was lost in my Lola’s collection of embroidery threads and sheers when she passed away, sewing allows me to catch up on the conversations I’ve missed with her since then. I keep our memories alive as I set up my sewing machine, I imagine her response to every costume I create as I cut them from their fabric, and I celebrate her life as I celebrate my craft. I feel her happiness and love in every stitch I sew as our doll - my old friend that we first made together - watches over me through every project.