A month ago (it was much more than an month—it was almost 6
weeks ago) I posted my personal “manifesto” promising that I would not buy any
clothing for one year. Perhaps it wasn’t really a promise, rather more like a
thought, something that would have been nice to do. But, you know, things
happen and sometimes we (I’m not alone in this, am I?) change our minds.
I have walked through a number of places that sold clothing in the 6 weeks
since the manifesto and my resolve did not weaken. But a few days ago I
went to Marshall’s, the mecca of discount shopping. I had to go there for the
sake of my health. You might need an explanation. I’ve been reading a book
about the beauty product industry, how it is not necessary to buy expensive
products, that often the expensive products are no better than perhaps
petroleum jelly or baby oil. In this book, the author writes that one should
use a washcloth only once before laundering it because—horrors!—a wet washcloth
can expose you to harmful bacteria if used repeatedly. I’m lucky I didn’t get a
terminal case of bacterial face crud in the years that I’ve used a washcloth
more than once. Those wet washcloths could have killed me. So I had to go to Marshall’s to buy all the plain white cotton
washcloths I could find. It was the only reason I went into the store. There
was a cold rain outside and it was the last place I wanted to be. It was a
sacrifice, but I did it for my grandchildren.
Although it was truly a drive-by shopping excursion, after securing the
washcloths and heading for check-out, I maneuvered my cart through the sale
aisle of the women’s clothing section. I would have gone straight through the
center of the store but there was a huge group of handicapped mendicant nuns (I think they had orphans with them) in
the center aisle and I didn’t want to disturb them because they were blind and
barefoot and I was afraid the cart might hurt them. (Oh, gosh—I’m could spend
some extra time in Purgatory for this lie but thankfully I don’t believe in
Purgatory.) As I raced past the sale rack, a beautiful white embroidered blouse
practically jumped into my cart of its own volition. It had been reduced twice
from its low Marshall’s price to a mere $15.
I knew it was no cheap blouse made in China. My innate textilian instinct
told me that it was really hand embroidered and the tag confirmed that it was
made in Mexico. I sensed that some indigenous woman had labored over the hand
stitching in this blouse and it was a horrible injustice, indeed a human rights
abuse, for this to be hanging so ignobly under fluorescent lights on the rack
of a discount store in Vienna, Virginia. So I took it home with me to protect
it from further shame.
Once home, I looked it up online. Indeed, my instincts were right. I found
it online for nearly $100. Ha! The company had photos online of the indigenous
women who shed their blood to make this blouse. Here’s the description that I
found:
"One of our most popular blouses, the light weight, 100% Mexican cotton Rebecca features an oversized fit with fine, slimming pleats in front and back and lovely hand embroidered details on the front and the sleeves. Embroidered by the talented women of Oaxaca and Chiapas, Mexico! Preshrunk. XS - XL * Embroidery may vary due to the handmade nature of this product.”
So, my manifesto be damned! I did this for my people, for the women of
Oaxaca and Chiapas, in solidarity with them to support them trying to make a decent
living with the work of their hands. I might not even wear the blouse, but just
keep it hanging in my closet as a symbol of my commitment to support indigenous
people everywhere.
Then again, I might wear it to a Farm Aid concert or something similar, but
only because I’m committed to the cause.
Here’s the photo posted on the website of the company that is committed to
fair trade and to supporting the artisans of Oaxaca and Chiapas. I feel like I
should send them a check for what the blouse should have cost.
No more shopping for me—I can’t take the emotional roller coaster.
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