Allowing Myself a Hobby

Me, posing in a femme print shirt that I wish was more representative of all women but definitely leans white. Me, navigating what it means to be intersectionally feminist, queer, and domestic all at the same time.

When I was nine, my mom taught me how to sew.

I don’t know what it was about fourth grade that made her think I was ready. Maybe I’d been asking for way too long already. Maybe she realized I was too cautious to hurt myself. Maybe she was around that age when her own mom taught her. Though I don’t remember my grandma ever sewing anything. She must have at some point, right? Before she was thrust into a world of capitalism and Kohl’s coupons?

We made a sundress together. Lavender checked gingham — probably using fabric from Hancock fabrics down the street. She was patient — more patient than she’d be years later when she taught me how to drive. But then again, a sewing machine could only be a hazard to myself.

In middle school, I took a home ec class.

First semester was cooking and baking, second semester was supposed to be sewing. We’d all ordered precut kits to hand sew stuffed animals. Mine was a monkey and I never got to make it. Because that was the year that our school decided P.E. was mandatory — that marching band, while strenuous, would not satisfy the requirement. That was the year I dropped out of a class for the first time. For years, the eerie monkey pieces sat in the bottom of my toy box, a chest that my paternal grandfather built for me when I was a baby. We all have one, stenciled with hyper-gendered phrases. Mine said “Sugar and spice and everything nice.” My parents keep these immovable boxes — toy boxes turned hope chests — as a reminder of him. A reminder that we come from builders.

In high school, I took a fashion merchandising class.

It was really a sewing class dressed up with a path to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising. I was going to college. There was no doubt about that. It had taken my father three kids and twelve years to earn his degree. There was no way anyone would let me break this new legacy. But I was also a budget-conscious kid eager to please her emotionally abusive band director, the same band director that I had in middle school. So I recruited the class to sew colorguard flags during lunch hour. And I burned myself on an iron. And the summer before senior year, I walked away from that band director — and that band.

In college and grad school, I worked in the costume shop.

First for class credit, and then for pay. I was part of the team without being in the spotlight. I covered for an unprepared student costume designer and designed my first show: How I Learned to Drive, with her name in the program and mine safely under the header “costume crew.” I moved to Boston and worked my way up to first hand, the same way I worked my way up to first chair clarinet just a couple of years before. I used an industrial machine for the first time and then spent years apologizing for my portable Singer. I broke so many needles, but no one yelled. I drafted patterns and, off the clock, I sewed bloomers to wear under my dresses. One of my coworkers made fun of my pixie cut. “Some guys like that androgynous look, I guess.” I didn’t want guys to like me. I started growing my hair back out that same day.

A haori jacket that I finished sewing this weekend. I love it, but I’m trying to come to terms with what it means to honor another culture’s fashion in the clothes that I’m making. So much of independent pattern making is Japanese-inspired these days.

This summer I finally came back to sewing, this time as a hobby.

I bought a pattern designed for advanced beginners because everything feels new. I’ve made two dresses, four shirts, and two coats. Next month, I’m making a pair of pants. When I finish writing this paragraph, I’m going to keep working on my third dress. One day soon I’ll graduate to zippers and buttons that line up perfectly. For now, I’m making clothes that feel like pajamas and look like me. I’m enjoying figuring out what makes something fun to wear, what fabrics I love against my skin, how to shorten my sleeves so I don’t feel like I’m drowning. I understand why people get into fixing cars. The puzzle of it all, the process. The pride of showing your creation off to the rest of the world.

I hope it sticks this time around. Now that I’m doing this entirely for me, I hope I can keep that passion burning. Because I’ve finally found a hobby, one that brings me an immense amount of joy. And that joy is so damn valuable.