Manhattan, New York - Late 1970's

My grandma moved to NYC at the end of the 70’s.

Her sister brought her to her new home, informing her that she had a new job. Sewing buttons onto linen shirts on an assembly line in a Manhattan sweatshop, she fearlessly took a seat amongst thousands of immigrants, working for ten dollars a day. Ten dollars was good enough to buy four medium-sized meals packaged in the plastic rectangular takeout containers. Each day, she worked 12-14 hour shifts, bringing home the same dinner and fabric scraps th

at lacked buttons.

The hot summer sun beamed through the windows, heating her sewing machine, forcing her to sew most by hand. Her left thumb and pointer finger pressed against the fabric while her right hand held the needle. Both hands working together to decorate the plain shirt. Unable to assimilate into a worker’s union or even the subway for that matter, my grandma faced the harsh reality: sacrifice was necessary. Although a foreigner to the streets of New York, she was no stranger to long work hours and demanding individuals. She worked everyday. She worked for her 20 year old daughter and 18 and 15 year old sons.

Her children’s children now run around her Brooklyn home. Thirty years of sewing came in handy to efficiently mend her grandchildrens’ holed clothing after they had been running around outside all day. Aunts, uncles, children and grandchildren all reside on flowery couches in the living room laughing and eating dinner. On the center table, there was a variety of fish, some vegetables and individual bowls of rice. Her imprinted thumbs and pointer fingers molded into the ceramic dish she carried. Unable to remain still as her hands kept shaking, she diverted her attention to her surroundings: the house that was her own and the family she had built.

Her hands tremble; yet, her kind nature remains unshaken. After dinner, she hands her granddaughter a bowl of perfectly cut up apples and pears, “For you,” was all she said. For family is what she meant.