(Ella) The Crochet Dress

Have you ever experienced a moment where a seemingly insignificant decision led to a flood of memories from the past? When Ella impulsively bought a low-quality dress from a sale, she was transported back to memories that unlocked powerful lessons her women ancestors unintentionally taught her.

One scorching day, I decided to seek refuge from the sweltering heat in a nearby store. Little did I expect that this spontaneous decision would lead me to stumble upon the most charming crochet dress on sale. Without a second thought, I purchased it on the spot, and to my delight, it fit me like a glove. It was indeed love at first sight! After I washed the dress, much to my dismay, it shrank considerably, and some areas even started to unravel. I kept it hanging in my closet for a while; each time I passed it, I'd ponder about purchasing crochet hooks and thread to fix it, but then I'd forget about it instantly. It had been ages since I last crocheted, and my poor dress was still sitting neglected in my closet. I just couldn't figure out which thread or hooks to use to fix it up.

After nearly a year of procrastinating, I reached out to my mom for help. I sent her a photo of the dress and asked for guidance on finding the right materials online. She was kind enough to help me out, but still, I managed to purchase the wrong thread. So, I gave up fixing it. One night, however, my curiousness about my crocheting skills overpowered my perfectionism. And little did I know that this simple act of curiosity would unlock a treasure trove of memories and stories about the women in my family.

Growing up, I always sensed an unspoken sadness among the women in my family. Though I couldn't grasp the root cause behind their sorrowful gaze, I could sense the bitterness and resentment that lingered between their silences. That very night, as I held a crochet hook and thread in my hands, it felt as if my fingers had been waiting for this moment; the joy of crocheting flooded back into my life and, with it, memories of my childhood. I remembered sitting with my mother, aunt, grandmother, and great-grandmother on the porch during hot and humid days. As I learned crocheting, I would observe their conversations as they attempted to determine the best techniques for crocheting a rug. They would work on crocheting decorative pieces and exchanging techniques. All day long, I'd watch them dismantle and remake the pieces. Even as a child, I knew they were trying to fix something beyond just crochet mistakes. They never did, though.

Those crochet conversations often served as a recess for those damaged relations, providing a moment of relief in the depth of madness. Beyond the timeless tradition of crocheting passed down from generation to generation, those afternoons held the remnants of aggressive and abusive bonds between mothers and daughters. It seemed almost unintentional, as if a second tradition emerged among these women – one of lashing out physically, using their children as outlets for their repressed anger. They would forcefully shape their daughters' paths, disregarding their desires, and emotionally squeeze them, instilling a perpetual sense of guilt for their own unhappiness. Yet, amidst the conferences about crochet and telenovelas on the veranda, not a word about resentment or pain would be spoken. It became the tattered and torn ceasefire flag in the battlefield of mother-daughter relationships.

But then, on an ordinary day, I stepped into a store and impulsively bought a dress of low quality. And in that seemingly banal act, I was transported back in time, discovering memories with my mother, her mother, and the mother of her mother. In those crochet-filled afternoons, the women in my family inadvertently showed me that I did not have to seek a connection limited to the porch and the thread. Observing and listening to those conversations taught me that those who inflict harm are not necessarily irredeemable villains. Often, they are simply unable to do any better. But that's not why one needs to sit back and take their abusive behavior passively and silently. You can always get up and leave the veranda.

It so happened that because of the heat of a sunny day, I realized that my mother unintentionally set me free by taking me to watch them. Like all the daughters on that porch, at some point, I felt trapped in a never-ending cycle of broken relationships where everything always seemed to fall apart. However, observing their conversations and seeing the sadness in their eyes, I made the decision to step away from the porch. And this allowed me to create my own story, one that is far removed from the wreckage they left behind.