Sam: Sewing as a Practice in Re-Parenting
Sam, a black woman, stands at a sewing table looking away and smiling.
This afternoon while laying in bed with my best friend, I remembered something that occurred when I was about thirteen or fourteen. I think I was in 7th grade. I was interested in middle school “dating” this boy who had a reputation for sleeping with all the girls he dated. I still remember his too-common-to-search-for-online name, this boy who took an interest in me. Somehow we decided we were dating. I had a rule, though: he wasn’t to expect sex from me because I wouldn’t be giving it up. I also had a solution to the potential relationship problem: he “could” have sex with whomever he wanted and he and I could still middle-school-date. People were confused that I would “let” him have sex with other girls, but it didn’t bother me at all because he definitely wasn’t going to have sex with me and if that’s what he “needed,” well I guess middle school me was in full support. I recounted this story to my best friend and lover, Jess, who said something to the tune of “not much has changed with you.”
It wasn’t until they said it that I realized I have been polyamorous for most of my life.
A photo of a school photo of Sam as a young teen, wearing a light green shirt and a big smile.
And even when I lived a different life and had vastly different views than I know to be true now, I have ultimately valued my own personal autonomy. This value wasn’t “very valuable” when I identified as a religious person who aimed to be pious, subordinate to my husband, and a mama who also has all of her shit together like the stories that I overheard while sitting in church.
I took up sewing as a way to do something for myself. Laila Grace (pronounced ‘lay-luh-grace’) was about one year old and I was deep in the symptoms of postpartum depression (PPD). I reached out to my local birth center for help because, contrary to what my (then) mother-in-law said, I refused to believe that becoming a parent – a mama – was supposed to be this dreadful. Many people suffer with PPD and are unable to even begin to know where to look for help because it’s something that is ridiculously hard to talk about. I called the Birth Center and I was afraid that after I told them that I was overwhelmed with nursing, cooking, keeping up the house, etc., that they would swoop in and “take” my baby. And I also didn’t yet know that I wasn’t alone in the way I felt. Maybe you’ve heard of “baby blues??”
Although I didn’t follow protocol for getting mental health services, I was able to connect with a psychiatric nurse practitioner who talked to me in a way that I could understand. What I was going through is just one variation of “normal.” I was tasked with homework so that I could get some shit done to help me cope. The teacher part of me legit is so down for homework. I jumped right on that shit. Somehow. Even with PPD clouding my view.
A journal page in a spiral notebook. The page reads: “March 27th, 20–. *Poem. When my room is in disarray, my mind is in disarray. I feel that I have no control. I despise going home. I can’t peacefully accomplish anything. I don’t even want to go home. The kitchen is a mess. The living room is a mess. The whole house is a trash bin. Although dad doesn’t have a job and hasn’t had one for quite a while, he doesn’t feel inclined to clean up. He practically lives in”
Around this time, I also had a book club that I coordinated via Facebook. My angel, Birdie, had chosen the book we were to read this time. This is when I was introduced to Brené Brown. Brené’s delivery of anecdotal data and ways to combat perfectionism (amongst other things) was mind blowing for me. I wanted to know more. I mean, if what Brené and my psychiatrist were saying was true, then I was not “broken, selfish, and ugly” like I had grown up hearing and understanding from the feedback of “trustworthy” adults...
And then my psychiatrist gave me one more life-changing homework assignment. I was to think about my dreams and what I wanted to do with my life and pursue something that fed my soul and that had nothing to do with my baby or my (now ex) husband whom I couldn’t stand the sight or sounds of…
A selfie of Sam and a baby strapped to her back.
That’s how I started sewing.
Learning to sew is something that I had wanted to learn to do. I had a sewing machine that my mother had given me. I’m not sure how I found out about PDF patterns. Maybe I’d learned about this from my sewing friend turned friend-friend named Natalie. I went to a very popular facebook group and downloaded their free leggings pattern. I did all of the things: print, assemble pages (the absolute worst part about those pdf patterns). And I made something. [Link to screenshots of a 2015 blog post documenting Sam’s first Patterns For Pirates raglan top.]
A selfie of Sam wearing a black and white striped tee.
I sew for my inner child in a pretty roundabout way. What I am actually doing is reparenting myself, guiding my babies through their life, and all the while sewing for my own extraordinary body as an act of self-care. (I got this phrase from my dear friend, Becca Duval, who is one of my first-ever sewing friends.)When I practice “gentle parenting,” or what I just consider to be parenting, by understanding that all behavior from the babies who share my life is an illustration of an unmet want, need, or desire, I am reassuring them and also four-year-old Sam that I’ve got us. Each time, each interaction, each mistake made and each learning opportunity lends to more healing for me and more security for the kids. This mindful practice gives me energy to continue to do the next right thing even if I don’t know what that will be. I know that I want to foster an environment where we are free to make mistakes and to understand that mistakes are how we learn.
In this environment, we can always show up as our true and authentic selves without trying to be what we think someone else wants or needs us to be. I aim to foster a family culture where we resist shame at all costs and embrace autonomy as a core value. And so I sew as a way to take care of myself and just focus on a project, focus on my hands and the fabric, the needle and the thread. I focus on the sounds of my sewing machines, the whirr of the fan that blows on me to keep me cool. I focus on the instructions within the patterns. I am fully present, and it’s in those moments, when I allow myself to fall into ease. When I take care of myself in the present with sewing, resting, loving, and remembering my needs, wants and desires, I am doing the same for all of the previous versions of myself. Showing up for the neglected parts of my inner child is healing.
A photo of Sam as a small child, wearing a ruffled dress with puffed eyelet sleeves and a frilled gingham skirt.
When I’m wearing the clothes I’ve sewn, I feel lovely; I feel vibrant. Sometimes the garments are my armor. (Like when I was teaching high school in August and was told that me existing in this Black, queer, adorned-with-tattoos body is a “distraction from the learning environment.” I’m like, “no, bitch. The cooling system not working consistently when it’s easily 120 degrees Fahrenheit outside and the internet being down for weeks at a time is a distraction from the learning…”). They envelop me, protecting my body from the elements of anti-Blackness and microaggressions. Other times, my #WhatSamMade garments serve as a focal point that only adds to my presence.
Sam stands in a parking lot, wearing a faux jumpsuit in black and white checks, silver shoes, and a bright yellow fanny pack.
As I continue to seek and cultivate autonomy within myself in all of the spaces that I occupy, I am reminded that I am worthy of wearing beautiful things mostly because I exist in this world. My body has changed just as my beliefs are ever changing. [Link to screenshots of a 2016 blogpost documenting Sam using the KonMari method on clothes that no longer fit her body and/or style.]
My clothes are a gift to myself. I am a gift to myself. This deep knowing that I now cultivate within is also a gift to my darling, past self.
Two Black femmes embrace and look at the camera with serious but soft expressions. Sam is on the left.
Sam (she/her/hers) is @WhatSamMade on Instagram. Sam is a queer Black femme and mama of two kids. She is a high school English teacher by trade and acquired a Master's degree in secondary education as well as a Bachelor of Arts in English from the University of Arizona. She is currently on a leave of absence from her teaching job in a public school until December of 2021 after enduring more than two years of targeting, harassmen,t and micro- and macroaggressions from admin at her school. Sam practices solo polyamory and is passionate about cultivating a life that is filled with ease. You can learn more about Sam HERE or on her new Patreon and her Instagram.
Sew Queer is a community, and we welcome comments and discussion. In order to create a welcoming and multivocal space working towards a more just and equitable future, we review every comment before approval. Comments promoting racism, classism, fatphobia, ableism, or right wing political ideology are not allowed and will not be approved. For more details on commenting, visit our commenting guidelines.