Friday, February 3, 2012

Filamena

Every day I walk by the old Q and F Tailor Shop. Through the windows, peaking in, to aged brown frames of dusty family photos visiting with ferns, begonias, and bamboo crowded into corners of the store front. And yesterday, I opened the cracked glass door. Filamena was in the back pinning pants for another customer. I listened for a moment to the radio tell stories of government mistrust, Rhode Island corrupt politics, I hesitated to say hello wondering if the store was closed for the day and I had entered and stood unannounced. "Hello," I said to the back of the room. She picked up her head and walked towards me- memories of Sister Henrietta, my second grade teacher creeping into my body from the way her skirt fell, her bare legs and casual sneakered shoes. We discussed a blazer, we discussed my pant length, we talked business. And then I asked her, "How long have you had this shop here?" as I looked around at the multitude of sewing machines, tables, spools, plastic covered garments. She told me she opened it probably before I was born- 1985. And I lit up- the exact year I was born- something in her was born. We smiled sincerely to one another- suddenly a love seed, planted. And Filamena and I spent the next hour and half or two standing in her shop, she speaking of her life, me listening. The details of her home destroyed by a bomb- it was WWII, Italy- the war that took her father- the fight and hatred in the world that created a trajectory for her life- her struggle, her pain, her inspiration, her passion, her adventure, her sadness.
That day after the bomb dropped, and her family opened their eyes to nothing but the clothing that lay on their skin, and the voices that came from their mouths and the touch of one another's hands- until that was lost as well. Taken on a truck by unknown men in suits speaking of their manipulated minds, she was separated from her mother for 4 months, lost, orphaned. To be reunited later- how tender her words of her mother were spoken. Filly her mother called her, was taught to sew, as her mother sewed her First Communion dress and the suit for her brother- pride for her to sit and stand and walk with the other children, in this town outside Rome. A young seamstress a tailor, wants to defy all odds- go to the place that was spoken of a treasured land that was near impossible to stand on. Her passport is given, stamped by her unknown first cousin-a blessing he was assigned her case- and she arrives in the United States. Alone, with no familiar face, she finds her space, she takes her space, what has already been created for her in the world- the world of her choosing. I give Filly a hug goodbye. Our special meeting, my new neighbor. Till Saturday comes, I will pick up my pants, shortened, from my new friend.

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