Page 50 - Self Talk

done. Two zips, the sleeves next. Zip, the collar.
Zip, zip, the cuffs. A few more zips and the finished
shirt fell into a cardboard box on the floor. Against the
far wall, two rows of women in identical blue smocks ironed, folded and boxed men’s shirts in robotic precision.
It was before ergonomics, carpel tunnel syndrome and arthritis drugs. It was the summer of 1967 in Charleston, South Carolina. I had graduated from high school and just passed muster to join the ranks of the sewing brigade at the Manhattan Shirt Company.
Four women, about my mother’s age, and I were seated
in an empty row of sewing machines, facing the final test. We were instructed to sew ruled seams on otherwise blank sheets of paper. The machine was much faster than ours at home and I had all I could do to keep the needle on