I’m Back–Now Let’s Talk “ShAmtrak”

It’s been a while since last I posted on this site–but it felt like the right time.

So much in my life has changed since I first began writing Shmy.

To start with, I’ve moved to downtown San Diego.  Little Italy to be exact. I took a job in Irvine, which is in Orange County–about 76 miles from my apartment. It exists behind what I like to call the Orange curtain. Of course living behind the orange curtain would make my life easier than downtown SD, but the place just doesn’t feel like the right place for me. So, I moved closer to the train, in order to commute more easily to work.

Let me describe for you the experience of attempting to travel via public transportation in the state of California.

FIrst off, it’s nearly impossible to get from South to North in any mode other than Amtrak. Which is akin to taking the first ever jet plane across town.  It’s expensive, loud, slow, often late, usually empty, breaks down, has no record of your ticket (you must have a paper ticket), is rarely on-time, can’t move if another train is anywhere in the vicinity, and unlike a jet it makes a million stops.

Now, many people who read this will think to themselves, duh! It’s California, what do you expect? You’re supposed to drive your car. It’s the way the state is designed. I would say, what about the Bay area? Why is it that some cities can do public transport well and others can’t? Why can’t we improve something that is so clearly dysfunctional?

It’s a question I ask myself often. Why is it if we see that something doesn’t work, we can’t simply fix it? Streamline the system to help make it better? 

The pros of taking public transit each day are the many human moments that simply can’t be experienced in the safe pod of your car, driving up and down the freeway. I give my car (a Prius) a rest. I give the environment a break. And I lower my risk of being involved in an accident. 

The cons? I drove home from work the other day–it took me three hours.

Guess, I’ll keep struggling with the train.

The Perfect LBD

Owning an amazing, sexy, functional, well-made, and great fitting little black dress just might be one of the keys to a stress free and more productive life.

This past Sunday in the Style section of the Los Angeles Times, I saw an article about a young woman by the name of Sheena Matheiken.  A New Yorker, originally from India, Matheiken began writing a fashion blog a year ago called the Uniform Project.  In it, she sets out to wear a single little black dress every day for a year. She styles it in 365 different ways, all to raise money and awareness, about the sustainability or lack thereof in fashion.  Simply put—she advocates shopping in your own closet. Matheiken changes the look of the dress by radically changing the accessories and shoes. She exclusively uses recycled, vintage, handmade, or repurposed items.

Matheiken’s friend Eliza Starbuck designed the LBD.  It’s reversible, meaning it can be worn with the buttons in the front or back.  It’s manufactured in New York  using 100% cotton with

a pique weave and a crisp finish. All the dresses are produced in small numbers so as not to have un-necessary over-stock.

On the website, www.theuniformproject.com, the readers are able to see Matheiken’s ingenious looks as well as buy the LBD for $180.00. Thirty dollars of the dress proceeds go to the Akanksha Foundation in India; a grassroots movement that promotes education in India by under-writing educational expenses for children living in India’s slums.  The website has raised over $75,000.

You have to see the variety of Matheiken’s looks to believe them. The possibilities she creates seem endless. She wears an eclectic mix of clothes under and over the dress.  April 15^th she wore the dress open as a jacket with distressed jeans underneath.  September 20^th a tube mini-dress over. December 15^th cargo shorts under. Of course for New Years Eve, gold palazzo pants under. She also wears tights in every color and texture imaginable, leggings, or sometimes skirts under and over. She wears it with a melange  of shirts. She drapes the dress with scarves and capes, and sometimes topping it all off with a hat. Shoes are anything from sneakers to boots or  ballet flats  to pumps.

Ultimately the dress ends up looking chic, funky, sophisticated, girly, uptown, downtown, ethnic, frumpy, or hippyish. All the looks are attractive, hip, and fresh and it doesn’t hurt that Matheiken is freaking adorable.

In order to avoid becoming a hoarder, I try to donate  something whenever I buy something new. New black shoes, donate an old pair.  Recently, because of my job, I’ve found the need to keep more stuff. I hate accumulating un-necessary stuff.

So, I’m learning the lesson from this petite young Brooklynite who for a solid year wore the same LBD. I will begin using every single thing in my closet to makeover the clothes I already have.

The problem is…I feel like I really need to buy this particular LBD in order to start. Thus, I’ve just added another LBD to my wardrobe.  Argh…

Social Shmedia

So… I followed someone’s tweet to their website. I sent them an email, which they responded to by asking to be my friend on Facebook. I accepted.  They asked me to become their fan and I did.

Does that mean we’re friends?

I was recently introduced to the world of Twitter.  I had an account, but I wasn’t very adept at how to use it. Like all of this technology, I always stick my toe in first. I’m a sort of nervous adopter, you could say. Much like learning a new language, each new electronic step is like an introduction to an entirely different culture.

I love to travel.  I mean, I really love it. The most fun for me is going somewhere I’ve never been and attempting to navigate.  Twitter, Facebook, and the blogosphere are all very much like travelling to me. Travelling invigorates me.  It makes me smile, and though it can be frustrating sometimes, ultimately I leave wherever I’ve been feeling like I was happy I visited.

I believe that when travelling the best way to fit in with the natives is to learn their rules, customs, and language.  Otherwise, you stay in tourist mode and are just a dabbler cloistered in your bubble of ignorance… not fully able to appreciate the world you’re in.

It’s important to try to learn a few words of the language wherever you are even if you mess up—as we all know, people (usually) love that you’re trying. (Unless you’re in France or Japan, homogenius nations where the citizens don’t give a shit that you’re trying, because it’s clear you’re not one of them.)  I’m not fluent in Twitter, Facebook, or texting, but I can hold my own with a few of the essentials.

For Twitter, it needs to be short–only 140 characters. Keep tweets clever, charming, sexy, witty, with-it, hip, in, awesome, freakin’ amazing. Yikes.

Texting is shorter. Short-hand is encouraged and helpful.  UG2BK, FB, RT, DM, OMG, GTG, BRB, BFF, LMAO, RUOK, URZ, W8, VM, TXM, and the every favorite, WTF. All done quickly,  while I’m driving…LOL.

It’s important to learn the proper etiquette.  In every environment, there is a correct way to conduct oneself.  For example, over-Tweeting would be equivalent to monopolizing the conversation at a party. Tweeting about eating a sandwich would be equivalent to boring the people around you.  Adding a link  (to your own work) to your status every time you tweet or Facebook is like handing out your business card to everyone you meet, whether they want it or not. You get the point.

One sure way to get yourself into trouble while twittering is to Phish.  Phishing means to attempt to hack into people’s personal accounts.  It’s as bad as spam, telephone solicitors, stalkers, and Glen Close characters.  Definitely an un-becoming way to behave in Twitter Ville.

And then there are Hash tags. These are # signs in front of catchy words or phrases, created by Twitter in order to bring people to your world.  Enticing and flirting with them to “Come on over to my place Big Boy and boost my analytics.”

The biggest problem with Twitter, as with FB, is making the time for it.  Throughout the day I now check my website (SanDiego.com), FB, Twitter, Gmail, my blog, and cell phone. There’s not enough time in the day.

Remember back when people thought that sitting in front of your computer, alone, or talking on the cell phone would make the world a less social place. Hah! I’m more social than ever.  I’ve got friends all over the world. The question is, are they really my friends?

They’re more like my shmends.

I say Twitter, Text, blog, Facebook, and cell-on my shmeeple.

BTW my handle on Twitter is Rebekahshmys…look me up!

Curtain call

My name is Rebekah Sager and I’m an acting addict. When I was fourteen years old I began attending a high school for the performing arts called Duke Ellington. I was in the theater department. Ellington saved me from the horrors of public school. Here you could be different and it was rewarded. I loved everything about my Fame-like experience–academic classes in the mornings, theater classes in the afternoons, play rehearsals late into the night. I loved pretending to be anyone but me. When I was a senior, I applied to two schools to further my acting training. Julliard was my first choice and Carnegie-Mellon University was my second. My audition for Julliard was a complete failure. This would be a hint of things to come. Thankfully, I was accepted to Carnegie-Mellon. After graduating, I moved to New York. I got the first of many theatrical agents–getting those was never hard for me. Getting a job would be a different story. The first, and most important step in being an actor is surviving the audition. Auditioning, (for me), is like marrying a man that beats you. You know it’s not good for you, but you get something out of it. He says he’s sorry every once in a while, so you keep going back. You walk around with bruises defending him saying, “it must be me…what did I do wrong?” You hope he changes, but he never does. Initially, most actors’ first meeting is with a casting director. Pass that blockade, and you get a “call-back”, where you meet with the director. Lastly, you see the producers. I made it to the call back phase but never further. In fact I was the “call-back queen”. I met Spike Lee four times but never booked a job. I met the director of an HBO movie about the life of Josephine Baker. I auditioned for the movie “Queen”, an Alex Hailey mini-series about a “tragic mulatto”. I lost roles to big names: Jada Pinkett-Smith, Halle Berry, Lonette McGee, Janet Jackson. In the end it always came down to my “type.” I was too ethnic to play Caucasian, too light to play Black, too pretty for character roles, and not pretty enough to be a star. I had lived on both coasts, moving from NY to LA. I got close, but I never booked a job worth mentioning. I eventually left LA and quit for–the first time. I moved back to DC. I got married. Worked out and didn’t sit around waiting for my agent to call. I was happy. For a little while. Was my lesson learned? No. I was compelled to keep trying. I did a little theater. I performed a small role in a play at the Arena Stage. I was an understudy, but the woman I was understudying broke her ankle, so I went on for the entire run of the play. The members of the Arena Stage company were a hateful and spiteful bunch. These talented and lucky-to-be working actors turned my novice actors triumph into a horrible fucking nightmare. Actors. Never trust ‘em. I vowed to quit for good again. It was the second time. Then I had my son. I found my calling as a mother. I was happy. We we moved to San Diego. After settling in and getting our son into pre-school, I had some free time again. I decided to pursue what I was trained to do—theater. I was sure acting wasn’t what I wanted, so I made the decision to teach theater. Why not? It wasn’t acting. Maybe I could find my love of acting through those I taught. I worked for the La Jolla Playhouse, teaching acting, play-writing, improvisational theater, and directing plays for dis-advantaged kids. I thought I’d found my calling. But one production of Macbeth at a local middle school too many, and it was clear that I’d lost my passion and my patience. Theater, even teaching it, wasn’t good for me. One more time I quit. I put it behind me. Until two years ago. I decided, I’m older now, it’ll be different this time. I’ll try acting again. I got head-shots taken and found a local San Diego agent. In my second week out I booked a job. It was as an on-camera spokesperson for a car insurance company, not exactly what I was trained to do, but for once, acting gave me something back. I made a record salary of $8,000 for three days of work. I was able to take myself to India. I was back in the game. Getting the money from the agent proved to be harder than getting the job. I continued to audition around town. All the humiliation and abuse came flooding back. What the fuck was I doing? I began questioning and hating everything about myself. Again. Until one year ago, in January, at my husband’s suggestion, I began writing this blog. I think my husband was tired of hearing my various tirades, and hoped that the blog would channel my ideas into something creative. It was the greatest gift anyone has ever given me. I never would have known how much I had to say and how much joy I could get from saying it. It has truly changed my life. My husband has said that creativity is a mighty stream of water running though a hose—you just have to find the right nozzle to best direct your raw energy. For my whole life, I’d only tried one nozzle, acting. It never really worked very well for me, but it never, ever occurred to me to try something else. Find the right nozzle and you’ll find your salvation. I guess, every once in a while, my husband says something worthwhile. I’d like to say that through all this, I’ve finally learned that acting isn’t healthy for me. This is my curtain call. I’m done. Like all addicts, I know this won’t be as easy as it seems. I have to take the first step and admit that I have a problem. This is my admission. I’ll take the rest of it one day at a time.

Clearing the field.

I recently wrote a story about a local Brazilian waxing boutique.  I’d never had a Brazilian before, but in order to write about it, I had to experience it. Not for the faint of heart. With my legs splayed, I felt as exposed as a snail ripped from its shell, and pain like a slapped sunburn.  I stopped short of the Brazilian.  Bikini wax was plenty. I might do it again…

Why do some women feel the need to remove all of their hair?  I know that a hairless pelvic region is not new.  You don’t see bush coming out of Venice D Milo’s gown.  But, does that make it right? I’m not usually the very last girl to see a hem line change or a chunky accessory appear…but the whole “it’s normal not to have any hair down south” style completely passed me by.

In general my position is if your partner can’t find what’s important down there without a bare spot in the forest, then maybe he or she is not prepared for the hike and doesn’t deserve to go mucking about. It’s like Survivor, the reality show, how much help do we give these people?

The other thing about a bald ‘hoo-ha’ is how much it looks pre-pubescent; a little disconcerting.  Porn much?

I understand I sound like a hairy, old, boring feminist, but shouldn’t ‘Queenie’ be given any credit for maturing like a fine wine.  Must women look like their daughters for sexual inspiration?

 I’m not advocating the Angela Davis, although if that were the trim trend, and women didn’t have to endure shaving, waxing, lasering, and electroylisizing, maybe we’d be a little less cranky. 

 Then there’s the Vagazzle. Brought to people’s attention by the oh so sage Jennifer Love Hewitt (trend setter and author).  While on the Lopez show to promote her self-help dating book, she said, “After a breakup a friend of mine Swarovski-crystaled my ‘precious lady’ and it shined like a disco ball. So I have a whole chapter about how ladies should vagazzle their va-jay-jays.”  All this for a burst of bling to your ‘kitty’ drawing people to you like a bee to a bud. 

I’ll try not to throw-up. I only hope I live to see the Penazzle

Personally, the exotic wonderland between my thighs is more Brazilian rainforest than Rio beach. The National Cancer Institute has identified 3000 plants  that can fight and kill cancer cells and 70% are found in the rainforest. Best not to chop down too much.

The End?

I’m not sure if it’s because of the current financial crisis, global warming, terrorism, or the recent emergence of bizarre animal flu strains, but what’s up with all the apocalyptic themed movies and books lately? 

I loved Cormack McCarthy’s book The Road, but whose idea was it to make a movie of it?  Some things are better left to the imagination.  Then there’s 2012, another movie about the world coming to an end through a series of natural disasters.

I’m currently reading Stephen King’s Under the Dome. I’ve just begun it, but I’m starting to think that even though it’s not a natural disaster, a giant dome enclosing a small town and cutting it off from the rest of world with no way to escape feels pretty Armageddon-like.

All of which has gotten me thinking about our little family and how we might survive the end of days. 

For the basic needs of food, water, and shelter, I’d be inclined to stay in our neighborhood and work together with our neighbors—they’re not only nice, but practically speaking, they’d be good in an apocalypse. One guy’s a contractor, another a tinkerer, the guy next door is a sizeable man, maybe too fatty to eat, (but we could use his fat for something), another family seems the kind that might keep stores of food (unlike me, my chance of survival probably isn’t good mainly because I don’t have a Costco membership). Also, there are dogs in the neighborhood, we could eat them.  One lady has a parrot. One guy protects his backyard using barbed wire. It seems like he has experience keeping out the masses.

When society breaks down, the observation I’ve made is—all of my anti-war, anti-death penalty, anti-gun sentiments, left-leaning political correctness aside—the truth is…you need to be armed.  Things always boil down to people using catastrophe as an excuse to turn into some kind of  zombie-like monster with the sole intention of raping, pillaging, killing, and eating you. People in La Jolla seem nice, I admit.  The lovely people who work at Warwick’s Books and Gifts, the cute girls at Lululemon boutique, the nerdy folks at the local library, the blue-hairs at Casa de Manana, the parents at my son’s school—everyone appears pleasant and kind…but wait till these same yoga-loving, sports enjoying, book-reading, walk-by-the-sea kinda’ people get hungry. You just know all the pleasantries would fall away. The equation would turn simple: eat or be eaten.

One group I’d be concerned about would be the Wind N Sea surfer dudes. They don’t care about anything more than catching the perfect wave. Killing and eating me wouldn’t bother them at all.  I’m sure those guys would take me over to El Pescador, grill me up like a fish taco, put a little salsa and cabbage on me, and not think one more thing about it, dude.

Truthfully, I’d hope that in an apocalypse people would help each other and humanity be different than ususal.   But since I know that most people can hardly deal with being cut off in traffic, can’t comfortably have a disagreement about ideologies or religions, and generally hate people who don’t agree with them or who look different from them, I’m not gonna’ hold my breath.

When I asked my son what he thought we’d need in an apocalype, other than food and water, without pause he said “girls”.  He also said that I wouldn’t last in a catastrophe because I snack too much and would therefore eat all of food. 

I’d like to hope that I’d be a kind of leather-clad,  fully strapped Mad Max meets gangsta’ rapper and Terminator badass action heroine.  I would protect myself and my family, shooting with precision and  killing anyone that tried to hurt us.

Who knows… it could happen?

NFW

The other day I heard a woman say she wanted to re-do the boob job she’d had before her last child—“I didn’t pay all that money not have them look perfect,” she huffed.  

Then I had a conversation with a woman at my gym. We were discussing a mutual friend who had recently had a breast augmentation. To my discerning eye, the friend had a great body before surgery. The new boobs seemed unnecessary to me.  “We women should be careful not to allow the media to dictate our personal definitions of beauty,” I declared. The woman I was talking to had been under the knife herself. English was her second language; and she’d served in the army in her homeland as a teenager… one tough broad, right?

Not so right. Let’s just say she took my comments the wrong way. She stormed off and began talking about me to another gym member within earshot. 

I should have let it go, I know, but I grew up in DC, and I’d fought scarier women than her in the past for even flimsier reasons I am sure, that’s just how I roll.  Like a warrior I screamed across that gym: “Shut the fu ** up before I kick your her mother-fu**ing ass.”

So much for women achieving a higher level of bonding and understanding. (I was raised by a male until I was 12. Does it show?) 

Another woman I know regularly does all kinds of things to her face—Botox, collagen, laser peels, you name it. I asked her when she thought her face would be “finished”.

She looked at me like I was crazy.

I have to admit I’m not perfectly Zen about aging. I’ve begun looking at my body more critically recently.  I’ve found myself nudging, testing, wondering secretly whether I should get a little of this or a little of that…my boobs lifted a tad, my wrinkles “relaxed”, my lines filled.

I had back surgery about eight years ago, and it was a terrifying experience for me.  Not to mention two friends of mine who weren’t fortunate enough to choose whether or not to have surgery. They lost their breasts to cancer.  I don’t think you’re going to see me ELECTING to have surgery anytime soon. I’m an idealist, yes. But even more, I’m a wuss. 

That and the expense. A spare ten grand could go a long way in my household.  

I color my hair to keep from looking gray and old. I buy expensive bras to lift the girls up. I work out and watch what I eat so that I don’t get fat. I go to the doctor and get blood work done to make sure I’m healthy on the inside.  I get my teeth cleaned every three months so I don’t lose them. My mother was born in England, at a time before fluoridated water. At a young age, she was relegated to keeping her teeth in a glass. 

Surgery is an extreme my vanity can’t rationalize.  At some point, what I have naturally has to be enough. I have to be enough just as I am.  

Three weeks before my mother died she showed me the incision on her chest from bypass surgery. I felt it was inappropriate at the time. Ironically, it was then that I noticed the infection that would kill her only weeks later.

 The funny thing was, one of the reasons she was showing me her chest was to give me a glimpse of her breasts, which she was very proud of, even at the age of 65.  Looking back on that moment, my breasts look kind of similar today—which is maybe why I’d like to change them, and probably why I never will.

 

 

 

My Curtain Call

My name is Rebekah Sager and I’m an acting addict.  

When I was fourteen years old I began attending a high school for the performing arts called Duke Ellington.  I was in the theater department.  Ellington saved me from the horrors of public school. Here you could be different and it was rewarded. I loved everything about my Fame-like experience–academic classes in the mornings, theater classes in the afternoons, play rehearsals late into the night. I loved pretending to be anyone but me.

When I was a senior, I applied to two schools to further my acting training. Julliard was my first choice and Carnegie-Mellon University was my second.  My audition for Julliard was a complete failure.  This would be a hint of things to come.  Thankfully, I was accepted to Carnegie-Mellon.

After graduating, I moved to New York.  I got the first of many theatrical agents–getting those was never hard for me. Getting a job would be a different story.

The first, and most important step in being an actor is surviving the audition.  Auditioning, (for me), is like marrying a man that beats you. You know it’s not good for you, but you get something out of it.  He says he’s sorry every once in a while, so you keep going back.  You walk around with bruises defending him saying, “it must be me…what did I do wrong?” You hope he changes, but he never does.

Initially, most actors’ first meeting is with a casting director. Pass that blockade, and you get a “call-back”, where you meet with the director.  Lastly, you see the producers. I made it to the call back phase but never further.  

In fact I was the  “call-back queen”.  I met Spike Lee four times but never booked a job. I met the director of an HBO movie about the life of Josephine Baker. I auditioned for the movie “Queen”, an Alex Hailey mini-series about a “tragic mulatto”. I lost roles to big names: Jada Pinkett-Smith, Halle Berry, Lonette McGee, Janet Jackson.

In the end it always came down to my “type.” I was too ethnic to play Caucasian, too light to play Black, too pretty for character roles, and not pretty enough to be a star.  I had lived on both coasts, moving from NY to LA. I got close, but I never booked a job worth mentioning.

I eventually left LA and quit for–the first time.  I moved back to DC. I got married. Worked out and didn’t sit around waiting for my agent to call. I was happy.  For a little while.

Was my lesson learned?  No. I was compelled to keep trying. I did a little theater.  I performed a small role in a play at the Arena Stage.  I was an understudy, but the woman I was understudying broke her ankle, so I went on for the entire run of the play.  The members of the Arena Stage company were a hateful and spiteful bunch. These talented and lucky-to-be working actors turned my novice actors triumph into a horrible fucking nightmare.  Actors. Never trust ‘em.

I vowed to quit for good again. It was the second time.

Then I had my son.  I found my calling as a mother.  I was happy.  We moved to San Diego.

After settling in and getting our son into pre-school, I had some free time again. I decided to pursue what I was trained to do—theater.  I was sure acting wasn’t what I wanted, so I made the decision to teach theater. Why not?  It wasn’t acting.  Maybe I could find my love of acting through those I taught.

I worked for the La Jolla Playhouse, teaching acting, play-writing, improvisational theater, and directing plays for dis-advantaged kids. I thought I’d found my calling this time. But one production of Macbeth at a local middle school too many, and it was clear that I’d lost my passion and my patience.  Theater, even teaching it, wasn’t good for me.

One more time I quit. I put it behind me.

Until two years ago. I decided, I’m older now, it’ll be different

this time. I’ll try acting again. I got head-shots taken and found a local San Diego agent. In my second week out I booked a job.  It was as an on-camera spokesperson for a car insurance company, not exactly what I was trained to do, but for once, acting gave me something back. I made a record salary of $8,000 for three days of work. I was able to take myself to India.  I was back in the game. Getting the money from the agent proved to be harder than getting the job. I continued to audition around town.  All the humiliation and abuse came flooding back. What the fuck was I doing? I began questioning and hating everything about myself.  Again.

Until one year ago, in January, at my husband’s suggestion, I began writing this blog.  I think my husband was tired of hearing my various tirades, and hoped that the blog would channel my ideas into something creative.  It was the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.  I never would have known how much I had to say and how much joy I could get from saying it.  It has truly changed my life. 

My husband has said that creativity is a mighty stream of water running though a hose—you just have to find the right nozzle to best direct your raw energy. For my whole life, I’d only tried one nozzle, acting. It never really worked very well for me, but it never, ever occurred to me to try something else. Find the right nozzle and you’ll find your salvation. I guess, every once in a while, my husband says something worthwhile.

I’d like to say that through all this, I’ve finally learned that acting isn’t healthy for me. This is my curtain call. I’m done.  Like all addicts, I know this won’t be as easy as it seems. I have to take the first step and admit that I have a problem. This is my admission.

I’ll take the rest of it one day at a time.

Shmy Way or the Sweatshop

People who know me know that I’m somewhat obsessed with all things Indian.  I travelled to Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur, and can hardly wait to return to explore different regions of the country.  I read books about the culture, tried to learn a little Hindi, love the food. If the movies Slumdog Millionaire, Gandhi, or Water pop up on TV I can’t stop myself from watching—even though I’ve seen them countless times.  I don’t know why the Indian subcontinent it holds such fascination for me, but it does. Perhaps in my previous life I was Indian. Who knows?

So, the question is: how would my shopping habits change knowing that so many products are made in sweatshops in places like India, where the working conditions are horrible, and children are often employed to make all the wonderful stuff that I covet?
         

While liberal Americans like me cry foul over third world conditions, the notion of the sweatshop was actually born in anti-bellum New York, the center of the nation’s garment industry, with workers in sweatshops making clothes for slaves on Southern plantations.

Prior to the mid-nineteenth century, most Americans made their own clothes at home.  If people were wealthy, they were able to purchase “tailor-made” clothes. Tailoring was an immigrant profession. You didn’t have to speak English. If you could sew, you could work. You could support your family—that was the “opportunity” in the whole Land of Opportunity concept that was America in those days.

As the century turned, and the tide of Irish, Poles, Italians, and Jews continued to flood into America’s ports, the new immigrants took whatever jobs were available. “If the average American woman is the best-dressed woman in the world; the Russian Jew has had a good deal to do with making her one,” said Abraham Cahan, a Lithuanian-born American newspaper editor, novelist, and politician.

In 1910, nearly 70% of all women’s clothing and 40% of men’s clothing sold in the United States was produced in the garment district in New York.

The decline of the industry began in the seventies and eighties. Rents in the garment district increased, American workers were unionized and expensive. An over-seas workforce was a cheaper alternative. So began “outsourcing.” Today, 97% of clothes sold in the US are made in other countries.

With manufacturing moving out of the country, so did the monitoring of how employees are treated.  A US Labor department lists more than 80 countries that employ child or forced labor. The list is alphabetical, beginning with Argentina and ending with Uzbekistan. The products include cotton, garments, gold, sugar cane, tobacco, coffee, leather, electronics… and even pornography.

So what to do? 

Buy clothes at American Apparel?  I’ve never shopped there, but I’m beginning to think that maybe it isn’t such a bad idea. Everything in the store is made in Los Angeles.  The company supports  immigration and health care reform and Prop 8. The cotton is organic.  They pay their workers well, offer on-site medical facilities, and give health care.  The only problem–the CEO Dov Charney and his penchant for sexually harassing and wrongfully terminating his female  employees.  Making it hard for me to support this company despite the “made in the US” label.

Reduce the amount of new clothes that you buy.  Probably the easiest thing you can do.  Simply purchase less clothing. Most of us don’t need or wear all of the clothes in our closet, so if we can curb the impulse to purchase another new piece of clothing, we don’t even need to worry about the issue of supporting sweatshops.

Stay out of department stores, especially big ones. Much of what is sold there is produced overseas, probably in sweatshops. If you don’t see “made in the US” on the label, it’s safe to assume the product was produced in a sweatshop.

 Shop online and look for retailers that make a commitment to using fair labor practices.  One website that I found helpful was sweatfree.org.  Check out the “shopping with a conscience” consumer guide. 

As it turns out, in India, the country I love so much, a 14 year old can begin to legally work. But nearly 22 million Indian children under 14 are forced to work. Fifteen million kids are sold into slavery every day. Think of that the next time you see that six hundred dollar pair of boots you just have to have. Think to yourself: How many months could an Indian family live on $600, and how old was the tike that stiched them together?

Lean On Me

I used to think my mother was weird for treasuring her friends on such a deep level, these women she spent so much time with, particularly after I left for college. But it dawned on me recently that my friends, who are all women except for one, have become more and more important to me as I’ve gotten older. 

I have a good number of friends and they fulfill different roles in my life.  Obviously some are closer than others. Some I’ve known longer; the well is deeper. Some I’m becoming closer with all the time.

I thought I might list what my friends do and have done for me, and how much it means to me.

 

• Listen to me when I’m having a problem with my husband or my son.
• Recommend: books, boutiques, restaurants, travel destinations.
• Cook amazing meals for my family and me, usually for Jewish holidays.
• Tell me when they’ll be at the beach so that I can meet them there and have someone to talk to when my kid has left me for other kids and/or the ocean.
• Support my ridiculous purchases. (Which are never really as ridiculous as theirs, I think they’ll agree, but I still feel that way.)
• Let me sleep on their couch. (This is an allusion to visiting friends in Brooklyn, not fighting with husband. We’ve never done the sleep-on-the-sofa-mad thing, though I think we’ve both pretended to start to do it at least once. We love each other too much to sleep apart in anger. Neither of us I don’t think wants to ever send that message.)
• Share an apartment with me and teach me how to be an adult. (This could be my husband too!)
• Tell me to get off my butt and walk harder, to join a campaign, to admit when something is my fault.
• Listen with patience and answer my inane questions about iphones, ipods, and computers over and over again.
• Bring me smoothies when I’m constipated after surgery.
• Walk with me…which really keeps me in shape.
• Talk to the nurse when she calls on my cell phone to deliver the horrible news that my mother has died.
• Tell me their problems, ask for my advice, and let me help them.
• Send me some of the funniest emails.
• Call…just to check in.
• Let me horn in on their date nights when my husband is travelling.
• Read my blogs.

I didn’t have a lot of friends as a kid.  Maybe because I didn’t know how to be a friend, maybe because we moved around a lot. Who knows?  I think I’m a pretty good friend now, at least I try to be. 

I don’t know what I’d do without my friends.  I’m not sure they always know that, but it’s true.