A Patchwork Memory - The Quilt Shop
I was walking down Decateur Street one cool Monday morning after a cup of coffee at Café Dumond. I was bored. Hard to believe, I am living in the city known for Mardi Gras, Bourbon Street, fun and frolic, and I was bored. Well you can only drink so much and sleep too little and be involved in the rush and mania of this town – after a while one is no longer a tourist. Looking in the shop windows at the glitch and gewgaws that provide a major source of income for the residence of New Orleans, I found myself looking at some beautiful handmade quilts. I had discovered the Quilt Shop of New Orleans. In the window was a sign: Help Wanted! On impulse, I walked in and applied for the job. I filled out the application and Donna, the woman in charge, asked me to wait a minute. I went and sat on the bench outside the store and watched the world go by. After about five minutes, she called me back in and offered me the job. She apologized because she could only offer me six dollars an hour. I said that was fine, I was a bored grandmother and needed something to do.
I started the next morning. I can tell you this Fibromyalgia and standing on concrete floors for 8 hours does not work well together. By the time five came, I trudged back up St. Phillips to our bar Sin City and ordered an orange juice and vodka. After three of them I went to bed and thought about the events of the day and how I hurt. I fell asleep to awaken the next morning wondering what to wear in my new adventure as shop girl. This became my routine for the next three months as I learned about quilts, how to sell to tourists, and discovered another side of New Orleans.
Living in the south is a different environment that cannot be explained. And living in New Orleans is different than any other place on earth. I was used to being the majority and not the minority and even in the French Quarter I mostly had found myself surrounded by white folks. The Quilt Shop changed all that. Donna the woman that hired me and I were the only two white employees of the shop. The other women were black and born and bred in New Orleans. The owners, the Garrets, were transplants from Arkansas but were still “suthen” and proud of it. Mr. Garret wore suspenders all the time and you never called him by his first name which I did not understand. Most of the people I know didn’t have a last name or if they did I had never known what it was. It seemed rather pompous to me and I think, in retrospect, it was and designated him as “the man.” The Quilt Shop marketed the works of the women of Mena, Arkansas and Mrs. Garret was especially proud of the Crazy Quilts that she had designed and had her workers make. In fact, she had designed the stage curtains at the House of Blues. She would often sit and embroider on a quilt in progress as she watched her girls take tourists on a tour of what the shop had to offer.
I soon learned that I was not a shop girl, but a gallery tour guide. I learned more about quilts in this job than I had when watching Aunt Gracie doing her piece work or Mom tacking her quilts for good warm covers for winter. This shop was a gallery of women’s art and was truly fascinating. I still keep a couple of works in progress for doing my own original crazy quilts.
The crazy quilt, I learned, was actually inspired from the 1800’s when Japan came to the United States and did an exposition of their beautiful needle work. The fractals and geometric designs are amazing. American women soon adopted this work and would embellish it in the new world way.
On one wall hung an exquisite bright yellow quilt that was over a hundred years old. An uptown family of “quality” was down on their luck and discovered the quilt in the attic and sold it to Mr. Garret where it was proudly displayed with a price ticket of 7000 dollars. I later learned he had paid $250 for the masterpiece that represented a quality of stitchery that would be hard to duplicate today. I would often just stare at it and imagine the thousands and thousands of small perfect stitches being sewn by a fine lady was she supervised her servants from her sewing room.
It didn’t take me long for me to learn what Mrs. Garret meant when she said “quality” people. She asked me if I knew any “quality” people who would be interested in working at the shop. I said what do you mean? She replied in a confidential whisper, “You know people like you and me.” It finally dawned on me that she meant white folks.
When the master is away, the slaves will play.
The Garrets were often away from the shop. They had a business office in the apartment complex where they lived. I have to admit while I liked her stories and found his Big Daddy of the south demeanor amusing, it was more fun when they were gone and I got a chance to really know the women with whom I worked.
Linda was tall, black, and fearless and could sell a $2500 quilt to a tourist better than anyone. She liked those $25 commission checks. She was also ruthless. She would steal a potential client away from me with the smoothness of good bourbon sliding down the throat. I learned in time and she was rather surprised when I confronted her and got my commission on a particular sale. I had proven not to be such a wimp and she began to like me or at least show a little respect. When she found out that I was a psychic and astrologer, I became even more interesting to her and the other women that worked there. She held out her hand and asked me to read for her. I loved her hands. They were strong and deeply lined and etched with character. I remember having a dream one night and I came in the next day and said to everyone something has happened to Linda. There has been an accident. It wasn’t five minutes later that there was a call that said she would be late, she had been in an accident and her husband had been killed. The woman, who answered the phone, told her that they knew because I had had a dream.
When she returned to work a week later, we became better friends and so did the other women and I. This brash black woman was even more powerful than I realized. She now was the only provider for her children and did not have time to mourn. We would often talk about her life and her children’s life and what it was like to be a widow at such an early time in her life.
Kathy was sassy! She was also tawny, skinny and always styling. I don’t know if she ever wore the same outfit twice. On lunch break, she would have a couple of screwdrivers and play video crack. She was a trained accountant but jobs were hard to come by so she was a shop girl like me. The Garrets had her come to the office to help with getting their books in order and clearing up some tax issues. I also ended up doing some work there also.
It was then that I had another epiphany. New Orleans afforded me many of those. All of the women who worked at the quilt shop except for Donna and I made $5.50 an hour. Now that didn’t make sense to me. I finally thought well Donna is an assistant manager and I had a couple of college degrees so that must be the reason. Boy was I wrong.
At my bar there was a young girl who would often come in for a drink and to have fun with the other Quarter Rat locals. Her name was Lisa and she was about 21 or 22 but I do remember she was a Leo. She was a painter and had come to New Orleans to pursue her art. She ended up painting murals on the wall of the small hotel across the street. In need of money in order to survive, she wanted a job. Now Lisa was eccentric which the norm for my social circle was and is. She had a shaved head and wore shabby chic clothes – in other words what ever she could afford from the thrift shop. I said they have an opening at the Quilt Shop but I don’t know with your head shaved. She borrowed a wig from a dancer and put on some conservative clothes and showed up to apply. She was hired immediately. She started out at six dollars an hour. Mrs. Garret thanked me for finding such a “quality” employee. Lisa was soon not wearing her wig and wore more and more of her thrift shop designs and used her artistic temperament to explain the art and creativity of women’s art or quilting.
Mrs. Garret had Fibromyalgia also and understood my physical limitations. She soon made me head cashier and put a stool behind the counter so I could rest. While I appreciated her kindness I was beginning to be more and more concerned about the apparent racism that no one, black or white, thought anything about.
I decided to quit. My journey into the world of selling to tourists on Decateur Street was coming to an end. I convinced Mrs. Garret that Kathy was the best person to take over my job since she was trained in accounting. Before, I left, I asked Kathy to go to lunch with me and I explained to her that I was infuriated that I was paid fifty cents more an hour just because I was white, and that when Lisa was paid that also it made me even angrier. She just smiled at me in a sad but knowing way. I said now that Mrs. Garret is going to give you my job, I think that you should ask to be paid the same that I was paid.
She gave me a hug. I never saw her again. I often wonder if she got that raise.
I started the next morning. I can tell you this Fibromyalgia and standing on concrete floors for 8 hours does not work well together. By the time five came, I trudged back up St. Phillips to our bar Sin City and ordered an orange juice and vodka. After three of them I went to bed and thought about the events of the day and how I hurt. I fell asleep to awaken the next morning wondering what to wear in my new adventure as shop girl. This became my routine for the next three months as I learned about quilts, how to sell to tourists, and discovered another side of New Orleans.
Living in the south is a different environment that cannot be explained. And living in New Orleans is different than any other place on earth. I was used to being the majority and not the minority and even in the French Quarter I mostly had found myself surrounded by white folks. The Quilt Shop changed all that. Donna the woman that hired me and I were the only two white employees of the shop. The other women were black and born and bred in New Orleans. The owners, the Garrets, were transplants from Arkansas but were still “suthen” and proud of it. Mr. Garret wore suspenders all the time and you never called him by his first name which I did not understand. Most of the people I know didn’t have a last name or if they did I had never known what it was. It seemed rather pompous to me and I think, in retrospect, it was and designated him as “the man.” The Quilt Shop marketed the works of the women of Mena, Arkansas and Mrs. Garret was especially proud of the Crazy Quilts that she had designed and had her workers make. In fact, she had designed the stage curtains at the House of Blues. She would often sit and embroider on a quilt in progress as she watched her girls take tourists on a tour of what the shop had to offer.
I soon learned that I was not a shop girl, but a gallery tour guide. I learned more about quilts in this job than I had when watching Aunt Gracie doing her piece work or Mom tacking her quilts for good warm covers for winter. This shop was a gallery of women’s art and was truly fascinating. I still keep a couple of works in progress for doing my own original crazy quilts.
The crazy quilt, I learned, was actually inspired from the 1800’s when Japan came to the United States and did an exposition of their beautiful needle work. The fractals and geometric designs are amazing. American women soon adopted this work and would embellish it in the new world way.
On one wall hung an exquisite bright yellow quilt that was over a hundred years old. An uptown family of “quality” was down on their luck and discovered the quilt in the attic and sold it to Mr. Garret where it was proudly displayed with a price ticket of 7000 dollars. I later learned he had paid $250 for the masterpiece that represented a quality of stitchery that would be hard to duplicate today. I would often just stare at it and imagine the thousands and thousands of small perfect stitches being sewn by a fine lady was she supervised her servants from her sewing room.
It didn’t take me long for me to learn what Mrs. Garret meant when she said “quality” people. She asked me if I knew any “quality” people who would be interested in working at the shop. I said what do you mean? She replied in a confidential whisper, “You know people like you and me.” It finally dawned on me that she meant white folks.
When the master is away, the slaves will play.
The Garrets were often away from the shop. They had a business office in the apartment complex where they lived. I have to admit while I liked her stories and found his Big Daddy of the south demeanor amusing, it was more fun when they were gone and I got a chance to really know the women with whom I worked.
Linda was tall, black, and fearless and could sell a $2500 quilt to a tourist better than anyone. She liked those $25 commission checks. She was also ruthless. She would steal a potential client away from me with the smoothness of good bourbon sliding down the throat. I learned in time and she was rather surprised when I confronted her and got my commission on a particular sale. I had proven not to be such a wimp and she began to like me or at least show a little respect. When she found out that I was a psychic and astrologer, I became even more interesting to her and the other women that worked there. She held out her hand and asked me to read for her. I loved her hands. They were strong and deeply lined and etched with character. I remember having a dream one night and I came in the next day and said to everyone something has happened to Linda. There has been an accident. It wasn’t five minutes later that there was a call that said she would be late, she had been in an accident and her husband had been killed. The woman, who answered the phone, told her that they knew because I had had a dream.
When she returned to work a week later, we became better friends and so did the other women and I. This brash black woman was even more powerful than I realized. She now was the only provider for her children and did not have time to mourn. We would often talk about her life and her children’s life and what it was like to be a widow at such an early time in her life.
Kathy was sassy! She was also tawny, skinny and always styling. I don’t know if she ever wore the same outfit twice. On lunch break, she would have a couple of screwdrivers and play video crack. She was a trained accountant but jobs were hard to come by so she was a shop girl like me. The Garrets had her come to the office to help with getting their books in order and clearing up some tax issues. I also ended up doing some work there also.
It was then that I had another epiphany. New Orleans afforded me many of those. All of the women who worked at the quilt shop except for Donna and I made $5.50 an hour. Now that didn’t make sense to me. I finally thought well Donna is an assistant manager and I had a couple of college degrees so that must be the reason. Boy was I wrong.
At my bar there was a young girl who would often come in for a drink and to have fun with the other Quarter Rat locals. Her name was Lisa and she was about 21 or 22 but I do remember she was a Leo. She was a painter and had come to New Orleans to pursue her art. She ended up painting murals on the wall of the small hotel across the street. In need of money in order to survive, she wanted a job. Now Lisa was eccentric which the norm for my social circle was and is. She had a shaved head and wore shabby chic clothes – in other words what ever she could afford from the thrift shop. I said they have an opening at the Quilt Shop but I don’t know with your head shaved. She borrowed a wig from a dancer and put on some conservative clothes and showed up to apply. She was hired immediately. She started out at six dollars an hour. Mrs. Garret thanked me for finding such a “quality” employee. Lisa was soon not wearing her wig and wore more and more of her thrift shop designs and used her artistic temperament to explain the art and creativity of women’s art or quilting.
Mrs. Garret had Fibromyalgia also and understood my physical limitations. She soon made me head cashier and put a stool behind the counter so I could rest. While I appreciated her kindness I was beginning to be more and more concerned about the apparent racism that no one, black or white, thought anything about.
I decided to quit. My journey into the world of selling to tourists on Decateur Street was coming to an end. I convinced Mrs. Garret that Kathy was the best person to take over my job since she was trained in accounting. Before, I left, I asked Kathy to go to lunch with me and I explained to her that I was infuriated that I was paid fifty cents more an hour just because I was white, and that when Lisa was paid that also it made me even angrier. She just smiled at me in a sad but knowing way. I said now that Mrs. Garret is going to give you my job, I think that you should ask to be paid the same that I was paid.
She gave me a hug. I never saw her again. I often wonder if she got that raise.
posted by Myriam Maytorena at 7:47 AM
1 Comments:
I loved that story! Reminded me of when I was newly married and fresh out of high school and had taken a job at the local music shop in a little town called Exmore. The boss was "suthen" too and refused to hire black people. The black people that frequented his stores were poor and would often shoplift, but the white poor people did, too. Of course, he always blamed it on the blacks. I really hated working there although I was filled with the world of music everyday. There was a Yamaha guitar I died to have and that Christmas, my then-husband bought it for me. I still have that guitar in that attic. Thanks for the memories, Myriam, and keep writing!
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