The Courier-Journal
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
When refugee women enter the sewing classroom for the first time —
most knowing little English — they often don’t know what to expect, said
Anna Gray Slagle, one of the women who runs the Stitch program.“They come in with their eyes down,” Slagle said. “They just have no idea what we’re asking them to participate in.”
But
every Tuesday and Wednesday morning, Stitch — a sewing class at the
Pleune-Mobley Center organized by Highland Presbyterian Church and
Kentucky Refugee Ministries — is bringing together more than just pieces
of fabric.
In its most basic form, Stitch unites refugee women with English-speaking instructors who teach them the basics of sewing.
But
it’s more than that, said Janet Raderer, who runs the program alongside
Slagle. It gives refugee women a safe place to practice English, she
said, and gives them skills and confidence to move toward
self-sufficiency.
“We want to help them to be independent,” Raderer said.
Since
Stitch started in 2011, more than 50 women have gone through the
program, many coming come from Nepal, Cuba and Somalia. On a daily
basis, volunteers will help a group of six to eight students with
various sewing projects. A group of 17 volunteers help run the progam as
teachers or in other capacities.
Slagle
and Raderer said when they first started the program, they had a
difficult time taking students out of Kentucky Refugee Ministry’s
English as a Second Language classes, which met at times similar to
Stitch’s schedule.
Now, the ESL teachers sometimes refer students to Stitch as a way to learn English.
“I
think the teachers began to realize how much conversation goes on in
here, and we are just amazed with the students that we’ve had for a long
time, how much better their English is,” Raderer said.“They’re learning
different words — they’re learning ‘bobbin’ and ‘thread’ and ‘scissors’
— but in conversation, they’re learning a lot of English as well.”
Most
students come into the Stitch program without any previous sewing
experience, so they start by sewing circles and squares on pieces of
paper, Raderer said. Once they become comfortable with the machines,
they move onto tote bags, pillow cases, aprons and eventually more
sophisticated garments like pants and jackets.
The volunteers also learn about the dress in their students’ native
countries. Because Somali students wanted to learn to sew kaftans, a
type of robe or overdress, Slagle and Raderer had to figure out how to
construct a pattern. Other students wanted to make hijabs, the head
scarves often worn by Muslim women.“We teach each other,” Slagle said. “It’s a wonderful thing, and I absolutely love coming.”
The
students stay with Stitch for varying lengths of time. Sometimes they
reach a skill level where they don’t need Stitch anymore, Slagle said,
or some get jobs that prevent them from attending class. At that point,
if a student expresses the skill and desire to be a “good seamstress,”
Slagle said, she will graduate from the class and Stitch will send her
away with a sewing machine and a box of notions.
Six
weeks ago, Slagle and Raderer added a class on Thursdays, called “The
Cottage Stitchers,” for women whose skills have outgrown the Stitch
class. The women will make items using fabric provided by the program,
and Slagle and Raderer help them sell the items to support their
families.
“It gives me great pleasure to see these students at bus stops, wearing outfits they have made in our classes,” Slagle said.
Slagle
said the Stitch volunteers often form friendships with the students.
She said she loves all her students, and some have even become like
family.
Suzanne
Uwamahoro, originally from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, has
been a Stitch student for a couple years. Before coming to the U.S.,
Uwamahoro’s husband and five children were killed in front of her.
Uwamahoro has shown Slagle and Raderer a scar from where she was also
shot.
Slagle said
when Uwamahoro first told her this, she noticed Uwamahoro had been
wearing men’s clothing to class. Slagle, who had a bag of clothing she
was going to take to Goodwill, thought she’d instead give them to
Uwamahoro. When Slagle offered her the clothing, Uwamahoro “burst into
tears and just hugged me to death,” Slagle said.
“She calls me ‘white mama,’ ” Slagle said. “I am her white mama, and I accept that with my whole heart.”