One evening when I was seven years old, I returned home from the St. Adalbert Bazaar excitedly carrying my winnings: two packages of cotton paisley handkerchiefs. Well, my brother and I would certainly have fun with these! One set was red and the other blue. Our necks and faces sported them all summer, sometimes covering our mouths and noses when we were pretending to be bank robbers, and at other times under our chins when we were lawmen or cowboys in the Old West. Upside-down mops served as our horses. When September came around and it was back-to-school time, the kerchiefs were shoved in a drawer, never to be played with again.

Fast forward to when I was in high school. One day, I came home after school and those squares of red and blue had reappeared atop the lid of my grandmother’s sewing machine. “What are you going to do with those?” I asked. “I’ll figure something out,” she responded. A child of the Great Depression, my grandmother was not about to throw away good textiles. They would be repurposed. She was the queen of upcycling before upcycling was chic.

She drew a pattern for a tank top, then created a red one for me and a blue one for herself. They were trimmed with white lace around the straps, along the bottom, and across the top of the chest. Mine was kind of roomy, but comfortable. I was told it was made big on purpose so I would “grow into it” which was grandma’s way of saying that she thought my chest would keep expanding. Anyway, I thought it was a cute top and I loved it.

One sweltering summer day, I wore my new light-as-a-breeze garment out to meet some friends at the mall, which is how we socialized. My snobby sometimes-friend “Janie” took one look at me, then burst into laughter. “So, when did you join the Bloods? HA, HA, HA!” A girl she brought with her who I had met for the first time said, “Well, I know you certainly didn’t get that thing at The Gap!” For a fleeting moment I had half a mind to call them out for insulting my grandmother’s handiwork, but I kept my mouth shut. My teen self was mortified at being mocked by my peers. I tried to laugh along with them, but it was not a pleasant trip after that. While shopping, I considered buying a t-shirt that I could change into on the spot to save myself further embarrassment, but on the other hand I didn’t want to give my frenemies the satisfaction of knowing their words had gotten to me. Upon returning home, I changed out of the tank top, put it in a drawer, and never wanted to look at it again.

Decades later, I was cleaning out my grandmother’s apartment after she passed away. I discovered her 1939 graduation remembrance book from Central Needle Trades High School. She noted in it that her career goal was to become a “seamstress and fashion designer.” She worked at Bloomingdale’s initially but after she gave birth to my mother, those days were over. She became a homemaker, raising her children and then helping raise her grandchildren, but never gave up her love of creating clothes from scratch or transforming plain shirts into dazzling garments festooned with ribbons, sequins and embroidery. I thought about all the times she repaired our clothes or let the hems down on pants as we grew. I recalled her patiently trying to teach impatient me how to use her sewing machine, something I never got the hang of, but a skill I wish I had today. I cleaned out yellowed newspapers that had been cut into dozens of original patterns and gave hundreds of buttons, bobbins, and spools of thread to one of her neighbors.

Continuing the cleanout, I moved onto a closet where I found both of those 1980s tank tops hanging side-by-side. The sight of them made me freeze. I had totally forgotten about them by this point and was surprised that they had not been donated to St. Mary’s Clothing Drive years ago, but there they were. The colors hadn’t faded, and the cloth was perfectly intact on both. I tried on my long-lost custom-made red bandana tank top. It was less roomy, with a better fit! Grandma was right, I “grew into it.”

I suddenly remembered that I had planned to make a transaction at Maspeth Federal Savings Bank, and it was getting late, so I rushed out of the house still wearing the top. At the bank, I was waiting behind the velvet ropes when I heard someone with a familiar voice call my name. I swiveled around to see Janie, the girl who had moved away to what she thought would be greener pastures, but unforeseen circumstances brought her right back to where she started from. She still preferred to have people think she was from The Hamptons or Beverly Hills rather than Queens, however.

“It’s been a while,” she began. “How have you been?” We exchanged pleasantries and updates as we waited to conduct our respective bank business. She said, “I love that top, it’s SO unique and it looks great on you!” obviously not remembering either the shirt or the mall incident. I had a feeling her compliment was sincere, but I was not about to let this golden opportunity go to waste.

“Thanks,” I replied. “It’s a vintage Stella.”
“Oh?” She said, “Stella McCartney?”
“No, Stella Wolinski.”

A teller called out, “Next!” and I left Janie standing there looking puzzled as I approached the window, snickering.