Embroidered Guilt by Heidi Kuschel

    My sister Chantal and I were on vacation at a small fishing village twenty minutes from Cancun, Mexico.   It was August, and the Yucatan heat was solid and damp.  The weighty air seeped through our skin, and made us plump and ripe.    Neither of us could wear anything that did not have some stretch to it.  We were awkwardly exploring dirt roads.      We approached some houses at the end of town, where homemade items were laid out for sale in dry dirt yards.  There were hammocks made of bright colored ropes, sculptures cut from deep and glossy mahogany, and hats made of straw so dry I expected their brims to shatter from my touch.    If I even fingered an item, its maker would sprint to me and declare I would never find a better one.  I kept my hands firmly behind my back.      A few yards down, I spotted an ivory garment hanging on a clothesline in front of a shack made from particleboard and tin.  I approached the garment, and realized it was a dress.  The beauty of the dress was in sharp contrast to the pitiful makeshift of a home.  The contrast amazed me. 

When I finally reached the dress, I held it up my body and focused on my reflection in the mirror.  The linen looked crisp to the eye, but felt soft to the touch.  The length was perfect.  The ivory seemed to compliment my vacation-enhanced skin tone.   The dress transformed me from a sweaty tourist to a content local.      The dress was made from ivory linen with three embroidered flowers sitting above the waist.  The flowers were in varying tones of turquoise.  There were so many subtle shades of blue it was like looking through a kaleidoscope of turquoise stones that created a flowered shape mosaic.  There were green embroidered leaves that looked so fragile, yet their presence was strong.  Yellow circles were embroidered around the flowers, and it seemed as if these yellow circles might have been added as an afterthought.  However, I knew these circles were deliberate, as they reflected the tones of the flowers so well. 

An elderly Latina woman with a pock marked face and curled fingers edged her way to me.  I could smell coffee on her breath and sweat from her body.  Her tattered clothes fit snugly over her hunched back.  She was wearing sandals that looked to be made from a rubber tire.  It was painful to watch her walk.  In sloppy Spanish, I asked her the price of the dress.     “Cincuenta,” she replied.     Fifty American dollars seemed too much.  I was running low on cash, and there was still a couple days left of my trip.  I wanted to snorkel, enjoy plenty margaritas, and make sure I had enough cash for cab fare, so my sister and I would not have to take the bus to the airport.  Twenty-five dollars seemed acceptable to me.      “Veinticinco?” I offered back.     She looked at me with lowered eyes and replied, “Treinta.”     Thirty American dollars.  “No,” I firmly responded.  Since I arrived in the village, I was charged for items never received and services never requested.  It seemed as everyone in the village wanted something from me. 

“No, veinticinco!” I offered back.     The talented artist of my current object of affection seemed to dissolve from shame and something I can certainly say no American has ever known, much less felt.  It was August, and the tourist industry was weak.  My sister and I seemed to be the only tourists in the town, which made local people desperate.     “Si,” she softly replied.  

As I handed her the money, she handed me my dress.  I felt strong and powerful, how one often does when she gets her way.     Shortly after returning from my trip, I tried on the dress for a friend.  We both felt the meticulous embroidery, the difficult knit, and the hand stitched ribbon on the bottom that gave the dress definition when it moved.  The only thing that astounded my friend more than the dress was the price I had paid for it.

In the presence of my friend, I suddenly felt the heavy shame that selfish acts bring.  I wanted to hide from the memory of me choosing a candy drink with an umbrella over fairly compensating someone for her work.  My body shrunk when I recalled how I counted out my American drinking dollars in front of a woman who embroidered beauty with arthritic hands.  I mistakenly thought this dress was beautiful merely because its maker was gifted with a needle.    I failed to see the practice and patience that went into making the dress.

My sister recently asked me if I’ve worn the dress.  I told her no, it was just a vacation impulse buy.  The dress does no longer looks well on me.   She asked if I gained weight.  I told her yes, knowing she was talking about the kind that sits heavy on the thighs, and I was talking about the kind that sits heavy on the heart.      In the summer, the dress hangs in my closet and in the winter it is carefully packed away.  Every year I pack and unpack the dress, knowing I will never wear it.  Yet, I cannot get rid of it.  Physically, it fits well, emotionally, I still need to grow into it.

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