Philosophy
World History
Literature
Psychology
with ease
but words
which I have always loved
above all else
now stand in my way.
On the way home from work tonight
I will buy textbooks
to study for my first round of exams,
keep them
like Papa keeps the Torah
sacred
protected
revered,
and somehow
secret, too.
But I am practiced
in this sort of lie
and I have a plan:
mathematics is a universal language
a good place
to start.
Spelling is only
learning to hear the sounds correctly
and memorizing—
a perfect task
for dreary days
in the shop.
Rosh Hashanah
The high holy day begins at sundown.
I do not know why
the cutters and pressers
[the men]
are allowed to leave early
so they can be home in time
to pray
to make way
for a new year,
while the sun goes down
and still we work.
When at last we are free to go
the street floods with women
rushing home.
I know Papa hopes this year
I will repent
give up my dreams
but he may as well ask
that I stop breathing.
I will miss the service tomorrow.
While my family blesses one another,
goes down to the water
to perform tashlich,
I will be at work.
But we will celebrate in our own way.
Evelina is bringing apples and honey
and Bina is baking a braid of challah
for us to share.
Tonight
I will salt a fish
for our little feast.
Gut yor.
Happy new year.
soon
Ours is a life of darkness and lamplight.
We know that outside the shop
the autumn sun shines—
only we never see it.
I am glad
to bring a wage
home to my family
but
my fingers are sore
my eyes grow tired
from squinting
at tiny stitches
all day.
The whirring machines are loud
(so loud)
my head rings
for hours
after I leave.
Soon,
I tell myself,
soon
I will be in school full-time
this will all be behind me.
But I look around
at the rows and rows
of immigrant girls,
heads down
voices silent
and I wish this better life
did not come
at such a price.
inspector
I did not understand why
the foreman came running
scooped up the children
dropped them behind
a pile of crates in the back corner
tossed a stack of fabric
over their heads.
He said,
A piece of cake
for each of you
if you don’t say a word,
if you stay hidden
until I come back.
I did not understand
until the man with the clipboard
and the drooping mustache
fixed in a permanent frown
strolled in with the boss.
(who gave away more smiles
in five minutes
than I have ever seen
on his face)
I watch as the inspector
checks the toilet
checks the window
checks the scrap heap
checks the door handle
to see that it opens
from the inside.
He scribbles notes
tears a copy from his clipboard
for the boss.
See that these items
are corrected
with haste,
he says
as he walks away.
The boss looks at the list
tosses it into the stove
Get those children
back to work!
and he locks the door behind him.
whispers
At lunch,
the children play jacks
in the corner,
the girls chat
in between bites.
From the drapers’ table
I hear a new word
whispered
with a hard edge
furtive eyes
darting to the foreman’s desk:
union
I think this is a word
I need to understand.
Yom Kippur
Taking no food for the day
is not so hard.
In the course of a day
I eat very little.
Like a bird,
Mama says.
What is much harder
is looking
my sins
in the face.
Have I hidden
in my books
in the name of learning
while injustice
spreads its roots
in the ground beneath me?
union
It took three dictionaries
one English
one Russian
and one translating between the two
but I have found the word
I was looking for:
union (n):
an organization of workers
formed to protect the rights
of its members
We are workers.
Do we not deserve protection?
Do we not have rights
just because we are women?
tradition
Papa has decided
because I bring home less
because Mama’s piecework
has never paid more
than a pittance
it is time
for him to look for work,
outside the home
outside of shul.
Today he found it
in a humble crockery shop.
It is a new thing for him
to put aside his holy studies
during the day
to work.
We are a people
of tradition,
new
does not come easily.
old world
Inside I am anything
but fresh off the boat.
I have been ready for this
possibility
all my life.
On the outside,
I know I look as if
I have one foot still
in the old world.
But I have no time
no money
; to spare
for new clothes.
In this country,
a working girl
wears a hat.
She sheds her old-world feathers
for a starched shirtwaist
an A-line skirt
a brisk gait
and a wide-brimmed hat.
She arranges feathers
scraps of fabric,
buttons on the rim
to show that she has a style
all her own
to say,
I earned this
for myself.
My head is bare
and I wonder,
can it be wrong to wish
for a frivolous thing
that cannot feed the belly
or the mind
or the heart
but only the fickle flights
of the spirit?
—still, it would be nice to have a hat
to show the world
I have both feet
firmly planted in this
American soil.
luck
Luck is with me today.
Not five blocks from home,
against the brick walls
of the shops lining Grand Street
a warbler’s yellow breast
catches my eye
and I follow him around a corner
into a grimy alley
streaked with filth,
lined with piles of refuse
waiting for the trash carts.
His dainty feet cling
for a moment
to the curved wire frame
of a hat form
peeking out of the heap
behind a milliner’s shop.
With a
cheep
and a flutter of wings
he is gone.
A single yellow feather
falls out of the sky
lands in my cupped hands.
I tuck it into my waistband
snatch the bent
broken tangle of wires
from the mound of thread
and tissue paper patterns,
shake it clear
hold it close
all the way home.
Tonight I sit by Mama;
we bend over our work
by the light
of a single lamp
while Papa and Marcus study
while Nathan reads
while Benjamin rolls his king marble
a patch of bluest sky,
lofty clouds trapped
within an orb
of polished glass
around and around
in his palm.
The wire mesh is frayed
and twisted
I prick my fingers
a dozen times
as I twist and wrap,
bend and press the wire into place.
I pull scraps Mama saved from her piecework
stitch them in strips around the brim
saving the biggest piece,
a delicate brown scrap of felt,
for the crown.
I wet it
stretch it
wet and gently stretch again
until it cups the frame,
as if it always planned
to take such a lofty shape.
The ugliest scraps
I sew underneath
where no one will see them
but me.
Last of all,
I tack the bright yellow feather
in the bend
where crown and brim meet.
The result is simple.
(a little wobbly
but it will do)
The working girl
wears a hat.
Tomorrow
my head will no longer
be bare.
traffic
I step a little lighter
on my morning walk,
the warbler’s feather
dancing in the air
above my head.
There are no hooks in the workroom
for something so delicate
as a ladies’ hat,
so I leave it on my head.
The foreman knocks it
to the floor twice,
yells each time I set my needle aside
to pick it up,
dust it off.
I move my hat to my lap
careful not to shift my legs
crush it under the table.
Midmorning,
when I leave my seat,
the forewoman trailing behind me
tapping her foot outside
rapping at the door
if I take too long
in the toilet,
I set my hat carefully
on my chair
where I hope it will be safe
from the frantic traffic
of the shop.
When I return
not two minutes later
it has been knocked to the floor
trampled flat—
crown crumpled
felt torn
bright yellow feather
snapped at the quill.
dictate
The director of the free school
stops by
our evening study session
leans in
over my shoulder.
She nods her head
in approval
as I take dictation
as I take the all too round sounds;
mouth the name of each letter
as they form words on the paper before me.
Don’t forget,
the director says to the room
before she pivots
out the door,
the exams are next week.
I advise you all
to use every available moment
in the coming days
for study.
If only I could find a way
to study
in my sleep.
blood
snap
Evelina cries out
snatches her hand back
from the machine
that punched its eyed fang
through her nail.
Work stutters to a stop
as she cradles her hand to her chest
too late—
a drop of blood
blooms on the crisp
pattern piece in front of her.
The foreman crosses the room
smacks the back of her head.
You stupid
careless girl!
he shouts.
You will pay for that yard
of cloth.
I cannot,
Evelina cries,
please—
we will be on the streets
if we cannot pay the rent!
He heaves her up
and out
her stool crashes
to the floor.
The clamor in my head
doubles
even though one less machine
bangs away in the workroom.
In the morning
a new girl sits on Evelina’s stool
her eyes flash this way and that—
she has that desperate
fresh off the boat
look about her.
When my eyes blur
to the work before me
it is as if blood already flows
from her fingertips
and the sticky
stain of it
is all over my hands.
greenhorn
Tonight I am missing an English class
I cannot afford to miss
but I cannot
do nothing.
The papers write about the unions
how they negotiate
with the shops for
the rights of the
male
worker
perhaps they can tell me
who defends
the rights of the
female
worker.
I walk several blocks
out of my way
in the dark
under bare tree branches in Seward Park
crisscrossing the clouds
glowing with the rising moon
casting a dome of stained glass
above my head.
The play structures
are empty
abandoned.
The lights in the offices
of the Jewish Daily Forward
burn long into the night.
I climb broad steps
push through a pair of carved wooden doors
into an office humming with activity.
Excuse me,
I say,
can you tell me how
a worker can form
a union?
I am directed up the stairs
to an open hall
where young men in flat caps
pound away
at the typewriters before them.
Cigarettes droop from their lips,
forgotten
in the flurry,
the fever-pitched
sprint
to make the night’s deadline.
At the labor desk
a reporter takes the time
to lift the cigarette from his lips
tap the ashes into a tray
with dozens of stubs
bent like uprooted tree stumps.
What you want,
he says,
is the ILGWU
at the corner of Third Avenue
and St. Marks Place.
Ask about a local.
He props the cigarette between his lips
pounds at the keys.
They’ll say no,
of course,
he raises an eyebrow
in my direction
before returning to his work
but something tells me
that won’t stop you,
will it?
My dress is shabby
my hat is gone
the skin under my eyes
stained with fatigue
—but somehow
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