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The first time I bring up my interest in sustainable fashion to Mum, shes wrapped in her worn pink silk dressing gown—the one I always see when I picture her—sitting in the worn red wingback chair in the corner of my parents’ bedroom.

I feel a bit silly standing next to her, trying to find the words to explain the detriments of fast fashion and the alternative of slow fashion. I feel like Im simultaneously describing something as familiar as oxygen and something as foreign as chemical engineering. Mum looks at me with a curious eye, like shes trying to figure me out.

As a precocious teen, I spent much of my time online: in fandoms, on blogs, in a sugar-fuelled daze. Mostly behind my parents’ backs. Inevitably, the cat was out of the bag when I began forcing my mum and little sister into taking photos of me in my Alexa Chung-inspired outfits for my earnest Rookie-inspired blog and Instagram page.

What solely existed online began to seep into the physical world. Bulky parcels started to arrive in the mail (addressed to me!) from fast-fashion brands wanting free marketing from a naive teenager. I eagerly photographed myself in said outfits, posting images on social media. Free clothes felt great until I looked into our rubbish bin, stuffed full of mailer bags.

I feel a bit silly standing next to her, trying to find the words to explain the detriments of fast fashion.

Back in Mum’s bedroom, I recall that period of time to refresh her memory. I do less of that now,’ I say. Have you noticed?’ Mum slowly nods, dutifully. That week, Dad bought three versions of the same T-shirt from Big W, like a squirrel storing nuts for winter.

This conversation happened two houses and a few years ago. I still keep my mum updated with my eco-friendly fashion goings-on—how Im not buying any clothes this month, how Im attending a secondhand market, how Im investing in certain quality ethically made pieces. She nods, proud in a detached way. How curious this is what occupies your brain space, I think she thinks.

*

The first clothing item I ever op-shopped was a baby pink T-shirt that reads Ciao Bella in Coca-Colas typeface. Its been mine for twelve years, there are a few holes poking through its delicate cotton. In the years Ive been op-shopping, Ive accumulated dozens of preloved pieces. They fit better than the ‘gifts’ ever did.

During one of my soliloquies about fast fashion—this one about how only about ten per cent of clothes in op shops actually sell in Australia—I tell Mum how donated goods are shipped off in large volumes to overseas countries, mostly to the Global South. From there, they’re sold to local communities or end up in landfills. Im surprised when Mum interjects to say that her older siblings were on the receiving end of this in the 80s.

In Xiashan, a district in Chinas Guangdong province, her eldest sister and only brother would purchase said bags without knowing what was inside. It was always a gamble; sometimes clothes would be tattered and beyond help, other times high quality. Mums eldest sister—my dua yi—would sometimes help mend clothes before they were resold on the street.

How curious this is what occupies your brain space, I think she thinks.

Guangdongs capital, Guangzhou, is well known as a hub for clothing manufacturing. I didnt realise how intimate that fact could be. In my work, I spoke of garment workers as distant people in faraway lands—not my uncles and aunties. I couldnt tell if this made me feel closer or further away from them.

*

When Mum was a kid, she and her four siblings would usually only get new clothes on Chinese New Year. Theyd try them on, the excitement palpable in their shared bedroom. Some years, her mum—my ma ma—would then tell them to pack the clothes away, keeping them newfor the following year.

Images: Supplied.

An exception to this annual unwrapping was when my grandpas brothers in Hong Kong would send new clothes. When Mum tells me about this, her eyes widen, her forehead crinkles and she rubs the tips of her fingers together in the universal sign of richness.

She tells me about the dresses she owned when she was around twenty, which she can count on one hand. They were particularly nice, especially for the time and place. Once, one of her uncles sent her a silk-like nightie that featured an embroidered collar. When he was in town visiting, he took her out to dinner. To his surprise, Mum showed up ready to go in her sleepwear dress, worn with a pair of pretty slippers. He asked her to change, patiently explaining that her chosen attire and open-toed shoes werent appropriate.

She tells me about the dresses she owned when she was around twenty, which she can count on one hand.

Well, these are my nicest shoes!’ she had exclaimed, not understanding the situation. It was a fancy dinner that required fancy clothes, shed thought. When she retells this story, she laughs fondly.

Back then, no one had pyjamas; youd just wear your old clothes,’ Mum says. I nod, intimately knowing the lifecycle of clothes by which our family abides: soft outside clothes are eventually relegated to inside clothes that are then worn as pyjamas and then, when unwearable, are used as cleaning rags.

Willful waste makes woeful want, as they say.

*

It seems that one of my mums favourite pastimes is telling us about how long shes had certain wardrobe items. Today, she smugly shares that the wide-brim hat on her head is at least thirty years old. She recently rediscovered a pair of flared jeans that had been in her possession for a few decades. Her signature pink dressing gown has several holes in its outer layer, a point she triumphantly shows off like theyre notches on a belt.

Old means good because old means care and because old means memories. The way we treat clothes says a lot about who we are.

 

Mum recalls how handy and innovative her mother was. In lieu of an iron, Ma Ma would press my grandpas—my gong gongs—work pants with the water left over from washing rice. Shed quickly dip the pants in the starchy water, then lay them flat, using her hands to straighten them out before they dried. Ma Ma could also repair Gong Gongs shirt collars, turning them inside out yet leaving no trace that she was ever there.

Old means good because old means care.

I wonder if—and when—Ill inherit this cleverness. Anything creative my mum attempts—knitting, weaving, crocheting, dyeing—comes easily to her. I often call out the fact that I have no tangible fashion skills before anyone else can. Despite the fact that my dua yi used to hand-make suits and Mum once knitted her and Dad matching jackets (his had his name stitched on the sleeve), I am hopeless with my hands.

*

When I was an infant, my grandparents flew to Australia (the first and only time they left China). They came to help care for me and my cousin and to see where my mum chose to build her life. Before she arrived, Ma Ma took it upon herself to carefully roll balls of sewing thread for my Mum and her youngest sister—my soy yi—from the same yarn used to repair secondhand clothes back in the day.

In every colour—from butter yellow and sunset orange to pastel purple and sky blue—Ma Ma made sure her two daughters who lived abroad werent going to be in want. So the story goes, she didnt know if theyd have coloured thread all the way Down Under.

Both Mum and Soy Yi still have most of these balls of thread. Mum’s live in a T2 gift box and Soy Yis in a Ferrero Rocher container. Some balls have shrunk faster than others, and Im afraid of the colours eventually running out. Mum reminds me that every inch of thread that we use to mend, repair, stitch and embroider has been touched by Ma Mas hands.

I stitched my first button the other day. It was rubbish, threads crisscrossing and overlapping in inconvenient places. Ma Ma wouldve laughed at my clumsy, apprehensive fingers and my strained eyes. How lucky I am to not know how to do this, I think shed think.