The Dress (I hope I haven't overused this for a title)

Working on the loops here. I needed a foundation for the buttonhole stitch I planned to use and I needed it all to be well anchored. What I did was take a double strand of a mediumish crochet thread and worked my way from left to right, taking two stitches every inch. That worked pretty well.

Then I worked right to left doing a buttonhole stitch along the entire length--it was something like twenty-one inches from top to bottom. I finally figured out how to make it look really good on the last six inches. :) Of the second side.

One side done, one side pinned so I know where to make the anchoring stitches.

Working on the hem here. Many times around, it was. Once to pin, once to baste, once to cut, once to sew the hem lace, once to actually sew the hem. And that is not counting the time or two or three with the iron.

All finished! Aren't they loverly? I wish I'd have gotten some up close of the back and the lace at the bottom of the bodice but once I see all the pictures taken, perhaps I'll find something. All-in-all, I am quite pleased with the end result.

This is mostly hand and skirt but you can see some of the lace at the bottom of the bodice. It is lovely lace--I really like it. Laura really wanted it up above the seam; I think I'd rather have covered it. Still, it's all good.

The back. I just absolutely love this. Honestly I could not keep my eyes off this girl.

And this picture I just love. These two are great! I think I'll keep both of them.

Daughters of the Moon Sisters of the Sun:

Young Women & Mentors on the Transition to Womanhood

by K. Wind Hughes & Linda Wolf

What an interesting book. What diverse backgrounds these girls came from. It almost makes my life look like a walk through the park. Almost.

There was a time when I wished more than anything that I’d been born Native American. I remember the secretary of the school coming in to each classroom at the beginning of each year asking if anyone was part and I so wanted to raise my hand. Now, I do not remember if anyone ever did. Then, when I was about 10, my maternal grandfather learned that his mother was actually part Indian. She said eventually that it was Cherokee (which is what everyone says). The reason she put forth as to why she wouldn’t admit to that or the fact that she had any Native American blood because she and her family lived up and down the California coast from San Francisco to around Arcata (my grandfather attended something like 17 schools before graduating from high school) and part of this time was spent amongst the Hupa Indians who, according to her, might have become hateful if they’d known she was Cherokee. Whether or not it was actually Cherokee blood running in her veins, we do not know, but her father looked as if he might have been (although it was supposed to be his wife who was). Whatever blood it was, it would have originated in the eastern part of the US sometime in the mid-1800’s. I was happy just knowing that one sixty-fourth of me might be Native American. It didn’t change anything about me, but it made me feel good.

Now, having lived for a few years in New Mexico in close proximity with some Navajos, I am glad that I am who I am because I now understand that we all have our own trials, our own strengths, our own weaknesses. We are each an individual and this is a good thing.

I’m actually having a difficult time writing about this book because there are so many ways to respond to it. I think that an overall theme is that girls need to know that they are loved and cared for and respected and that they matter, not that they are just objects sometimes to be looked at, admired for our apparent beauty, used, or abused.

One of the experiences from New Mexico that really sticks in my mind is when a Navajo friend and I happened to be driving by a laundromat. A Navajo woman was lugging a basket or two of laundry out to the car and her man was sitting in the car taking a nap. My friend joked that Native women are tough—they can do anything. While I would agree, I would add that all women are tough and can do anything if they just set their minds to it. Being tough and doing everything takes its toll on us—those Navajo women are tough and they can do anything. The trouble is that many of them, especially those forced to do everything because they are with a man who will do nothing, look old far before their time. Some women who were my age looked twice as old and I find that incredibly sad. They not only had to do everything, they were often beaten for doing it simply because their men had nothing to do but drink and abuse their women. That is no way to live for the women or the men or the children who grow up with nothing but this example and thus perpetuate the cycle. In fairness, there were many Navajo men who were wonderful husbands and fathers as well (and their wives didn’t look twice as old as they were).

I really like how Tasha Flournoy (page 151) began her section: “I don’t see myself as black or African American. I see myself as a human being.” My oldest daughter is half Mexican and her children are half Korean. One of my favorite cousins is half black. In my mind, diversity is beautiful. If we were all the same, it would be a very dull world. However, we need to sometimes overlook some of our differences and focus on what we have in common.

Ultimately, while I do not agree with all the views expressed in this book, I do appreciate the honesty with which each of the contributors responded. Growing up seems to be fraught with difficulties and challenges no matter who or where or when we are. An open and honest communication would perhaps make a difference in the lives of some and if it made the difference in enough lives, then perhaps we would finally begin to see a difference globally.