As a young kid, the Bratz doll quote, “fashion is my passion” was what I strived for. The ability to transform strips of fabric into fashion that could make me feel like someone else when worn, felt like magic in my young 10-year old’s eyes. But unfortunately,  life always got in the way.

In 2004, my family picked up their limited belongings and immigrated to Canada (the story goes that we came here for my education, but in reality it was because my parents couldn’t afford living back home.).  And so, I arrived in a country that was new, frightening and surprising. Snow flakes fell from the sky, everything was in English and everyone, I mean everyone, wore the dullest clothing imaginable. Blacks, blues and reds dotted the horizon, every store was filled with the same standard uniform that rarely changed season to season. 

When all I dreamed of was a kaleidoscope of magentas, deep purples and turquoise. Pungent smells of sandalwood and turmeric fills my memories as people rushed in with red cotton sarees, dupattas of green and silver, gold bangles clinked as they walked. The world so vibrant, colourful and familiar began fading further and further away as the years passed.

We never could afford to travel back home as a whole family, as much as I missed the vibrancy. So instead my father would leave on his own and return with a treasure trove of gifts. I  remember always getting excited as he would open his big black suitcase, while we anticipated with weighted breath. He would pull out a new shalwar kameez of the trendiest style that year or a new saree. Despite the excitement it would bring, over the years those clothes would barely be worn, the cold climate made it impossible. So they rotted inside suitcases in the basement, only worn once or twice at social functions, then given away when we got bigger. Over the years, traditional desi clothing felt like a time capsule of a begone era, a memory of what could have been but never materialized.

The World Wide Spindling Web

During my formative years, I would ask my parents to buy new clothes from Walmart but, we couldn’t afford them so we bought second-hand sweaters from local thrift shops or got hand-me-downs from relatives. Scavenging clothes that had no holes on them so we could pretend that we were middle class. It hit me very quickly that I could never afford new clothing or a new wardrobe, it should have upset me more, until I discovered the world wide web.

It was 2009, my father’s 1995 hp HP desktop sat in the living room. It was a big hulk of a thing that I would use to make my first email address and an eventual discovery of a whole new realm; gogirlsgames.com. It was a whole new world of flash games, an alternate reality; maybe I couldn’t afford to buy clothes but maybe, I could wear them digitally. I remember vividly, running home from school and begging my parents to use the computer so I could play the latest iteration of girls dress up games. My early internet history was filled with dressing princesses, pirates, divas and rock stars. I would dress up Barbie, Bratz, MySense dolls, Trollz and cute girls in the most lavish outfits I could imagine. Boas, leather pants and scarves of multiple colors spread across my screen, my young eyes mesmerized by the blue light.

My fashion design dreams heightened even more when I came across the website girlssense.com. The website was a  fashion designing marketplace, where you designed your own clothes through their photoshop-esque platform and then try to make money by selling it to others online. It was a thrilling adventure where my creativity blossomed, exploring what colors went well together, what prints looked daring and how to make the perfect wardrobe.

When girlssense.com died, it felt like my dreams of being a fashion designer died. If I couldn’t be a fashion designer in the digital web…could it be that fashion couldn’t be a passion? The question pressed against my mind, but I had always been a stubborn little girl, I couldn’t simply give up. Never.

The Pursuit 

By that time I was a grown teenager, I had witnessed my mom once again sewing a blouse to match her saree at the dinner table. I watched as her sewing needle pinned in and out in a rhythmic motion into stitches that were barely visible. I sat in awe and asked if I could learn too. That possibly my small hands had the potential to turn an old bed cloth into a magical dress. She shrugged, “you’ll only get in the way and mess it up. Besides I don’t have time, did you do your homework?” There was never a right answer for that question, so I would shrug off disappointed as she continued sewing.

Eventually, I did what every teen was doing at the time, getting a job. I got my first job in a food truck that was so bad, it left me with physical burns on my skin (it’s a long story). Despite that, I raised enough money to take sewing classes at the local community center.

Learning to sew was like breathing fresh air, the teacher was kind and considerate, even let me borrow their sewing machine for practice. The other classmates were all older women in their 50s who’ve sewn all their lives but were eager to learn more. Through them I learned to make my first tote and enough skills to make the dress of my dreams. I felt like I could change the world, with a swish of a needle at my fingertips.

I ran home, excited and thrilled. “This was it,” I thought, “I’ve never felt more alive, more consumed by something than when I made fashion. This is what I was meant to do.” I raised my glass to ambition and finally confessed to my parents my dreams. They looked at me in a state of disappointment, you know the one, the one that makes you realize that they would never support you in that endeavor. They didn’t necessarily disagree with me outright, instead they argued that I was smarter than that. So I eventually succumbed to their whims, and I applied to a completely different degree in order to survive.

An epiphany in a button

It would take me years to realize why my parents never fully supported my artistic pursuits. They were not my enemy, a monster against my individualistic pursuit. A hulking figure casting a shadow at our young hero’s pursuit of glory. Rather their intentions were made out of fear, they were terrified of poverty.

In Bangladesh, only the poorest of the poor worked in squalor working conditions in the garment industry. Poverty for generations had meant a death sentence and the garment industry reeked of it. In the last 100 years, it was my ancestors who had witnessed  millions of their family, friends and neighbors die in the streets when the British East India Company ruled. I wish I could say, “That happened 100 years ago, it doesn't matter now!” But that would be a misnomer. Poverty was and is an intergenerational trauma that sits unsettling in my blood.

The images and stories of Bengalis who look just like me, stand uncomfortably in my peripheral vision. If I were to compete in the fashion industry, I would need to be extraordinary to compete with European American elitist system. Could I possibly be that noteworthy? Could I take part in an industry that continues to exploit my people and destroy the environment of my homeland? Could I watch as I take part in an industry that denies human rights to its most important workers?

I eventually came to a compromise of sorts. I would make clothes out of thrifted second-hand fabrics (usually curtains and bedsheets) for myself and anyone I know who needs a cheap Halloween costume. Occasionally I would use the fabrics from an old shalwar kameez that sat in the basement, and make something that I needed (without my parent’s’ blessing like the one in the photo above, haha). With that, I’m not taking part in the destructive nature of fast fashion and I get to enjoy my limited skills in finishing a garment.

I wish I could say that I’ve made a final decision, that fashion is just a hobby. There will always be a pull inside me to face those fears, and do fashion as a career anyway, but I’m not that brave yet. “Fashion is my passion,” yes, but I don’t think it should define how I make money, it will instead define how I find joy in my life. And for now, that’s good enough.

About the Creator

Self_Saboteur is a south asian chronically-ill illustrator, zinester and comic artist from Canada. She creates colorful art inspired by late Indian children's illustrations and art nouveau, exploring topics on trauma, disability and healing. You can find her work on Instagram and Twitter @Self_Saboteur6.