Who Made Your Shirt?

I share this with much hesitation. It's not a necessarily fun or joyful post. I wrote it after our group visited with women who had worked in a Free Trade Zone in Nicaragua. The day before we met with the Free Trade Zone Commission. They seemed great-- providing jobs to women who would otherwise not be able to support their children, paying fair wages, and ensuring good working conditions. But the following day we visited with various women who had either worked in the FTZ or who counsel women who had worked in the FTZ. Their stories were heart breaking. Low wages, forced overtime with no pay, poor working conditions, high number of rapes, and so many other abuses. As I laid in bed that night after hearing their powerful stories, I thought out this little ditty down below- originally in Spanish but I've modified it into English. 

Like I said, I share this with much hesitation. I think that is in part to after writing this I feel awful going into a store and buying, well, anything. Thinking about what the people who made it had to go through just to make it is heartbreaking. Let’s be real, most of us don’t go into a store and think about how the product got there- all energy, waste, blood, sweat, and tears. I feel a reoccurring theme throughout the trip has been the importance of being conscious of what is happening in the world around us. Consciousness is key. It is key to a more just, loving, and compassionate world.

So with that, here it is.

Who Made Your Shirt?

Look at the tag on your shirt.

Where was it made?

Nicaragua.

Do you know what that woman had to endure to make me this shirt?

She worked over time with no pay.
She left her small children at home. Alone. 

And because she got off of work late, she walked home alone in a dark world full of hate.
A man appeared and drew near. He grabbed her, whispered some words into her ear as she tried to get away. But there was a price she had to pay for making my shirt.

He stole her dignity and the twinkle in her eye. He left her pregnant, feeling stagnant with child, number five.

Back home, tears in her eyes, she a made meager meal of beans and rice for her kids who walk the streets during the day, begging and becoming familiar with the local gangs. 

The little that she makes barely pays for anything besides those beans and that rice-- education, shoes, new clothes, health care- HA. As if. She breaks her back in that maquila just to try to provide. For her baby’s daddys all know how to hide.

But then one day she meets a nice man. He works. He loves her and even her children. But the economy is tough and he becomes rough. Without his job be becomes angry. Alcoholic. Abusive. Machismo is part of the culture and she tolerates it despite the bruises. Inside and out.

He finds a new woman and leaves her relieved, without a doubt.

But now her oldest is dead. The pandillas got into his head.

He lacked direction. education. motivation. Because his momma was in the maquila, working overtime so the capitalist could buy his private islands and Mercedes Benz. And so you and I could walk freely into that multi-million dollar mall and buy this shirt. This shirt I’m wearing to impress you. So when I walked up here to talk, you would listen. You would see me as someone of fashion, of wealth, of education, someone worth listening to. What kind of sick world do we live in?

Look at the tag on your shirt.

Do you know what that woman had to endure to make you that shirt?