This short story was translated from Spanish by Will Vanderhyden.

She wouldn’t have thought it got cold in Los Angeles, but Trix was patting herself on the back for accepting the sweater that Tía Carmen, the grandmother of her cousins, Marta and Luisa, had given her before she left. Those early winter mornings, getting ready for work, the temperature could drop into the mid-40s or lower, especially when a Norte was blowing.

“It’s a gift.”

“No way, tía! It doesn’t get cold there. And the pattern is so pretty.”

“Would you believe that it belonged to my father? I stole it from him because people said Marilyn Monroe had one just like it, and I wanted to go around showing off my Chiconcuac sweater. Nobody really makes them anymore. Remember, Evita?”

Trix’s mother wasn’t thrilled that her daughter was leaving with her cousins.

“I remember you wore it from Christmas till Candlemas. You never took it off.”

“You’re wearing it in all the pictures, tía, I feel bad taking it.”

“Well yeah, because it used to freeze here in the winter. But I’d be roasting if I put it on now! It doesn’t get cold here like it used to. Besides, Marilyn wore it to the beach, there, in the exact city where you’re going! Of course it gets cold there, niña. You take it.”

And yes, that sweater would end up keeping her warm in a Los Angeles cold she hadn’t anticipated. She also hadn’t anticipated that a clothing factory in Los Angeles would resemble the ones in Juárez or the State of Mexico. Even the school uniform factories in La Taruya, where her family had worked before the government canceled the commissions, were better illuminated. She thought there would be better conditions or they would be paid better on the other side of the border, but the first thing she realized was that not only did they have to avoid getting caught by ICE, they also had to prevent the authorities from discovering the sweatshop where they worked. When Marta and Luisa asked her to go with them, they didn’t tell her the whole story. Why did she let them convince her? Maybe out of love, but also because she was disillusioned.

Trix’s dream was to open a store that would sell recycled clothing, custom made for people in the community, her designs. But since the factories in her town that previously manufactured clothes for the public schools had shut down, the opportunities to create something like what she saw on her favorite influencers’ channels were few and far between. La Taruya, the small town where she and her family lived, was very close to Enea, an autonomous community that appeared on the news every so often, because, like Cherán, it’d managed to establish its own form of community organization, after years of battling both the government and cartels that engaged in illegal logging, water theft, and pollution. The Enea Assembly was always inviting neighboring towns to join their political model, which promoted the common good and what they called “a dignified life”: to eat well, to have plenty, to take care of your mind and body, to express yourself freely in a creative way. Trix liked those possibilities for life more all the time.

The thing was that, though Enea was increasingly secure and prosperous, it had a reputation for radical approaches. Trix was convinced that its model, focused more on moderation and mutual support than on ideas of growth or competition, was a good path to follow, which is why she’d joined the La Taruya Assembly and participated in the discussions regarding the consolidation of an alliance with Enea. Even Evita, her mother, joined: They were promising to support La Taruya in reviving the textile industry. But the most conservative wing of the La Taruya Assembly wouldn’t budge. They stalled the process and dampened enthusiasm. And that was when her cousins insisted that there was no point betting on all that scheming, which was moving at a turtle’s pace, to improve her situation. That she should go with them and try her luck on the other side, now that the situation on the border had improved.

Since the US tariff policies had changed, the big textile companies had reduced subcontracting in countries where they could get cheap labor. The problem was that, internally, those countries continued producing the same quantity of clothing and violating workers’ rights. Meanwhile, up north, harsh immigration policies had to be relaxed, at least implicitly, to obtain the necessary labor force. So, as Tía Carmen said, they’d brought together hunger with the desire to eat, and the flow of Mexican and Central American migrants was becoming less dangerous. Also, less economically advantageous for those doing the migrating.

“Why don’t I want to go? Let’s see: First, even though the raids have stopped, it’s still dangerous. Second, you already know what I think about those factories. How could I work in one?”

“Look at her, la Muy Muy, so stuck up. Like we have the luxury of choosing the way we earn a living! Don’t be annoying, Trix,” Marta said, crossing her arms.

“But seriously, how could we ever open our own store if we don’t have any money or experience? Just imagine what we would learn working there!” Luisa said, trying to play on her cousin’s hopes and dreams.

“Remember the Atelier Violeta video I sent you, where it said there’s already enough clothing on the planet to dress the next SIX generations of humanity? Remember how everyone said, ‘Ay, nooo, can’t be, we’re not there yet, are we?’ Well, turns out, if that number wasn’t real then, it is now. There’s so much fucking clothing in the world that it could dress our great-great grandmothers, great grandmothers, grandmothers, mothers, us, and even our daughters, put together, FOR OUR ENTIRE LIVES. But instead of raising awareness, people wear those badly made rags that last five minutes and get thrown away. And, on top of that, almost nobody makes the effort to rescue and reuse any of it, instead it ends up getting burned, like that video I sent you from the Atacama desert.”

“I don’t think that was real, must’ve been videos made with AI,” Marta said.

“Of course it’s real! They even burn the clothes that didn’t sell, with labels and everything, because they don’t disintegrate, it’s all pure plastic. And it’s the factories where you two want to go work that are to blame, they take advantage of people’s need to sell them cheap clothing, while paying those who make it next to nothing.”

Trix’s impassioned speeches tended to be followed by uncomfortable silences.

“Now that I think of it, I don’t even know what my great-great grandmother’s name was …” Luisa said to break the silence. Marta laughed.

“My grandmother’s name was Aureliana!” Tía Carmen said from the kitchen.

“Hija, you’re not wrong,” Eva intervened before Trix could accuse her cousins of having their heads in the sand. “But they have to think about their futures too. Who knows, when they get back, you can start the store that you want together, here, a little storefront in your Tía Carmen’s house. Let them go, and in the meantime, I’ll help you. You know I’ve always liked playing with clothes.”

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It was true. They always had clothes to wear, because the women in the family always passed their clothing down to the next generation, who, to make it their own, had learned how to alter sizes or add personal touches: a little embroidery, a change of buttons, of length, of sleeves. Trix had turned out to be the most playful in the family, with a knack for finding clothes nobody wanted and repurposing them in her own designs. She had so many at this point that she even gave them away, but she wasn’t sure she could live off that. What she wanted more than anything was to keep designing new clothes and to see people enjoy wearing them; to make the same ones as always, but with more … how to describe it? Joy? Dignity?

“Wouldn’t it be better to work in Juárez anyway? They have factories there too.”

“But they pay more in Los Angeles, Trix. Besides, wouldn’t you like to be close to Hollywood?”

In the end, her cousins went without her. As the months passed, Trix could tell something wasn’t going right. On their videocalls with the family, they seemed happy, but when they spoke alone, issues came to light.

“It’s really hard here. Get this, a coworker cracked a tooth and she had to get an advance on her paycheck to cover the dental bill. It wasn’t enough, and now she doesn’t know where to get more money. I mean, we know that women always have one way to get some money, but … you always come up with something better,” Luisa confessed.

“If you come, we’ll be able to send more money home and save for the store. Seriously, we need you here, Trixi,” Marta insisted, appealing to the name they’d given her in childhood, almost begging. They didn’t say the pay wasn’t enough and they were desperate, but Trix—who, being older, had always looked after them—sensed it.

Eva was surprised by her daughter’s change of heart, but since her cousins were guaranteeing her a job at the factory, she didn’t think it was a ridiculous idea for her to go.

When she got to Los Angeles, Trix’s fears were confirmed. The wage her cousins had calculated they would earn was accurate if and only if they worked insanely long days: They were paid three dollars not for time but per piece of clothing, so they couldn’t stop if they wanted to cover the rent. They’d managed to be on the same floor together, so Marta and Luisa cut the fabric, while Trix stitched the pieces together on the sewing machine. She seemed serious and bad-tempered to her cousins, but before long, she decided there was nothing to gain by showing the frustration she’d felt before she even got there.

“If we eat well, I’ll be in a better mood,” she told them one morning. “So I’m going to get us real milk for our coffee and butter for the bread we snack on, sound good?”

“Yeah, while we’re at it, I’ll make salsa martajada every week, so we don’t have to eat plain quesadillas,” Marta said, humming and stitching a pair of jeans. She missed that flavor in particular.

“I don’t know where you two are going to get all that energy,” Luisa concluded, leaning back at the table.

They got back in the middle of the night and left before the sun stained the clouds red and the palm trees black. They were always exhausted and underfed, but laughing together on the way home, making plans, energized them.

The morning when everything changed, Trix was wearing Tía Carmen’s sweater. It was cold. They’d stayed up late the night before watching tutorials on how to make a party dress. Between the three of them, they wanted to sew one for their youngest cousin’s quinceñera.

“Ugh, you’ve already put a hole in the sweater, Trix. When we get back tonight, I’ll patch it for you,” Marta said, yawning, as they got off the bus and walked to the factory entrance.

“You don’t even know how, stupid,” Luisa jabbed, to wake her up.

“Chill, dummy, the proof is in the pudding,” Marta responded, play fighting with her.

But in the end, it wasn’t possible. Inside the factory, Trix had to take off her sweater because the heat was unbearable and she forgot to grab it when the alarm went off. Marta and Luisa spent the night trapped, calling for help from under the rubble of the factory, which collapsed in one of the most powerful earthquakes to ever hit the city of Los Angeles.

What was she going to tell her tía about all of that?

On Tía Carmen’s television, they were showing the news in washed out magenta pixels. She had just sat down to wait for her granddaughters to call when the television started talking about the situation in Los Angeles.

“Eva! Come see!”

The images showed people protesting, holding signs written in English, Spanglish, and Spanish, so they only understood a few:

I made what you’re wearing

Your shirt cost $3, the medical treatment to make it, $50,000

“It’s been a year since the collapse of the sweatshop clothing factory subcontracted in Los Angeles by AMUSHE, the conglomerate of the three most important ultra-fast fashion brands. On both sides of the border, surviving workers from all departments, from production to maintenance, are still demanding fair compensation for themselves and for the victims’ families.”

It’s strange for Eva and Tía Carmen to hear the news anchors discussing a subject so close to home.

“On the eve of the disaster, the employees of AMUSHE’s Mexican factories, who had been demanding better work conditions for years, made a call to their American counterparts and established the Transborder Textile Workers Union, which had successfully assembled a special committee of experts from all departments to administer funds in the event of workplace accidents.”

“In the meantime, the AMUSHE factory in Los Angeles resumed operations at a new location purchased by the company with the surviving personnel and discarded machinery. Despite the new tariff and immigration regulations, AMUSHE continues employing migrants in facilities that lack the safety and maintenance updates required by law.”

A Mexican woman employed at the plant began speaking into the reporter’s microphone.

“The company told us, ‘We can’t stop, we must keep going, we will compensate you and even get you your papers,’ and we have to work, especially if our immigration status isn’t legal. But that won’t stop us from supporting our comrades in the union, we’re here for whatever they need.”

“In today’s resolution, the Santa Lucía Commission of the Transborder Textile Workers Union determined that AMUSHE must pay in the vicinity of $75 million dollars to cover victims’ medical expenses and damages for long-term loss of income and emotional distress. This number surpasses estimated payouts for previous tragedies, like Rana Plaza in Dhaka, Bangladesh, which took place decades ago.”

“After this morning’s negotiations, Jefferson Shu, AMUSHE’s operations manager, stated that all victims and their families will be compensated.”

“Yes, damn right!” Eva blurted out, incredulous.

“He also announced important changes to the company’s operations in all its global branches, which only heightened tensions with the union. This is what he said: ‘AMUSHE will fulfill its obligations to compensate the victims of this tragedy and their families. Our good will demonstrates that people remain our most important resource. But we want to do even more for them …’ ”

“Look at this fuckfacependejoscumbag, I can’t stand him!” Eva yelled, gesturing as if the man could hear her.

Jefferson Shu’s posture was rigid. Reading the statement, his eyes followed the lines of text prepared for the occasion.

“At AMUSHE we’ve passed our growth benchmarks. Which is why, starting next year, we’ll be a fully automated company. There will be no further risk to the health of our employees: The hard work will be carried out by the most efficient machines in the history of the industry. Dyeing, cutting, sewing, embroidering, everything previously requiring people will be performed perfectly by a brand-new fleet of super-robots. Yesterday’s futurist dreams are today’s reality. We’re doing something humanity has been striving for since the invention of the first machine. The management, design, and maintenance departments, equipped with the most advanced artificial intelligence tools, will now be even faster; all this abiding by the current environmental regulations. AMUSHE, the most popular brand of budget clothing, will produce even more, even faster, with the cleanest energy, for the whole world.”

Jefferson Shu blinked nervously, as if he could hear what Eva was about to say.

“Shameless! Aren’t you ashamed?”

“May you get what’s coming for you,” Tía Carmen cursed at Shu on the TV, crossing her arms.

The reporter spoke while a group of union members protested behind her.

“The workers are not satisfied. They allege that the company failed to invest in the basic safety and maintenance of their facilities, because they were already planning to liquidate both the machines and the personnel. The automated model, they said, dehumanizes the textile industry and its workers.”

Some of the union members appeared in the frame: “Everything seemed fine, because AMUSHE accepted the proposed amount, but it was actually a disguised layoff. They want to appear charitable when they are actually taking away our source of income without compensating us as they should, especially those of us who have lingering physical or psychological issues and won’t be able to work as we could previously.”

The reporter continued: “The majority of the Transborder Textile Workers Union members are Mexican nationals, but there are also Americans, as well as people from Korea, the Philippines, the Dominican Republic, and Ecuador.”

“There are no borders in this union. We think of ourselves as a single country. This is a call to people who work in similar conditions across the world to unite and not to let something like this happen to them in the future,” a worker originally from the Philippines said in Spanish.

Then the TV’s pixels showed some faces very familiar to Eva and Carmen: three girls with long hair and dark, shining eyes.

“There’s Trix! With Luisa!” they yelled happily.

“Since the earthquake, it has been clear that, contrary to Jefferson Shu’s statement, he and AMUSHE don’t care about their workers. During the earthquake, nobody knew what to do, there was no emergency protocol. We ran down the stairs, but we didn’t all make it out.”

“That was the case of many other workers, like Marta Carrión, who lost her right hand,” the reporter said.

Carmen and Eva’s hearts ached seeing Marta’s shy smile in the frame, her sad eyes and hair done in the complicated braid she liked to do and that her cousins probably did for her now. She just needed to start humming for her to turn back into the Marta they knew so well.

“Luckily, we were trapped in a place that was easily accessible to the rescue teams that found us before the collapse, but most people weren’t so lucky.”

Trix’s voice, which had challenged them so often in the dining room, came from the TV.

“Jefferson Shu says he’ll compensate the victims, but what he’s doing is firing 70% of the workforce. He says they’ll only use clean energy, but these factories use so much energy that is the exact opposite of clean, in everything they do: They turn fertile land into monocrop cotton fields, they use pesticides that poison people, they contaminate 20% of the world’s potable water, they emit gasses that warm the planet … It’s absurd! We have an opportunity to change things, not just to get what’s fair for us, but to make the lives of the people and the health of the planet to be what’s most important from now on.”

As Trix spoke, beside her Luisa held up a sign that read, in English: No more fashion victims. Eva tried to take a picture of the screen, but the image on her phone was interrupted by a call.

“Look, Carmelita, the girls are calling!” Eva exclaimed. On the phone, Trix’s face appeared again, and though her image wasn’t magenta-tinged like the one on the TV, the resolution was still pretty bad.

“How are things, hija? We just saw you on the news!”

“Well, pretty bad, to tell the truth. But we’re fine. Say hi!” Luisa and Marta appeared on the screen.

“Did you already eat?”

Tía Carmen interrupted to find out how her other granddaughter was doing.

“Martita, mi amor, how are you feeling? Did you get the thing with the prosthesis figured out?

“I’m going to, tía. Not yet.” Of the three, Marta looked the saddest and most worn down.

Eva, an expert in navigating silences, got to the point.

“Okay, but are they going to give you the money they promised or not?”

“Yes, they want to, but they’re doing it just to kick us to the curb. We won’t accept it.”

“We’re here to drown our sorrows with a few beers,” Luisa held up her bottle behind Trix.

“You’ll reject it flat out?” Tía Carmen asked, worried, seeing out of the corner of her eye a bottle of rum that’d been collecting dust on the sideboard since they gave it to her.

“Trix! Seriously, the Enea Assembly is trying to get in touch with you. I’ve been forgetting to give you their message,” Eva said, doing a little face-palm gesture.

“Oh, yeah? And why?”

“They say you should contact them. They want to help.”

“But listen, hijas,” Carmen interrupted again, “wouldn’t it be better just to accept what they’re offering? So you can be done with all this nonsense.”

“They made their offer. Now we have to make ours,” Luisa said.

“And what do you think you’ll do?”

The three girls were silent, lips tight at the question. But Marta, who’d barely said a word, answered: “No idea. But we’re going to fight.”

Tigre pedaled the generator-connected stationary bike to add more kilowatt-hours to the ones already accumulated in Enea’s machine room. It probably wasn’t necessary, because they had plenty of energy, but whenever he was connected to Forest House, he liked to pedal the whole time, to keep moving, because even though his passion and profession was the architecture of intangible spaces, Tigre believed that you never had to leave your body behind. That was why, instead of the geometric rigidity of most online meeting spaces, at Forest House it was possible to wander, to sit, to feel.

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The name was funny, but in terms of its digital structure, Forest House was a very sophisticated meeting place. It’d been designed to host high-risk online conversations that required maximal security and confidentiality. Tigre had chosen relaxing colors: cream and light blue, an open and inviting room, a bonfire at night and a garden by day, with rocking chairs set out in the shade of fruit trees. A stream murmured in the distance, its sound taken directly from the sounds of the many streams that flowed through Enea. Tigre liked collecting all kinds of digital toys of his own invention, but with the Forest House meeting rooms—well encrypted, tracking-device and spy-boy proof—he felt invincible, because they served an important purpose: the secrecy of revolutions. Enea was like that matchmaking aunt who set up secret meetings for lovers, but of … what? Conspiracies? Or whatever you want to call that abstract organism, the tense and dangerous precursor to social transformations. You entered Forest House without nationality or geolocation, without legal name, without religion … but never without body. Tigre cared about emphasizing the apparent sensations of distance, proximity, hearing, touch, in addition to vision: bodily experiences that sometimes the tedium of online life made you forget. For that reason, participants could select flexible and dynamic and exceedingly imaginative avatars. For example, that day, Tigre was strolling through the garden as one of his favorite versions of a panthera tigris in his profile. This time, his appearance was friendly: a cub whose rounded fangs evoked a cartoon cat, while his voice had a filter of pleasant feline texture, between a purr and a roar.

He saw the time and figured people were about to log in. He activated the welcome message to enter the room.

Select your language to activate the transcription of the translator (beta).

ACTIVAR

He felt nervous. He needed to continue testing the open-source communication system they were building, which allowed each participant to read on their visors or screens what the others were saying in their own language, something made possible by all the volunteers of the translator project, a community from all over the world that updated and improved the system constantly. He’d figured they would use it a lot that day.

The first people to arrive were Luisa, Marta, and Trix, logging in from a single device. The system had divided them into three individual bubbles that could move independently if they wished. Their faces, disconcerted but smiling, floated around the cozy bonfire, charmed by the atmosphere of Forest House.

Safi, the young woman who’d invited Trix to meet with the Enea Assembly, welcomed them.

“We’re so happy that you’re here! I want to introduce you to Tigre, expert in bringing down, but also in constructing, digital walls. This is a secure space and we can plan anything that could help the Transborder Union. By the way, is the union aware you’re meeting with us?”

“We told them we were asking for your help, and they authorized us to share our plans.”

“Good, because our suggestions are definitively illegal,” Safi said with a mischievous smile that, in a way, also indicated that, in Enea, they were serious. “I don’t know if that’s okay …”

Marta, Luisa, and Trix looked at one another.

“We believe so. AMUSHE didn’t accept the union’s counteroffer, so apparently the law isn’t going to help us. Not until there’s a legal document regulating the automated production of super-robots, or something conclusive on that front,” Luisa said.

“It’s either that or we give up. AMUSHE is well protected,” Marta added.

“So, if there’s no further possibility of negotiation, what’s the plan?” Safi was taking notes, which appeared in the night sky above Forest House as small, translucent letters that everyone could read.

“The plan is to apply pressure so we can resume negotiations. The union is considering taking over the AMUSHE facilities to force the company to meet our demands. But we need money: The donations of NGOs and other companies have barely been enough to cover funeral and medical expenses. Marta hasn’t even been able to get a new prosthesis. The union is urging us to raise more funds,” Luisa said, one hand touching her cheek.

“Trix, you said you’d proposed something to the union, right? A way to secure more funding.”

“Yes, it might not be viable. The idea was to become AMUSHE’s . . . ethical competition, so to speak: for the union to create a cooperative to recycle clothing with the collaboration of traditional embroiderers. But if we don’t have money, we don’t have time to make it happen. And no resources to get off the ground,” Trix said, her head bowed, as if her idea embarrassed her a little.

“But maybe you could use AMUSHE’s dead inventory before they export it as trash or burn it,” Safi seemed to have already given the matter some thought.

“Using their machines,” Marta added. “Trix proposed that.”

“Using the AMUSHE infrastructure, from the machines to the communications system, to set up the cooperative with its own public-facing sales model, a source of work into the future. If you got the support of the International Labor Organization to renegotiate, you could win this time.”

A silence fell over Forest House that was only interrupted by the babbling of the stream.

“We can help you from Enea. But taking over AMUSHE is no small thing. It’ll require every union member to be fully on board. To have certain physical endurance. Do you feel up to it, Marta?”

In her bubble, Marta glanced at the floor. But then she held her head high.

“I want to do it.”

“Of course, it will be determined by the assembly. But we have some ideas to show you that might help with your strategy so you can share them with everyone else, right, Tigre?”

The cartoon cub showed his excitement by calmly wagging his tail.

The space of Forest House folded in on itself and now was submerged in AMUSHE logos. Tigre smiled at the surprise of the attendees.

“Welcome to the simulator of the AMUSHE online store … taken over by the Transborder Textile Workers Union and its sympathizers.”

We are the Transborder Textile Workers Union and from here, we resist.

Our cooperative, Sew and Sing, offers you something superior to ultra-fast fashion. You will receive sustainable, bespoke clothing, while supporting the most important fashion revolution in history.

Sew and Sing, it’s just the beginning!

Yes, I want to donate

No, stay on AMUSHE

[Review by @ateliervioleta, popular influencer from El Paso, Texas:]

In the fashion world, the only thing anyone is talking about is Sew and Sing, a brand that …

[She’s interrupted by a record scratch sound.]

Wait: no, this is not a brand. This is … Let’s start over.

[The video rewinds. It starts over.]

In the fashion world, the only thing anyone is talking about is Sew and Sing, the brand REVOLUTION of textile workers who, in an EPIC MOVE, took a stand against the ultra-fast fashion industry, evading the cybersecurity systems of AMUSHE, some of the securest in the world, to demand the company cover the damages caused by its negligence. If all of you buy from Sew and Sing instead of AMUSHE, the union will be able to set up its own sustainable, fair-trade recycled-clothing global cooperative. And we support that 100% on this channel, right?

I’m telling you, this is going to change everything.

[Review by @Pespunte, Chilean sustainable fashion designer:]

I collect the garments I work with from the mountains of clothing that AMUSHE exports as trash from the United States, Korea, or Japan to the Atacama desert, which is why it’s fabulous that Sew and Sing exists! All their clothing uses the same material for thread and fabric, so it’ll be easy to recycle when the time comes. You can help them win the fight and found a cooperative. Go to the fake AMUSHE website, which is actually Sew and Sing’s own, pick out some clothes, personalize them, click the “Pay” button, and boom: You’ll be helping to change the scene.

[Review by @LanavedeFer, functional diversity influencer:]

In this magical place, which is the opposite of AMUSHE, you design your own clothes. You give your size range (they don’t have sizes, they have ranges! What this will do for our mental health!) and best of all: Your clothes will be custom-designed to suit your mobility … because the people designing them are workers who survived serious accidents and they are thinking of us, women with differently-abled bodies. Bravo! You can add personal touches: a collar with lapels, shirt cuffs in contrasting colors, creative buttons …

[@Tejerendira, embroiderer from Tzintzntzan:]

We like to work with Sew and Sing, because they are trying to transform the industry from its foundations. We don’t know yet if they’ll pull it off, but for the time being, they are creating a trade model based on solidarity that will prevent the exploitative cultural appropriation of our work, recognizing the collective intellectual property of the traditional embroiderers. Together we are reviving the conversation about embroidery as a form of protest, as a dignified profession, and as a common inheritance, because we believe clothing should be made with intelligence, care, and love for those who imagine, sew, distribute, and use it … We don’t need more and more clothing delivered to our homes at a faster and faster pace only to be discarded right away. We don’t need clothing with brand names, with trademarks, we need clothing with our own marks, marks of love that we or someone before us has made. Clothing that has meaning, a couple patches, stories to tell.

“You’ll find small, handcrafted details that the Global Network of Traditional Embroiderers is making especially for the cause. If you order a piece of clothing, it will feature the work of an embroiderer who lives in your region, because though this is a global movement, our distribution system is local. So in addition to caring for the environment, you will also be helping to keep artistic expression in your region alive. When you accept your purchase, you’re agreeing to familiarize yourself with the traditional techniques that your clothes feature and where they came from. Thank you for sewing and singing with us!”

As usual, the Transborder Textile Workers Union encampment (in other words, Sew and Sing’s headquarters) woke up humming with worker activity. For breakfast, the Mexicans from both sides of the border brought atole and tamales; the Koreans, rice with fried eggs; and the local stores had provided coffee, donuts, and sandwiches. The AMUSHE facilities were a tranquil cauldron of good food smells, children playing or doing homework, women and men sewing, people packing boxes, and couriers coming and going … until a legal representative of AMUSHE showed up with a police escort, warning that they had to vacate the facilities by the end of the day or face being arrested, deported, and, in all likelihood, abused. The union feared that what the company actually wanted to do was to catch them by surprise and come in by force before they could leave.

“Lock the doors and windows!” the security team shouted, as they had prepared a plan to defend the inside.

“Don’t be afraid,” Luisa and Trix repeated to the older women, who reminded them of Eva and Tía Carmen. “Stick together.”

An hour later, the ILO showed up to mediate the situation. The organization brought a new proposal that neither AMUSHE nor the union knew anything about.

“The Mexican locality of La Taruya offers to purchase the machinery inside these facilities from AMUSHE to relocate the Sew and Sing cooperative, with all its infrastructure and workers, to its territory, a historically significant enclave of the textile industry. As a condition, AMUSHE must immediately pay the medical and long-term damages owed to its workers. The Mexican government has informed the US authorities and recommended that, to avoid a diplomatic crisis, they don’t interfere.”

Trix, Marta, and Luisa couldn’t believe it. Where had the money come from? Did La Taruya (or the Mexican government) want to use the union’s cooperative to reopen the old school uniform factories? Was Enea involved? It seemed impossible that they were hiring all the migrant workers; it was too good to be true. On top of it all, would they have to thank the government? Should they? Was there any alternative?

The deliberations were ongoing when Trix caught sight of Marta, as always, working on patching something, while listening to everyone else talk. Slowly it dawned on her that she hadn’t seen her work so carefully and deftly since the earthquake. She’d had to learn to sew all over again with the new hand, a hand that urgently needed to be replaced by a more comfortable prosthesis. But she was humming.

“Hey! What’s that?! Where’d you find it?!” Trix asked, surprised.

“See? Luisa found it when they removed the rubble of the old factory. It was a total mess, covered in dust. But we washed it. And I promised you I would patch it for you. By the time the assembly is over, you’ll be able to wear your sweater again.”

For the Sindicato de Costureras 19 de Septiembre