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Inside New York City’s Chinatown, Where the Shirts Have No Name
A vignette from my time in Chinatown’s once thriving garment industry
The button escaped from my hands and rolled onto the coffee table. Like Wile E. Coyote scuttling off a cliff, the button plunged onto the floor and spun underneath the couch. I crouched on my hands and knees to reach for it. As if peering through the portal into John Malkovich’s mind, I found a family of odd buttons — flat buttons, stud buttons, lapel buttons — that graced the stage.
I curiously watched as the pieces of vagrant thread rose and shimmied through the holes of the button. As if growing arms and legs, the button performed assemblés and grands jetés across the dusty stage. Gaining confidence as it swayed, the button chasséd over to me with a steady gaze that pierced the clouds of lint and dust. It ended the performance with a dazzling pirouette that illuminated the dark shadows of the underworld with grace and quiet endeavor.
My trance was interrupted by a stiff pat on my bum. I lifted my head to my auntie’s open palm asking me for the button I was supposed to retrieve for her. Still dizzy from the spectacle, I explained that the button rolled too far back to reach. I elbow-launched myself back onto the couch and continued to thread needles with the dexterity of…
