Sewing a name into the school smock: the small ritual of September mornings

In the last week of every September our kitchen table looks the same: folded smocks, a reel of white thread, scissors and four small fabric labels. Four boys, four önlük — the school smock every Turkish primary child wears — four names. I can sew Süleyman Taha’s with my eyes closed by now; on Mehmet Emde’s I still hold the collar the wrong way round.

The first year I thought it was a chore. The school list said “write names on all belongings”, so I did. Now, all these years later, I catch myself waiting for that September evening.

The lost cardigan

In Muammer Esat’s first week of nursery his cardigan went missing. Navy, buttoned, knitted by his grandmother. The teacher was upset; so were we. Two days later it turned up in another child’s bag — nobody had noticed, because at that age all cardigans look alike.

That evening I sat down and sewed his name into the collar of everything he owned. It took less than half an hour. Nothing was lost again. Or rather, things were lost, but they always came back, because now they carried his name.

Four smocks, four names

Sewing in a label is sewing at its smallest. No machine, no pattern. A needle, a thread, four corners inside a collar. But the ten minutes you spend over those four corners are the calmest ten minutes you will think about that child all year.

Because while the smock is in your hands, you notice: last year the sleeves were too long. This year they fit. Next year they’ll be short. Sewing the label, you are really marking a year. Four smocks, four separate years.

The eldest’s smock is nearly my size now; the youngest’s I fold twice. Same table, same reel. Different heights.

Until what age?

Last year Süleyman Taha said, “Mum, you don’t have to sew mine any more.” He was right — nobody mixes up cardigans in middle school. So I didn’t. Then one morning, putting the smock on, he turned the collar over and looked. It was empty. He said nothing; neither did I. This year I sewed it without asking. He didn’t object.

A name label doesn’t only say “this is mine”. It says “someone sewed this for me”. Children understand that before we do.

How to do it in September

• Buy fabric labels, not a pen. A pen name fades in three washes. The cotton “isim şeridi” (name tape) sold at any tuhafiye — the neighbourhood haberdashery — lasts a decade.
• Inside the collar, left side. So the child can turn it over and check, and it never rubs.
• Four corners, running stitch. It needn’t be pretty. Match the thread to the smock and keep the knot on the inside.
• Call the child to the table. They hold the label, you hold the needle. For a five-year-old, watching their own name being sewn is as big as reading it for the first time.
• Keep one label a year. In an envelope with the year on it. By the end of school you will hold twelve small labels.

Not only in the smock

Through the school years the name sits inside the collar where nobody sees it; only the finder knows. At home it is different. A name in plain sight on a child’s own door is another thing altogether — especially with a younger brother around. It is the gentlest way of saying “this one is mine”.

Their name on their door

Their name in gentle script on the door of their room, so the first thing they see coming home from school is their own name.

Add their name

The reel on the table

The last week of September found me at the kitchen table again. This year Süleyman Taha sewed his own label. It came out crooked and a little low on the collar. I didn’t reach over to fix it. Years from now, when that smock comes out of a box, the crooked label will tell him something. The way it tells me.

— Merve Çokal Doğan