Crochet, Classism, and the Courage to Be Proud of Our Beginnings

Crochet, Classism, and the Courage to Be Proud of Our Beginnings

You know, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this strange thing called classism, how we sometimes look down on where we came from. The thought had been simmering quietly in my mind until one day, while scrolling through Facebook, I stumbled upon a post by a lady talking about her humble beginnings. She was explaining how her family used to hustle to make ends meet, and yet somehow, people made her feel ashamed of it.

That hit home.

It reminded me of some conversations I’ve had with acquaintances before,where people subtly (or not so subtly) mocked the days when our mothers and aunts went to South Africa to sell madhoiri (doilies, for those who don’t speak Shona). Those pretty crochet pieces that decorated sofas, tables, and televisions, the pride of every Zimbabwean living room in the ‘90s! I couldn’t help but think: since when did survival and hard work become embarrassing?

See, my story is stitched (quite literally) with threads of those madhoiri.

My grandfather worked for Twine & Cottage company for 25 years. When things started changing economically in Zimbabwe, he had to make a tough choice: leave his wife and family behind to go to Cape Town so he could put food on the table. And what did he sell there? Crochet work made lovingly by my grandmother, my moms, my aunts, and yes, even some of my uncles and brothers got in on it! It was a family business of resilience, creativity, and love. Each madhoiri wasn’t just decoration; it was a ticket to survival, education, and dignity.

Through those humble stitches, my grandfather sent his children to good schools, my dad even went to St George’s! So whenever I hear people scoffing at their parents’ side hustles, I can’t help but feel that tug in my chest. Because for me, that’s not something to hide, it’s something to honor.

Somewhere along the way, many of us started treating humility like a stain we need to wash off before stepping into the room. We lie, we reinvent our backstories, we curate our pasts like Instagram feeds. “Oh, my parents had a small business,” we say, omitting the part where they were selling tomatoes by the roadside or crocheting madhoiri by candlelight.

But here’s what I’ve learned: God loves a humble beginning.

In Zechariah 4:10, it says, “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin.” That verse gets me every time. Because those beginnings, those dusty roads, those crocheted dreams, were the foundations of everything we are now.

My family’s story taught me that true wealth isn’t about status or image, it’s about faith, love, and perseverance. If my grandfather hadn’t taken that bus to Cape Town, if my grandmother hadn’t picked up that crochet needle, who knows where we’d be today?

And yet, society keeps feeding us this lie that success must look flashy, that we have to perform prosperity to be respected. But the truth is, some of the most grounded, successful people I know come from homes where soap was shared and sugar was rationed.

Living in Japan has made me see this even more clearly. You can’t really tell who’s rich or poor here. People don’t show off; they value harmony more than hierarchy. Your neighbor could be a millionaire, and you’d never know it because they take out their own trash and ride the same train as everyone else. That quiet humility, that’s class.

Sometimes I wonder how peaceful life would be if we could just stop pretending, stop competing, and start celebrating the strength that got us here.

Because let’s be honest, there’s a certain glow that comes from having weathered the storm. There’s a type of gratitude that money can’t buy. When you’ve known what it means to sell crochet just to pay school fees, you walk a little differently, not in arrogance, but in grace.

So to anyone reading this who feels embarrassed about their roots, please don’t. Own it. Embrace it. Tell your story, because your past is not a prison; it’s the reason you stand tall today.

If your mother sold tomatoes, if your father drove a kombi, if your grandmother crocheted madhoiri until her fingers hurt, celebrate them. That’s not shame. That’s legacy.

And as for me, I’ll keep my head high and proudly say:

My family crocheted their way to a better tomorrow.

And honestly? I think that’s beautiful.

Because in God’s kingdom, there’s no classism,only purpose, process, and promise.

“Never be ashamed of the soil that grew you. Even roses rise from the dirt.” 🌹