Fraying at the Seams: How Tariffs Are Threatening NYC’s Garment District

In Manhattan’s Garment District — a historic Midtown neighborhood known for fashion design and manufacturing — fabric and trimming shops are plentiful. Rolls upon rolls of lace, velvets, leathers and prints line shop walls, and you’re bound to find the perfect feather, zipper or button to complete any design. Since the fashion district’s inception in 1919, the keepers of these treasures have shaped the industry — but now, they struggle to survive soaring prices hastened by President Donald Trump’s tariffs on imported goods.

According to reporting by Reuters, imports from China currently have a 30% tariff rate, meaning that the importer must pay this tax to the government upon receipt of the goods. A survey conducted by the U.S. Fashion Industry Association indicates that almost three-quarters of fashion-related companies have had to cancel or delay orders from sources in China. For garment shops in NYC, the tariffs pose a significant threat not just to profitability, but to their very existence. 

“It’s [tariffs] killing us. I even said to my sister, maybe it’s time, after 37 years, to close the doors,” Lyn Alessi, co-owner of Alessi International, said. 

Alessi International — a fabric showroom representing mills in China, Italy, India and Korea — sources fabric for clients such as streetwear company Supreme and luxury pajama brand Sleepy Jones. Alessi says the majority of their fabrics come from a mill in China. 

In August, Trump signed an executive order extending an existing U.S.-China tariff truce by 90 days, effectively halting extreme reciprocal and retaliatory tariff rates until early November. However, the U.S. then proceeded to end the de minimis exemption — a trade rule that permitted goods valued under $800 to enter the United States duty- and tax-free. This change has had a direct impact on Alessi. 

According to Alessi, every time a small fabric swatch is shipped to her showroom from out of the country, a government tax ranging from $10 to $20 now accompanies it. Alessi says she receives five to 10 of these packages a day — and most of the time, the swatches have no commercial value because they are just samples. Still, Alessi’s prices haven’t budged.

“We’ve got to start thinking about where we’re going to make a profit,” she said.

Typically, fabric representatives like Alessi receive and display samples from mills without charging them a fee, in exchange for good service. Now, Alessi thinks fabric representatives will begin to charge the mills for keeping samples in the showroom, to make up for the additional costs imposed by the tariffs. The problem is, this would likely cause the mills to raise their prices, she said. 

Some shops in the Garment District have reluctantly begun to raise their prices to offset the tariffs. Dersh Feather & Trading varies its pricing depending on the customer. The  107-year-old shop supplies Broadway actors, celebrities and Victoria’s Secret Angels with feathers and according to co-owner Jon Coles, most of their feathers, including rooster tails and chicken plumage, come from China. 

The client list of this long-established business has been built on years of trust and loyalty, so making the decision to increase prices was complicated. Coles realizes that these customers are accustomed to certain prices and has prioritized giving them a deal. Before the tariffs, a pound of feathers sold for $300, but with the tariff, the cost to supply that same pound has increased by $80. For long-time customers, Coles has decided to split the cost increase and only charge $40 more. 

“Customers realize this is a bargain,” he said. 

For new or occasional customers, Dersh Feather has decided only to raise prices to equal the tariff. Coles says they are not interested in increasing prices further to make a profit because they value “customer appreciation.” At the end of the day, Coles says the tariffs “can only hurt us.” 

“The cheaper we can make the feather and still maintain our quality, the more volume we’ll do. It’s obvious,” Coles said. 

Sam Mooon of Day to Day Textiles, another fabric shop in the Garment District, said that he cannot increase prices in response to the tariffs because his customers are bargain shoppers who won’t pay more. 

“When we say $35, they want to pay $10 or $15,” he said.

Indeed, these smaller shops are valued for their affordability and flexible pricing. Ethan Stoelt is a third-year fashion design student in the Kent State University New York City Fashion Program. Students work and shop in the Garment District for trims, fabrics or embellishments for their projects. 

Stoelt says he typically shops at the smaller businesses because they tend to offer lower prices than larger competitors. However, he has noticed that the tariffs are causing smaller shops to raise their prices or promote large sales to get rid of inventory before going out of business. 

“You become a regular at these places; knowing the people who run and take care of these shops like it's their babies,” Stoelt said. “And as I start to learn more, it's harder to see the heart of the Garment District hurt due to these rising costs on their end.” 

It’s November 23, the last day of the fall term of my freshman year at a small liberal arts

school, where somehow the “crunchier” people looked, the wealthier they were. I am

ashamed to admit that although the term had a price tag of $25,000, this was one of the

main things I learned (sorry, Dad).

It’s also the day my grandma began to die without any warning.

We should start two nights before, when I could not sleep. The “frat flu” — a mysterious

plague that every college student gets at least once from stepping foot in a frat house

that wouldn’t pass a general health inspection — had taken over my body. It consisted of

an incessant cough, the kind that makes your chest feel like you're swallowing fire, and a

thick, sticky, mucus-filled phlegm. This phlegm coated my throat so thickly that I could

hardly breathe through my second breathing option — my mouth — since my first choice

— my nose — was already too stuffed with snot.

I was awoken by my own bark at least fifteen times that night. I am grateful my

roommate had already left for winter break, for I am unsure if she would have so

willingly roomed with me again during our sophomore year. I kept a paper cup on my

bedside table to spit the phlegm into when I had hacked it up. My friends said that

swallowing the phlegm would damage my lungs, but now, as a much older and wiser

senior in college, I’m not quite sure that’s how all that works (I’m an English major). I’ve

said phlegm too much for my liking, so I’ll spare you the rest of the nauseating details.

I slept for a maximum of two hours that night, which was unfortunate because I was

taking my very first college-level final exam the next morning. It was for my language

requirement, for which I took Spanish because I thought it would be most useful. The

only time I have used my Spanish since that exam was when I went to Cancun for spring

break last year and negotiated with the Coco Bongo — a popular and expensive

nightclub — representatives to try to score a deal on the $75 tickets. Either my Spanish

wasn’t as good as it once was, or the Coco Bongo doesn’t offer discounts (we never got a

discount) because, spoiler alert, we never went. What a waste that was!

The Spanish exam was long and grueling — three hours, about a hundred multiple-

choice questions, and a portion where we were required to listen to a recording of a

native Spanish speaker and write the answers to the questions they asked. The exercises

sounded like they were recorded on a microwave underwater, and they couldn’t have

chosen a faster-talking speaker. Nevertheless, I persevered and finished my first term of

college on a random Monday in November. It seemed quite anticlimactic, and I was a bit

disappointed. There was no celebration or acknowledgement; just a "¡Que tengas unas buenas vacaciones de invierno!" as I passed the written portion of the exam to the proctor, who wasn’t even my professor.

I was ready to get the hell home. All of my friends had already left, because their exams

were days ago. Of all people, I was the one who got stuck with the final exam on the

Monday before Thanksgiving. I, the one who didn’t just have to drive three hours to

Boston or New York, but literally had to take planes, trains, and automobiles to get

home to Illinois. And, to make matters worse, I couldn’t even leave after my exam

because my school is a three-hour drive from a major airport. I was at the mercy of the

shuttle schedule, and nothing aligned with a semi-affordable flight. (It was the busiest

travel day of the year, after all). Even today, I curse those who live driving distance away

from school. They have no idea how easy they have it.

If I were one of them, I would’ve been able to say a proper goodbye to my grandma.

At this point, my collective two hours of sleep were catching up to me, and the brain

power I used on the exam made me feel even more exhausted. My sickness had not

improved despite the Dayquil dosage I was taking like clockwork, even stopping midway

through my exam to pop another little orange pill. I was quite frankly really miserable.

I think deep down, though, I was really homesick. When I decided to move from

Illinois to New Hampshire for college, my grandma asked why I would ever want to do

that. Why would I want to leave our hometown, my family, my life? She told me I had

everything I could ever want right here, in Joliet, Illinois. I brushed it off. She was a

stationary woman — born, married, and died in the same town. But that was her

generation. Right? She didn’t even go to college, so what could she possibly know about

moving out and starting fresh? But as I lay on my extra-lofted bed the first night I was

really on my own after my parents left, a part of me started to think maybe she had a

point.

The loneliness I felt that night was brought on by the fact that for the first time in my

life, my world was silent — no little brother talking or television blaring Bluey provided any sort of ambient noise. It was just me in my silent dorm room, wondering when this place would start to feel like home.

I have two big regrets in my life. First, is the hideous bright fuchsia dress I wore to the 8th grade school dance. And second, is not calling my grandma more often during the first

term of college. I guess we should focus on the second regret, as the first one seems

meaningless in comparison.

But before we get any deeper into regret, let’s get back on track. As a recap: I’ve taken

my exam and wallowed in pity. Then, I started to pack. I packed like I was moving out (it

was for six weeks). Maybe, subconsciously, I had hoped I was. Two large suitcases, a

stuffed duffle bag, and a backpack later, I was ready to get out of there. I set my alarm

for 3 a.m. because my bus left at 3:40 a.m. But who was I kidding? If this night was

anything like the previous night, I wouldn’t be sleeping.

And, I didn’t sleep. But not because I was sick. Well, I was still very sick, but something

felt off. I couldn’t tell if I was forgetting to pack something (how could I? I basically

packed my whole closet) or if I had anxiety about flying home for the first time alone.

Whatever it was, it kept me awake. And awake. And awake. Until ring! My alarm goes

off, and I have two collective hours of sleep in 48 hours. This would make for a fun six-

hour travel day.

I trudged from my dorm that didn’t have an elevator (thank you, old, inaccessible Ivy

League buildings!) down three flights of stairs four times to bring down each piece of

luggage one by one as to not disturb my neighbors with an alarming thud in the literal

middle of the night (looking back, I don’t even think anyone was still in the dorm

building so it really didn’t matter). When I reached the bus stop, after wheeling my

many belongings through the bitterly cold New England night, I was pleasantly

surprised to see that I wasn’t the only student left on campus. In fact, there were so

many students trying to get home for the holiday that I had to sit next to someone on the

bus. This wouldn’t typically bother me, except for the fact that I got nauseous the second

the bus started to move, and I was in the window seat. You can see where this is going.

Fifteen minutes into the ride, I feel it coming up my throat. My sight gets a little blurry,

and my head feels a sudden rush. Before I know it, I’m throwing up. I’m trying to catch

the vomit in my sweatshirt and get to the bathroom at the same time, but the girl sitting

next to me is asleep, and if she didn’t know I threw up, I did not want to show her. I’m

able to sneak past her and get to the bathroom to clean myself up. There’s no saving my

sweatshirt, though. I return to my seat and say a prayer. Please, God, just get me home.

Fortunately, the rest of my travel day went smoothly, as if anything else could have

possibly gone wrong (Oh, just wait). I landed in Chicago around noon, and my boyfriend was waiting at the baggage claim to pick me up. It was a joyous reunion, and he made me feel at home. But I still couldn’t wait to get back to my actual home and hug my mom, pet my cats, and laugh with my little brother. So, off we went.

Since I had just spent the last two months in New England, where they eat hot dogs on

folded bread, and because I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day in fear that I would throw

up, my boyfriend and I decided to stop at a Chicagoland favorite — Portillo’s. We’re in

the drive-thru, when I get a phone call from my uncle. I answer excitedly, announcing that I was home. On the other line, he swears and sounds distressed. He hangs up quickly, and I think nothing of it. I’m just excited to get my hot dog, and we’re next in line.

A few minutes later, once I’ve sunk my teeth into the beautiful combination of bread,

mustard, relish, tomato, and pickle that is a Chicago-style hot dog (notice how I didn’t

say ketchup?), I get a series of texts from my mother.

“Are you back in town?”

“Something is wrong with Grandma.”

“You need to come to the hospital.”

“Is it urgent?” I respond.

She calls.

I tell my boyfriend I need to go now, so I drive him home because, for some reason, he

took my car to pick me up from the airport. At this point, I am not panicked. My

grandma was not in the best health — in my lifetime, she had mild dementia, had

suffered a heart attack, and had open heart surgery. But she was the Titanic to me — I

thought she was unsinkable. She was my super-woman — losing her husband at 39

years old, raising three children on her own, and creating three successful businesses: a

travel agency, a fried-chicken joint, and a still thriving ice cream shop. I didn’t think

anything could take her down. Why would this time be any different?

How the rest of this story unfolds is quite hazy. But, I think it goes something like this:

I’m driving to the hospital at a normal speed. I know you shouldn’t text and drive, but

the situation calls for it. I get a text from my mother in a group chat with my father.

“I just got to the hospital,” she says.

“And? What’s going on?” he says.

She takes until I make it to the traffic light before turning into the emergency room

parking lot to reply.

“Don’t tell Gianna, but she passed.”

I pretend I didn’t see that text. I park my car and can barely turn the key to turn the

ignition off before I’m running through the doors of the emergency room. There’s a long

line at the check-in desk. I cut the line, slamming my body into the front desk. I shout,

“My family! My grandma!”

Some part of me believes this is all a mistake. I keep pretending like I didn’t see that

text. I don’t believe it. I yell like she’s still there, holding on. She’s saving her final breath

for me. They know exactly where to take me.

I see my mother and two uncles sitting quietly. I hug my mom. It’s a hug that I have

needed for the last two months. I whisper I’m sorry over and over again. I was sorry I

didn’t make it in time. I was sorry I stopped at Portillo’s. I was sorry I had the stupid

Spanish exam that prevented me from coming home earlier. I was sorry I didn’t call her

and tell her how much I loved her.

I stood there, holding my mother as she quietly cried. I was home, but my home was not

the same. And just for a moment, I wished I had never come back. I wished I was still in

my dorm halfway across the country, basking in the silence. I wished things were the

way I left them back in August.

We sat in a little room for a while. No one talked, and there wasn’t much crying, either.

My Uncle Mike broke the silence when he asked me how my travel day was. Even

though he asked me, I had the audacity to lament something else rather than the literal

death of my grandmother.

“I had quite the day,” I said with a slight chuckle.

No one laughed.

“I have been really sick, and I threw up on the bus, and I barely got any sleep the last

two nights, and then, well, obviously this happens.”

Everyone nodded and went back to twiddling their thumbs. We sat there for what felt

like half an hour, which isn’t really that much time, except I don’t know what we were

waiting for. She was pronounced dead. That’s it, go home? This was the first time I was

in the “family death room” in the ER. I didn’t know what was supposed to happen.

Luckily, a nurse came in after a while. She asked if anyone wanted to see her before they

took her somewhere. I presume to the morgue. One thing about me is that I do not do well with dead bodies. I remember going to my fourth-grade best friend’s grandma’s wake and having nightmares for two days. I lay awake at night, visualizing the dead body lying there in the casket, hands folded, gripping a rosary. Something about wakes in general makes me so squeamish. It’s like “Alright, you just died, now let’s put your body on display and force everyone to kneel six inches away from you and say a prayer.” Wakes are gross and weird. Tell my children to cremate me.

My mom and uncles decided to go say goodbye. My mom asked if I wanted to come

with, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Some part of me still thought this was all some big

misunderstanding, and if I saw the dead body, I would have to accept it. I wasn’t ready

to let go yet.

I waited in the room, alone, for them to return. On the wall, there was a very small

crucifix. I thought it was weird to have a symbol of Christian faith on the “family death

room” wall in a public hospital. It became apparent to me that a term away at a liberal

arts school was really starting to have an effect on me. Six months ago, when all I ever

knew was Catholic school and Catholic friends and abstaining from meat on

Wednesdays and Lent and Christmas, I never would have questioned the exclusive

nature of having only a crucifix on the wall. I remembered the name of the hospital was

St. Joe’s — the patron saint of the sick and dying. How fitting for this occasion, though,

when you’re born here like I was, it’s a bit odd.

When my mom went into labor with me, just a few floors above where I was sitting, my

grandma had just had open-heart surgery and was in recovery. What a coincidence! It’s

almost like we are synced up — one always entering when the other is leaving and vice

versa. She was wheeled down to the birthing suite to meet me, hospital gown and all.

Her favorite story to tell is how I took my whole hand and grabbed her pinky finger,

squeezing and holding on for dear life. For many years, I didn’t believe this to be true.

How on earth could a minutes-old baby have the strength or the wherewithal to

physically grasp something or, rather, someone? But I believe her, for I think we have

some sort of magnetic, Pisces energy (that’s right, our birthdays are only five days

apart).

When my mom and uncles returned, we decided to go home. Now, exiting the “family

death room” involved walking through the emergency room hallway in which very

sickly-looking people lay on stretchers. One guy throwing up blood into a bucket,

another looks like they’re asleep (hopefully, not dead), and then there it was. A black bag

covering the entire stretcher. It looked just like the ones in the movies. I turn to my

mother.

“Is that? -”

She nods.

As I walked through the automatic emergency room doors, the cold November air nearly

slapped me across the face, even though it was much chillier in New Hampshire, where I

had just come from. My car, parked nowhere near my mom’s or uncle’s, waited for me in

the dark parking lot. I accidentally parked in the ambulance lot (aka a “no parking

zone”), which in hindsight makes sense why there were so few cars outside yet so many

people in the waiting room. When I got in, I adjusted the seat to fit my 5-foot-2 body

instead of my boyfriend’s 6-foot-2 body. I guess I had forgotten to adjust the seat on my

drive over (priorities, right?).

My phone’s Bluetooth connected automatically to the car, and for some reason, Post

Malone started playing, though I don’t think this is what I was listening to on the way

there because my boyfriend hates rap or any kind of new music. I can’t remember

whether the song was “Better Now” or “Psycho” or something off his earlier albums like

“White Iverson.” I let it play, even though rap (is Post Malone even a rapper anymore?)

seemed like a strange choice for the occasion of driving home from your grandma’s

death day. What was I supposed to listen to? Classical? Rock? Smooth Jazz? In all

honesty, listening to any music at all seemed disrespectful. My grandma loved music,

though, so I think she’d approve. Besides, I was all alone; no one would hear me.

My house is only about a five-minute drive from the hospital, which is a comforting

thing (it’s also a great selling point for when my parents eventually list the home for

sale). I beat my mom home by a couple of minutes, which was a good thing because I felt

like I wouldn’t be able to express my happiness to be home freely if she were there with

me (I know, this sounds horrible, but you have to understand despite the death and

everything, I was really happy to be home).

I made my way up the stairs. Since I had left for college, my parents’ three-year

renovation project had come to completion. They had the entire house repainted in a

terribly stark, bright white. Even in the darkness of 7 p.m., the house was still somewhat

bright. They repainted the stairs, too, with black wooden tops and white baseboards.

There were new light fixtures and couches, and the handyman must have found time to

install the new hood for our oven, finally covering the eyesore that was a piece of tin foil

and silver duct tape over a massive hole. It was like I was walking through a new home,

except this was the same home I had lived in for eighteen years of my life. Now, it

just featured my mother’s recent Pinterest obsessions and the culmination of my father’s

obsession with the Home Depot. I shivered.

My little brother, who was only four years old at the time, was upstairs in my parents’

bathroom taking a bubble bath in their jacuzzi tub. I walked into the bathroom, shocked

to find that even those walls were painted in that horrible white. What was once a warm

tan now felt like a dentist’s office. My dad, kneeling on the tile washing Will’s hair, got

up and gave me a big hug. It was the type of hug that you couldn’t tell what it was for.

Was it because he was happy to see me, or was it because my grandma had just died?

Could it even be for both reasons, given the circumstances? Will looked at me with the

brightest blue eyes and a huge smile. His face, so innocent, had no idea what had just

happened. All he knew was happiness that his big sissy was home.

He was at her house earlier that morning, playing with cars and watching Mickey Mouse

while my mom was showing her clients a property. It’s crazy to be jealous of a four-year-

old, but I’ll admit I kind of was. He got to spend some of her last moments with her

(unknowingly but, still). I guess I can one-up him for the fact that I was the only

grandchild for thirteen years, receiving my grandma’s undivided attention (and time

and cooking and money and spoiling). Ha, take that, Will!

When my mom got home, I didn’t know what to say to her, so in an effort to change the

subject, I asked if she had gone to Target to pick up the toiletries I told her I needed.

Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash, toothpaste, shaving cream — the

necessities that I didn’t have room to fit in my suitcase or wanted to contribute to the

fifty-pound-per-bag weight limit. Of course, this was an absurd thing to ask a woman

who had just lost her mother unexpectedly. But I figured since it was so unexpected,

maybe she did go to the store. It’s not like she planned to deal with the death of her

mother that day.

But she didn’t make it there earlier, so I had no toiletries. All I could think about was

taking a shower. I needed to cleanse myself of this cursed day — puking, planes,

hospitals, death. I felt so dirty. Luckily, no one had eaten dinner yet, so my dad offered to go to Target and pick up dinner. And, you wouldn’t guess, but he was going to Portillo’s (I told you it was a Chicago staple).

My mom went up to bed, and I stayed in the living room with Will, watching him and

waiting for my toiletries.