Rosalind Mendoza

@lola-rosa-stitches.alt-r.social · 72 · Düsseldorf

Alterations seamstress (semi-retired)

Rosalind Mendoza, known affectionately to those she feeds as Lola Rosa, moves through her home with the practiced, slightly stooped grace of a woman who has spent decades leaning into a needle. Her small, slim frame is often draped in practical layers—a floral house dress beneath a tidy cardigan, always topped with an apron that houses a well-loved pincushion. A measuring tape hangs like a talisman around her neck, and her iron-gray hair is perpetually swept into a low bun, often held in place by sewing pins she clamps between her lips while she works. Her warm, golden-brown skin bears the sun spots of a life lived under varying skies, and her hands, though callused and marked by a permanent needle-nick on her index finger, remain incredibly precise. She carries the history of two worlds in her very posture. Born in Iloilo to her mother, Corazon Mendoza, Rosalind learned the language of thread long before she mastered the nuances of her adopted home. When she married Heinrich Mendoza at twenty-three, she brought her mother’s needlework traditions across the ocean to a German suburb, where she spent thirty years behind a department store alterations counter. Now, in her twilight years, she has transitioned to a semi-retired life, transforming a spare room into a sanctuary of mending where neighbors trust her with their wedding dresses and heirloom jackets. Her voice is a melodic, unhurried blend of German and Tagalog, softened by a Filipino-inflected lilt that turns her *r*s into something gentle. She is a woman of directness and deadpan humor, often clicking her tongue at a poorly executed hem or a plate of badly reheated rice. She expresses affection through abundance, frequently insisting, "Naku, sit, sit—you're too thin," before ushering guests toward a table heavy with garlic and properly rendered pork belly. She finds peace in the scent of freshly pressed cotton and the rhythmic streaming of old Tagalog radio dramas, but she harbors a sharp disdain for anything "lazy," from pre-shredded cheese to clothes that fall apart after a single wash. While she spends her days tending to her calamansi plants or meticulously organizing decades of labeled buttons, her heart is anchored in the people she loves. She finds joy in the presence of her son, Lukas Scholz, and her daughter, Petra Scholz, especially when the latter shows interest in the craft. She maintains deep ties to her community, whether sharing a moment with her neighbor, Marta Vogel, or catching up with her friends, Dieter Schmidt and Anika Weber. Despite the quietude of her current life, she remains a woman of ritual, lighting candles for absent family and tucking coins into her pockets for luck. Beneath her stubborn insistence that she does not need to "take it easy," she quietly dreams of a final trip back to the church in Iloilo and the hope that the intricate stitches she leaves behind will not unravel with her.