SOUTH BOSTON, Va. — The hum of dozens of sewing machines fills the cavernous warehouse off U.S. Route 58, where thin strips of red and white cotton cascade over tables, plastic bins, and under bobbing needles. This is the heart of Annin Flagmakers, a 200,000-square-foot factory that bills itself as the oldest and largest manufacturer of the Star-Spangled Banner in the United States. Here, seamstresses work eight, sometimes 12 hours a day, weaving together the American flag—a symbol that has marked the nation’s highest highs and lowest lows since the company’s founding in 1847.
Annin’s flags have hung at President Abraham Lincoln’s inauguration, draped his coffin, flown atop Mount Suribachi after the Battle of Iwo Jima, and rocketed to the moon aboard Apollo 11. As political disagreements splinter the nation, Americans of every persuasion have raised the flag in pride or protest—brandished at campaign rallies, burned in dissent, and laid next to the graves of fallen soldiers. Once a unifying symbol, it now represents political alienation for some. Rioters who stormed the U.S. Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, waved Old Glory as they broke windows. Demonstrators at “No Kings” rallies have sought to reclaim it to show allegiance to the country’s founding principles.
Yet, the workers who stitch these flags say they don’t worry much about how people will use them once they’re shipped out the door. Each holds a deeply personal relationship with the symbol. Most believe it represents freedom—just don’t ask what freedom means to them.
“Leave politics, money and religion at the door,” says 31-year-old Amber Davis, a rule she’s followed during her decade at the factory. She’s sewn all types of flags—Ukrainian, Iranian, and Confederate, before Annin ceased production of the latter in 2015. “No matter what’s going on in the world, this is our job,” Davis says. “We’ve seen them all.”
For Melonie Bullock, 32, who started a few months ago, stitching the flag feels like stitching herself into history. “The flag has a different meaning for everyone,” she says. For her, it’s a reminder of her mother, a military veteran. “It goes back to family; it goes back to her strength. Sewing the flag, I feel like I still get to pay respect to my mom.”
Nearby, 26-year-old Marilisa Nunez says she considers something else meaningful every time the Stars and Stripes crosses her desk: “A better life.” Her parents emigrated from Mexico, and because of their sacrifices, she spends her days gabbing with colleagues and evenings playing Minecraft with her boyfriend.
Sandy Doss, a mother of two, found a second chance at Annin after being in prison. Gazing at the flag in front of her, she smiles. “You’re driving down the road, and you see a flag, and you’re like, ‘Oh, I probably made that.’ You feel accomplished ’cause you had a hand in that.”
Sales of the flag have ebbed through changes in domestic politics—dipping during the Great Depression and Vietnam War, rising amid the patriotic fervor of World War II and the bicentennial. Presidential elections almost always bring a spike in orders. But Joan Snead, 62, doesn’t care much whether people are buying it or not, so long as she’s still able to stitch it. “I don’t want nobody telling me when I can cook, when I can’t cook, when I can go somewhere, when I can’t go somewhere,” she says.
Talika Chappell, 55, sings gospel songs as she maneuvers long stripes of red and white onto her desk. She cares only that the women under her don’t drag the flag on the floor. When she thinks about being American, she pictures herself on the couch eating crab legs as her seven grandchildren play nearby. Recently, she gifted an Annin flag to a neighbor who owns a restaurant. “I want to give you a flag that I put my hands all over,” she told him.
Near the front of the warehouse, workers man an ink-splattered machine stamping 13 crisp stripes and a field of stars onto white fabric. After each print, the machine washes leftover pigment from its gears, turning the red and blue dyes into an oozing purple liquid. Watch the rhythm too long, and the chemical scent might make you lightheaded.
Annin’s operations director has strode past this scene every workday for more than two decades. On a spring morning, as he watched the machine spool finished flags, he reflected on a trip to the 9/11 Memorial & Museum with his grandchildren. Staring at the reflection pools, his grandson spotted a handheld American flag stuck in a crevice next to one of the 2,983 names etched in bronze. Tears welled in the director’s eyes as he recounted the story. “We come to work because we have to eat. We need to have a roof over our heads,” he said, voice cracking. “But what a glorious thing to be able to make.”
