I'm currently in a Women’s Studies classes centered around gender craft and knitting. We've been reading a text called No Idle Hands by Anne Macdonald. The text traces knitting through colonial
Anyway, we also write journals twice a month about our readings, our knitting experiences, etc. Many of my classmates are beginners, and I can no doubt imagine writing about their struggles and lauding the industrious abilities of the Knitsters of Olde. Yeah, great. I wrote about some stupid bitch on the train.
I composed this essays while stabbing away at a cabled afghan square I'm doing as part of our service project (each student knits two, we put the whole shebang together and then donate it), thinking vehement thoughts about the lady sitting next to me. She acted like she had a #50, big, honking needle up her bony hiney, but I digress, here's the essay:
This weekend, when schlepping myself and my things home for a completely un-relaxing, no, make that stressful, visit with my family, I found myself in an interesting situation. I turned into somewhat of a young, jaded knitting sociologist. I took the Metra home during the rush hour commute, grabbed a seat early due to splendid planning, and pinned my ticket between the metal tabs in front of me. I started rifling around in my very utilitarian backpack for my needles and yarn, so as to work on my afghan square, but before I could retrieve them, a lady, mid-forties, dressed elegantly in a femme fatale suit sat down beside me and from her Coach bag withdrew two Susan Bates needles (pink, of course) and a ball of what looked to be terribly expensive novelty yarn so she could work on what she would later refer to as “oh, you know, that old thing I threw together on my daily commute.”
I made the mistake of trying to talk to her. “Oh, what are you knitting?” I asked. A sweater for her daughter that the girl in question would no doubt never wear of her own volition. At the family Christmas party, Mom would coax her into donning the garment so when asked what designer boutique she has purchased such a sweater at for her darling, exemplary daughter, she could reply that she had made it with her own hands.
Now, do not think for a moment that I am being too hard on this woman! When I pulled my worsted-weight dark green yarn and worn bamboo needles from my bag, I could nearly hear her facial muscles tugging into a frown. Right-o, I thought, and then explained to her that I was taking a Women’s Studies class and that this was our service project. I thought that she, being a woman of success and strength, would delight in my study of feminism and the fact that I was doing something charitable in nature. Not so! The contempt in her voice was thinly veiled and her lack of interest was shockingly clear. I sighed and popped on my headphones. Another noticeable frown, even though she couldn’t hear music leaking from my headphones and even if she had been able to, it wouldn’t have been “that offensive trash the kids are listening to these days.”
As I knitted away, cabling every so often in my comforting wool, I caught her stealing glances at my work and I thought to myself, “Oh, you think that because I’m young, I’m brash and stupid and don’t “get” knitting. I see.” It was as if I was knitting a bag for all those venereal diseases I must have acquired from all the rampant, unprotected sex I must be having as a college student. Or a sex toy cozy or a penis cozy or goodness only knows what else. Hardly. Had I not been working on my afghan square, I might have started the case I’m knitting up for my laptop or my vertical-knit scarf—something practical to keep the winter and elements away from body and possessions.
And so, as the train surged toward home, I thought and thought and thought. What type of knitter would this lady have been two hundred odd years ago? Clearly, she would have been one of those well-to-do types that had knit as recreation, pretty lace things from fine silk yarn. She had no reason to knit the stockings for her family. Servants, today’s textile mills, did that sort of work. But where did that leave me? As a young woman, so many years ago, I would have been knitting my own stockings, garters and shawls and maybe a few projects on the side to earn a few measly dollars to put toward a few drops of education. But nowadays, I don’t have to knit my own clothing, yet I wouldn’t place myself in the category of upper class knitters since I don’t believe I take myself nearly that seriously. Sure, knitting is an enjoyable pastime, but I certainly don’t think it’s any indication of my good breeding. And so, finding no suitable definition for today’s young knitter, I went beyond No Idle Hands and came up with my own.
Today we have the “punk knitter,” a term that can be used to cover all matter of sins. We are the knitters of what we want to knit. We knit as therapy. We knit to rebel against mass production and the slow fade of crafting. We are asserting that hand craft shouldn’t die now that it’s no longer required. We knit because it’s essential. We rebel like the ladies that would sit in the bees and knit our own goods so as not to rely on
Oh, and unlike that lady on the train, we don’t knit because it’s trendy and camp and something else we can throw our scads of excess money at.
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