When it comes to conflict, I’m a bit of a pussy.
I am ashamed to say I have only participated in one march, a huge pro-choice march in the early 90s in Washington, DC. While I talk a good game and post articles on Facebook in a furious indignation, the truth is that I’ve let others do the heavy lifting. My blog and subsequent books, Things I Want to Punch in the Face, took aim at the small things in life that chap my hide. I can go after mimes and man buns and mixologists, the truth is that I skirt around the more divisive and serious issues that I believe in, like gun control and reproductive rights and misogyny and climate change and Black Lives Matter, because I have never felt confident enough to argue my point to the metaphorical death. I didn’t grow up in a family or culture that invited spirited debate. We scurried away from any topics that were unpleasant, which meant religion, politics, and money were off limits at the dinner table.
Then along came Donald Trump. I’d say he’s a joke of a human being but the threat he presents is anything but funny. And after decades of taking my rights and freedoms and citizenship for granted, I’ve finally woke. I’ve been a passive American because more often than not, I’ve felt that others were taking care of business on my behalf. Now, I’ve come to realize that citizenship is indeed a responsibility that requires more action than posting New York Times and Atlantic pieces into the echo chamber of my social networks.
It requires more than knitting pussyhats. But for me, that was a start. Stitches have flown off my knitting needles in the past week, as I’ve knocked out 10 in a fever dream. I’ve sent them to all corners of the country and passed them out among my friends. Some women have commented that they think the hats are silly and the pink color too weak to represent our collective rage. But for me, that’s not the point. For me, the process of knitting has been powerful and a way for me to channel and transform my feelings into action. On 9/11, I was living in Philadelphia. Unsure of what was happening and who was still at risk, I walked the 20 blocks from my office to my home, curled up into a fetal position, and then took out my needles. Over the next several days, a sweater emerged from my needles, a deep blue to match the depths of my grief. This past week, I’ve knit resilience and resolve and sisterhood into each hat, reclaiming pink as a badass power color. I have done this so that when I look around tomorrow at the sea of pink hats and lock arms with friends and strangers alike, I will feel myself a vital if small part of this great nation.
So this is why I march tomorrow, and why I will continue to stand up and rise up. We have to protect the rights that have been hard won by those who came before and we have to protect each other. I’m ready to put on my pussyhat and put some skin in the game.