My favorite cotton flannel shirt was in serious need of repair. The cuffs were fraying and so many edges were wearing through. The tag had been attached by a safety pin for about four years (though this isn’t an essential fix – more of a sentimental one).
I love this flannel – it carries heaps of sentimentality. It originally belonged to my dad in his adventure days. As his dementia has progressed, those adventure days are mostly behind him – but he still exclusively wears flannel shirts (like a good Minnesotan). It’s a special piece, but that doesn’t stop me from wearing it. What was stopping me from donning this as a casual layer was the quickly disintegrating fabric around high wear areas.
I applied my very basic mending skills to the cuffs, as this was the area in most need of repair. I used a blanket stitch, but stitched incredibly close together so there were no spaces in between each downward stitch. This also looks somewhat like a buttonhole stitch – but I don’t know enough about hand stitching to make a definitive statement about that.
The stitching is a little wonky – I’m still getting the hang of the rhythm of precision hand sewing.
A week after I finished my cuff repair, I noticed new spots on the cuff collar that are wearing thin. It seems like this flannel will forever been in need of mending. While I easily could feel despair over the never ending task of trying to preserve this item of clothing, I’ve decided that it’s perpetual need of repair shines a light onto how I feel about this shirts original owner – my dad – and his illness and aging. By spending some time attending to the weak spots in his shirt, I’m reminded to keep pressing into the weaker spots in his memory. If I wanted this shirt to last forever, I would put it away and never touch it. But what we’ve learned about people with dementia (and people in general) is that this breakable doll treatment hardly helps anyone. What we all need is love and care as we exercise our minds and bodies in community with one another. We need some mending for our thin spots, some reinforcements for our weaknesses. Revealing our vulnerabilities (visible mending) is not something to be ashamed of, but rather it is something that demonstrates our participation in the unpredictabilities of life – it shows that we are really living!
Domestic. Feminine. Girly. 1950’s Housewife. All “compliments” that require a huge amount of interpretation on my part to be received well. When I first picked up knitting I had no idea about its history or its current cultural connotations as a woman’s activity. As I began to knit around my family and friends, I heard comments using the adjectives above with greater frequency. Being called domestic or feminine felt more like an insult than a compliment. It has taken a lot of thought to reach the point where I say thank you when someone compares me to a 1950’s housewife rather than slam the door in their face.
If I’m being honest with myself, I am feminine. Identifying as feminine is difficult to do considering my strong identity as a tomboy and my rejection of anything girly as a child. This rejection was still present when I picked up knitting in 2011, completely unaware of its feminine connotations. I was also completely unaware how this new hobby would reveal years of internalized sexism. As I became more and more of a “knitter” I wrestled with what it meant for me to be feminine and my deeply held negativity about femininity.
Let’s return to my identity as a tom boy. This identity had a very clear origin: sometime in elementary school I chose to embrace all things “boyish” and reject anything “girly.” Previous to this point I was a huge fan of the characteristic girly stuff: dresses, pink, dancing, dolls, etc. I chose to push aside those interests and take on totally new interests like football, the color orange, and cargo pants. Now I find it absolutely hilarious that to my eight-year-old brain cargo pants and orange were the most boyish things I could imagine.
One of the reasons I rejected femininity as a child was because, in my community, feminine things were characterized as boring, frivolous, and limiting. If I was girly, I couldn’t enjoy playing outside or being loud and rambunctious – which I desperately wanted to do at all hours. Somehow I made the all-or-nothing calculation that if I were to be strong, athletic, and loud, I couldn’t be feminine. I identified with these traits that could be traditionally labeled masculine and gave up my feminine traits. While I am glad I embraced those parts of me that were loud and strong, I can identify that for most of my childhood I did not feel like I could be myself. My decision to reject the feminine had been detrimental to my sense of identity.
After years of schooling and some very helpful academic courses on feminism and theology, I realized that qualities labeled masculine and feminine could, in fact, be embodied in one individual. These traits that are labeled feminine or masculine aren’t actually inherently gendered. The color orange does not, at its core, belong more to men or women. The ability to follow a recipe for cupcakes does not inherently belong more to women than men. Gendered traits are formed by communities and cultures. I realized that in my community, those traditional feminine qualities get quite a bad reputation. Even though I was raised in the era of “girl power,” girly things weren’t considered powerful and girls could only feel powerful if they rejected femininity.
Because I believed words like domestic and feminine to be boring, I had a hard time imagining why someone would tell me, to my face, that I was so domestic or I reminded them of a 1950’s housewife. In my mind these phrases were akin to calling me boring, frivolous, or antiquated. However, now I understand that my association of femininity with frivolity was internalized sexism and revealed how my community valued (read: did not value) traditional feminine traits, qualities, and activities. After coming to terms with my community’s belittlement of the feminine, I began to explore the values of traditional femininity. I rediscovered my love of dresses, embraced my appreciation for the color pink, and owned my skills in baking, knitting, and sewing. Rather than hide my love for these things, I embrace these activities as equally valuable to my skills in more male dominated spheres like rock climbing, technology support, and building/fixing things.
My obsession with knitting, and perhaps my initial ignorance of its gendered history, was the spark that began my reunion with femininity. Now that I no longer view feminine qualities and activities as boring, I feel more connected to the strong, creative, and feminine women who have preceded me. Women like my great aunt Joan who was a master weaver, natural dyer, and spinner and my great grandmothers Eleanor and Mary Belle who could knit lace weight garments with their eyes closed. These women were previously just names on my family tree before I took up knitting. For them, traditional women’s crafts weren’t limiting, but provided necessities and freedom in the form of economic independence. When I think about them, being called a 1950’s housewife seems a bit more bad-ass than it did before.