the wiccan ritual she called the “garter stitch”
I began writing this with a goal of "exploring masculinity, creativity, and expression through the lens of a 5th grade knitter". Unfortunately, I never finished writing it! Here's what I have so far:
It was a Tuesday, or maybe a Thursday afternoon in Mrs. Kannapell’s dull yellow fifth grade classroom. I remember the electricity I felt coursing through my chest, traveling down my arms to tickle my fingers and pulsing in my feet, so hard I thought I’d leap from my seat in anticipation. Rain cascaded from the sky, each drop slamming into the classroom windows like fists pounding on a door to be let in. An impatiently antsy but also dismal mood had settled over the class like the misty fog outside that held our recess captive in its slippery clutches. But during this indoor recess, Mrs. Kanapell was going to teach us how to knit.
As a child, I marveled at the process of creation, believing that anyone who possessed the mystical capability to turn imagination into something tangible was superiorly magical. Apart from the crayola scribbling I labeled self-portraits and the novels I’d written but two pages of, I was far from possessing such divine powers myself. That was until Mrs. Kanapell opened her desk drawer to reveal five balls of yarn and 5 sets of knitting needles that projected a spectral glow none of my classmates seemed to notice. Eagerly, I retrieved a beige ball of yarn and two boringly blue needles from the selection of vibrant colors and combinations, perhaps intimidated by their divine powers, or maybe in an effort to blend into the background of a group I quickly realized was all girls.
Across the classroom, almost miles away, the fifth grade boys had chosen, to the delight of my ears, an afternoon of blaring screams ensuing from pointless ruckus, instead of one beholden to the righteous pursuit of creation and art. Yet, something told me to run over and join them while I still could. An escapee from the prison of masculinity, I felt my parents stare creep around the classroom like light from the prison watch tower, anxiety swelling in my chest as the room began to gently rock like a baby’s bouncer mistakenly left on the highest setting. Though they were not in the room, their gaze was, and they were not happy with what they saw. Still, hungry for a wool scarf (and a side of liberation), I let Mrs. Kannapell corrupt me with the wiccan ritual she called the “garter stitch”. And I never felt more alive.
will finish eventually!!
soooo good i love all the metaphors. i feel like i am in this classroom learning how to knit