Musuta Kusaka's Everyday Journey with Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion in Japan

Knitting is a weapon.

Sorry for the sudden, alarming statement. I first learned about this from a book recommended to me by an acquaintance called “The Power of Knitting” (by Loretta Napolioni, translated by Yumiko Sakuma).

Knitting has a history that can not go back to its origins. People who have been discriminated against or oppressed, including women, have used knitting to fight against adversity and power. This tradition continues in a different form to this day. I was surprised by the cultural and social aspects of knitting, and found myself rereading the same pages of the book over and over again.

I felt peace, love, unity and people who never forgot having fun. The knowledge of the townspeople to survive and the DIY spirit. It seems that street art similar to graffiti, called Yarn Bombing, is now being developed all over the world.
By the time I finished reading the book, I had begun to feel this way.”Knitting is so hiphop-like, isn’t it?”

I misread it. I knew it was a misreading, but some journeys start with a misreading. Having completely changed my image of knitting, I picked up my knitting needles and yarn.

And then, I was on fire.

Knitting feels good. It’s no exaggeration to say it’s druggy.
Hook the yarn onto the tip of the needle and slide it smoothly through the targeted gap. The sensation of just a few millimeters at my fingertips is delicate, but it is transmitted to my brain as a clear signal. There is a slight tickling tremor mixed in, and as I repeat the process, I become sweetly intoxicated. Honestly, I’ve significantly cut down on my alcohol intake.

The finger movements were not as complicated as I thought they would be, and I could learn them quickly.
Rather, it’s the amount of force I use. If I tense my shoulders, the yarn becomes stubborn, but if I relax, it becomes easier to spin. Naturally knitted stitches are not only beautiful, but also have a calm texture. In other words, here, relaxation is the power. Whether you like it or not, relaxation is inevitable.

And for me, a 45-year-old husband and father of one, the time I spend knitting is also time to think about my family. Will it fit my wife? Will it be ready in time for my daughter’s next term? My mind becomes empty, and filled with thoughts. Maybe this is what mindfulness feels like.

Even distant memories came back to me. As I stared at my own awkward fingers, I remembered my father. His fingers were beautiful.

One day, nearly 40 years ago, my father waved his hand and called my brother and I to the Buddhist altar. He then sat upright, took my brother and I by the hand, and said, “Dad is leaving home today. From now on, we will be living apart from you.” His long, slender fingers tensed gently. They were cold and damp, as if the blood had stopped.

My father was a car dealer. It was a small shop, but it was thriving. Just as liquor stores franchised to become convenience stores, it was common in the past for repair companies to become dealerships for major car manufacturers. He was also a rock and roller. He had a shiny ducktail with pomade, and cat-eye sunglasses.
He in his leather flight jacket often took me for drives. The smell of tar and cologne was carried away by the wind. There was no car he couldn’t handle on Route 20 at night. He worked hard, looked sharp. A man from an era when it was possible to be a shiny, pretentious person.

My father wanted to build a home for our family. It was a badge of honor for a man. But his former motorcycle gang comrades took advantage of this. To those who had been “promoted” from gang members to the yakuza, my father, who had run away and started a family, was vulnerable. An easy target. I don’t know what happened now, but the Kusakabe family ended up with some bad debt. Not a loan, but a debt. I remember the day when red notices of seizure were affixed to all the furniture in the house, ominously like a barrier.

Like a man. Because he’s a man. That’s what a man should do. That’s how he lived, taking on debt collectors one by one, enduring his mother’s harsh criticism, and yet never making excuses or whining. But when he was chased to his workplace, his bravado broke down. He left home to avoid debt collectors while searching for a new job. And with that, he disappeared from sight.

I was eight years old when my father disappeared. Now my daughter is eight years old. With timing that seems too good to be true, now I’m feeling a little cornered. Diagnosed with sudden deafness and depression. Taken a leave of absence due to overwork. As a sales team leader, husband, and father. As I continued to take on all the “masculinity” aspects, first my eardrums and then my heart finally burst. I don’t know how to rely on anyone. Maybe in that way I’m similar to my father.

So I’m scared. I can’t stop worrying that if I let my guard down, I’ll end up like him. I can’t help but see my father, who was crushed by “masculinity,” and myself, who am on the verge of being crushed by it. In the fight against that “masculinity,” knitting seemed like a very suitable weapon.

Speaking of knitting, it’s a hobby popular among women. To be honest, that’s what I thought. In fact, whenever I go to a craft store, I’m the only male customer, weekday or weekend. Instruction books and design books seem to be aimed at mostly female readers. The introductory books for elementary school students that I read are completely aimed at girls.

However, when I immerse myself in the act of knitting, I understand. There is nothing feminine or masculine about it. I just knit stitch by stitch, mindlessly, aiming to create something worthy of being worn by someone I care about. Just like cooking, knitting is completely genderless.

So who has been confining knitting to gendered boundaries? Men, or rather “masculinity” seems to be the problem here. But what exactly is “masculinity”? Whose convenience is it? Who is the victim?

I was trained and forced to be manly. But no one taught me how to resist it. For me, knitting is finally an intellectual tool to question, break, and overturn “masculinity”.
The place where my father used to be and the place where I am now are probably only separated by the width of a single strand of wool. But I feel like I can make that boundary line thicker by knitting.

I wrote something grandiose like that, but in reality, all I did was knit the stitches one by one. It was a very modest thing. The figure of a large man, 174cm tall and weighing 82kg, hunched over, knitting the scarf silently and endlessly, was almost like an introverted bear. My wife, who was watching, said, “That’s just like you.”