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

Knitting in the park feels so good. You could call it “outdoor knitting.” Well, no one actually calls it that, but you get the idea.

While keeping an eye on my child playing nearby, I sit on a shaded bench, needles in hand. The summer breeze has its own fragrance. It’s so hot that even the mosquitoes have given up flying.

Another pleasant surprise: people actually come up and talk to me. Knitting in a park is unusual enough. If the knitter is a middle-aged man, it’s even rarer. But hey, if he’s knitting, he probably isn’t dangerous. I guess that’s the logic.

Mothers. Students. Kids. Grandmas. (Yes, multiple grandmas.) Mostly women, but still—they talk to me from time to time.

That day, above the chorus of cicadas, I heard a clear, high-pitched voice: “Nani wo anderuno?”

[Note: “Nani wo anderuno?” means What are you knitting? in Japanese]

I looked up from my yarn. A girl was peering at my hands. Way too close.

She was maybe in 3rd or 4th grade—about the same age as my daughter. Tank top and shorts, probably from GU or Uniqlo Her arms and legs shone with energy (and sweat). Her skin was deeply brown, darker than most of the kids around, and her curly hair sparkled in the sunlight the way only kids’ curls do. No greeting, just a wide grin—radiating friendliness at an angelic level.

Ah, a child curious about knitting! That’s an adult’s cue to respond with full sincerity. Curiosity has no borders. I grinned, stretched out my piece of fabric dramatically, and declared: “Yes! Vest!” Of course I pronounced the “V” properly, biting the lower lip like you’re supposed to.
But the girl just said, “Oh, a chokki.”…She had answered me in Japanese.

[Note: “chokki” is the old Japanese word for vest. A kid using it is funny—like a child in English saying “Oh, a waistcoat.”]

I instinctively covered my face with the half-knit cloth—not from the heat, but from shame. Forgive me. I judged her by appearance. I assumed she didn’t speak Japanese. That was not just rude; it might have hurt her. Her heart is still growing, right now, this very second. And I barged in with my ignorance.

She had literally just asked me in Japanese: “Nani wo anderuno?” Her native language was probably Japanese all along.

In that moment I wondered: how many “well-meaning lookists” had she already met? How many adults had treated her as a foreigner first, a child second? My “Yes! Vest!” must have felt ridiculous.

But self-loathing could wait. First came the apology. That was my duty—not as an “adult,” but as a human being. “I’m so sorry! That was incredibly rude of me!” I put my hands together and bowed my head, almost like I was praying.

“It’s okay.” She waved her little palm and smiled, as friendly as before. She was used to this. That hurt even more.

Then, with a “never mind that” expression, she asked:
“Isn’t wool hot in summer?” I scrambled for an answer: “Oh no, I won’t be wearing it now. And as you can see, it’s nowhere near finished. This thing takes forever.” I kept talking, but I couldn’t look her in the eye. I was afraid my gaze itself might cut her. My bowed neck burned in the sun. Sweat dripped.

And then—another voice boomed from above: “What’s going on here???” Like someone shouting about a rare beetle catch. I looked up, startled, and instantly knew: the girl’s mom. Same face, just grown-up. White cap, white sneakers, both splattered with mud—clearly the kind of parent who dives into play with her kid.

The mom glanced at my hands and exclaimed: “Wow! Is that the French style or the American style?” Instant relief. She was a fellow knitter! I admitted I had no idea which I was doing. She explained: French style (Continental) = yarn in the left hand, scooped. American style (English) = yarn in the right hand, wrapped. Complicated.

She studied my fingers closely. I squirmed. Then she smiled: “That’s French style. My grandma knitted like that too. So nostalgic.” And from there, her family history unfolded.

Her great-grandmother had come from French Guiana—a French colony in South America where French is still the official language. Naturally, her knitting was in the French style. Even after immigrating to the U.S., she kept that style. Her daughters inherited it. The mom’s own grandmother—her teacher in knitting—was one of them. “I broke the chain,” she laughed, pointing at herself. “I gave up on knitting.”

Her grandma had made sweaters every Christmas. But as the grandkids grew, nobody wanted to wear them. Realizing how much skill and time went into “that sweater,” she decided knitting wasn’t for her.

“Knitting takes forever, doesn’t it?” “Yes. It really does.” “How do you manage it while raising kids?” “Right now. In this scorching park. Haha.” “Hahaha!”

Her great-grandmother, if alive, would be over 100. A century ago, Black immigrants in the U.S. faced intense discrimination—and restrictions on immigration, too. Life couldn’t have been easy. I couldn’t help comparing that history with present-day Japan.

While I pondered, I kept knitting garter stitch. She kept watching her child. Sometimes not making eye contact lets us say more. With a smartphone, this wouldn’t have happened. Knitting is strange that way.

Our talk meandered: how to keep kids busy during summer vacation, complaints about high AC bills, expensive vegetables, expensive travel. Then the eternal struggle: kids refusing to do homework. Round and round we went. And finally—we realized our daughters went to the same elementary school. My daughter’s senior! Just neighbors, after all.

Knitting, via French Guiana and America, had brought us together on a park bench in Tokyo. Just two parents, chatting while our kids played.

At 5pm, the park loudspeakers blared their cracked “go-home” chime [note: in Japan, parks play a public melody at closing time]. Time to leave. Bye-bye. See you.

On the way home, I asked my daughter: “You think we’ll see them again at the October sports festival?” “She’ll forget by then.” “What if I wear the vest? Then she’ll remember.” “Don’t. It’s lame.” You shouldn’t tell someone who’s knitting that their knitting is lame while they’re still knitting!

Here is that ugly vest.

I’ve finally finished the back. But when I finished, I realized I made a mistake with the size. It’s clearly too wide. I’ll have to adjust the front to fit it… But that’s okay. This tacky look is part of the charm. I’m sure that mother and daughter would laugh at me.

I’ll definitely finish it in time for the autumn sports day, and I’ll definitely wear it. Today, I continue knitting in the French style.