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

I attended something called a knitting meetup for the very first time in my life. In fact, it was my first time knitting together with anyone other than my own child. I’m a 46-year-old salesman. Compared to this, cold-calling clients felt easy — this required the courage of a bungee jump.

Summoning my courage, I joined my first knitting meetup.
But it turned out to be an event with a true “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” spirit.

“Knitting Fest Vol. 49” was held on Sunday, March 29 — the day after cherry blossoms reached full bloom in Tokyo.
The venue was Yoyogi Park, roughly halfway between Shibuya and Harajuku. Stylish, just by location alone.

The organizer is knitting comedian Aipa Takizawa. The fact that this event has continued for 49 installments speaks to the sincerity and persistence of knitting fans.

I arrived a little after the start time, and everyone had already begun knitting. Many people had spread picnic sheets across the grass. The scene looked like a school excursion lunchtime. According to the official announcement, about 60 people attended that day. I froze at the unexpected turnout. What if everyone looked at me the moment I sat down?

For a few seconds, my knees locked with nervousness. “Hello!” Aipa Takizawa called out to me from afar, standing in the middle of the gathering like a lighthouse. He smiled. That smile instantly relaxed me, and I found myself crouching down on the spot.

“Is this seat okay?” Greetings are the best cure for nervousness — a rule I remembered from my rookie salesman days. I tried speaking to the person next to me. Unfortunately, the medicine didn’t work as well at my age. Still, I activated the facial muscles trained by years of business smiles and forced a grin. “Of course!” The reply came lightly and warmly. Realizing I was the only one nervous somehow made me even more nervous.

Colorful picnic sheets spread across the lawn. In one corner, I laid down my very practical blue tarp — the kind used at construction sites. It looked more like I was reserving a cherry-blossom viewing spot. When I sat down, the ground felt hard and cold.

Looking around again, I noticed the wide age range among participants — people my age, students, and even kids brought by their mothers. There were many women, and sweat formed on my forehead as I wondered, “Did I accidentally enter a women-only carriage?” But then I spotted several men — actually near the center of the gathering. Some had come alone like me, and there was even a young boy. Everyone was calmly focused on knitting. I had always believed knitting had nothing to do with gender, but seeing this still brought deep relief.

So I resumed working on my sweater. Knitting outdoors felt wonderful. I sometimes knit alone in parks, but knitting with many people was something special. The air seemed to flow differently. And the scent of cherry blossoms drifted through the space. Ah, I thought — this is a picnic. People shared snacks, poured drinks from thermoses, and someone even brought a boombox. I was probably the only person secretly thinking about drinking beer.

To be honest, I had imagined knitting meetups as quiet, almost sacred spaces. Knitting felt like a personal hobby. I thought maybe I could quietly sit at the edge of the circle without bothering anyone — like entering a study room.

What a misconception. No — a prejudice. My apologies. The answer had been obvious from the beginning. It was called a festival, after all. The event was lively, warm like spring sunlight that feels hotter than it looks. For a beginner like me, that atmosphere was incredibly comforting. Everyone was friendly and effortlessly stylish. “Is this your first time?”
“When did you start knitting?” “You made that hat too, right?” People kept talking to me. Someone even shared snacks with me — they were delicious.

And then someone said: “That’s wonderful. I admire dads like you.” They complimented my knitting, which curled like dried squid from poor tension control. And it wasn’t just me — newcomers were welcomed warmly. At Vol. 49, hospitality had clearly become part of the culture. Maybe this is what university clubs were like, I thought — something I never experienced as a broke student.

As I relaxed, I began firing questions at the experienced knitters: whether my head would fit through the collar, how to read patterns, yarn and washing compatibility, and more. Apparently, I had been starving for guidance — something I never realized while knitting alone.

Every question received clear, thoughtful answers. Sometimes they even introduced me to another expert nearby.

The conversations wandered freely — like a stroll with no destination — drifting through comedy and manga topics before somehow returning to where we started, yet leaving me with new insights. Away from work, I’m not confident I can have conversations that interesting. To be honest, I’m not confident even at work.

There was another realization too. I’ve always disliked my voice. It’s unusually high-pitched, and I feel it reveals my lack of confidence. I’ve never rewatched recordings of online meetings. A serious face paired with a high voice — people have laughed at me for it. My wife holds the record for that.

But that day, I didn’t mind it. My voice came out naturally, without tension. I even felt a faint hope that it fit the gentle atmosphere of the gathering. That, too, was a first.

This event was easy to join — and easy to leave. Many families left early, waving goodbye as others cheerfully waved back. Encouraged by that atmosphere, I also left a little early. My third-grade daughter was bringing her boyfriend home and had ordered me: “Dad, cook hamburg steaks — but don’t be home during the day.” “Thank you very much. I’ll take my leave now.” After saying goodbye to everyone who had helped me, I headed home — only to realize halfway back that I had forgotten to shave. I deeply regretted it.

Surprise, joy, learning — all twisted together into an event with a gentle texture. And hands speak louder than words: thanks to the meetup, my sweater had progressed significantly. Watching others’ projects grow beside mine added a live, shared excitement. Perhaps things that are fun alone become just as fun — or even more so — when shared with others. I’m deeply grateful to the organizer and the experienced knitters.

If possible, I’d like to join again. It seems to be held almost monthly. At the very least, I’ll have to wear that sweater next time — even if it turns out too tight. That will require another kind of courage. I wonder what I’ll be knitting at the next one.