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

こちらは、英語圏の読者が自然に読めるように意訳しつつ、会話部分の改行を減らし、英語エッセイらしい段落構成に整えた訳です。

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My daughter was absorbed in a video game. My wife was taking an evening nap on the floor, sprawled out like a crime-scene victim.

Apparently, both of them had forgotten that it was Father’s Day.

I was the only one who had noticed this little incident while knitting. No, it’s fine. I don’t mind at all. As long as they’re healthy and happy, every day is Father’s Day. Besides, it was still too early in the day to sink into despair. And really, in this age of constant information, is it even possible to completely overlook Father’s Day?

As I tried to calm my wandering thoughts, I found myself focusing more deeply on my knitting. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that knitting calmed me down.

I was working on a hooded neck warmer for my daughter. With each new row, I could tell my cable knitting was improving. The technique that required three needles no longer demanded a tutorial video. How to insert and remove the needles, how to slip stitches and return them—I had finally gotten the hang of it. Once the motions became familiar, my hands seemed to develop a rhythm of their own.

As my fingers moved more smoothly, the pattern and texture became smoother as well. Cable knitting reveals hesitation directly in the finished fabric. When I first started, my stitches looked like static noise. Now, clumsy as they still were, they had a rhythm. The wool felt so pleasant that I couldn’t resist running my hand over it again and again.

That reminded me of Mother’s Day. My daughter and I had gone shopping for a slightly fancy hand towel for my wife. On the way home, we’d picked up some sashimi and sake too. The memory unraveled itself like a loose thread. I felt my already hunched back curling a little further inward.

No good. I returned my attention to the needles and yarn. The more I repeated the pattern, the more I understood the mechanics behind it.

Take that three-needle technique, for example. It’s called a left-cross cable. It creates those twisting rope-like patterns you often see on sweaters and knit hats. The stitches are arranged into a three-dimensional structure, like intersecting highways, while ensuring that the strands merge beautifully after crossing.

I see. So that’s why it takes three needles—to create something three-dimensional. From two dimensions to three. Come to think of it, isn’t that somewhat similar to the way AI deep learning works, building higher-dimensional representations? And I’ve heard that universities and companies are even researching knitted structures as a new architectural technology.

Many knitting techniques have unknown origins, but they must have been innovations in their own time. As I worked, I could almost feel the presence of the ordinary geniuses who had literally “knit” these inventions into existence. I had to keep thinking lofty thoughts like that.

Otherwise, I might have blurted out, “Um… isn’t there something you two forgot today?” How embarrassing. That would be a complete defeat. Though come to think of it, what exactly counts as victory in this situation?

Then my daughter called out. “Dad, I’m hungry.” By then it had long since gotten dark outside. “Alright. Let’s eat.” At that, my wife sat up. Still wearing the imprint of the rug on her cheek, she walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a canned cocktail. “So good.” Every day, she reacts as if she’s tasting one for the first time.

Until last year, I drank every night too. I couldn’t fall asleep without alcohol. But after I started knitting, I hardly drink at all. These days, a cold non-alcoholic beer is often my knitting companion. After all, alcohol makes it far too easy to miscount stitches and rows. And knitting flat—where every row mirrors the previous one from the opposite side—while drunk is only slightly less terrifying than drunk driving. The fact that a quarter-century-long dependence on alcohol faded away so easily suggests that knitting may be just as addictive as those strong canned cocktails. Actually, no. That’s definitely not true.

Still, I was in one of those moods where a drink felt deserved. But wait. It was too soon to give up hope. What if, after dinner, one of them suddenly said, “Oh, right! This is from us,” and handed me a Father’s Day gift? That was a possibility, wasn’t it?

Filled with renewed determination, I headed into the kitchen. For my wife, I prepared seared bonito and a small hotpot with beef intestines. For my daughter, chicken curry, endless green peppers, and fresh spring rolls filled with banana and chocolate.

When I set the dishes on the table, the two of them were watching an old romantic comedy on a streaming service, laughing at exactly the same moments.

This wasn’t looking good.

I shoveled my food down and returned to my knitting.

In cable knitting, every row is different. At least, that’s how the pattern I bought worked. But after repeating fifty rows, I could predict how long each row would take. That made me surprisingly happy.

Knitting is a hobby that moves with the seasons. Before winter arrives. Before the new school year. During summer vacation. There is always a gentle deadline waiting somewhere ahead. Maybe part of it is my practical nature—I prefer knitting things people can actually wear.

Still, every adult knitter is probably collecting scraps of free time wherever they can find them. One of knitting’s great charms is that you can do it in small pockets of time. The problem is that sometimes those pockets are truly tiny.

That’s why being able to estimate my pace and plan a schedule felt reassuring. After I finish the balaclava I’m making for my daughter, I plan to knit one for my wife as well. At this rate, I might even complete matching hand warmers before autumn arrives.

“Good night.” “I’m heading to bed too.” “Yep, good night.” The two of them disappeared into the bedroom, carrying the pleasant scent of freshly washed hair. From behind, they looked like my wife and a miniature version of my wife.

The living room fell quiet. I decided to knit a little longer before going to bed. Just me, a movie playing softly in the background, and my knitting.

That day’s progress was thirteen rows—about 1,800 stitches. Roughly ten percent of the entire project. When I spread the fabric out, I could visibly see it approaching completion. A satisfying feeling.

I slipped beneath the blankets and felt the tension leave my neck, shoulders, and lower back. Then, slowly, as if dissolving into warm water, I drifted off to sleep.

I’m so glad I found knitting. Truly glad.