Search

Yarn Wars: The Knitting Circle Strikes Back


Pussyhats were the visible symbol for the Women’s March. Everyone saw them, but few are aware of the pushback The Pussyhat Project had from both Trump supporters and feminists—or of  the political impact this “national knitting circle” continues to have.


My daughter Liza is not the sort of person to call her Congressman. Or run for office. Or campaign for a candidate. Or any of the “normal” things expected of political involvement.

She is a lifelong feminist, however. And everyone in our family was planning to march somewhere in America on the day of the Women’s March. So, of course, Liza was planning to go to the march in San Francisco, where she lives. A few weeks before the march, however, she got caught up in an unusual form of political involvement:  making pussyhats.

As I guess everyone on the planet knows by now, the pink hats with the two “ears” that appeared all over the world on January 21 were a wildfire DIY phenomenon started by a group out of Los Angeles, called The Pussyhat Project. I’m guessing, though, that most folks don’t know the degree to which the making of the hats—and even selling the yarn for the hats—became a political statement within the “crafty” community.


Liza jumped on this project like a true craft nerd: “I made 5 pussyhats in one day before the march, I had the day off so I just sat and watched Doctor Who and made pussyhat after pussyhat all day. “


Two avid knitters, Krista Suh and Jayna Zweiman, had the original idea.  Their initial intention was not to create a mark for the movement and produce a sea of pink in the news photos, but to give people who were unable march a way to participate.  It came up when Zweiman was unable go to to the March in DC because of a recent injury.  The two friends came up with the idea of a “national knitting circle” of people who would show their support by making the hats and giving them to those who were going to Washington—where it would be cold! And, if you couldn’t go to the march, you could at least display your own solidarity by wearing the hat.

The design concept was intended to spit back Donald Trump’s scandalous claim that he could “grab” women by the pussy, as an act of both pride in womanhood and outrage at the normalization of sexual assault.  The Pussyhat Project started with a very simple pattern that used worsted cotton yarn, which is both cheap and easy for beginners to work with. Then, on Thanksgiving Day, they put up an equally simple website with the manifesto, the pattern, and instructions—and then asked for volunteers using Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.  Next, the Project and website were promoted via Ravelry, a specialist network that has been called “the Facebook for knitters.”  (Who knew?)  They then engaged local knit shops all over the country, who offered discounts on pink yarn, gave instruction on the pattern for beginners,  and hosted knit-alongs. Some knitters gave their caps to people in their communities who were going to the march.  But many of the finished hats were shipped to an avid knitter in Reston, Virginia (a suburb of DC), who  volunteered to be a pickup site, so that marchers could collect hats on their way in to the demonstration. Still others were taken to the various sister marches and given away to people who wanted a hat but did not have one.

Forbes reports that, by the time of the March, the website had 4 million views.  The woman in Reston was buried under 12,000 hats. There were 60,000 in the online registry run by the Pussyhat Project, but, as Forbes notes, it is clear just from the photos of the marches that there were many, many more. Knitters from all 50 states, as well as several European countries, had contributed.

Back to the radicalization of my daughter.  Liza is very crafty and is specifically addicted to crocheting (not knitting but similar), pulling out her yarn to pass the time on the train, in the dentist’s office, wherever. She produces a prodigious amount of knitwear each year, irrespective of politics.  So when this call came out, she was on it immediately.  She began crocheting for herself and her friends, her husband and her friends’ husbands.  Then one day, she sent me a text with a photograph saying that she couldn’t get more yarn.  She had bought the last pink yarn at the third store she visited looking for it.


Liza texted me a photo of the yarn outage at JoAnn’s. This was the first sign that the march turnout would be huge, if only the media had been listening.


The national news media and even the organizers of the march vastly underestimated the size of the crowds that were about to pitch up for the protest.  If they had their fingers on the pulse of the craft world, they would have known at this point that the march was going to be huge.  Knit shops and craft stores all over the country were running out of pink cotton worsted.  (One store in Chicago sold enough pink yarn to pay the rent for three months.)  With the shortage of yarn presenting a solid obstacle, knitters and knit shops everywhere began to innovate and improvise.  They used different types of yarn, experimented with other materials, varied the pattern, and so forth.  That’s why, on the day, there was so much variation in the colors and patterns on the hats.

Though it was later featured in Forbes as an example for budding entrepreneurs, the Pussyhat Project was never seen as a commercial effort.  The knitters were all volunteers, and the hats given as gifts, not sold. It all happened so quickly and so “off the grid” that garment manufacturers and retailers did not have time to prepare.  At the time you saw all those pink hats on TV, the Pussyhat Project had not sold a single hat and had relied only on volunteers.

In San Francisco, as everywhere, there were legions of Pussyhat beneficiaries on view.  So much so that marchers who had none were asking where they could be bought. Liza wrote, “When we got there people kept coming up to us asking if we had extra pussy hats on us and where we got them and if somebody was selling them or if somebody was giving them away. And all my friends were like ‘Liza made them!’ But I didn’t make any spares. Next time l’ll be better prepared!”

A few hats were sold at the marches, on an impromptu basis, and then the funds were given to Planned Parenthood. In the “tax march” planned for April, Liza and her friends plan to have lots of hats to give away in exchange for donations to Planned Parenthood.

People were everywhere with these hats, of course, but the thing that struck me most, in DC and in Liza’s photos, was that men were wearing them almost as often as women were.  These hats are exceedingly and unabashedly feminine, in addition to making an clear visual allusion toward a part of women’s anatomy that many people can’t even call by name. So it was impressive that men were wearing them, I thought, and a major statement of the way the movement has changed its base since the 1970s:  they are with us now, they get it.  (Not all men, of course, but also not all women.  See further below.)

Old people wore them and so did children.  At the Providence rally in front of the Rhode Island statehouse, an older couple who had an extra to give away decided to bestow it on my granddaughter, who was there with her parents (this would be my East Coast daughter, who is more of a politico, but also a lifetime feminist, and her husband).  We are thrilled that we will be able not only to tell Nova that she was there, but that she will have her very own historic memento.

In Wash