Knitting and race: What it all means to me

In the past few days the Instagram knitting community has blown up with all kinds of talk of racism and white privilege and the like. I have had a range of emotion over this- first over the actual blog post that started the whole thing. I don't see the outrage in the post. Does that mean I have some sort of white privilege? I'm only white from my mother's side to look at us. Of course nearly all African Americans are white somewhere. It was part of the slavery that brought our ancestors here: our foremothers didn't always have only African descent men in their beds, and not necessarily through any fault of their own. I wonder if I don't see it because I live a somewhat sheltered life: white husband, nearly white looking kids, Appalachian mountains so we are a weird bunch separate from the rest of the south- and the living here is hard despite technology (many folks here where I live still don't have electricity and have never had it or indoor plumbing so internet is like magic here to some- and it's not offered anymore by the local phone company which is the only choice we have). I wonder if it's been because I refused to see it as a racial thing when people looked at me and my husband in our early years: pierced faces, leather jackets, super small town with no punk or goth scene- not because he was white and I wasn't. Maybe it was the years in a larger town with friends of all kinds of races that I raised my kids in so no one seemed to notice the Asian kids who were adopted by white families, the black or mixed kids who were the only ones who looked like them in large white families, or our family which had me, brown and easily sunburned, and freckles with curly wild hair, and my blond haired, blue eyed oldest daughter, and my slightly darker green eyed younger daughter, and my very white, bearded, looking like a viking husband. I can't imagine the outrage when it isn't accompanied by threats of death or actual violence. Perhaps I grew up in a different time. I do recall in high school: boys who would hit on me and other black girls but would never have been our boyfriends openly. In fact, there were more who wanted to keep any real relationship secret than wanted to let anyone know of them liking a black girl. I'm sure it was the same for the girls with two black parents. I don't get the outrage from the original blog post still. But I have a similar situation: I know what it feels like to be betrayed:

About 6 year back I worked at a yarn and book shop along with my husband. Some terrible things happened and we were both let go from there. It was very disappointing and really kind of an explosion in our family. At the time our daughters were 15 and 17- very volatile ages anyway, but then really all hell broke loose and we were unemployed and some other terrible things were happening. Honestly I felt like the rug had been pulled from under me: I had learned to knit when my youngest was interested at age 8 so I'd been doing it a while by then. I liked knitting socks. It was my go to project. But then we were betrayed in a harsh way and I wasn't sure I wanted to continue to knit at all. I hired myself out as a knitting teacher to the local Senior center and did it for the money- which I hated to do. I had been paid at the last job but then it was a thing I loved. But once I found myself flat on my face from a trusted friend, I thought it must go like everything else associated with her. So after my stint at the Senior center ended I didn't knit for a year or so. I didn't know if I would continue. It was something I enjoyed and now it had become something that reminded me of the betrayal. I couldn't go on, so I didn't. I spent some time searching for my way- to see who I was. Trying to help my daughters navigate through not only the teen years but the treachery we experienced. Eventually I came to love fiber arts on my own- the feel of the wool through my fingers as I knit or spin it, the smell of sheepy wool when I wash it, the connection it gives me with all the women who have come before me, who *had to* make for their families or they wouldn't have anything. I found my place. I found it had nothing to do with the people who had stabbed using the back. I found I could have fiber arts all over again and not feel like it was going to be taken from me because it didn't belong to them like it did to me- they were there for the money alone and I was there for the love of making. Even still I don't really take any money doing this- as most of my friends will attest: I can make anything except money. :) So in all of this it is my sincere hope that the people who have been hurt- those on both sides of the blog posts- will not feel they have to retreat from the thing they love to do. We BIPOC won't have to feel like we have to hide our desire to be makers- without being the ones who make for others necessarily- without feeling obliged to sell our wares if we don't want to.


So today, here we are: an open dialog about race and privilege. Got questions? Ask me. I'm not offended to answer.