Like many a stir-crazy teenager, I, too, looked to my grandmother’s old yarn hoard as a means of working through my quarantine boredom in the early days of the pandemic. My affair with the fiber arts began as it often does: mindless fiddling with different crochet hooks and tangled skeins of yarn. Soon, I was spending hours scouring YouTube for crochet tutorials, staying up until the wee hours of the morning attempting to master the art of the granny square and unraveling my handiwork in fits of frustration. Needless to say, it wasn’t love at first stitch.
As I struggled to establish a sense of routine in quarantine, I found myself in a constant battle with the need to stay productive. I repeatedly told myself that I should be doing something more useful than knitting. But what I’d initially dismissed as an idle, un-feminist activity of the 1950s housewife canon turned out to be a far more arduous task, one which involved a surprising amount of arithmetic.
If you’ve ever tried your hand at crochet, you probably know that counting is imperative. Some patterns require you to count your every stitch, lest you end up with a lopsided creation, and you might even find yourself doing some basic multiplication to adjust the pattern to your desired fit. If you share my appreciation for math, you might find that getting immersed in a crochet pattern can be somewhat of a meditative experience. I’m not saying that making one of those trendy bucket hats from TikTok requires much mathematical elbow grease, but the point is that the world of crochet stretches far beyond the confines of mundane domesticity.
I soon learned that I wasn’t the only young queer person who’d developed a fascination with crafts traditionally practiced by older women. In our grandparents’ generation, girls would typically learn embroidery in conjunction with their etiquette lessons while boys were taught more “useful” skills like carpentry. There’s a common notion that participating in the feminine discipline of crafting is conforming to gender stereotypes. I would argue that crafting is being rediscovered and reimagined by a younger generation as a means of empowerment.
Now, less than two years after I completed my first beanie, my TikTok feed is filled with crochet tutorials, and you can find me riding the NYC subway, busily stitching my latest project. I revel in seeing my friends decked out in their handmade holiday gifts as we walk around campus, and I pride myself in the growing list of people I’ve corrupted with my crochet obsession.
There’s a sense of comradery in seeing another student across the classroom with knitting needles or a crochet hook in their hands. I’ve bonded with many other crochet-loving Smithies both in and outside of the classroom. The fiber arts occupy a special place here at Smith. The “pussy hat” has become a staple accessory, and many students are enthusiastic about crafting with their friends. At a college with a prevalent queer community, I couldn’t help but wonder: what is the connection between the fiber arts frenzy and queerness?
Crafts like embroidery, knitting and crochet fall outside of the fine arts classification and instead occupy a more quaint, amateur distinction. There’s a peculiarity to be found in these hobbies, a rawness in the imperfection of a homemade craft that deviates from the refinement of an art museum. This subtle sense of artistic rebellion is perhaps what makes crafting particularly appealing to many of us queer people.
The first rainbow pride flag, designed by gay artist Gilbert Baker in 1978, was remarkably hand-sewn. This same pride flag is now a beacon — albeit a commodified one — of queer pride and liberation. Its roots aren’t at all far from the handmade dorm room creations of many Smithies. Whether it’s a simple hobby or a fully-fledged obsession, crafting has historically been used as a weapon of resistance against the heteropatriarchy.
For me, crochet has been the lifeline that has continuously saved me from succumbing to the anxiety and lack of ambition I’ve found myself feeling since the pandemic began. Even if I’m just making a silly strawberry-shaped hat for a friend, crafting has given me a sense of purpose that is entirely different from the everyday duties of being a college student. To think that this seemingly trivial, unproductive hobby I picked up in 2020 is, in a larger sense, a catalyst of queer community-building is a powerful thing.
