I got a lot of compliments on my pink pussy-hat at the Women’s March.
I didn’t knit one; I don’t knit, and also: time. I thought about sewing one, but realized the night before that I didn’t have enough pink fabric. Then I looked in our hat drawer and realized I had a pink hat already: a bucket hat made of striped seersucker fabric.
Take scraps of pink fleece, a little stitchery, and—Voila! DIY pussy-hat.
Still, though, I felt a little self-conscious. I loved the symbolism of “pussy-hat”, but the vulgar word hurt to say out loud.
I felt worse when my daughters wanted to know why my hat had ears. I demurred, but later pulled my oldest, who’s ten, aside and explained the word pussy to her. And what it had to do with my hat. I didn’t want to tell her, but I wanted her to know.
Later, taking the trolley over to a march, I hesitated before I put the hat on. It made me feel naked to wear that piece of clothing.
I put it on anyway. And to my surprise, women liked it.
They smiled at me, wearing their own neon and blush and magenta caps. “I like yours,” they said, admiring my off-center ears and messy stitching. “So cute.”
The train stopped. Together, in a crowd twice as big as expected, we flowed outside together.
It’s three weeks later, and the mood of that day—before our new president began unveiling his policies—feels far away. That day, I’d hoped I’d overestimated how bad things could get.
Except I didn’t….