COMMENTARY: 225 Million Feet of Yarn

We put on our pink hats (my mother knitted seven!) and left my sister’s house in Potomac early on Saturday and parked at Shady Brook — the last stop at one end of the red line on the Metro. It was crowded already at 7:30 with a long line, everyone a little giddy. I cried to see so many — half of us in pink hats, almost everybody with a homemade sign.

We got off at Judiciary Square and walked down to the Mall with a growing crowd — it filled up so quickly. By 9 it was hard to move freely, by 10 we could not see out of the crowd in any direction — had no sense of where we were in the throng — and by 11 we could not move at all. But it was orderly and respectful — also exuberant, and joyful. We got a great spot on top of a low wall for the rally — next to the Air and Space Museum in back of a bank of port-a-potties (Don’s Johns!) with a good view of a jumbotron and of the crowd below on 7th Street — a sea of signs and pink hats.

It’s hard to describe being part of this crowd — it could have been scary, claustrophobic — but it was thrilling. Every few minutes a wave of sound would roll through us — a giant angry roar — we’d hear it coming then add our voice as it reached us, then hear it continue and echo through the rally on the next block. We chanted together. We hollered and wooted and screamed and cheered our support of the speakers and performers. It got more crowded — people climbed the trees, climbed onto a sculpture, onto each other’s shoulders, climbed atop the port-a-potties for a spot, a space, a good place to wave an awesome homemade sign.

At one point a young woman in a red coat was hoisted up on top of the port-o-potties from the street below. She was having a panic attack from the surging crowd — she was visibly shaking, freaked out. A hand from below thrust up her sign (Keep Your Tiny Hands Off My Rights!), then her pocketbook. Suddenly arms from the crowd on our side reached toward her — with water bottles, a granola bar, some kleenex. The protocol for this event was clear: be kind, be helpful, be patient, be calm, be respectful.

After the rally we walked/snaked/inched our way down to the mall then to the street to march — so good to move after hours of standing in the cold. The march was loud and fierce — took on speed — different chants rolled through as we swarmed into the streets: this is what democracy looks like! my body my choice! love trumps hate! we need a leader not a creepy tweeter! when they go low we go high!

At one point, I stood on the sidewalk and cried — overwhelmed by the immensity of the event, of being able to be part of it — of the vibrant truth being shouted by half a million. Humbling and galvanizing. So many pink hats — almost all hand-knitted. (Now: this is important — these hats were made by hand — the yarn was purchased, the pattern downloaded and printed out — that hats were knitted or crocheted — almost exclusively by women’s hands. At least half of the marchers in DC wore pink hats, made from roughly 225 million feet of yarn — that’s almost twice the distance around the earth. No small undertaking — millions of feet of yarn, millions of hours of work to knit it into hats. Marchers in pink hats arrived wearing the energy of a pure feminine purpose, heads warmed and protected by a kind of history/tradition/common sense handiwork of women. Think about this). So many women — all colors, all ages  — men, too, and children — whole families with several generations — people in wheelchairs, with canes, with service dogs, pushing strollers, holding signs aloft, linked arm in arm, shouting, fists raised, smiling, singing, staring grim and silent, many weeping, many holding each other, all angry, all determined, all marching.

The protocol continued on the subway back. We made room for each other. We were patient. We sang folk songs — We Shall Overcome, Peace Train, This Land is Your Land, If I Had a Hammer. I cried then, too — I sang with my husband and daughter, with a packed subway car full of total strangers. We shouted good-byes at each stop — good luck! stay strong! this is only the beginning! thank you! safe home!

At a rest stop the next morning, somewhere in Maryland, the line at Dunkin Donuts was long. Pink hats everywhere. The joyful camaraderie continued. Even on the road — all the way home on 95 —  cars full of pink hats, waving, giving each other a thumbs up.

We are home now. I am still processing what happened on Saturday — trying to understand what it meant, what my next steps are. I am 50 and have never experienced anything like it — have never marched in protest, have never traveled 500 miles to make a political statement, have never been part of something as big or as powerful or as important. I am changed. My work is clear. I am strengthened, made hopeful, by a family of more than 500,000 in DC, by millions more worldwide. I’ll be wearing my pink hat for some time.

And it’s time to learn how to knit.

Christine Rathbun Ernst is a writer and performance poet. She has been featured in the magazines MAMM, The Cape Cod View, Cape Cod Magazine, Cape Cod Life, the literary journal Arts Medica, and The Boston Globe, and two of her plays have been named MCC Grant Finalists. She spends her summers performing as the Fat Ass Cancer Bitch at Cotuit Center for the Arts, where she also teaches writing classes and produces for the mainstage. 

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