Mother earth speaks in rhythmic touches when I knit. Stranded thoughts fall on my lap as if they were begging me to stare back. There is casting-on in the knitting I do. The garment comes to me to continue it. Sometimes it comes uneven, sharp, smooth, highly twisted, in heavy chunks, shy, torn apart, hard as iron walls, but never in firm lines. I was not born a social justice educator; I inherited a legacy of colonialism that led to a civil war. That was my security blanket. And that is the attitude the yarn flows through my cinnamon skin. The elasticity weaves in every one of my arteries. The knitting is inwards. It crosses my heart in X-twists to remind me of all the categories I have to check to be considered a human with a bit of worth. The blood rapidly grips the yarn creating guerrilla embroidery. The kind that explodes like an atomic bomb when a woman is killed.
Like the women in Ciudad Juárez.
Like indigenous women in Canada.
Like Berta Cáceres in Honduras.
And then the uneven stitches jump of the edges holding on to the last breath of our sisters. That is the friction that stamps the filaments when someone asks in the name of “good intentions” what is behind my needlework. “Unlearn!” I demand.