I have a confession to make. I knit backwards. There. I said it. You have no idea how much better I feel, getting that out into the open.
You see, I'm left-handed, and my mum is a creative right-hander who spent my growing-up years in a housefull of lefties. Yup. My dad, my kid brother and me. All left-handed. Even a couple of the cats we had seemed to be left-dominant. The end result is that my mother had a really good idea of what it's like to be left-handed in a right-handed world.
So, when I asked her to teach me how to knit (I was seven), she grabbed some needles, sat me down in front of her and proceeded to teach me how. She put some stitches on a big, red plastic Aero brand needle -- size 1 Canadian (that's roughly a size 11US, for those that are interested), and said to me, "Make your needles match what you see my needles doing, not what I'm doing with my needles." I know. Sounds like a tall order for a seven year old. But this seven year old had been learning to get along in a backwards world her whole life. I just did what she said, and pretty soon, I had knit my first row. So what miraculous thing did she do, to make this backwards kid knit with relative ease? She got me focused on the needle tips, and then -- are you ready for this? Then, she PURLED. I followed along from my side of the process, and there I was, knitting!
Let me tell you what she didn't do. She didn't insist on making me do it right-handed. She didn't tell me how move my needles to get a result. And she never, ever, EVER suggested that it would be hard. I learned how to knit, believing that it was an easy thing, and that anyone could. I also believed that how one held one's needles, or tensioned one's yarn was a matter of personal preference. I had no notion of the Knitting Police. I knitted along happily making little scraps of garter stitch and turning them into doll clothes. I began experimenting with where the needle went into the loop as I knit and discovered the purl stitch, quite by accident. Not too long after that, I discovered ribbing and seed stitch. I even figured out how to make decreases, just by playing around with my raggedy little phentex swatches. I learned about stitch mount, by paying atttention as I wound the yarn around my needles clockwise, and then counter clockwise. I learned how to make holes in my knitting -- on purpose.
When I was twelve, I decided to make my first big project. I wanted to knit a sweater. So my mum helped me find yarn and an appropriate pattern, and off I went. I knitted happily everywhere I went. I was knitting happily away at the laundromat one Saturday afternoon, waiting for the dryers to finish when it happened. An older, well-meaning lady looked at my knitting, and said to me, "What are you doing?" "Knitting," I replied. "That's not right." She said it like she thought I'd never catch a husband (it was 1973, after all), or like I'd never be able to feed myself a decent meal. Ever.
Well. That was the beginning of a period when people, usually older women, tried to show me how to knit 'properly'. Usually right-handed, and occasionally in the continental style. Every single one of them was certain that she was doing me a favour. And every single one of them looked disappointed and a little disapproving when I politely mentioned that my finished knitting looked just like theirs. And that, right there, was the point of it all. My knitting didn't look any different from anyone else's, when it was finished. The gauge was just as even, the sweater, or mittens, or hat was just as warm. The only difference was that I hadn't been constrained by the rule that states, "You must do it exactly this way." I had learned more about my knitting in the five years that I had been practising the art than most of them had in the decades that they had been following exactly what they had been told to do.
Slowly, things started to change. Because mass produced, cheap, machine knitted items were available in any department store, knitting out of necessity was a thing of the past. The very distant past. The voice of the Knitting Police began to fade. (I find it interesting that it's never really gone completely away.) Crafting of all sorts started to become something one does for the sheer joy of it. Hip, young women wanted to learn how to knit, and when they did, they started designing. And teaching. And not one of them was afraid to say, "This is how I do it. Give it a try and, if it doesn't work for you, find a way that does." And that is exactly how I've been teaching new knitters for the last 10 years. Don't sweat the small stuff. If you get a result you like -- you're knitting!
As I mentioned earlier, there are still folks out there who feel that there is only one correct way to knit. I find that notion interesting. I wonder if the 'correct' way is English Cottage Style? Or maybe Continental? How 'bout Supported? I'm interested in their view on the Portuguese method.
What I do know is that when I knit out 'in the wild', to this day, I draw attention from other knitters, usually because they see something that they think they know, and then they realize that something is different. And they can't quite put a finger on what that difference is. When I tell them that I'm knitting left-handed, they often respond with disbelief. It usually sounds a little like: "But -- it's... BACKWARDS!"
Yup. It is. But I don't understand how that's a problem. People are bi-laterally symmetrical -- we have a right side and a left side. When a pattern says 'Begin Right Front', I start knitting, just like anyone else. The only difference is that I produce a left front. And then I continue reading the pattern, which usually instructs us with something like: 'For Left Front, work as for Right Front, reversing all shapings.' Okay. So now I have a left front and a right front -- what exactly have I done so differently that it's wrong? Absolutely nothing.
So, I knit the way I knit. You probably do, too. Let's all agree to disagree, and party together at the Yarn Shop!
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