The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad

The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad

© Derrick Jensen & Stephanie McMillan 2012

This edition © PM Press 2012

All rights reserved.

Cover and interior design by Stephanie McMillan

Edited by Theresa Noll

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ISBN 978-1-60486-596-7

LCCN 2012913620

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Marilyn never ceases to feel happy when she talks with her students about rape. Most have never heard the word, and even when she spends hours talking about its history, her students have difficulty grasping the concept.

Sometime during the discussion a boy always says, “But if I did something like that, the girl wouldn't want to be my friend.”

Marilyn smiles and nods, encouraging him to say more, but invariably he just shakes his head.

And later a girl always asks, “So how did people stop rape for good?”

Marilyn smiles and nods again: it's time to tell them about the great knitting needle revolution.

“It all began,” she says, “with my mother's best friend, Brigitte. She didn't set out to be a revolutionary. She just wanted to make some fabulous sweaters.”

An attractively plump, middle-aged woman greets the bus driver as she boards, shakes out her thick red hair, and settles on her seat. She wears a colorful flowered dress more suited to a
cruise ship than to this city bus. The driver eyes her pretty pink shoes and finds them entirely too cheerful for these mean and gritty urban streets. He prays their owner takes care to protect them from sidewalk hazards, such as sticky wads of used gum, and the vile juices of discarded hamburger wrappers and gnawed chicken bones.

Oblivious to his concern, the woman pulls knitting needles, yarn, and a half-finished sweater from her tote bag and gets to work.

This is my godmother, and my dear friend, the soon-to-be-revolutionary Brigitte.

That afternoon Brigitte had received a phone call from her new dance instructor inviting her to a special midnight class for advanced students. She almost refused—it was a long haul on the bus—but then he told her he would be teaching a very special set of moves called the Caterpillar Transformation Dance.

That changed everything. She'd recently seen a documentary about this dance and its amazing chakra-recalibrating effects, and her chakras were definitely in need of recalibration. She heard destiny calling.

As she knits on her way to the dance studio, Brigitte hums a lively tune, quietly enough that she doesn't annoy the other bus passengers. Not that it's humanly possible to hum loud enough to be heard over the mob celebrating the city's victory in the National Chess Championship. Riding home after an evening of rioting, setting small yet well-designed fires in dumpsters, and overturning police cars, the nerds howl with grape soda—induced laughter as they reenact their most impressive chess moves. One hops two seats back and one over to represent an especially exhilarating knight maneuver.

The other passengers are all regulars. There are the exhausted slaves going home from the swing shift, dreading their unhappy spouses and cranky, tired children. There are the people who ride the bus purely for the air-conditioning, back and forth, back and forth, all day and all night long, to escape the hellish heat outside. There's the pair of teenagers making out a few rows ahead of Brigitte, who become frantic when they simultaneously realize their stop is next and discover their braces are locked together. There are the two teenage boys playing “clear the seats,” a game that involves each hiking up one butt cheek, holding that position, then high-fiving his comrade as other passengers scatter. Brigitte is grateful the boys are seated a fair distance from herself.

Too close, however—in fact, directly in front of her—sit a man and a woman. The woman asks over and over, at full volume, “Just tell me, do you love her?” and the man hisses back, “We'll talk about it later.” This goes on for blocks. Finally Brigitte can tolerate it no longer. She taps the man on the shoulder. “Tell her already—we all want to know!” The other passengers lean forward, waiting for his answer. He claims he does not, but a straw poll indicates most passengers do not believe him.

Then of course there are the obligatory boys playing Dungeons & Dragons, the three radicals in the back plotting to overthrow the government, a young woman practicing her tennis serves down the aisle, and a group of trained Navy SEALS balancing balls on their noses. When a priest, a rabbi, an imam, a Lutheran minister, and a polytheistic pagan sorceress board the bus and approach the overhead bar, Brigitte decides it's time to get off.

Looking out the window, Brigitte realizes that leaving the crowded bus may be even more disagreeable than the ride has
been. This neighborhood is cruddy enough during the day, but it's positively menacing at night. Many of the streetlights aren't working, and few pedestrians are about.

She almost decides to turn around and go home. A lurid thriller she's eager to read,
The Everglades Avenger,
waits on her nightstand. But she pulls the cord to signal the driver to stop.

“Now, you take care of those pretty shoes, ma'am,” he says as she makes her way down the steps.

Brigitte walks along a darkened sidewalk, swinging her tote bag and still humming. She glances behind her to make sure no one is following. (Marilyn's students are never able to understand someone having to do anything of this sort.) She adopts the walk that all women from an early age learn to use in scary places: rapid, firm, and purposeful. Look like you are determined to get where you're going, and are eagerly awaited by many large, aggressive friends who will scour the earth searching for you if you don't arrive promptly. Appear confident. Show no fear.

The street is deserted. The buildings Brigitte passes are miserable boxes fronted with weeds struggling to break through the concrete. Bedraggled hand-lettered signs scream desperation and failure: “Moved to
www.secondhandcutlery.com
.” “New management—we don't suck like they did!” “Buy one, get thirty-seven free!” A faded poster slumps in a window, “90% off retail price! This weekend only!”

She steps in gum. Damn it.

Finally, she sees the neon sign ahead, a weakly glowing magenta heart announcing the safety of the dance studio.

The cavernous dance studio is dimly lit by candles lining
the edges of the polished wood floor. Their flames reflect and multiply in the mirrors along the walls. Romantic music plays, and it takes Brigitte a moment to recognize the end of Barry Manilow's “Mandy.” There is a pause before the next song begins, a medley of Manilow's advertising jingles. She hears Manilow sing, “C'mon, get a bucket of chicken, have a barrel of fun.”

She stops humming and softly calls, “Hello? Hello?”

Riversong de la Huerta, the dance instructor, steps into the candlelight. (He tells everyone his New-Age name means Riversong of the Heart, but it actually means Riversong of the Market Garden. He serenely ignores all helpful souls who attempt to inform him of his error.) Tall and handsome, he owns an impressive head of shiny black hair and a magnificent mustache he calls “the mane of a lion on the face of a lover.” His shoulders are draped with gauzy colorful scarves. He wears a eurotard (20 percent more Lycra), a wide leather belt, and knee-high black leather boots.

“Hello, pretty one,” he calls as he strides across the room.

Brigitte looks around, confused. “Where is everybody? You said there was a class tonight.”

Riversong's voice rumbas from somewhere behind his glorious mustache: “It's a very special class. For me and you.”

Brigitte frowns. “I'm leaving. I don't appreciate—”

“I've been watching you, Brigitte. The way you move. Your grace. Your subtlety. Your lithosity.”

Brigitte blinks twice. “I'm fifty-three years old. I haven't been lithe for thirty years.” She blinks again. “Well, fifteen.”

“Do you know French, Brigitte?

“No.”

“Ah, too bad. You have that certain something the French call,
‘Je bande comme un ane et meme les plus de la classe m'ont le
dos.'
¹
And so, as they say in Paris,
‘J'ai carrément besoin de faire mon trou et toi, t'es toute mimi.'
²
Or as they say in Marseille,
‘Faute de grives, on mange des merles.'”
³

Brigitte puts her hands on her hips. “And all of this means?”

Riversong answers, “It means you are ripe for the Caterpillar Transformation Dance, where the little caterpillar grows and grows, becomes fuller and fuller, until he bursts forth to fly away as a butterfly.”

Brigitte nearly leaves in disgust. But then she remembers the testimonials in the documentary. She really needs her chakras recalibrated. And she's come all this way on the bus.

“Hell, I'm here. Let's give it a shot.” She drops her tote bag and walks toward him.

Riversong stands tall, arms outstretched, the scarves draped over his hands. “With these silk scarves we give the caterpillars wings. Like so!” He moves his arms in circles. It's actually quite pretty and impressive.

He hands the scarves to Brigitte. She tries. It looks okay, but not stunning.

Riversong and his extraordinary mustache implore, “Lose yourself, Brigitte! Drop your inhibitions!”

Brigitte tries again. She's still not very good.

“Let me show you.” He moves behind her and takes her wrists in his hands. He guides her arms in the proper motions: big circles, grand gestures, sweeping scarves.