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" I know my masculinity is measured by how straight my fences run and how thick the calluses on my hands are. I have a wife, three children, and several hundred sheep . . . and I&amp;#039;m a closet knitter. Or I was until security detained me at the Minneapolis--St. Paul airport because of the knitting needles buried in my bag. (&amp;quot;Do you knit, sir?&amp;quot; asked a man in a gray suit.) When I finally boarded another fiight, tense and annoyed, I took my knitting out in public for the first time.  A man who knits is viewed askance, as if his masculinity is questionable for owning a pair of giant needles and a ball of yarn. But consider the history: For centuries, spinning, knitting, and weaving were the only means of turning raw wool into a product crucial for winter survival. Medieval knitting guilds adhered to a men-only policy. American colonists wore hand-knit clothes, a snub to King George III. Allied POWs learned to unravel their Red Cross sweaters and reknit them into socks with pieces of barbed wire as a defense against frostbite. And consider the compensations: For every man who has sneered, a woman has sidled up to ask what I&amp;#039;m making and touched the fabric as it fell from my needles. Like building a table or restoring a car, the result of my efforts is a tangible product, one that keeps my family warm.  Do I knit? You bet your ass. Which is exactly what I&amp;#039;ll say the next time I&amp;#039;m detained at the airport. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/news-politics/news/a2110/esq1105-menshouldknit-1/>