Pussy Blankey

A blanket provides warmth and protection. They are common in our daily lives. When people are displaced by disaster food, clothing and blankets are common donations. In scenes where people are being taken care of after a traumatic event they are often being wrapped in blankets by the people providing care. Blankets are vessels of care.

But what is the difference between a blanket and a blankey?

Am I even spelling blankey right? Google AI says it is a child’s security blanket and is often spelled ‘blankie’ -thanks for the spelling lesson google. I like when it ends in ‘key’ because it feels like it is providing an answer or access.

Much like the blankets intended to care for those in need, a blankey provides care. But it also provides companionship. Adding the ‘ee’ sound to the end provides the opportunity to change a blanket into a Blankey. It gives the object a proper name and raises the status of a simple blanket to an individual loved one. Anyone who has had a deep connection to a security blanket knows the feeling that a Blankey is more than a piece of material used to keep warm and feel protected from the elements, it is a friend.

My great aunt Stella did not have children. She loved kids but wasn’t given the opportunity to have any of her own. She loved making quilts for babies. I adored the quilt she made for me. It gave me courage. I was a very shy child. Everything scared me. My mother said I was so easily frightened that I hid under the couch when someone knocked on the front door. I don’t remember hiding under the couch from the stranger at the door but I do remember being scared of a lot of things. My Blankey was my shield and bodyguard in a scary world. I felt stronger gripping Blankey and able to do things that otherwise paralyzed me in fear. The cool cotton cloth felt wonderful against my face as I nuzzled the layers of cloth, batting and stitching, smelling it deep as if I could store the memory in my lungs and carry it with me when I was forced to go places I couldn’t take Blankey.

I loved Blankey to pieces, literally. By the time I was in junior high he was a collection of shreds that I kept with my pillow in my pillow case. I accidently left my pillow at a friend’s house after a sleepover. When we picked it up later Blankey was gone. My friend and her mother said they did not know what happened to it. I was devastated and never went back to her house again. I still miss Blankey nearly 40 years later.

Stella died in 2002. I helped clean out her house and prepare for the garage sale of her things. She collected a lot of things including quilts. My grandmother let me have a lovely double wedding ring quilt from her collection. Although I no longer needed help being brave, I thought of it as a replacement Blankey. 23 years later it shows the wear and tear of my love. Every time I wash it chunks fall off. It makes me sad to think of losing my replacement Blankey, but not enough to stop using it. When I tried to stop using it in order to preserve it I felt like it lost the Blankey identity. The inability to abuse it… rub my face on it, to wrap it around my fat body so tight that I here threads snap, to get it dirty then wash it and take in the freshly cleaned smell deep into the storage of my memories of Blankeys past… the inability to treat it like my Blankey turns it into a blanket.

I decided to try to repair it.

Repairing Stella’s quilt will provide an extended lifespan for my friend and an opportunity to fully claim her quilt as my Blankey. I wasn’t given the opportunity to try to repair my original Blankey- I wasn’t even given the opportunity to say goodbye. Taking control of the deterioration makes the child inside me, who lost her friend, very happy.

I alter things. It’s something I’ve always done. When I was a kid, I changed my toys to fit my desires. As a teen, I altered clothes to fit my style. As a wife, I altered my in-laws recipes to fit my tastes. As a mom, I altered parenting techniques to fit my kids. As a fat woman, I alter clothes to fit my body. Considering this history, why not take the opportunity provided by the disintegrating fabric to alter Stella’s quilt to include my desires?

After the 2024 election I started developing some ideas I call Vagina 2025. They are inspired by Project 2025 and my observation that many of the actions described in the 920 page document are ultimately intended to control vaginas- specifically the passageway used, correctly or incorrectly, to identify a person as a woman. One of these ideas was to make a vagina big enough to walk inside and sit down. I thought of asking people to send me cloth that represented their vagina. I would quilt and upholster the inside with the variety of cloth and invite others to help. During this time I bought cloth that represented my vagina. Making the large vagina was quickly shot down by the people in my circle and I became discouraged to begin such a large project without support for the idea.

When thinking about how to repair Stella’s quilt I quickly thought of my vagina cloth. It doesn’t match the original quilt cloth but I like the difference. It isn’t deceptive. It boldly states my contribution. I spent some time playing with the new cloth, twisting and folding it, observing how it moved. Feeling its velvety texture. Studying it’s representation of my vulva. In the moment, I decided to sew some folds and create an opening. Perhaps it was my original idea taking over but I turned it into an opening reminiscent of a vulva. When I finished I rubbed my face on it, immediately felt joy and called it my Pussy Blankey.

The act of calling my vulva a pussy is about rebellion. It is mine. I can call it what I want. It took me a long time to claim my body as my own to do with it as I please. I was raised to be a kind considerate caregiver putting my needs last -if even considering them at all. Caregiving does come naturally to me. I mean, I think it does… it’s difficult to tell. Others in my family that were trained to be self-sacrificing caregivers did not take to it as easily as I did. The ease with which I gave up my needs makes it feel like caregiving was a natural path, like perhaps it was something I needed to do. The caregiver path has broken people in my family. The burden of carrying the well-being of people you love and, quite frankly, people you don’t love, takes a toll on caregiver’s mental health. When I was drained and breaking, the people who helped me -who honestly prevented my early death- used language that those who trained me to sacrifice would be horrified to hear me use. Claiming the words considered vulgar by those who expected me to sacrifice myself as my own is freeing. It’s a rebellion against the restricted language that bound me.

The edges of my Pussy Blankey are unfinished. They are long and unruly. I can wrap them around my neck like a scarf. I left them that way on purpose to be accessible for donation to my new creation born in repair. By cutting off pieces of my Pussy Blankey to use to repair Stella’s quilt, I am taking from the now and combing it with the pieces of the past that I want to preserve for my future. After I am finished with the repairs I will finish the remaining edges of my Pussy Blankey to make a newly formed piece. I will decide what it is at that time.

This transitional phase is important to me. My life is in flux. I have left the damaging life I knew and am seeking a new life. I hope that new life turns out better but I don’t know that it will. I don’t have a specific place I’m going. I don’t have a rigid definition of what my new life will, or should, look like. Because I don’t know these details it is important to me to enjoy the process of change -the act of changing -to spend time in the moment of the act. I am informed by my past. I expect to have a future. I have this life of flux now… and my Blankeys to keep me company.