On April 10, 1849, a modest mechanic and independent inventor from New York named Walter Hunt quietly made history. He patented a small metal object with a spring, calling it a ‘dress pin’. That simple wire twisted into a clasping device would go on to be known globally as the safety pin.
Hunt, despite the invention’s later ubiquity and significance, never made a fortune from it. In dire need of money to repay a $15 debt, he sold the rights for a mere $400 and never earned a penny beyond that. His creation later got embedded into fashion, folklore, and even acts of resistance.
The idea behind the safety pin wasn’t new. Ancient Romans had already used a similar concept which is the fibula, to secure their cloaks. These pins weren’t just functional but also ornamental, embellished with jewels, enamel, glass, coral, or bone, especially for the wealthy.
Homer’s Odyssey speaks of Penelope being gifted gold pins by Antinous, one of her suitors, as a symbol of wealth and seduction. Herodotus’s Histories narrate how a group of Athenian women once murdered a soldier using their dagger-like cloak pins, leading to a ban on the tunics that required them.
What Hunt brought to this long evolution was a practical innovation which is the spring mechanism that locks the sharp end into place, making it safe. Patent number 6,281 ensured that the safety pin, unlike its ancient predecessors, could be used without the risk of injury. It became indispensable in households, used to fasten clothing and to even hold together cloth diapers.
The most unexpected chapter in the story of the safety pin began when it showed its presence in crowded public spaces. What started as a utility evolved into a quiet form of resistance. In the narrow, sweaty confines of public buses, trains, and marketplaces, women found themselves subjected to unwanted touches and safety pin became their subtle line of defence.
In 2016, the safety pin ‘sigil’ also found itself as a symbol of solidarity with migrants and people of colour.
“Safety pin, as we all know, is an inconspicuous tool one carries,” says Sreekala S, now a teacher, reflecting on her college days in the early 1990s.
“We used to travel in private buses where, during rush hours, men and women were stuffed in like sardines. Some uncomfortable advances and male gazes were always there, which we fought against with this simple tool.”
Her story is similar to that of countless other women. It was understood: the pin could sting, and sometimes that was enough. A sharp jab on a groping hand was not just pain, but a message.
Annie Mathews, 27, considers safety pins a quiet constant in her life — something she’s carried since her school days.
“I always had one with me, just in case — if my dress tore, or even for my school bag. But I never saw it as a safety tool until one particular incident. I was on a crowded bus after school. Two of my guy friends stood close to make sure I felt safe, but a man behind me kept brushing against me. I don’t know why, but I reached for the safety pin in my bag — it felt instinctive. One sharp jab, and he stepped back, red-faced.”
As time passed, self-defence tools became more advanced, responding to changing times. Pepper sprays that cause temporary blindness and breathing difficulty, stun guns and tasers that deliver disabling shocks, and keychain alarms that emit deafening sirens, all began replacing the quiet safety pin. Whistles, tactical pens, Kubotan rods, and even rings with hidden spikes entered the market. The streets changed, and so did the weapons women carried.
“I think popular culture played a big role in turning the safety pin into a symbol of women’s resistance. But to me, they also represent a kind of plight as they hold together layers of fabric, limiting freedom of movement. It is also a plight how this object became an act of resistance,” says Aleena, a poet.
Karunakaran, a street vendor in Ernakulam offers everything from umbrellas to keychain alarms. “I keep whistles and pocket alarms hanging next to my umbrella stand,” he says. “Some laugh at first, but they buy it anyway. It’s not fear, it’s preparation.”
He has watched the city change, the crowd shift. More women walk alone now. The accessories of safety have also become fashionable.
Ramani, who runs a women’s accessory shop has noticed the same shift. “Along with accessories, college girls now ask for self-defence keychains,” she says.
“They want to look good, feel strong, and stay safe.”
Keychains shaped like cat ears that double as knuckle dusters, tactical pens that write and strike. Yet none of these fully erase the memory of the safety pin.
“Safety pins are a strong form of resistance. But they weren’t just about causing pain. They are also about reclaiming space. Quietly, subtly — each prick was like drawing a boundary,” says Riya Cherada, artist.
Walter Hunt could not have imagined that a debt-inspired invention would travel such a path. As April 10 rolls around each year, it’s not just about honouring the patent of a pin. It’s about remembering all the fingers that held it, the hands that wielded it.
With inputs from Mahima Anna Jacob