‘Silly hat guy’ fills his days crocheting gifts for the sick and homeless

After creating a mountain of hats, Collins began donating them. He takes them to the oncology unit at Emory Johns Creek Hospital, north Fulton Community Charities, multiple hospice groups, Foster Care Support Foundation and more. Known as “the silly hat guy,” he has donated more than 6,000 colorful hats.

Credit: Natrice Miller

Credit: Natrice Miller

“This year alone, Collins is donating 400 hats to us,” said Sara Spring Weston, community engagement manager at NFCC. “People are always immensely grateful for his handmade gifts.”

Collins recently dropped off hats at the Georgia Harm Reduction Coalition, an organization that helps people deal with everything from substance abuse to homelessness.

“A woman received her hat like a kid at Christmas, and another guy thanked me and said he loves my hats,” Collins said. “I cried the whole way home. I’m always surprised when people are nice to me.”

Although the desire to crochet was born from boredom, his desire to give is rooted in something much deeper.

“I think part of the reason I do it is, it’s my way of apologizing,” Collins said. “I have always felt embarrassed by the fact that I consider myself a failure. I never got a decent degree. I never had a career. I never made my folks proud of me, and I never had a long-term relationship.”

Credit: Natrice Miller

Credit: Natrice Miller

The quiet bear

Collins grew up an only child in Atlanta. (A half-sister came along after he was grown.) His childhood home life was not a happy one, he said.

“My dad’s last words to me were, ‘You are a total failure,’ and ‘I guess I will die never seeing you skinny.’ He died in 2014, and I have lost 200 pounds since having gastric bypass surgery in 2017. I send my stepmom pictures of the hats as an attempt to say, ‘See, I am not just sitting on my butt on disability doing nothing.’ I am sort of doing something. I guess.”

His parents divorced when he was 7.

“Back then, the kid always went to the mother. … I should have gone with my father,” he said. Collins has no good memories of the woman he refers to as “the bio mom.” They do not have a relationship today.

Collins attended Pace Academy in Atlanta until the seventh grade.

“His IQ was so high that Pace told Penn’s father they couldn’t accurately measure it,” said Shelby Collins, who became his stepmother when he was a teen. “Pace recommended a boarding school because they couldn’t do much more for him educationally.”

He graduated from Rabun-Gap Nachoochee School, a boarding school in northeast Georgia.

In 10th grade, Collins began turning to food for comfort.

“If you don’t have friends, there’s always food,” he said. “I remember the day my stomach started sticking out past my chest and I thought, ‘Uh oh.’ I was put on heavy antidepressants at some point. My whole senior year is a blur. Years later I learned my nickname among classmates was ‘the quiet bear.’”

Collins began therapy in college. He was diagnosed with dissociative disorder, unable to remember large chunks of his adolescence, as well as post-traumatic stress disorder.

Credit: Natrice Miller

Credit: Natrice Miller

His therapist placed him in a psychiatric ward when he was 25. While there, he decided he didn’t want to live another 25 years. Fellow patients alerted the hospital staff and saved Collins’ life.

Professionally, Collins bounced around. He worked at McDonald’s and Ferrell’s Ice Cream Parlor, then at Oxford Books as a periodical buyer, and at Home Depot as “the toilet guy.” He went on disability in 2015 because of his PTSD and depression.

Collins had a partner for a couple years, but he died. He said he has always struggled making friends.

“I’m friendly if you get me on a topic I enjoy, like Josephine or the silly hats,” he said. “I just think about people who have been friends for 20 years. What the hell do they talk about? I can’t imagine being with someone 24/7. I wish I’d known years ago that I am an introvert and a loner. It would’ve made life easier. I thought I had to be around people all the time.”

He communicates with his stepmom daily, mostly through email. “Otherwise I like my peace and quiet,” he said.

Credit: Natrice Miller

Credit: Natrice Miller

‘Made me feel hugged’

In January, Collins was diagnosed with stage 2 anal cancer. When he walked into Emory Johns Creek Hospital for chemotherapy, he saw his hats on the counter, available for the taking. The silly hat guy was now the patient.

He received a curated box of goodies from NFCC during treatment. Inside were ginseng lozenges, snacks, sudoku puzzles and a handmade afghan.

“I wrapped it around me immediately,” Collins said. “Knowing someone made it for me, that a stranger took time out of their day for me. Wow. I was so touched that I called my contact at NFCC and asked who made it. It was a lady from a crochet and knit group called Knots of Love. Receiving the blanket made me feel hugged. That’s when it clicked that maybe my hats make people feel the same way.”

A virtual support group and emails from his stepmother bolstered him through treatments. An acquaintance he met at the dog park gave him a ride to the hospital one day. Collins is now disease free.

When Collins is home, he likes to crochet while bingeing shows like “Wentworth,” “Matlock” or “Survivor,” Josephine by his side. His favorite sound in the universe, he says, is when his four-legged companion lets out a big, heavy sigh each night.

Four years ago, in an attempt to step out of his comfort zone, Collins joined Atlanta Prime Timers, a social group for older gay men. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s content listening and sometimes crocheting in the background. He spent Thanksgiving at their holiday gathering.

This year he also joined Knots of Love.

When Collins met the woman who made his afghan, he gave her a big hug.

MORE INFORMATION

Learn more about Knots of Love at knotsoflove.org, Atlanta Prime Timers at atlantaprimetimers.com and reach Penn Collins at sillyhatsatl@outlook.com.