The Polar Vortex, Detroit Style

During Michigan's Polar Vortex, my car was buried in three feet of snow on a side street in Hamtramck. No amount of shoveling was going to remedy the situation. Outside looked like something out of The Thing, but without the allure of mutated creatures and impending doom. Unless, of course, you count many of Hamtramck's residents. They're scary in any weather, but especially during the winter. I live in a place where chairs are set out to save parking spaces. I've seen everything from desk chairs to really expensive kitchenette pieces, strewn through the streets as if it's "take-all" trash day. Once, I noticed that someone used a cardboard box the size of a car to save their space. Who are these people?

Nevertheless, given my situation, I decided to get a ride with my girlfriend, Megan. I should have just stayed home. Five minutes into the drive, I felt like we were in some kind of zombie apocalypse. Replace the zombies with tumultuous weather and over confident drivers and boom, accidents every quarter mile. We were on the Lodge South and just under the McNichols overpass we saw a recent spin-out; a purple, Chevy Cavalier was stalled in the center lane. In the -15 degree weather we were hesitant to pull over and help. But our consciences got the better of us. As I walked to the Cavalier, cars were buzzing past me, and due to the cold, my nose felt as if it would shatter and fall from my face. I reached the car, and inside was a disoriented, older woman named Carol. She was on her phone with emergency services and had one of those medical masks on. The kind that doctor's wear, or the type paranoid people wear to avoid the bird flu or some other over publicized, fear rendering epidemic. Her airbags deployed and she couldn't find her emergency light switch. Reaching into her car, I was able to find the switch under the deployed airbag on her steering column. I was concerned about that mask. It would be my luck to contract some contagious disease in sub zero temperatures all because I suffer from an overactive conscience.

I was able to push the car with Carol in it to the far right lane. As I was doing so, cars were trying to swerve around me into the right lane. Carol was excitedly exclaiming the car was moving all on its own. I was freezing and dumbfounded. It was ridiculous. I was about to grab an axe and reenact Jack's famous descent into madness in The Shining. Holding my composure, I put on a formidable face, staring the inconsiderate drivers down as they passed on my right.

After getting the car safely off the freeway, I encouraged Carol to wait for the ambulance in Megan's car with us. She wasn't hurt, but her car was in bad shape. In about five minutes, three other crashes happened right behind us. There was a curve on the freeway which created a blind spot, and the MDOT emergency worker who was in the process of setting up flares to notify drivers of the treachery, inadvertently caused more accidents. The irony would be hilarious if it wasn't tragic. After she got into our car, she noticed a large power tool in the backseat. She skeptically asked, "You a butcher or something?!" I looked next to me and laughed. At the time, I was working as a contractor and was transporting a chop saw. She must have feared for her life. She probably felt safer in the middle of the freeway. After all, she was in some strange person's car with sharp objects. I explained that I was a contractor and her mood lifted. She said, "Good for you! Not many women in your profession are there?" She is absolutely right. And there aren't many women that can push cars across the freeway either. You're welcome, Carol.

Home Depot: Not just for men.

Observation II:

My mom was a home designer and my dad was an engineer and a well rounded, do-it-yourselfer. When I was little, I used to go to construction sites with my mom and help her measure. I can only imagine what she must have put up with. Little five-year-old me, fumbling with a tape measure. My dad made me a tiny tool box out of wood and gave me a little hammer so I could hit old nails on fallen structures around the farm. I didn't realize he was just trying to make me feel good about myself. My tiny ineffectual wrists did nothing of true value for him. Nonetheless, it was only a matter of time that I too would pick up the trade. And so began the inception of a future career: contracting.

I found my future job while bartending. Which, ironically, was how my mom found architecture. She was making a drink for one of her regulars, and he asked her if she wanted to apprentice for him. She would soon create L.A.W Home Designs and hand draft blueprints: a now archaic art. 20 years later, I find myself in the same position. I wanted a change. I served a guy who needed help. And there I was, working construction.

At first I found the work challenging and fun. Soon it was no longer the work that would be challenging, but the daily social interactions. Without fail, I would walk into Home Depot, and before uttering a word or carrying any large building materials, I was met with stares. Usually, those of curiosity. Occasionally, those of a cat-calling nature. "Hey how you doing? Are you installing that yourself? You know how to do electrical? You need help loading? You're a contractor!? That's hot. A good looking lady who also knows how to swing a hammer -- that's sexy."

I have walked beside my boss as I was carrying a stack of 2x4's, while he carried nothing but his own body weight. And for once, it was he who got the evil eye. Women and men alike, shaking their heads in disapproval and disdain. Why would that man let that poor little woman carry all the heavy stuff? I laughed hysterically at first. But it's annoying that their disapproval is sourced in the misguided assumption that I am some kind of frail girlfriend, helping out her man. Never in a million years would they consider I am his employee, literally "carrying" out my job. When we went to the check-out that particular day, the cashier asked if we needed help loading. He looked at her and said, "No, I've got her (nodding at me)." She looked at him dead pan and aggressively said, "I wasn't talking to you. I was asking her." Solidarity is so sweet sometimes.

The Space Between Ego Stroking and Sexual Harassment.

Observation I:
I began playing drums after joining band in 6th grade. I wanted to play saxophone. My parents couldn't afford to rent a sax for me; my mom told me to pick a different instrument, or I would have to quit. I was a little lost. I didn't know much about any other instruments, and truth be told, I only wanted to play sax because Lisa from the Simpsons rocked it out. I went to band the next day and looked around. I didn't know at that time that percussion was an option, let alone a section I could join. To me the choice was clear; nothing else seemed appealing.  I got myself a starter kit consisting of a tiny xylophone, mallots, a drum pad, and some sticks. I figured making the decision was the hardest part; that was not the case.

The day that all of our sections came together and got organized, I was met with four boys and one girl. I remember specifically a boy named Eric, who looked at me skeptically and said, "you're playing drums? Do you even know how?" I looked at him, and thought, "No, d-bag, I don't. I'm 11. I joined band for a reason." I shook it off, and then for a solid six months I was forced by my male counterparts to play bells. I already played piano, so I knew what I was doing. Beyond that, none of them knew what the musical staff was or what a treble clef looked like. I was a clear scapegoat. I remember the day I got fed up. I didn't choose percussion just for mallots. I joined to play all of it. So I forced my way to the bass drum and slowly to the snare. It took me a minute to learn how to roll. I was made fun of. A lot. I was degraded and pushed aside. There was a a week when I seriously considered quitting. And then something inside me pushed me to "stick" to it. I knew somehow in my pubescent years if I gave up because of the harassment, then I'd never find and develop the things I am truly passionate about. Which just happen to be male-heavy hobbies.

After a few weeks, I surpassed the other drummers and was a full-time snare player. There was a point when I sensed that the boys were resentful of me. It was at that time that I knew I was doing it right. I wasn't pulling favors or playing the favorite. I was just good at it. And at that point there was very little they could say to me. And that's when the sexual harassment began.

While a lot of it was just kid stuff -- snapping bras, talking about sex, asking inappropriate questions, some of it was downright inappropriate at any age. And I shrugged it off. I read some of it naively as acceptance or as genuine interest in me. I should note that I became very close friends with my drumline. And most of the comments were friendly and fun, not meant to demean or intimidate. But looking back, I realize that some of it was abuse and female objectification. Until this day, I still have a hard time deciphering the line between a person complimenting me and a person blatantly sexualizing me. It's a lesson that I continue to learn.

When I hear things like, "you're really good at drums... for a girl," I want to kick a bitch. I'm good at drums. Period. It doesn't need to be gendered. I do it, not because it's a rare hobby or profession for a woman, I do it because I love it. I receive a lot of attention because I'm a woman. I understand the mechanism behind it, but I want to make it clear that it isn't my sex that makes me who I am. It's not my gender that typifies my talent or skill. It's my desire.

The next time you see a woman doing something you discern masculine, do me a favor - either tell her she's awesome and badass, or shut the hell up. She doesn't need to hear how she's so awesome because she's doing a man's job as a female. She just needs to hear she's awesome.