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.