When I was growing up, no one could get away with telling me I couldn't do something "because you're a girl." In fact, if someone wanted me not to do something, that was the worst thing they could say: it practically guaranteed I'd run out and try to do it.
One summer day shortly after high-school graduation, my father asked me if I had any male friends who wanted to make a bit of money. Doing what, I inquired. Helping him shingle the roof, he replied. Immediately I bristled. "Why does it have to be a male friend? Why not any friend, even a female one?"
My father looked surprised. "Because it's carpentry," he defended himself. "I need a helper who can do hard work and isn't afraid to get dirty."
"What! A girl could do that, too, you know. It's not a male prerogative." My own father. I was incensed.
"Fine," my father challenged. "You help me then."
Whoops. Walked right into that one, didn't I?
Now I was stuck. I did think girls could help shingle roofs, but I hadn't meant myself specifically. I was a skinny, fragile-looking girl who generally lacked athletic skills. And at that time I was even weaker than normal. The whole reason I was around the house that summer was because I was recovering from a bout of mononucleosis. Mono had sapped so much of my energy that a recent attempt at nature-walking with some friends resulted in their having to carry me back.
But even at the best of (healthy) times, there was something more—I was afraid of heights. Anytime I got too far off the ground, my knees wobbled, my mind spun, beads of sweat sprung up all over my sticky back. My phobia was so bad I couldn't go over a bridge or climb a ladder without visualizing in disturbing detail my flailing body plummeting to an ugly death. And my fear made me shake, making it even more likely that I would fall.
Exhaustion and vertigo—not a great combo for roofing.
I knew my father would let me back down, but then I'd look as if I was just shooting my mouth off. Pride? Ego? Pigheadedness? "When can we start?" I asked.
In the beginning, it was plain that my dad did not expect me to last long. He wanted a helper to carry shingles up onto the roof, while he stayed on top and nailed them in. For anyone who hasn't lifted roofing shingles before, I can tell you that they are extremely heavy and awkward to carry—unless you have bulging arm muscles and a strong back. Then you could simply throw a whole package of them over your shoulder and haul it all up the ladder at once. Not me. I could only carry a few individual shingles at a time and still manage a free arm to hold on to the ladder. But my dad was stubborn enough to let me keep going until I gave up, and I was stubborn enough to refuse to stop the job I started.
Of course the first time I got high up, my whole body shook, dangerously rocking the aluminum ladder I was standing on. My dad helped me wedge the ladder extra-tightly, and then with trepidation I tried again. Hey, I can make it up, I discovered, as long as I don't look down.
In the end, we were both impressed. I was sore and tired, but kept up enough of a pace that eventually I loaded so many shingles on the roof I could even join my dad in nailing them in. (To ease my mind, we tied a rope around my leg and anchored it to the roof.) To my surprise, the work was satisfying and my fear of heights began to recede. To my father's surprise, not only did I get all the shingles onto the roof, but I was also quite good at installing them.
What began as a simple challenge bore fruit for many years. My dad retired when I was in university, and together we started a home carpentry and renovation summer business. It lasted three years. We received so many jobs through referrals from happy customers that we didn't even need to advertise.
During those years, I was continually amazed at how many old stereotypes people still applied to the carpentry field. On jobs and in supply stores my very presence brought everything from raised eyebrows to outright stares. I got the impression that many men thought the ability to use power tools was linked somehow to the Y chromosome. Several dismissed me as a "Tool Time Girl" (thanks sooo much, Tim Allen, for having scantily clad women hand you tools on your TV show). "You don't look like a carpenter," is something I heard a lot (in other words, you are too pretty, too femme).
When men told me that I don't look strong enough to do the "masculine," physical side of the work, I smiled sweetly and said, "Like any highly skilled carpenter, I sometimes hire unskilled help to assist with heavy manual labor. Are you looking for a job?"
Unfortunately, many women I've worked for are just as guilty of gender-typing the work. They exclaim, "It's just great you won't have to rely on a man to do stuff around the house." But they make no effort to learn how to do it themselves.
Women, put your hammer where your mouth is! Take up your tools! Believe me, if I can do it, you can, too.
This story was first published in the book THAT TAKES OVARIES!: BOLD FEMALES AND THEIR BRAZEN ACTS (Random House/Three Rivers Press). That Takes Ovaries is a book, a play for the stage, an open mike movement and an organizing tool for women and girls' empowerment. Find out how to lead your own That Takes Ovaries open mike by visiting www.ThatTakesOvaries.org or e-mailing Rivka at Rivka@ThatTakesOvaries.org.
Image © Auremar | Dreamstime.com