The Little Red Dot

When I was in grade five my teacher spoke to our class about our post-secondary options. There was college, and university, and, for those of us who were not cut out for the classroom, there was trade school.

My heart sunk when he said that; because I knew that I was a tradesperson at heart, but that the world would never accept a book nerd like me leaving academia to work in the trades.

I sat there at my desk, fantasizing about working all day in a mechanic shop. Jumper to protect my clothes; tools at the ready; coworkers standing around talking and laughing through breaks.

I understood that when I first entered an all male workplace others would have a hard time accepting my being there, because I was female. But I also knew that once they got to know me, they would get used to me, and before long I would fit right in.

Fast forward to eighteen, and I dropped out of college. I was studying the Humanities, but got a flash image in my head of what my future as a therapist was going to look like: people complaining to me all day, and then I would arrive home to an empty house, in an uncomfortable suit, depleted, lonely, and depressed.

I took some time to think about what I really wanted to do, until one day I caught sight of some very poorly aligned baseboards, and I knew instantly where I belonged.

My parents were not surprised when I told them I wanted to be a woodworker. All of the men on my father's side were carpenters, and all of the men on my mother's side built furniture in their spare time. The instinct existing in me made sense.

What did not make sense - was me being in the workshop with the other male students.

Initially I dealt with the exact scenarios I had imagined as a child. Men acting strange around me, not knowing when or how to include me in conversation, and in one case, complimenting me on my aesthetic flair and then destroying my project out of jealousy.

One especially misogynistic classmate - who objectified any woman who walked past him - made a point of singling me out constantly, which made me feel uncomfortable and alienated from the rest of the group. Every time he walked past my workstation he would comment to whomever I was working with: “I know why you picked HER to work with! She’s the LOOKS of this operation!”

I knew that he thought he was complimenting me. I also did not think that he realized how underhanded and diminutive his comments were. But he always made a point of pointing me out - causing me to worry that my novelty would never wear out.

Until one day a teacher came into the workshop and walked around telling everyone their grade on their exam, and mine. “You got 70%. Sarah got 100.” Over and over I heard my name. I was being made an example of, while that teacher tried to carve out a space for me in this environment.

After getting his exam results, the problematic classmate approached me. He told me that a student a year ahead of us had said that by getting 100% on my exam I was “trying to keep up with him”.

Then he said: “I asked him if he ever got 100% on two exams in a row; and he said ‘no’, so I said: Hey, buddy- she ain't keeping up with you! She’s beating you!”.

It was the best interaction we had ever had.

And a little while later as I stood working with another classmate, he dropped by our workstation to say: “I know why you picked HER to work with! She’s the brains of this operation!”