My car pulled away from the preschool building, the weak, winter sun glinting off the windshield. My son, now the sole occupant of the back seat held a small pink heart-shaped eraser in his hand, a cherished treasure belonging to his sister who had not been allowed to take it into her class. Little Mister confiscated it and now held it gleefully in his chubby fist.
Instead of going home, I mentally ran through the list of stores in town, wishing I has some kind of errand to run. We had just been to the department store and the grocery store during the weekend, the two places that furnish our home with basic supplies. Suddenly I recalled that I had wanted to check some prices at one of the local hardware stores. For months now I have wanted to get my kids a toddler table and chair set, which unfortunately cost several hundred dollars on sites like Amazon. I wondered if the building supply place would have the materials to make a table more cost effectively.
Ever since I worked there I have loved going back. I love doing projects, building and creating things out of wood and paint. I enjoy talking to old co-workers, many of whom still work there. I pulled into the parking lot and extracted my cheerful baby from his car seat. Once inside I stuffed him into a shopping cart and headed off to look at table legs.
As I passed the counter, the man there looked from me to the baby and asked, "May I help you find what you're looking for?" with an expression that implied if I attempted to navigate the store by myself I might end up completely lost in the caulk aisle and begin shrieking for help. Rather than explain that not only did I used to work there but I probably arranged the aisle in question and programmed the computer to print the bin tags for it, I merely thanked him and said "No."
Ten feet further I was accosted by another employee, this one a woman, asking if she could help me. "No thanks," I answered. I pushed my baby-filled shopping cart toward the table legs once again and heard the inevitable, "May I help you ma'am?" before I had gotten twenty more feet. Looking around at the males in the store happily browsing in respected peace and tranquility, I gritted my teeth. "No thanks. I know where I'm going."
I got to my aisle at last, looked at table legs and actually decided to purchase the materials to make a table. Out in the lumber yard, I hunted down a yard monkey and selected a scrap of particle board for the top. He quoted me the price of $1.00 for the piece. I thanked him and headed to the register to pay for my items. The woman there looked at me as if I had two heads when I described the scrap of lumber to her. "It's a closeout," I said. "The guy in the back said I could have the scrap of particle board for a dollar." Unconvinced, she must needs radio to the back to make sure that I had told the truth, asking the yard monkeys about my "plywood", and ended up charging me $1.50. I thought wistfully of the days when I had worked there and the guys who came through the line were assumed to know the difference between particle board and plywood.
Eventually I bought the stuff, which came to $30, picked up my scrap of wood and headed home. I got out two screwdrivers (one for me and one for Little Mister) and we got to work. It took 45 minutes to screw the hardware to the particle board piece, attach the legs and cover the top with contact paper, in spite of Mister's help. Soon I had a sturdy, cute little table. Little Mister highly approved, testing it out by climbing on top of it.
Soon it was time to go to class. I dropped the baby off with Hubby who was scheduled to pick Natta up from Preschool as well. I trudged up the hill and entered my classroom where of the 45 students, maybe 6 were female. The teacher passed back our tests and to my delight I found my score quite acceptable. It was most likely better, in fact, than the 39 guys sitting all around me.
Reflecting on my day, I found myself somewhat irritated by the fact that nearly every person I encountered today treated me as though I had the mental capacity of a goldfish just because I was carrying a baby. The civil rights movement may have opened opportunities for women but it has done little, I think, to change the underlying assumptions that women are less ambitious or intelligent than men. Chatting with a friend the other day about taking Calculus, she casually mentioned that her mother had warned her, "Don't be smarter than the guys."
I don't want to fight a civil rights battle. I just want to be myself and build tables when the whim strikes. Unfortunately I have a feeling that this won't be the last time I'll encounter this phenomenon, of being a woman in a man's world. I guess the way to educate them will be to do my best and show them that success doesn't depend on gender but on skill and work ethic.
See pictures
here.