In the early 60’s, sneakers aren’t allowed in school, only sturdy shoes. Though I love my stylish
saddles, the “not allowed” part stirs something in me. I want to put my sneakers on.
Certain classes are gender defined: auto mechanics and wood shop for boys, cooking and sewing
for girls. I don’t need a cooking class. I’m Greek and learn all I need from my grandmother.
Classroom recipes using Bisquick and margarine are no match for the rich baklava and
spanakopita we make together in her kitchen.
In sewing, they make sheer blouses.
“I won’t wear that! I like the style of that new Beatles group better!”
Instead, I envy the tough talk I imagine the auto mechanics boys are sharing as they plot fixes
under the hoods of their jazzy cars, swearing in secret under their breath. I love the smell of the
woodshop when I walk by, everyone covered in sawdust, using shiny tools to make stools and
benches from planks of unfinished wood.
The teachers in those classes are unlike any other in the school: gruff, bearded, reticent.
Up to now, my parents have not been troubled with a call from the school about anything. They
instill the importance of playing by the rules, and I comply.
But the day comes when I decide to take a stand. I muster up the courage to approach the
woodshop teacher, who both scares and intrigues me.
“I want to take your woodshop class.”
Wrinkling his bushy eyebrows, his answer is swift and stinging.
“Boys only!” he growls with a smirk.
It’s not just his answer that offends. It’s the smirk, as if in response to a joke. My interest
amuses him.
With that, I decide to mount a challenge, and go to the principal.
“I want to take the woodshop class instead of cooking or sewing. The teacher says it’s for boys
only. Can you make an exception?”
He peers over his horn rims. His wry smile tells me he sees me as quaint.
“Put your request in writing,” he advises, hoping an assignment will disarm me.
Steadfast, I write my petition.
“Cooking is something I know. Sewing doesn’t interest me. Woodshop will teach me to build
something from scratch. That is what I want to learn.”
When I inform my parents, my patriarchal father howls:
“Who are you to ask for this? Stay where you belong! Don’t embarrass this family!”
My mother rolls her eyes, encouraging me with a wink and nod, aware that women are slowly
moving from their prescribed place in spite of their grumbling husbands.
The grizzly woodshop teacher learns I’ve gone over his head. He is furious.
“This has to be stopped! One thing could lead to another!”
Word gets around. Most boys snicker and scoff. Some girls support me; others tsk-tsk.
After weeks of wrangling, the tough guy teacher agrees to an exception. I’m going to be the Beta
Girl in the boy’s woodshop class.
On cue, the boys in the class shake their heads. The teacher warns them,
“Watch your language. Mind your manners. There’s a girl in the room.”
“Just be who you are!” I counter, and am met with glares.
I know the story isn’t over. I ready myself for the slings, arrows and proving ground ahead. I
ignore the muttering and lewd comments, don’t let anyone see the tear that stings my eye.
I’m begrudgingly shown tools, their proper and safe use demonstrated as if to a child. I’m told,
“Make something simple, like a shelf!”
I have something else in mind. I want to make a bowl, a hard choice for a start, but for me, the
way to begin. At my isolated corner of the workbench, I put on a shop jacket and safety goggles,
select each piece of wood, lights and darks, some with knots, others smooth as silk. I glue them
into a wooden square, then cut and sand rough edges. I hollow out the center to show its inner
strength and natural beauty. Sawdust floats into my hair like snow. When the sight of my dusty
hair becomes the butt of yet another joke, I don a scarf and tie it tight around my head, like a
crown.
I dig deep, curving the inside to a place of holding, envisioning a pair of hands, cupped, waiting
to receive. I ask questions when I need to, get just enough of an answer to proceed. I know that
failure is the anticipated, hoped-for outcome, like a period at the end of a sentence to stop this
new idea. I keep digging and sanding, determined instead to make it the first sentence in a new
chapter.
I varnish it to a glowing shine that reflects its muted colors, quietly storing in it my assigned
cubby each day, keeping its creation and form to myself.
When completed, I present it to the teacher. He examines it, searching for flaws. His bushy
eyebrows raise, and he goes quiet.
Eventually, he speaks. “Good”, is all he says, placing it grudgingly on the center table for the
class to view.
The boys gather around. Some express a faint word of praise, others turn without comment. It’s
as much as they can give. Their world is changing. My bowl tells them so.
Years later, when I burn my bra in a collective barrel, march and raise my fist for equal rights, I
think about my bowl, knowing it held much more than what my proud mother filled it with at the
dinner table each night. It was a much bigger bowl, instead holding a promise that if I put on my
sneakers, fought my way into the boys-only woodshop class, and did the hard work, things could
change.
The bowl has long since disappeared, but the memory of how and why I created it stays with me,
now a story I share with my granddaughters, hoping it informs them that whatever they are up
against, a bigger bowl is always worth the fight.