I have two types of friends – Those who know how to drop and rebuild a transmission, and those who have no idea their hubcaps come off their tires. I’m not part of the latter group. Those who had a hand in raising me, grew up in a time when calling a repairman was a last-ditch effort. It was natural for both sides of my family to do their own repairs.
I can’t recall the number of times I’ve seen my dad or my great grandfather working on something; from cars to electrical to plumbing. My great grandma used to make clothes for me or mended clothing I’d torn. I’m incredibly fortunate I inherited several generation’s worth of versatility, and for that, I’m thankful. I was born into a family that didn’t have a lot of money. My family knew what it meant to survive with very little. My parents and grandparents knew they’d be up shit’s creek if they couldn’t figure out how to solve problems on their own.
As the proverb goes, It takes a village to raise a child, and I’m living proof. I was sewing hems, bleeding brake lines, and cooking meals by the time I’d entered middle school. That was just the way life was for me, and I never thought anything of it.
“In her mind, girls don’t know how to do boy stuff like fix cars. My first reaction was, “Listen here, you little shit””
When I was in 6th grade, one of our English projects was writing an instructional guide on something we knew how to do by ourselves; then present it to the class. Most kids wrote about things relevant to their age, like basic household chores or how to do the sickest skateboard move, like, ever.
Our teacher, Mrs. Bonanno, reviewed each of our projects for errors before we presented them to the class. She asked me to stay after the bell to talk about my project. Mrs. Bonanno wasn’t happy with my topic; “How to Field Strip and Clean a Mossberg 410.” She told me she didn’t think it was appropriate subject matter for someone my age, and gave me an extra week to redo the project on something more suitable for kids.
I couldn’t understand what the problem was, but didn’t put up a fight. I picked a different topic, redid the project, and turned it in again. My second submission was the “Proper Tack and Dressage of Show Horses.” Shortly thereafter, I was pulled out of class for a meeting with Mrs. Bonanno and the principal. They told me they believed I was plagiarizing “how-to” articles. They couldn’t fathom how an 11 year old could write a detailed how-to in such areas without outside help. They thought I went online and Googled, “what can I tell my classmates I know how to do that will make me sound really really cool?”
What started out as a simple assignment turned into a trial on my honesty. I was given a task I completed well within the parameters. Now I had to jump through hoops to prove I actually knew these things, just so I could get my fucking grade.
In 10th grade I took a pre-exam to enter the Automotive Technician program at the vocational school. The exam was administered in a controlled environment: teachers on constant patrol. No phones. No bookbags. Nothing but our writing utensils. The AT instructor called my mother and told her I wouldn’t be accepted into the program. The reason; there was nothing they could teach me in the next two years I didn’t already know. Fucking great.
In 12th grade I’d elected to take the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery or, ASVAB for short. I’d planned on enlisting in the Marines after graduation. I scored within the 92nd percentile of the 200+ other students that had taken the test. All the others who’d gotten high scores were already in the ROTC program, and had some base-level military experience. I did not, so they assumed my score was a fluke, and rejected it.
When I met with the recruiting officer I told him I knew most of the information on the test, because I’d learned it on my own. He gave me a,“Yeah right, kid” reaction, and told me I needed to take the test again upon enlistment anyway. This one “didn’t count.” I knew he was lying. We were told this test would be a prerequitite for enlistment, and was a mandatory requirement. Between the AT entrance exam, and the ASVAB, I’d wasted at least $100 on testing fees, not to mention all the hours I spent in lecture halls taking the damn tests.
I get by with the knowledge I have at my disposal. I can’t afford to pay someone who can help me if I have a costly problem. So I make sure I don’t need the help to begin with. I had a friend named Alisha who lacked a lot of basic common knowledge. She always had someone taking care of her. One night I got a call from Alisha. Her car had broken down in the middle of nowhere. It was around two or three in the morning. She was scared, alone, and had no one else to call. Reluctantly, I crawled out of bed and got dressed.
When I got there, I opened the hood of her car and smelled coolant. I told her I knew what the problem was, and there was a chance I could fix it. She didn’t believe me, because I was just a girl. In her mind, girls don’t know how to do boy stuff like fix cars. My first reaction was, “Listen here, you little shit,” but I caught myself. I kept reciting the words, “privileged,” and “sheltered,” and “silver spoon,” in my mind like a broken record.
I saw there was a small but troublesome leak in the radiator. We took my car and drove to a rinky-dink convenience store nearby. I picked up two jugs of water, and a half dozen eggs for less than five dollars. Alisha asked why I took her grocery shopping. I held up the eggs and water, and using my best haggard old man impression, said,“These here’s car fixin’ parts, mhmm.” She must have thought I’d slipped my biscuit.
We made our way back to her car. Alisha looked on in utter disbelief as I cracked an egg, and plopped it into the radiator. I poured most of the water into the radiator, and started the car. I followed her home, and told her I’d be over the next day to finish fixing it, which I did.
Had it not been for my village, I would have ended up just like Alisha. Fortunately, I’ve always had an immense thirst for knowledge. I love figuring out how things work, and try to fix whatever I can get my hands on. I never enlisted in the military or got my ASE certification, and that’s okay. I don’t need a piece of paper or a little card in my wallet to tell the world I can take care of myself. I’ll just keep dancing through life instead, proving people wrong.
Riley is a writer, and an epitome of a paradox- You can read her twice monthly, exclusively at The Underemployed Life.
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