That Takes Ovaries! (23 page)

But we listened. That was why we did the study. That was why I now couldn’t ignore the attacks. No one would take our work seriously if the
BMJ
said it was flawed. So I set out to make them admit it wasn’t. I began a campaign to get Goliath, Britain’s medical establishment, to acknowledge the health crisis at hand.

First we sent a strongly worded complaint stating they had published incorrect information. We backed up our claim with data proving the accuracy of our research. Then we threatened “further action” if a published correction and apology were not given. I followed up with resolute and persistent phone calls.

It took six months, but finally, once again, I was staring in disbelief at the prestigious
BMJ.
This time it was what I
wanted
to see. My tenacity had paid off:
Journal Was Wrong to Criticize Study in Schoolchildren,
ran their headline.

With that apology, our research was affirmed, thereby helping the country realize the critical role ME/CFS played in our children’s
health. In addition, I, as co-researcher, was recognized; I was made a member of the UK Chief Medical Officer’s Working Group, as well as Children’s Officer for a noted national charity. But the icing on the cake came the day the esteemed pediatrician who had originally attacked me in the
BMJ
now publicly introduced me.

“We know,” he said, “that ME/CFS is responsible for more long-term sickness absence in schoolchildren than any other disease. One of the authors of the paper is sitting here beside me.”

I smiled and got ready to speak.

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.

Last year I was in kindergarten. After reading time, the gym teacher, Scott, would take us outside to play. He had us play dodgeball in two courts, the girls’ court and the boys’ court. He said it wouldn’t be fair if we all played together since boys were stronger than girls. That made me mad. I’m very strong, stronger than a lot of boys, but Scott made me play with the girls anyway.

One day when Scott told the girls to go to the other court, I said
no.

I said I was going to play dodgeball with the boys. Scott got angry and said if I didn’t go to the girls’ court, he’d send me to the principal’s office.

I still said no.

It was scary because I had never been in trouble before, and I felt bad, but I still wanted to play dodgeball with the boys.

Sitting in a corner in the principal’s office, I started to cry. Principal K asked what was wrong. I told her Scott wasn’t letting me play dodgeball with the boys because I was only a girl. I told her how much I wanted to play with the boys, but that Scott got mad when I asked, and then got me in trouble. Principal K said Scott wasn’t being fair. She took me back outside to my class and told Scott he had to let us play in whatever game we wanted.

After that I got to play dodgeball with the boys every day, and Scott couldn’t stop me just because I was a girl. I know that girls are as good as boys. If anybody tells me they aren’t, I won’t believe them, because they are liars. None of them can stop me from doing what I want to do.

I drive on I-90 almost every day on my way to work. There has always been a lot of graffiti at one particular spot where a suburban road crosses over the interstate highway. Last summer someone spray-painted some anti-Jewish B.S. on the cement embankment, including some Nazi swastika-shaped designs.
The first time I saw it, I almost drove off the road, I was so stunned.
Surely,
I thought,
the state police or someone will sandblast it off.
But more than a month went by and it was still there.

I was raised Irish-Catholic, taught to do what needs to be done. It was Mom: She drummed into us kids that “we cannot allow ourselves to forget that we had to come to this country because we were oppressed and starving. And don’t,” she’d always say, “forget your neighbor who might need a hand, too.” I don’t know, I just never saw my mom too tired, or too timid, to do the right thing. So when no one seemed to be getting rid of that crap, I decided to do it myself.

I got some paint and rollers together, grabbed a friend, parked on the side of the highway next to the graffiti, and painted over it. Cars slowed down as they drove by, but no cops or troopers showed up. Just in case, my friend had worked out a plan for media and bail. But I didn’t care; I was only interested in getting that hateful message gone.

A couple of weeks went by before another anti-Semitic message with even more obvious swastika shapes appeared. This time I didn’t wait a month. We decided it was dangerous to park on the busy highway (like we had last time), so for this second round, we drove on the street that crossed the highway and parked near the bridge. We walked along the road, climbed a high fence, and hiked down a steep hill to where the graffiti was. We painted over the hate-speech and transformed the scary designs into flower shapes. While my friend returned to the car, I walked to the highway overpass. I fished my arm through the guardrail and fence and wrote SHALOM in big letters on the overpass. Now all the cars drive under a big greeting of peace.