Julia Lynn

It was the first semester of Title IX – no more sex-specific education in our public schools. No one knew quite what to do with us, a row of awkward girls arrayed around the edges of wood shop. “We’re, ah, making bird houses,” Mr. Smithson announced unnecessarily, gesturing to the boys sitting beside their creations in various states of completion. “Why don’t you, ah, pair up. The boys can explain our projects.” Nervous shuffling, a few titters, and no one moved. Mr. Smithson affected not to notice, then and for the rest of the term, as we reformed our cliques, played with random awls, and gossiped about who had been seen with who. Ambient sawdust ended a brief foray into intricate nail polish creative design – all the current range with the popular girls during lunch hour. My friends were all in fourth period, so I was alone, left to my own devices to keep myself entertained. I never got access to the circular table saw, but sanded a few discarded scraps, ignored the boys’ laughter when the screwdriver and screws I selected didn’t match up, and eventually completed my project. I named her Samantha, but not out loud. “This is very clever!” Mr. Smithson chirped enthusiastically. I got an ‘A’ in the class and the whole group – boys and girls – moved on to Mrs. Gray’s cooking and sewing, newly retitled “domestic art instruction.”