Every time I find myself at Alan Steel & Supply, I wonder if I've been reincarnated. What possible sequence of events, I think as I watch my chunk of 6061 aluminum round stock get severed by the horizontal band saw, has led me to be standing here, in a metal yard off the 101 freeway? One part orphanage for old doorknobs, one part library of screws organized into zip-top bags, and two parts no-sugar-added warehouse, Alan Steel wouldn't be out of place in some sort of gendered satire of the afterlife. It has a penchant for nonstandard holidays but no website, so I'm never sure whether it will be open until I've made it through its gates, wondering when I became the kind of person whose GPA depends on purchasing the correct copper alloy and, furthermore, what possessed me this morning to put on the shortest pair of shorts I own.
I never signed up for any out-of-body experiences; I just signed up for ME 203: Design and Manufacturing. I had planned to buy myself a pair of safety glasses, inhale a little wood dust, and be out of there in 10 weeks with the most elegant and innovative coffee thermos the world had ever seen. Instead, I bought myself several pounds of aluminum and many restless nights awaiting my next 8 a.m. Product Realization Lab session, machining processes looping in my mind: Chuck the raw piece of stock. Face it off. Remove, band saw, rechuck, face to length. Chamfer outside rim. Chamfer inside rim. Just chamfer the hell out of that thing.
And then I'd start laughing. I've always held a soft spot for absurdist humor, and this was quality entertainment. During lecture, I watched myself listen to a professor talk about how many threads per inch are on a standard screw. I watched myself bend steel rod with my bare hands in my dorm bathroom—the shop was closed and the towel hooks were just the right radius. I watched myself watch TAs in safety spacesuits pour molten bronze in the foundry. We turned metal into fire and then back into metal right across the street from Tresidder—and this was my education. I watched myself think in italics.
But sometimes I feel like I'm not the only one watching me. I'm a card-carrying member of Ace Hardware, but when I linger a little too long in the wood varnish aisle, the employees start peering around the shelves. It's not hard to hear the difference between "Is there something I can help you with?" and "Is there something I can help you with, miss?"
I know they don't mean to be condescending; it's just that they seem more at ease when I'm trying to find mason jars. Still, my knee-jerk reaction is: Go away; I know what I'm doing. But that's rarely true. I don't know the name of the clamp I want, which brackets will best secure those two-by-fours or what wattage of lightbulb will prevent my project from going up in flames. I keep a pair of safety glasses in my purse and my Ace Rewards card on my key chain, but I often doubt myself. Sometimes, in the PRL, I'll throw my whole weight against a hex wrench but still can't get the tool holder to come loose. After 10 minutes of intermittent muscle-busting and heightening panic, I'll give in and ask for help. The guy on the lathe next to me never seems to mind. I feel embarrassed but also kind of empowered, like I've finally mastered the art of femininity and—better still—realized how useful it might be in a machine shop, of all places. Then I feel embarrassed again, and a little bit icky.
I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of a "girl discount" at Alan Steel. In a place without price tags, the numbers scribbled on your receipt are the numbers you pay in good faith. If a man were to buy these same brass tubes, would the price be a little higher? That's what a friend claimed when we went there together. She checked her mascara before asking where the sheet metal was.
There are lots of women in the PRL, and they're not just in the silversmithing shop. But when it's my Friday-night lathe session and I don't have time to change out of the dress I've been wearing, I feel like I'm the only one.
And here, tonight, I don't mind. I know what I look like—I've walked by this building before and seen it pulsing with the industrial-strength determination of two dozen set jaws, its windows lit up like a movie star's eyes. On their way to Kappa Sig, my peers will see me framed in the glow of that window, aluminum-chip glitter brushed across my cheekbones, chamfering to my heart's content. They will watch me, and I will watch me, and they will think the same thing I'm thinking: She's a badass.
Helen Anderson, '14, is a science, technology and society major with a creative writing minor.
