on learning to build and repair

adding this piece to the archive

this is a piece I wrote in november of ‘22 and shared it to instagram (when I didn’t have a substack and would chaotically post long pieces to instagram, which was a really poor fit for sharing writing of this sort) i’m publishing it here with my other pieces— because I want it to have a home, because it’s related to another piece I’m currently writing, and because it hits me harder reading it now, given the political situation which I’m still searching for words for… I have thoughts about ways I’d edit this, and am going to share it as I wrote it then, sans edits.

My parents usually visit twice a year. They always stay in the sweet little apartment my sister and I still find ourselves in after four years. The two of them, Mary and I, our two cats– it’s always snug. A tight space for the whole gamut of identities present, to put it kindly. Somebody always ends up sleeping on the couch– usually it’s Mary, the kinder twin. 

My dad always asks for a list of projects before he comes–house stuff, car stuff. There are always at least three trips to Home Depot. Without fail my mom asks if she can turn on the vacuum within 20 minutes of arriving. I always invite her to sit down, she always says something like “I don’t want to do nothing” and then I give her the same mini-lecture on rest as revolution, on productivity guilt and capitalism. Usually, she proceeds to turn on the vacuum. I hope she gets it one of these times.  

We might not talk about what we’re reading or who we’re voting for– I’ve learned of the need to set conversation boundaries when they arrive. It can feel like a peculiar relationship, but in their own ways my parents show their love by washing my mattress pad and fixing the leaky faucet. This time we patched some nail holes, swapped out a light fixture, and built this radiator cover in the bathroom. 

I used to think my dad’s wisdom for building things was some kind of wizardry, and honestly still do. How mesmerizing to witness a craftsperson deep in their craft– to watch a drawing on the back of a receipt become this piece that looks like it’s been here forever, our little bathroom altar. 

This little rented apartment is where I’ve learned to change a light fixture, to patch holes in the stairwell from moving a piano up to the second floor. To piece together a backsplash, to replace a toilet valve. My dad gifted me my first circular saw for a birthday a couple years ago and a high output battery pack for the drill last christmas. Mary and I built a table together. Our toolset grows a little more each time he visits. (an aside but I think our landlady is pretty damn lucky that we’ve poured so much care into the place these past few years, though I guess we’re also pretty damn lucky that she’s never raised the rent in four years….) 

Sunday night my dad watched me change a tire (ask me about the story sometime). He taught me over FaceTime a few years back– a decade too late, I’d say. When I got to the end, putting the lug nuts back on, he stepped in and almost grabbed the lug wrench from my hand. I pushed his hand away, very sternly told him I didn’t need help. He said, “I know you can do it, but I want to do it.” What patriarchal bullshit. I’m doing this myself, I told him. I tightened opposite corners, as he taught me. Stood on the end of the wrench for leverage, as he taught me. He stood back. I’m not glad about the flat (ask me my opinions about driving a Fiat on Boston roads another time) though am glad he had a chance to watch me change it. 

As the child of one of the most gifted handypeople I know, I feel sad I’m just learning these skills now– skills I probably would have learned in my teens if I held different identities. Growing up running around job sites usually meant playing hide and seek or digging through construction debris. When my dad asked for my help it was always sweeping or vacuuming– no surprises. Some occasional painting on a lucky day. 

I’m angry that the patriarchy so often claims and hoards this knowledge. Angry about the ways capitalism so deeply devalues all types of “manual labor,” (and care work and so many other deeply essential kinds of work) which meant that my dad never asked if I, like him, might be interested in a job like his. The fact that he didn’t think it necessary to teach me or my sister these skills, though my brother learned most. It’s wild how my wanting to change my own oil still feels deeply radical to him. 

Now I think learning to build and repair is some of the most valuable and radical kind of knowledge there is. What power in understanding the inner workings of things we use every day. To run into a problem and have the skills to identify and fix it. To prolong the life of something through repair. To materialize a dream, literally. To build a table you eat every meal around. To build a home. 

It’s funny– inevitable, I think–that I’ve found myself loving to work with my hands. It’s in my bones. My brain is happiest when I’m tinkering, brain and body making connections together, just like my dad. 

The skills I’ve learned so far feel quite elementary– there’s so much more I want to learn– though in its silly way learning to build and repair feels like a form of subversion. Shifting generational patterns of the patriarchal gatekeeping of knowledge, all coming together as dad watches daughter change a tire. 

I hope someday to have a house. Maybe by then I’ll have more advanced carpentry skills in my tool belt. I hope my dad and I never stop learning (and unlearning) from each other. Him teaching me to be stronger, me teaching him to be softer. 

When you scrape off some old paint layers, underneath my dad and I are both people whose hearts are about creating spaces of care and beauty.

I yearn deeply for the day when his understanding of creating a home expands – so much further beyond the walls of a house. How building spaces of safety and care translates into the ways one moves in the world– how one thinks about the Earth, engages in community, the policies one advocates for. 

Before he left my dad took a picture of the mostly crossed-off project list. I asked why. “To pick back up next time,” he said. May learning to patch holes be a place of healing. May our handiwork continue joining us together. May we roll up our sleeves, tear through drywall, draw up new blueprints. May we learn to dream so much larger than four walls, may we build new worlds together.