Kira Rambles

Fort Ticonderoga sits on a bulb of land sticking out into Lake Champlain. State Route 74 t-bones the lake on the peninsula at a cable ferry and heads West, perpendicular to Champlain, where it becomes Main Street in Ticonderoga, NY. Between the ferry and Main, there’s a four way stop, where, recently, I braked for a sign that said, “Men Working.”

A quick intrusive thought told me to steal it and write “Are you distracting” on the top and give it to my colleague; I owe her after a man asked the other day if she was “distracting men working” in the boat house at the fort, where we were both actively working on boat carpentry and sailmaking projects. After seeing me, he added, “Nevermind. I didn’t know it was two young ladies.” I identify as non-binary, but I mind him misgendering me less than the assumption that only men’s time is worth respecting and that female-presenting people couldn’t possibly do carpentry. 

Maybe that’s why I misheard him and gave him the unearned benefit of the doubt that he asked if he was distracting us while we were working. Since I was wearing a British soldier’s uniform, I explained that I was portraying a man–or at least someone passing as one, since one of the requirements to join the British army (in addition to still having two opposing teeth to tear open musket cartridges) was that one looked like a man (whatever that means). 

It wasn’t until my colleague told our co-worker about the incident the next day that I realized what he really implied, and I started conceptualizing how I wish I had responded instead. 

“I think you’re the one distracting her, sir” is my first instinct, or maybe, “Really? I don’t see any men being useful right now.” 

I wonder if the stoic serious response would work, though: “That’s not funny. If you have any legitimate questions about our work, we will answer them, but we will continue working until you have a question, not a demeaning comment.” I suspect that would make him defensive, and he’d doubtlessly write me off as frigid, but I also suspect nothing I could have said would change his perspective. 

That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I had responded differently. 

While I wish this was an isolated incident, I’m storing these responses and others because I know it’s not. Some days, a toolbox of clapbacks to sexism feels as essential to our job as our 18th century woodworking tools.