Ever since I first got too sick to work about 10 years ago, I never really accepted it. Not very many people know what they want to do "when they grow up" as a kid and don't change their minds. For me, it was to follow in my grandfather's, father's, and uncles' footsteps and become a mechanic. I was only about 4 or 5 when I helped my dad rebuild a 1958 Jaguar. I wasn't boring cylinders, welding, or anything like that, but I learned what tools were what, what they were used for, all about engine components, suspension components, and that getting greasy, oily dirty was WAY more fun than playing in mud. I also learned the proper way to throw a temper tantrum and how to keep my baby doll safe. There's no place safer than in an oil pan full of used motor oil. (After searching for weeks, my father found her when he was emptying it.) My love of cars only grew. I even got a chance to work on a race team for a few years. When I made the official announcement I was going to school for it, I had my mother's and grandfather's full support. My father wasn't surprised, but his biggest reservation was that he didn't want me to wake up one day in my 40s sore, achy, and tired from working my ass off doing such a physical job. It took its toll on the body and he was starting to feel it. My grandfather felt it. It comes with the territory. But I was prepared. I knew what I want and went for it. I was coming from a family of top mechanics. Some of the best in their fields, so I had a lot more pressure should I fail. Turns out, I had nothing to worry about. I worked 10 times harder than my peers to prove I was not only just as good, but better. If I was pushed, I pushed back harder. Sure I put up with a lot. My car was damaged, threats, physical attempts to harm me, death threats, and in one instance, someone put antifreeze in my coffee. But it just made me work harder, through exhaustion, injuries, and pain. I was making a name for myself and climbing fast in the industry. And I was respected by most--the ones who counted. Very few tried to screw me over. It was the hardest thing to have to leave that behind when I got sick. But at least I still had respect and weight in the field.
And in the last week it came crashing down around me. The transmission in my car started to go earlier this year and it turns out it wasn't an easy (yet expensive) fix. I needed to either rebuild or replace it. Naturally, these transmissions are prone to failure, expensive, and difficult to find. After several months of searching, I found 2--one out of state with low mileage, but a few hundred dollars more than I anticipated, and a slightly higher mileage one that was at the very top end of my original purchase budget. I stayed local with the higher mileage one.
It was frustrating enough to be sidelined on this project, but I understand why. It's a very labor intensive job in a large shop full of hazards just begging for me to find a way to injure myself. It's not like slipping on the stairs, or burning myself while cooking. We're talking grease, dirt, etc. The kind of injury that could lead to a serious infection. Then I find out that the salvage yard swapped the transmissions on me for a very high mileage transmission that's beginning to fail with the hopes I wouldn't notice. Why? Well, I'm a woman and my father picked up the part, so I was an easy target to screw over. Then things went to hell from there.
All I wanted was the transmission I ordered and the labor costs back considering I had to pay for 2 transmission installations. What did I get? Condescension and transferred to a local transmission shop to speak to the manager who was even more condescending, trying to tell me the transmission I received didn't have that big of a problem--I could just take my car (or the transmission to him) and he could fix it with no problem. I don't know what I'm talking about. Then it went to the mechanics don't know what their talking about who worked on my car, followed by "then why are you calling me?" Well, I was told to. I ordered and paid for part A which is this year and has this many miles and he gave me part B because he's hoping I'll just keep it. And it gets even better. The transmission I bought turned out to be BROKEN. And all I'm being offered is a full refund of the purchase price with a "we'll work something out" for the labor and fluid costs because I "need to understand how things work in this field" since there isn't another transmission available. Or I keep the wrong one he gave me, fix it, and risk being in the exact same position I'm in now--looking for another used transmission or a $4000 rebuild fee plus installation. Oh yeah, and I don't know what I'm talking about because the guy at the transmission shop he's so desperately trying to get me to do business with says the problem isn't a big one, the mechanics working on my car don't know what they're doing, and I'm just a fucking moron. Every shop I spoke to to double check something, I dealt with a male mechanic who spoke to me like I was an idiot and in some cases was asked if they could speak to my husband or father. So I have no idea when I'm going to get my car back since it makes no sense to put my broken transmission in it and continue to drive it--it barely made it to the garage as it was.
It just finally hit home this week that I'm not that woman anymore. I have no weight in the field. I can't do the work myself, no matter my skills, experience, talent, I'm "that woman" men in the automotive field see as an easy target, except moreso than before because I do need help sometimes. All the work I did to break down walls, open doors, make a name for myself in a field that women weren't accepted in as anything other than service writers, receptionists, and cashiers means nothing. I've officially become an obscure has been. And with my disease progressing, it's forcing me to face some realities I've spent the last decade trying to face a little at a time. So how do you let go of something that was such a huge part of you for 2/3 of your life?
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