Measure twice. Cut once. Not just a rule for woodworking, but for life. If you have cable TV, you might recognize me. But probably not. In winter 2014, I was on a reality tv show on the SpikeTV network called “Framework,” hosted by Common. It was a reality show like all of the others, “13 contestants picked to live in the house, competing for $100k….” except this one was centered on furniture making.
It was a hot mess. Literally, there was a heatwave in LA and the producers of the show tried to put me in skinny jeans and flowy tops. They tried to create a rivalry between me and another male contestant. And they tried to turn the only three women on the show against each other. In the end, I had to read them and the facts: I am a Black female woodworker from the South. People don’t get to see this representation often. And when little girls see me, they will not see someone who is catty and conniving. I WILL NOT give you “Angry Black Girl.” I finished by letting them know this: “My grandfather is watching. My boss is watching. My family is watching. And these are the people that I have to go back home to. So no, I won’t give you what you want.” So you’ll see me in episode 6, standing in front of Common and the judges, when he sent me home with his signature tagline, “You’re fired.”
That, in a nutshell, is what it is like to be me in this field. I am always the only one. When Black women do anything, especially in predominantly white communities and institutions, we are always the only one. And when we do it, we not only have the unfair pressure to “represent the whole race,” we carry the weight of our families, our communities and our ancestors on our shoulders. When women break a barrier, it’s just the glass ceiling. When Black women do anything, it’s groundbreaking.
And with all of this pressure, why do I build? BecauseI love to make things with my hands. Building and making is problem-solving. It’s my meditation. Whether it’s standing back to look at a room to imagine where a piece of furniture would go or the ability to frame out a wall where there was not one before. It is empowering to know that I can fix things. It’s empowering to know that I don’t have to depend on anyone. It’s the satisfaction of knowing that I can always have shelter and make useful objects. I get to meditate in the making of a piece. Using this time of solitude to invent and invest in myself. Then when a piece comes to fruition, I get to sit back like a proud parent knowing that I did that.
Have you ever squared a piece of wood? You start with a rough piece of lumber, full of splinters and imperfections. Like Michelangelo in front of a piece of marble, I get to determine what this will be. I then select from my many tools — both electric and non-electric. Tools passed down by my father from his father in a tradition dating back to before Biblical times. I take the hand plane and pass it over the rough wood to produce a curl of sweet-smelling grain. If I continue to pass over the wood in that fashion — on all sides, I will have a squared piece of wood that I can now build something out of.
My work is functional. Utilitarian. I like to see how people interact with my pieces. And how what I make can benefit others. At RISD, I teach Woodworking II, a sophomore level class that introduces students to the
machinery in a woodshop. Aside from the stress of making sure that 15 students return home with as many fingers as they showed up with, I never get tired of seeing the pride that comes across the face of someone
who has just learned how to do something by themselves. The look of satisfaction when they turn their first bowl on the lathe, or cut a piece of wood off of a 16’ piece of lumber with a mitre saw, or learn how to
cut joinery for their first coffee table. They also realize that they now have a useful skill to make gifts for others and a new way to make some extra money.
To make and build is to invent and create. This power is mine and cannot be taken away. I can choose when and how to use it. My hands are the hands of my mother and grandmother, and my father and grandfather.
