At some point in junior high, I had to choose a “shop.” My school in Mexico offered some sensible, safe options such as music, typing, and shorthand. But the ones most boys wanted were the two slightly dangerous ones — Electronics and Electricity or Metalwork.
These were not tucked-away electives; they had pride of place at the far end of the schoolyard, in two corrugated steel warehouses butted against each other like twin workshops in a small industrial park.
I chose Electronics and Electricity.
The proximity of the two classes meant a constant back-and-forth — a lot of joking, teasing, and the occasional informal competition to see who could cause more noise or sparks.
In my shop, we learned how to solder electronics and cables together. We played with full-voltage circuits, wired light fixtures, and installed electrical plugs. We were 13 and 14-year-old boys using tools that could burn us, shock us, and — if we ignored the teacher’s warnings — put us in the hospital. The boys next door were welding in full gear, cutting and filing metal, and doing things that came with a real risk of tetanus. I can’t recall a single accident bad enough to stop a class, though there were burns, scrapes, and the occasional singed eyebrow.
And we loved it.
We gave each other electric shocks for fun. We raced to see who could wire a circuit the fastest or the cleanest. There was no discussion about “toxic masculinity” — just a roomful of boys learning to master tools and danger.