Bricklayers take particular pride in their injuries. Scars and mishaps are badges of honor, each with a story to tell. As a woman in the trade, I try to keep my hands as unscathed as possible—they're not just tools; they're part of my identity. But sometimes, life has other plans. My first construction injury happened when I was just 13, and it's a story I still tell today.
Most of my followers know I started on construction sites when I was nine years old. It was the year before my grandfather retired and moved away, and I soaked up every moment I could be alongside him. After he left, I tagged along with my uncles to their jobs whenever I could. I even volunteered to help build houses of worship, known back then as “quick builds.” Jehovah’s Witnesses would construct entire places of worship in a weekend or two if they were significant. Midnight shifts? No problem—I was right there with the bricklayers. Back then, no one blinked an eye at kids on a job site. Of course, times have changed. These days, the builds take a few weeks, and children are absolutely not allowed.
But let’s fast-forward to 1982. I was 13, and we were working on our own build. I practically lived on the site, though most of my time was spent in the sandpile with the other kids. Occasionally, I got to help the bricklayers (when they let me). I was 13 so I was probably more of a pest than help, but we gotta learn somewhere, right? Once the build was complete, we moved on to the finishing touches—bringing in furniture, installing fixtures, and making everything shine. That’s when it happened.
Mom and I were carrying our fancy new bulletin board into the building. It was a sleek frame on hinges, and as we lifted it, the top half unexpectedly popped open. “Oh, I didn’t know it did that,” my mom said cheerfully before—SLAM!—she brought the frame down on my finger.
Cue the drama: blood everywhere, tears pouring down my 13-year-old face. My finger was split right down the middle. It was gruesome and painful, but I did what any respectable bricklayer would do—I refused to go to the hospital.
My excuse was that I didn't want stitches. The real reason was that I had seen many injuries on job sites, and the guys always acted like it was nothing. My uncle once was run over by a tractor, and if his legs hadn't been crushed, he would have tried to walk it off! I needed to "Man Up" So it was gauze and duct tape to the rescue! My improvised bandage got me through, though I still have a pretty gnarly scar to prove it. That fingernail remains stubbornly resistant to fake nails and reminds me of my rite of passage into the world of Construction.
Mom of course felt so guilty ,and I probably could have used stiches. Looking back, we can laugh about it. My first construction injury wasn’t glamorous, but it was memorable. It also taught me a lesson: when you're a bricklayer—or just part of a family that builds—life gets messy, and so do your hands. But that’s okay. Every scar is just another story waiting to be told.
Comments