Woodworking
March 8, 2025
In middle school, we had a class called “Technology.” Honestly, calling it that feels both funny and a bit tragic, considering it was between 2010 and 2015. At that time, it was already possible for me — following YouTube tutorials — to root a smartphone, bypass the country’s internet restrictions, and access the darknet during class, showing amazed classmates online stores for illegal weapons. Meanwhile, the teacher was busy teaching us, girls, how to sew aprons.
This wasn’t some rural school — it was on the outskirts of central Moscow. And yet the level of “technology” taught felt only slightly more advanced than a mid-20th-century grain mill. But it was considered a “useful skill for a woman”: we were taught how to sew clothes, attach buttons, embroider cross-stitch, knit, cook, and decode laundry symbols.
There were also some “modern” activities: making collages from fashion magazines (…paper magazines), discussing housekeeping in the era of vacuum cleaners, and learning how to care for modern sewing machines. According to the curriculum, sewing an apron and a skirt was mandatory — and choosing a “fashionable” (20-years-outdated) pattern and fabric was part of the task. If you behaved well and got really carried away, you were even allowed to decorate your skirts with embroidery and (o-ho-ho) a few sequins.
I completed about 20% of my apron and took it to a tailor to finish. The skirt came from H&M and was never worn — just never really liked these kinds of clothes.
- I see your grandma helped you, — said my teacher with a fond smile and the satisfaction of her own insight.
- Exactly.
My grandma doesn’t even know how to use a sewing machine.
I hated putting on the headscarf as a must (to cover our hair, like factory workers at the start of the last century) and listening to lectures on how to properly maintain the home. I hated how fashion was presented as some absolute truth understood only by someone whose taste couldn’t be more different from mine. And I especially hated feeling like a future domestic servant who was only supposed to cook/wash/iron/sew/raise kids/haul water from a well (how knows, just in case) — all of that.
All this felt by someone who, since childhood, loved crafting, did a lot of cross-stitch on her own, knit, and absolutely adored cooking. With each new lesson, I grew more and more repulsed by all of it — except cooking. The words of our “Soviet-school culinary genius” held no authority compared to the favorite lines of a cartoon rat from Paris.
Maybe it wasn’t all that bad, and maybe I was wrong to compare our teacher to the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland, if not for one other detail: while we were doing (or pretending to do) this nonsense, the boys in our class were working with wood. And I hated the very idea of this class because of this gender difference.
—
Wood as a material always inspired me — the smell, the colors, the grain patterns, the tactile feel, the variety of species, the sheer number of things it could become. Campfires, glowing embers, the scent of a wood-burning stove. As a teenager, there was a quiet envy toward my dad, who at some point got a Dremel tool and would tinker with my younger brother, building a remote-controlled plane with a light wooden frame.
Then came smoking — and, with my usual obsessive enthusiasm, I dove into it headfirst. Cigarettes, cigarillos, cigars, hand-rolled smokes, bongs, snuff — all were tried and lost their charm. Then it hit me: a pipe. Of course, a wooden one. I started searching online for the perfect pipe. And, as is often the case with perfect things in my mind, it turned out to be impossible to find. But it had to be perfect — my pipe — which meant every single millimeter had to feel right, had to be loved. A Russian saying that often echoed in my mind: “If you want something done right, do it yourself.”
So I found and bought a beautiful block of briar wood. It was clear this wouldn’t be easy — a 16-year-old girl buying a chunk of wood to go to a 110%-masculinity zone and make herself a tobacco pipe. But if perfection is possible, what could stop you? I contacted a couple dozen woodworking shops before finally finding one that didn’t laugh and hang up — one that said I could come and use their space and help, $30 an hour.
The address turned out to be a large garage in a garage co-op complex. I went there straight from school, still in a dark blue semi-fitted business suit and a striped shirt, a loose grey coat on top, and classic chestnut brogues to finish the look. Knocking, opening the door, stepping inside — I casually swept my hair back from my forehead, took off my aviator sunglasses, and asked for Alexey, whom I’d been messaging on WhatsApp about renting time in the workshop. Six stunned pairs of eyes stared back at me in total silence. It wasn’t hard to spot Alexey — his mouth was open.
“Well damn, buddy, didn’t think your lovers would start showing up at work,” said the bald guy next to him, grinning with all sixteen teeth and nudging another similar character nearby.
“Um, good afternoon. Are you Alexey? I messaged you on WhatsApp about renting workshop space. I brought my wood — I’d like to make a gift (((for myself))).”
I pulled out my 10x10 cm briar cube. A man standing a meter away came closer, looked at the block, then turned and burst out laughing. Alexey approached and started questioning whether it was appropriate for a girl to be making something out of wood, let alone a smoking device — and said people don’t work in a shop dressed like that. With full conviction, I delivered my prepared story about a pipe-smoking grandfather (the same one who was married to the seamstress grandmother), pulled out a disposable coverall I’d brought in advance, along with $100 cash.
Realizing I wouldn’t be easily brushed off, Alexey took my wood block, turned it in his hands, pretended to think and look around, then launched into an impassioned speech about how they didn’t have the right equipment and that I’d be better off buying a pipe than making a bad one — and the second part of the gift for my grandfather would be the presentence of all 10 fingers without damage.
In response, I said that I’d look for a workshop that did have the right tools, packed up my wood, and left. For the next few minutes, I could still hear the guys laughing hysterically as I walked quickly away from that garage.
—
Four and a half years later, on our first New Year’s together, Masha suddenly gave me a Dremel tool as a gift. I gave her a silver bracelet with a small diamond, and we laughed so hard at the unexpected exchange. But our laughter was different — kind, affectionate, a little embarrassed, like something out of a romantic comedy. By candlelight, I quietly wiped away a tear.
“My god, such an expensive gift, such a cool one. Do I even deserve something like this? Is this really my Dremel now — mine, and no one will laugh or take it away? How did she even think of this? She overestimates me. If I’m not dreaming, this might be one of the best gifts I’ve ever received — because it was so precisely for the part of me no one else ever wants to see.”
A year later, that same girl gave me a set of chisels. And in one of our dreamy conversations about the future and having a home, she said: “Imagine — in our future house, you’ll have your own little workshop, and you’ll be able to make anything that comes into your head.”
Then came the move to Argentina. Then Patagonia. And the dream of that future house with my own workshop started to feel more and more real. “I’m moving,” I thought, “and I’ll start doing something hands-on again — take some in-person classes, physical labor, anything to avoid just remote work lying at home 24/7.” On the second day after we moved, I found an invitation online to enroll in the new semester of the courses — and one of these courses was a carpentry class. That’s how I ended up at the San José Obrero Foundation workshop.
—
Stepping through portals into parallel realities is only impossible for those who believe in science fiction movies. For the past ten years, I’ve been constantly transported between worlds that seemingly can’t exist at the same time.
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When I came to the carpentry course, I was like a frightened, traumatized kitten — afraid to make a wrong move, say the wrong thing, and end up being left out. On the first day, instead of the safety briefing I expected, we heard a speech explaining that the project is only one-third about learning. Another third is about creating job opportunities for people pushed to the margins of the city’s economy. But most importantly, the project is one big third about building a community — a family — a space of genuine connection between people who are marginalized by the residents of the city center and the coast.
And like in any healthy family (I guess), they had set firm boundaries: no leaving your breakfast cup unwashed, no ignoring the people around you, and absolutely no discrimination — based on gender, age, religion or beliefs, sexual orientation, physical or mental abilities, and so on. Incredible, no?
We had entered a woodworking shop. My first surprise was that more than half of the students were women. My second surprise was that I was the youngest in the group — and the oldest woman was over 70. Still, even with all that gender diversity, I stood out. When signing up for the course, there wasn’t even an option to indicate my country of origin — you had to choose from five Latin American countries that make up the largest migration waves to Argentina, because nobody ever joined them from Eurasia. I looked like some clueless white girl from Europe, unable to hold a hammer properly.
To top it off, even though I said multiple times that I was 25, everyone kept assuming I was 16 — like a runaway child (13,000 km run). And I was living right in the city center, literally on the main square. The oldest clothes I had for woodworking were things I’d bought within the past two years — I hadn’t brought any rags from Russia just for this, so once again, I felt like someone who showed up to a concert in a theater outfit — only to realize it was a rock festival.
The project also includes a free community kitchen where they serve breakfast and lunch — an essential part of the social support and a big part of the mission. At first, I felt awkward going there — I wasn’t in financial need and didn’t want to take food meant for someone else. But eventually, I realized that avoiding it was even worse — it would come off as snobbish. So, I started going to the community kitchen. Then I began staying after lunch to drink mate with everyone. And then even greeting and saying goodbye to everyone with kisses, making my way around the workshop in a full circle — in true Argentine mode (which isn’t exactly my natural way of keeping physical distance).
Little by little, I really began to feel like part of it all. “What, you don’t know María? She’s the Russian from carpentry!” — overheard phrases like that made me feel oddly happy.
As for the woodworking itself, from the very first class, I was showered with compliments.
It’s very Argentine to shout “amazing! wow! you’re a genius! it’s beautiful!” even when all you did was hammer in your very first nail. It really stands out when you come from a culture where praise is almost nonexistent — where, instead, people will yell at you or tear you down if you do something wrong.
Maxi, one of the instructors, started calling me “una carpintera genial,” “trabajadora,” “nuestra genia,” “already a pro.” Each of those words rode the bus home with me for an hour, and then walked the rest of the way — to be shared in full color and excitement with Masha. Sure, being called a “genius” or “professional” is definitely an exaggeration. But “trabajadora” was realistic. I really do look like an intense workaholic there — because for all four hours I’m in the workshop, I’m truly working. Not sipping mate, not taking smoke breaks, not wandering off to the bathroom.
I even forget to drink water — just forget, because there’s no time for it.
There’s only the endless flow of wood and the rhythm of leveling / sanding / cutting / shaping — on this machine, and that one, and the next. It’s incredibly calming and, at the same time, both physically and mentally intense. I genuinely enjoy every moment of those four non-stop hours with every cell of my body. And of course, I’m trying really hard. I want to try everything, I want to master it, I want to get it — and they let me.
From the very beginning, among the other beginners, I didn’t feel out of place in terms of skill just because I was a woman. First of all, because I was doing at least as well (and often better and faster) than the others. Second, because I had enough physical strength and stamina not to limit myself when hauling lumber across the workshop. Especially considering that even the instructors here usually only carry one or two boards at a time — no one’s trying to strain themselves. And third and most importantly — no one has ever said anything discriminatory to me.
And that’s probably a good moment to come back to the community around me, and to my teachers.
We have three instructors, one of whom is a woman — Gise. I haven’t spoken to her much, but she’s the sweetest woman, and just knowing she’s here brings me joy. She once said, “I’m just so happy to be here, because not too long ago it wasn’t easy at all for a woman to find work in carpentry on the street. And now I can stay here with all of you, friend.” A woman instructor, in a free carpentry course, in a social project in a working-class neighborhood — this is something I couldn’t even dream up.
Then there’s Emilio — a kind of woodworking nerd. He looks the part too: long hair tied in a bun, thin glasses, plaid shirt, knitted vest. If I didn’t know he was from the workshop, I would’ve thought he worked in a library. His teaching style matches the look — ultra-focused on the smallest details, demanding precision to half a millimeter, emphasizing hand tools and minimizing the use of “cheating” automatic machines. At first, he saw me as his most diligent student. But then, because of my constant traveling, I failed the consistency test, and our relationship became more strained. That’s when all my learning enthusiasm shifted to Maxi.
Maxi is the lead teacher and the heart of the course. He amazes me constantly — on one hand, with his ability to optimize and let go of unimportant things; on the other, with his deep sense of responsibility and his way of being fully present with each person he talks to. Here he is, drinking mate — and there he is, somehow having built a second floor in the workshop while I was peacefully sanding down my little plank. Although Maxi is almost 40 and has several kids, he feels like a young guy — with an earring, a new tattoo every few months, always joking, snacking on pastries during breaks, then patting his belly with a grin, saying, “My little belly’s growing!”.
And although, from a foreign perspective, he might look like the embodiment of macho culture for the audience of The Magic Farm, I couldn’t have imagined — not even in the wildest sci-fi fantasies of life in the year 2500 — a guy like this standing in the middle of his carpentry shop, passionately saying: “I’ve never understood why people say woodworking is a man’s job. They say it’s physically hard, and you have to carry heavy stuff. But carrying heavy stuff is like 2% of woodworking. Juan over there doesn’t lift anything either — he’s not allowed to — but that doesn’t mean he’ll never be a carpenter. That’s just nonsense. In our workshop, anyone can be a carpenter.” Another Ratatouille moment.
Maxi, if only you knew that in the moment of that speech, a volcano was erupting inside me.
Do you understand, dear Maxi, that here you are — in the outskirts of Bariloche (which itself is the outskirts of Argentina, which is the outskirts of South America, which in the eyes of gringos, Europeans, and Russians is just some remote backwater) — and yet, you’re one of the most socially progressive carpenters in the world. A man who didn’t finish high school and has worked construction his whole life.
So Maxi tells me, “You’re already a pro,” and encourages me to bring in my own project ideas and complete them independently, not paying attention to what others are doing. Meanwhile, our home is slowly filling up with things I’ve made from wood.
Two of our “grandpas” in the workshop are my carpenter friends. Every time I arrive, they hug me and smile like they haven’t seen me in five years and I’ve finally returned. The grandpas, out of love, sometimes tried to do things for me. But when I finished the practice project we were all doing a whole month earlier than them, they stopped trying to speed me up. Now we hang out in the afternoon slot, reserved for the more advanced carpenters. They all know my Maria and always greet her, send their regards, and ask how she’s doing. And when I don’t show up, they go to Maria and ask what happened to me.
In the workshop, we now celebrate every birthday (there are almost 40 of us), the start and end of the semester, and just… good days. I even ordered a small sweet from Russia to share with the people in my workshop. They really have become my big chosen family.
At the start of last semester, someone asked me why I was taking the course.
“Well,” I said, “on the one hand, I love working with wood, and I never had the chance before. On the other hand, when you suddenly lose everything and move to the other side of the world, it’s important to know how to build a home. You never know when you might lose it all again, and have to start over.”
Probably, that’s only partly true. Maybe I never had a home like the one I’m starting to build now — a home I can create, at least partly, with my own hands… and, most importantly, with self-respect. Maybe the workshop itself becomes a part of my this new (and first) home.
