My dad was a builder, my brother was a builder, and I was a bit of a layabout. I grew up around building sites from the moment I was born, the smell of mortar and the clatter of tools becoming the soundtrack of my childhood. Dad worked incredibly hard and hardly ever stopped for lunch; he would constantly assess what needed doing while I glanced at my watch, impatient and uninterested. I truly hated it and felt no connection to the work. I never bothered to learn the plans properly and made foolish mistakes; as the years passed I lacked the energy, motivation and willingness to improve. When Dad tried to teach me things, the lessons seemed to pass through one ear and out the other. Mostly I ended up with the tasks he didn’t want — digging holes, chipping mortar from old bricks — but for the most part I stood around handing him tools and waiting for the next instruction. He always paid me, though I would much rather have stayed in bed than gone out to the site. My brother, by contrast, was a hard worker: he apprenticed with Dad for five years and then took on his own jobs until he eventually walked away, fed up with the grind. I don’t blame him. Dad retired a couple of years ago but still takes on small jobs now and then.

I went to TAFE about fifteen years ago and almost completed a pre-apprenticeship in carpentry. Dad was more than happy to take me on once the course was finished, and for a while it seemed like the sensible path. What the hell was I thinking? I hated school just as much as I hated the actual onsite work. I was considerably older than the fresh-out-of-school kids and felt out of place. I did very little beyond what was needed — just the minimum to pass each class. I would fall asleep at my desk whenever videos were played, I drank on my lunch breaks, and I drank again when I got home. I’d often be hungover and call in sick at least once a week. I still don’t know the proper carpentry lingo. I don’t know the names of many tools or how to use them properly. Of all the classes I could have chosen, I picked the one I already knew about and already hated. Part of me did it to keep my parents happy, to show them I was working toward something. It gave me routine and Dad was proud that I was following in his footsteps. In the end I gave up on the course — what a relief. I’m glad Dad and my brother aren’t working in that field anymore, because I would have constantly been asked to help out. I’d much rather be doing data analysis or working in sales than hammering nails into timber.

I ended up doing a two-year diploma course at the MSA in design and visual communication, where I truly had the time of my life. It’s a path I can easily imagine myself pursuing long term. Not only did I enjoy the classes, I discovered I was genuinely good at the work as well. I’ll write a separate blog about the experience soon.