Speaking of Cement

I got a call from Mike a few evenings ago. His girlfriend, Ty, wanted to take a free self-defense class being offered at Arizona State University, but didn’t want to do it alone. He figured I might want to go with her. So on Saturday morning, I dragged myself out of my cozy bed and muttered my way downstairs to set the teakettle to boiling, in a vain attempt to convince my brain that it was really later than it knew it was. A face wash, toothbrush, pony tail, tank top, shorts and flip-flops later I was headed to Tempe where I would meet Mike and Ty in the parking lot of a local restaurant so we could set out together to find the right building at the college. Then Mike took off to go run errands while I parked my truck and Ty went upstairs to check in.

The sign-in sheets were disclaimer notices. I signed in, meaning I agreed to not hold anyone there responsible in the event that I should break a bone, or suffer disability or death while participating in the class, and affirming that I am in decent enough physical shape to endure whatever tortures they were about to inflict. I had to make a guess about that and figured, “Hey, in how bad a shape could I be?” So I signed away life and limb, but they gave us pizza, so I judged it a fair exchange.

The preamble to the actual self-defense training was a presentation by a young woman who looked every bit the beauty pageant contestant she revealed herself to be; a slim, pretty, poised and resilient college student who told us about the evening she came back to her apartment, took a shower and was raped by an intruder who had cut through the window screen and forced open a locked window and who still has not been caught. Okay, I realize we are here for the purpose of preparing for just such a confrontation. I’ve had my pizza and I am awake now and attentive. And so we herd into the other room.

The class was held in a large room, the floor covered with wrestling mats. There were 5 or 6 groups, each working with two large, well-padded cops and a couple of female cops moving around doing demos with the main instructor in the middle of the room and observing and giving instruction to the groups. Most of the participants were young women, teenagers there with a mother or a couple of friends, twenty-somethings who had come in pairs. There were about 70 in all.

While in our group of about 10 there were two other women probably in their 40’s, I was obviously the oldest one there. The first technique we practiced was striking not with your fist, but with the heel of the hand, first the lead hand (not your dominant hand) that strikes lightly to center your aim, and then quickly with your dominant hand that strikes hard at the same spot. Those who went first seemed to me curiously shy about hitting, like they were afraid to use force, or giggly about the prospect. I was about in the middle of the line waiting around the perimeter to go onto the mat to try it, so about 5 had gone before.

Apparently, our padded officer wasn’t expecting too much from the old gal, because when I hit him a couple of quick ones, he pulled his head back and opened his eyes wide with a surprised look on his face and said, “Whoa, you’ve done this before! You’ve got kids!” (not sure how that’s connected, but he apparently believes it is somehow; he said the same thing a couple more times later after I’d struck a particularly cruel blow). Apparently, I’m pretty good at this stuff. I think as we age we become less tentative about enforcing our own power, perhaps seeing each opportunity as possibly our last chance to confirm to ourselves that we’ve still “got it.” Those who at the start were hesitant seemed to grow bolder with every strike they landed. It was somehow reassuring to watch little girls becoming strong.

I am pleased to report that I did not suffer any untoward damage. I do have a swollen, light purple area just below and toward the inside of my left knee. I actually was pleased to see it swelling up and discoloring after the class; it’s sort of my confirmation that I did not hold back, that I took seriously the purpose for which we had gathered that morning. It’s my proof that if I am ever confronted with the decision, I will not be too afraid of being hurt that I will choose not to fight. I want to remember that feeling of knowing I might come out with a few scrapes, but I will be stronger for it. Self-defense class as metaphor for life? Well, yeah, in a way, life is like that.

The class was really worth taking and I signed up to receive information on future classes. This one was a compressed 4-hour class; usually they are 8 hours. I’ve got a few friends and my mom who want to go with Ty and me next time.