"Go ahead," My mom urged. "Punch it."
I squirmed. There I stood, don in mom's old foam sparring gear, squaring off against an upright white mattress twice my height and thrice my girth. I looked at the target, to my mom, then back again to the towering opponent. I hesitated, then gave it a little tap.
"Oh, come on," she reproached. "Harder."
I hit again, this time, with all of my might. I looked to my mom for approval:
"Much better," she smiled. "Now, try this..." She demonstrated a basic combo: punch, punch, kick, and punch. My eyes opened wider. I found myself repeating the combo again, again, and again. When satisfied, I stood back and sighed. I reveled in my first "fight rush" ever, savoring the moment. My dad interrupted my thoughts:
"Well, do you want to learn karate?"
Whoa, do I want to what? I had just figured out the mattress!
I had, you see, this picture in my mind of what I believed karate to be. The picture consisted of two foam-armored individuals gritting their mouth guards in a boxing ring, battling each other in the dim light. It was quite an intimidating picture for me at the time. I was a tiny and timid little thing at seven years old. The thought of being hit deeply frightened me, and it was very difficult for me to imagine hitting someone. Well, sort of.
Hardly a year before, I had learned a lesson about friends. You may love them to death, but they are still human. Therefore, you can't always trust them. My best friend and I were horsing around with some other classmates during recess one day. Somehow, the gaggle got more physical and competitive than usual, and I found myself under my friend, belly up, pinned on the ground by her weight. It wasn't molestation, and it certainly wasn't rape, but it was very uncomfortable. I didn't appreciate feeling helpless, either.
I plead with her to please "get off of me", "let's just finish the game", "I don't like this", but to no avail. Discomfort turned to panic, as I rolled over and "called for help". By call, I mean whisper; like I said, I was shy. Besides, everyone was engaged in the frolic. They wouldn't pay any mind anyway. I eventually found myself on my feet and beating it to the teacher. Unfortunately, she couldn't distinguish the truth between my story and my friend's. So we were both sentenced to time out, which was quite the punishment for normally well-behaved first graders in 2001.
The story doesn't end on too sour a note, as we made up eventually, and were friends even as we parted ways upon grade promotion. As far as I know, we're still friends, despite the absence of contact for 10 years. Maybe we'll meet up someday. So Victoria K, if you're reading this, hollah!
Back to the future. I thought about it, and decided to go out on a limb. Why not? One can't hide forever.
Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the hardwood floor of an old Japanese man's dojo, watching a class. I remember being in awe of the pictures and flags on the wall. Various oriental weapons lay stationed in their racks, a symbol of advanced knowledge beyond me. This was not some pansy Karate America type tae kwon do chain, soiled by Western consumerism and sparkle. The Sensei himself was a man of small stature, yet his stern and gentle bearded face, along with his stern and gentle demeanor commanded the respect of his class. His frayed, greying black belt spoke of years of discipline and the study of the science of his art, which he himself had created using pieces of what he had learned.
The kids themselves who were practicing their techniques in front of me seemed to be members of a special clan; an exclusive pack. They moved around in their disciplined movements, kiai-ing with precision and vigor. I was nervous, but I wanted to do it. At that moment, in that dojo, something sparked within me that is still afire today. I had to do it. Deep down, I just knew I could do it. It would kill me not to.
To be continued...
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