Of warriors

Warriors. It seems that common society pays them no attention until they need them. They are looked upon as strange, perhaps even mad beings who study the art of war and practice methods of maiming and killing. They are monsters. They are mindless brutes. They are OK with hurting people. Or so it seems. And the only reason they are allowed to exist is because one day, society might find them useful. There may come a faction that poses a threat to society, and society comes to the warriors for protection.

Of course, now society doesn't mind that they are monsters, or mindless brutes. They are comfortable that the warriors are armed with knowledge of war and deadly skill. They laud their strength and prowess. They stand, miles behind the battlefield, ever thankful that the warriors stand between them and certain doom, even death.

But once the battle is over, once the dust clears and the warriors return, society sees them bloody and torn. They are battle-scarred, and weary-eyed. The warriors have been challenged, and they have won, but not without great price. They must carry some of their brothers home, some dead, some barely alive. They have seen what few see, experienced what few experience. It has affected the warriors. It has hardened them, and tendered them. They look to the society which they protected. Wide-eyed, they stare at the warriors slowly, proudly walking by. There is a look in each and every one of the warrior's eyes. They are weary. They are deadly. And they are proud.

Society is frightened by this. This is not conducive to every day life in society. So they show the warriors back to their corner. Back to where it acceptable to society for them to live. Society is nervous around the warriors, and they do not understand them. Society tries to speak to the warriors, but they do not understand them. They do not understand why they carry on the way they do, speaking so crassly, living so daringly.

Because of this, the warriors likewise shun society. Perhaps not outwardly, but in their hearts, they know they will never understand. They will never understand why they think they way they do, why they act the way they do. The younger, more excitable warriors cope by ridiculing society. Society doesn't understand, so they will not make an effort to get along. The older, wiser warriors have learned how to interact with society. They teach the younger that society is not evil, they are just not warriors.

Through the ages, society and its warriors have managed to live together. This is only done by the willingness on both sides to let down their guards and talk, understand, negotiate, and compromise. It will forever be a complex relationship; society needs the warriors, and the warriors need society. They may not understand each other, but they will always need each other, and that's how it always will be.

A Warrioress' Heart part 1

"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...