The Art of Self-Defense

You can take a girl out of the Midwest, but you can’t take the Midwest out of the girl.  Or so the saying goes.  Here I am or there I was in my little pink shorts and my big green shirt (the one that says Greenland and has white mountains on it) giggling and making tight fists.  Bobbing and weaving.  Blocking and sparring.  Laughing and grunting.  Swearing and kneeing.  Bruising and beating. 

 

I keep noticing little things, living here in Tucson.  Things like how the girls are incredibly edgy.  Yes, edgy is an annoying, trite word nowadays, but it still rings true, I believe.  Now, when I say edgy, I mean that these girls have tattoos crawling bug-like on their skin and have arms as big as motherfuckin’ boats.  To say that I’m intimidated by these girls is an understatement.  I am so scared of them.  I say “Hi” to a girl next to me who’s about to defend herself against an equally ripped guy, and she just nods her head, already sweaty, already practicing the moves she learned the week before.  She’s more interested in learning some new moves so she can kick some ass than chatting.  And—hey—that’s why I’m supposedly here, too. 

 

I’m at the Anarchist Club in Tucson.  What the hell?  An Anarchist Club, you ask?  What’s an Anarchist Club?  Here’s their mission statement:

 

At our recent mega-mucho meeting, we decided to come up with a new mission statement that was more applicable to our current situation.  We organize by consensus to create more liberated, self-directed space without hierarchy. We voluntarily associate to inspire mutual-aid, expression, education and action by providing publicly accessible resources. We do this to share and live anarchist principles in a world we see as socially, environmentally and economically unjust.

 

 This place was hard to find.  Blame it on what I like to call Tucson’s-we-virtually-have-no-light-at-night-system.  Thank you, Tucson.  I always feel like I’m about to be murdered no matter where I go at night.  It’s nice that you’re saving energy and all, but come on, shine a little light on me.

 

The Anarchist Club is formally known as the “Dry River Bed Collective.”  And they have more than just self-defense classes here.  There is a very weird party tray of activities that span from Bike Repair Classes to Gender and Patriarchy Discussion (whatever that means), and a from a weekly discussion on Democracy and Insurrection in Greece (again, whatever that means) to a Jeff Goldblum movie night!  Who doesn’t love Jeff Goldblum, right?  Riiiight.

 

As much as I want to critique and tear open and apart this place, I have to hand it to them.  At least they’re trying. It’s easy to poke fun at Tucson.  What a weird city, what a random city, I often tell my friends from St. Louis.  They really need to get their shit together.  And yet, I am a Tucsonite, a temporary one at that.  This is where I’m hanging my metaphorical hat for two years, I keep telling myself.  This is—as Alison Deming calls it—a temporary homeland.

 

So I find ways to make it homey.  I find routines.  And as a poor graduate student, I find myself some freebies.  One reason I’m here tonight at the Anarchist Club is just that—it’s free!  It’s a two-hour long self-defense class given out of the sweatiness and kindness of this instructor’s heart.  (I think he said his name was Steve, but I’m not sure).  Steve is a muscle man.  He’s got big arms, a tight butt, two tiny silver hoop earrings, and a smooth head of Robert Goulet style hair.

 

He often corrects me:

 

--Get off your tiptoes!

--Stop bouncing so much!

--Hey ballerina!  Plant them feet!

--Hit it hard!

 

I’m here with my friend Jessi.  She is a bit more aggressive than I.  We’re both former ballet dancers, so we’re pretty good on our toes and memorizing combinations.  Still, we’re rusty.  And these movements aren’t graceful and airy like what we’re used to.  These movements are hard, fast, and sharp.  We want to swing and glide.  We apologize when we think we’re hurting each other.  “Oh, I’m sorry!”  The girls around us are grunting, and we’re giggling.  The instructor comes over to me and says, “Come on, you need to take this seriously.” 

 

Jessi and I look each other in the eye.  We shake our heads and get into stance.  I tell her, “Don’t say sorry anymore.  If I’m crying, you’ll know to stop.”

 

We actually get better.  We take turns wearing these flat-round squishy things: they’re kind of like boxing gloves but actually more like white leather oven mitts with padding.  She brings her hands down—one on top of the other—and I swing my knee up into her palms. 

 

“Harder!  Stronger!  Do it again!”  Steve yells.

 

I bring more umph!

 

“Let’s cuss at each other,” I tell Jessi.  “That’ll make us mad!”

 

Allie: Cunt-mother-fucker!

 

Jessi: Get the fuck off of me you cock-sucker!

 

Allie: You can’t rape me you pussy footing son-of-a-bitch!

 

“Good!  Good!  Good!” says Steve.  He presses even further: “Bite her hair!  Grab her cheek!” 

 

I grab Jessi’s ponytail.   And continue throwing swears her way.  For a second, she looks like a rag doll.  I feel like I have the upper-hand.

 

But this is all make-believe.

 

I start to think: what if this were the real thing?  What if I were defending myself against a rapist?  Against a man as strong as Steve, as skilled as Steve.  I’d really stand no chance.  I probably won’t even remember half of these moves, hardly any of these detailed combinations.  I’m already starting to forget.

 

What would I really do then?

 

Run.  Run and Scream.

 

I came to this class because I do often think about my safety, defending myself.  A young woman, twenty-five, who lives alone in a teeny casita and navigates her way around this still new city—by foot, by bike, by car—most of the time alone.  A girl used to having her boyfriend show and share with her new sights and drive her around, (I don’t really enjoy driving) is now asked to go at it alone, to find her own way around, to be the driver of her own experiences.

 

You feel a little deserted out here in the desert.

 

Many of us here in graduate school are alone.  Many of us aren’t here with our husbands, our boyfriends, our significant others and lovers.  Most of us are alone.  Most of us are lonely. 

 

You can only spend so much time in your house.  In your writing.  In your head.

 

So where do we go?

 

Sabino Canyon. Madera Canyon. Tucson Mountain Park. Catalina State Park. Rillito River Park. Funstasticks Family Fun Park. Tucson Raceway Park. Gates Pass. Arizona State Museum. Tucson Museum of Art. International Wildlife Museum. Reid Park.. El Presidio Park. Tucson Electric Park. Pima Air and Space Museum. Tucson’s Children Museum. Pima County Fairgrounds. Barrio Historico. Kitt Peak Observatory. Tucson Botanical Gardens. Tucson Mineral and Gem World. Picture Rocks Miniature Horse Ranch. The Mini-Time Machine of Miniatures Museum. Mission San Javier del Bac. The Boneyard. Fourth Avenue. Café Passe. Café Zope. Congress. 1702. Gentle Ben’s. Nimbus Brewing. The Grill. Blue Willow. El Charro. Rialto Theatre. Antigone Books.  

 

We all yearn to get out.  We all yearn to see new things.  We all yearn to try new things.  We all yearn to meet new people, to know our classmates better.  Turn a classmate into a life-long friend.  Sounds girl-scouty?  Maybe. 

 

The writing is important.  But thriving, surviving is moreso.

 

This is your life here in Tucson.  It’s about time you grab her hair, bite her cheek.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Shoveling and other such things

"Hey! I shoveled snow for the first time today!" I said to my Dad.
"Wow. You've lived a pretty sheltered life," he said.
I looked at him ready to make an argument, to prove I'm not sheltered. But before I could, he continued: "Twenty five and shoveled snow for the first time in your life."

But I haven't lived a sheltered life, right? I went off to school in Indiana, four hours away from home. Then, more outrageously, I went down into the middle of Mexico for a year. Then to Denver, and now to Tucson all on my own. Not, exactly, the definition of sheltered in my mind.

I mean, I just haven't shoveled snow before. That's all. Or is it?

There are many things I have yet to learn and experience. What I have in mind, as with this project, are learning new things with my hands. And shoveling snow is a new one to add to my list and subsequently check off.

I did it.

Wow, you may be saying. You shoveled snow. Woopdedoo.

And you're probably right. I mean, just about everyone has shoveled snow before, right?

The experience itself is an interesting one, a unique one. You have to bundle up, layer up, boot up, glove up. You're head-to-toe in warm cottons that will soon get wet and messy. One thing I don't like about winter and snow, is the getting all messy part. I feel like I'm in constant need of a shower.

Thankfully, my parents own a heavy-duty forest green shovel. It's one of those ultra-wide shovels, so, in essence, you really don't have to do much shoveling at all. You really just kind of have to be able to push the snow. In a way, it's almost like you're mowing the lawn. Vrooom, Vroom. Glide that baby from left to right. Once you push all that snow over to the side, scoop up, (shovel!) up as much as you can. Then go back again and get the left-overs, the snow that fell behind, that couldn't fit it's hips on the shovel. Do this about fifty more times.

This process is actually quite satisfying...once you see that you're making progress. And, if you have OCD, like I mildly do, it's not one of those things you can really start and not finish. And why would you want too? I mean, what would the neighbors' think?

For the first time, I got the feeling of suburban guilt that I think many suburbanites experience or have experienced. I felt this when I was contemplating whether or not to shovel the sidewalk. I looked to the right of my parents' house, and noticed that the Jacobi's and the Boka's had both shoveled their sidewalks. I looked to the left, and noticed that my Aunt Debbie (who's my Mom's sister and next-door-neighbor), had also sweeped clean hers. Then I looked a little farther on, some people...didn't. Shame. It's like when I'd go for walks with my parents in the summer, and they'd always point out who didn't mow their lawn. Oh--the shame.

And why exactly? Why are suburbanities so worried about keeping a good front yard? Is it because we live in such close quarters, these side-by-side pueblos, that the non-shoveled sidewalk is equivalent to keeping a messy room?

Or is it just that suburbanites like things...clean?

My Mom had read over some of my blogs recently, and noticed that I used bad words occasionally.

"You shouldn't do that," she said. "You offend people, and people won't want to read that."

"Some people like to read that," I counter-pointed.

"Well..." she trailed off and gave a disappointed, defeated glance. I give up, it read.

One of the last things I want to do in my writing is to offend people, but it seems, isn't it almost impossible not to do that? I mean, this would mean I'd have to write like an angel. And that's not who I am. Nobody is. At some point, we have to offend...someone.

Before I went home for winter break, the Craft class I took went to Brunch as and end of the year wrap up thingie. One of the concerns I had with writing was the fact that I didn't want to offend my family. I even said, "I've always had this romantic vision that I would write something that my family would like. Something that they could show their friends, and friends of their friends. Something that an artsy crowd, like us here, could appreciate, but also a more mainstream crowd could as well."

The other students looked at me--well, I really don't know how they looked at me, I was looking down--without a word, but my teacher simply said: "I really don't think you should care what your parents think."

But we do though, don't we? I do. That's why I shoveled that driveway. To prove something to them, to prove something to myself. That's why I write, too: to prove something to them, to prove something to myself. I. Can. Do. This. Watch me.

"You did a great job on that driveway, Allie," both of my parents would tell me later that day.

Why is it, even as we get older, that we're still looking for praise and gratification from our parents? I'd say it's because we want proof that we're being useful in the world. That we matter. That we're needed. And, I think that's something that everyone wants to know once in awhile.

Car Talk

I’m spending my Tuesday afternoon at the Mechanic’s.  Not just any Mechanic’s, but “Creative Concepts Automotive.”  It sounds fancy, right?  It’s not.  The place is barely noticeable, if not for the beaten, metal sign hanging like a finger nail from the small, one-story brick building on Grant road.  After missing the entrance two times and a couple of U-Turns, I’m there.  I take five minutes, write down some questions, and I’m off.  Little do I know that this list in front of me won’t even be of use.  Men love to talk cars. 

           

            “So, how long have you been a mechanic?”

 

            “A Collision Repair Technician,” he corrects.  “For fifteen years.”  He is Mike, Mike Holmes.  He’s the boss, the one who “always double checks my work, has a touch,” according to co-worker Rus Murray.   

 

            Mike is a pretty normal looking guy, but with a little bling-bling on the side.  He has a well-trimmed mustache, clean buzz cut, red T-shirt, blue jeans, gold necklace, diamond earring, and Nike tennis shoes.  He’s just sitting at his computer when I walk in, like he has all the time in the world to talk.

 

            He works primarily in Body Work—the outside of the vehicle, the part that you can actually see.  So if there’s an accident and the car gets all mangled up, he’s the one to fix it.  He distinguishes that a Mechanic works only on fixing internal problems: Anti-lock brakes, Power boosters, Suspension Work, Gas Leaks.  He rattles these words off as if I’m one of the guys.  I nod, pump up my chest, and scratch my crotch. 

 

            “You want to see some pictures?”

 

            Mike, like many men, loves his cars.  He shows me the Before and After of his work with as much giddiness and pride as my Mom showing off Before and After pictures from her twenty-five pound weight loss.  As he scrolls through, he shows me the dented, the damaged, the dead.  It’s a wonder he could bring these not only back into shape, but back to life as well. 

 

            “The worst car was a 1964 T-Bird.  It was so bad I didn’t even want the job.  I told the guy, I need $2,000 upfront.  He came back, and in the envelope, there was $3,000.  That’s how much it took me to want to work on this thing.”

 

            You have to be very creative when it comes to these hard projects.  He had to make a custom front hood for the T-Bird.  It’s tricky--you have to know how to create things, manipulate, and use what you’re given.  In order to make a car hood, he had to find its measurements, down to the millimeter, and then trace that onto a piece of sheet metal.  A simple cut and paste project?  Not so much.

 

            “It took me about eight months to finish that.”

 

            “Were you proud of the work?  Did it feel worth it?”

           

            “No.  I couldn’t wait to be done with it.”  He told me he prefers doing short-term projects.  They’re not as frustrating and you get great feedback right away.  That’s the best feeling.  He smiles into the computer, looking at the past, the pictures of his masterpieces.

 

            “The mechanical repairs, there’s not as much gratification.  It’s much easier to justify when the body looks nice and brand new.  I love getting the reaction, ‘Oh, Wow!  It’s beautiful.’”

 

            But how does he do it?  I’m interested in the process.  Seeing how things are fixed, how things are made.  Mike’s hands are clean.  And for a guy working on cars, this seems odd.   He does more supervising now.  I want to see some dirty hands in action.

 

            “Can you show me how to do something hands-on?  Could I change a tire or something?”

 

            “Let’s see.  Come on back.”

 

            A mechanic’s garage is their sanctuary.  It’s where they go to get in a hard day’s work.  It’s where they’re constantly learning, adapting to new technology.  And it’s where they bond with the guys, showing them an email forward of a baby who looks like a pig.

 

            “He has swine-flu!” co-worker Charlie yelps.  Charlie has worked in the business for ten years.  He has two-degrees in Engineering fields, but quit his job and came to work at Creative Concepts.

 

            I take Charlie’s burst of enthusiasm as an entrance.    

 

            “Can I help you fix something, anything?  Can I do something simple to the wires in there?”

 

            He raises his eyebrows at me, and gives Mike a stare that says, “Who does this girl think she is?”  And he’s absolutely right.

 

            Going into this project--jumping head first into the interviewing process--is tricky.  I’m an amateur, biking head on without a helmet.  It’s so important to be sensitive, thoughtful, and as my friend Jimmy, a war veteran says, “tread softly” upon subjects.  Crashing brashly into a place and expecting that they’ll let you ask or do whatever you want, is not only cocky, it’s just plain stupid.

 

            In retrospect, I thought how this is Charlie’s job, his life’s work, how he makes a living.  It’s why he gets out of bed in the morning.  It’s why he decided to quit his high paying engineering job, and came to work on cars instead.  And I want to pull apart some plug, just for play?  I have no idea what I’m doing.

 

            These men work on these cars with such intricacy, with a perfectionist’s palm.  This isn’t the kind of work that just anyone can barge in on.  It requires exactness, measurements to the nearest three-fourths of a millimeter.

 

            Mike brings me over to Rus, Rus Murray.  He’s been working as a Mechanic and Body Technician for forty years.  I look down at his hands.  They’re fat, chapped, and full of black grease.  He has white hair that’s covered by a red and white Trucker hat.  Rus is unscrewing some bolts with an Air Ratchet—a short and fat device that kind of looks like a hand-held bike pump—which is used to remove all the little nuts and bolts on a car.  He tells me the first step is just taking all apart.

 

            “Do you want to try?” he asks.

 

            Mike explains that I need to push the handle back first.  I try once.  I try twice.  Three times.  Four times.  Five…

 

            “It’s really not that hard,” he laughs.

 

            My armpits start to sweat.  I tighten my teeth, scrunch my face, and try to concentrate.  It’d be easier to just give up, let somebody else take over.

 

            “Let me do it for you,” says Mike. 

 

            “No, I can do it!” I cheerlead myself along.   I pull the plastic sheath towards myself again, and again, and again, until finally it snaps back.  I press the lever, and out shoots a steady stream of air.   I squat down to the front silver bumper.  Mike points out  a few spots where I can remove some lug nuts. 

 

            “ZoOm!  ZoOm!  ZoOm!” the ratchet cries out like a crazy bird.  The silver nuts drop to the floor.  I scoop them up, and flash a silly smile at Rus and Mike.

 

            Working with your hands is a tool.  It’s something that’s practiced: repetition, repetition, repetition.  You learn with experience.  It’s not just a one-time thing. 

 

            “We get these guys from Auto-School, and when we ask them what they can do they say, ‘Anything!  I can do anything!’ But the only way to see if they really can do stuff, is to get them to work, to fix things hands-on.  And we have to watch them like a hawk to make sure they don’t screw things up,” says Mike.

 

            Mike and Rus continue to wax lyrical about cars, and I listen quietly to their sharp, metallic rhythms: space frames, crush zones, hub-caps, plug-weld, hood, bonnet, trunk, bumper, dent, damage, deploy, air bags, header panels, nose panels, mirrors, radiators, grilles, headlights, fenders, tail lights, crash…  

 

            “Watch your hand on that glass!” they warn me.

 

            “They’re nasty cuts,” Rus cringes.  The front shield is broken into tiny, congealed bits.  The car was wrecked by a man driving drunk.  They didn’t know any more details than that.  It’s better not to know.  You don’t want to think about that while working on a car.

 

            Mike slips on a pair of blue-gray gloves and grabs a piece of the glass.  He shows me how it all sticks together in one giant piece.  That way, it doesn’t shatter into your face.  I look around the garage—there are tools galore.  But as I watch Mike slide the gloves off, I realize what the two most important tools are.  You need to keep them protected.  They must be so careful when they’re working—not only because they want to keep their hands safe, but the cars themselves safe as well.

 

            “We have peoples’ lives in our hands,” Rus reflects.  And it’s true.   

           

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

           

 

 

 

 

Following Directions

I have never been one to follow directions.  They scare me.  I'm afraid they'll be too complicated, too over-my-head, and so I just try to do it all on my own.

Bad idea.

"Just follow the directions,"  I can hear echoed in the voices of many.  While putting together a desk, I can hear my Mom saying it.  While making enchiladas, I can hear my boyfriend saying it.  And when it's written down there for you--right there smack dab in front of your face, really now, there are no excuses.

So, I caved in.  I read the directions.  And really, it wasn't so bad.  Even though I was dreading the moment of it's inception.  My nemesis: The Printer.  A big, honking gray and black boat.  To be more precise: the Canon PIXMA MP240.  Sounds like a war machine, right?  

And boy did it intimate me like an army tanker.  It stood there for a week, sharp and steady, aiming at my hands every morning.

"Piece me together or I'll explode in five, four, three, two.."

"Okay, I'll do it!"  I finally surrendered.  Wearing my army fatigues, I mean pajamas, I went to work on this beast.  Pulling out the scissors, snipping plastic bags open, ripping off cellophane and orange stickers.  I was determined to make this baby work.  I threw the cardboard box in the corner.  

"Well, aren't you vulnerable now?"  I hissed.  

Out of habit, I started pulling at plastic hinges and poking things into holes.  But things weren't quite fitting together.  My AHA moment: "I should probably follow the directions."

The book: 32 pages long, black and white, with pictures, and in both English and Spanish.

"Pues, voy a leer en Ingles, por favor."

--First, check the included items: two printer cartidges and a cable cord.  

Oh, I'm already there, baby.

--STEP 1: Open the Paper Output Tray (A).

Been there, done that.

--STEP 2: Lift the Scanning Unit (Cover) (B) until it locks into place.

NEXT!

--STEP 3: Open the Ink Cartridge Locking Cover (B) on the right side.  Pinch (F) firmly and pull up the cover.

Oh!  So THAT'S how you do it.  You see, these directions really are helping.

--STEP 4: Place the Black FINE Cartridge (B) into the right slot (B).  

B=Black.

--STEP 5: Push down (B) until you hear a click to close the Ink Cartridge Locking Cover (B) completely.  

I'm getting it!  It's working!  

I could go on about how I followed each step afterwards--how it went so smoothly.  I won't, but it did.  The only thing I was missing was a USB cord which I had to pick up at Best Buy the next day.  It's amazing how smoothly you can use your hands, put something together, if you simply give in, make it easy on yourself.  In the past, direction manuals always seemed too complicated, too convoluted for my liking.  Always, I imagined a Science dweeb who never left his dorm typing out the steps, howling with great laughter at the mishaps I'd be making. 

But whoever made this manual, was a nice guy.  Someone, I would want to eat a meal with.  You know, shoot the shit with.  Because they make things easy.  And in this day in age, when you have more important things to do than get a headache over a silly printer, that's...that's nice.

Introduction to the Hands Series

There's something empowering about working well with your hands.  Someone whines, "I need a hair cut!  But all the salons are booked!"

And you reply, "Let me cut it for you."

Or say you need to think of a birthday present for someone.  You think no further, and say to yourself, "I'll just make a them a blanket!"  

I dream about the day when I don't just say, but can actually do these things.

That's why I'm starting this project.  All my life, I've always been the sister who's "not-too-good-with-the-hands."  A running joke amongst my two sisters and I.  I'll be trying to make a bracelet with them, and my older sister Mary will take over saying, "Not too good with the hands, eh?"

It's endearing up to a point.  And after I cross that point, I just look completely helpless.  And no one want to pity a helpless twenty-four-and-a-half year old, do they?  It's time I learn how to do some shit.

Here's what I have on the agenda to learn:

--Change a tire

--Check my oil

--Braid hair

--Make a blanket

--Hem paints

--Paint a picture

--Bake a beautiful and delicious cake

--Cook a complex meal for three

--Wrap a present really well

I'd like to tie in some research and some interviews with each one.  Say, if I change a tire, look up some fun facts about GoodYear.  Or say if I go to Black Beauty Salon to learn how to make cornrows, do a simultaneous profile on the hairdresser.

The thing is, when people ask if I know how to do something, I want to respond with a big, fat YES, instead of looking at them with a question mark shaped face.  I want to be a Renaissance woman.  Someone you can rely on to do something, someone who will surprise you because they know how to do so freakin' much!

Time to go there.