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.