That being said. There are a lot of messages out there telling me that being a woman isn't okay. There are a lot of people out there telling me that being a woman makes me less-than, inferior, not enough, stupid. There are entire systems in place that would just love to keep me in my place: Silent. Controlled. Limited. Making you a fucking sandwich.
Fuck your sandwich.
I live in a country that continually tries to pass (and succeeds, in some cases) legislation that tells me my body is not my own, that it is something to be regulated. I live in a world that thinks I'm too much of an idiot to be able to make my own decisions regarding my body and my life. I live in a society where I am told how to be sexy, how to have sex, to not have sex, how to breed, eat, look. I live in a society that actively and continually seeks to limit and comment on my body like it's theirs.
This is reality. If you disagree, you're blind and/or probably a man. 'Cause, let's be honest, ain't nobody passing laws telling men that they have no control over their reproductive systems. Nobody is concern-trolling a dude's penis and telling him what you do with it, or that would demand he be skinny in order to be successful (I recognize that there are a lot of pressures put on men's appearances, too, as part of this gendering world we live in, but it's still not nearly as much as women experience). And ain't no church on the planet that's like, "Hey, you male! Not only are we going to keep you from holding any position of power in our leadership because of your gender identity, but we're also going to condemn you to Hell based on what you decide to do with your nutsack!"
But I digress.
Sometimes it can be really, really hard to love who you are when the entire world is telling you that who you are deserves to be limited. Add on to this that I'm chunky, that I choose to look and act a certain way, and man-oh-man, does society have some things to say about me as a woman. Mostly telling me what I can't do.
And if there's one thing I hate more than anything in the whole world, it's being told that I can't do something.
Flashback to sometime last semester, in early October. Advertisements went up for a women's-only self-defense class on campus. It was being taught by three campus officers that I know and love very much. They were so excited about it, kept bugging me and asking if I was going to take it, and I kept making excuses about why I couldn't or didn't want to. The thing was, is that I had been looking for a way to pick up some sort of martial arts, take a class out in the city, enroll in lessons, something. I kinda wanted to learn because it would be cool, and a good work-out. I knew some women who had taken the class on campus and loved it, but there were a few things about it that just didn't sit right with me. I thought about it for awhile, and the only word I could think of to describe it was my favorite feminist killjoy word ever: Problematic.
As problematic as a culturally appropriating Kung Fu fighting panda voiced by a white dude.
First of all, how are you going to have a women's-only self-defense class taught by three men? Most of the time I'm made to feel like I have to be given everything by men, anyway, and now some dudes are trying to give me empowerment, too? Fuck off. Second, it started a few years ago and was based off a rape-prevention model. Rape prevention...for women? It assumes that the only people being raped are women, the only people doing the raping are men, and that there is no in-between, that other violence isn't happening to other people (the LGBTQ community gets left completely out of this equation), AND that women have to be the ones preventing their own rapes. If a class is going to be about rape-prevention, it should be called "How Not to Rape 101" and the students in it should be taught about how NOT to be a fucking rapist. Third, I'm tired of being considered a victim just because I'm a woman. I know the statistics. I get that I am more likely to be attacked by a man, as a woman. But I'm also not trying to take a class that continually reminds me of that fact when I'm reminded of that fact every single time I walk out of my apartment.
And fourth, in my cocky, presumptuous mind, I don't need a self-defense class to teach me how to be, act, and stay alert. I'm pretty street-smart and have always been able to use my words to get me out of anything sketchy. I'm not a victim, I'm not scared of anything, and I don't need your dumb class.
Needless to say, I had a lot of very strong opinions about the whole thing.
And then, late one night, after a shift at the needle exchange, there was an altercation between myself and an asshole at the bus stop. He thought it was okay to say some disgusting and lewd shit about my body (because society tells him that he has the right, and also because he was an asshole), and I let him know in so many ways that it wasn't okay. He got in my face, he got violent, and even though I was able to disengage myself and get onto a bus, physically unscathed, I wasn't okay afterwards. I was forced to admit something to myself that I hate admitting: I was scared. And not only just that one time, but other times. Most of the time. There is always something in the back of my mind, whether it's loud or just a whisper, that's asking, "What if today is the day somebody tries to take my life or my dignity or my power?" This is socialized in me, as a woman, and I hate it. I hate feeling scared. It is an exhausting reminder of a reality I try to defy every single second of the day.
When I got back to campus that night, I was shaking. Before I really knew where I was going, I ended up in our campus police office and asked for one of the officers I trusted, who was also an instructor for this class that I had very strong opinions about. He met me out in the lobby with a plastic spoon in his mouth and a pudding cup in his hand, took one look at me, and then he put his pudding cup down because this seemed serious. I started crying and, in a moment of ultimate weakness, I blurted, "I think I'm going to take your self-defense class."
DAMN. Damn damn damn.
So I went. And for the first few weeks, I didn't like it. Actually, I hated it. I hated being treated like a victim, always having to prepare myself for the inevitable rape that was coming my way, having some dude I work with get on top of me and pin me down, the feeling of combined awkwardness and powerlessness, how none of the moves made physical sense to me because I didn't understand them and had never had to do anything like that before. The class was based in jiu jitsu, which is all about getting real close to your opponent, about using the physics of your body and movements against them, and it was confusing as well. Why would I want to get closer to my attacker? Leave me alone! And, anyway, I wanted to say, my body doesn't move like that. I'm not skinny and I'm not that athletic or strong, and, for the first time in a very long time, this was making me feel inadequate about what I had always considered my very able and loved body to be capable of. And I didn't like that. I hated that.
From our first class. That's me, on the right.
But I kept going. I had started something, and I didn't want to quit because it was too hard. Or too weird. And honestly, maybe I kept going for them more than myself. These three men are some of my favorite colleagues and friends on this campus, and they were just so excited about teaching the class. They were passionate in a way that I hadn't seen since I started working here. So fine. I'll stay. I won't quit and I'll support you. They'd been there to support me in the past, so I'd return the favor. So twice a week, almost every week, I schlepped to the gym and got rolled around and grabbed and pushed and left with all sorts of weird bruises on me, all the while asking myself, "What the fuck am I doing here?"
"You'll learn," the instructors would say, wanting so deeply to be encouraging. "The more you practice the moves, the more your body will get used to them."
I would nod, but on the inside, I was rolling my eyes and thinking about cheesecake. Or donuts.
But then, sometime in early December, after I'd been going for about two months, something happened. One of the instructors pinned me to the ground, without telling me what move he wanted me to do, and I reacted before I thought. Suddenly, he was on his back and I was on my feet. A realization swept over me in that instant, swift, hard, and exciting: I did it. I fucking did it. And it was easy.
Here was this dude, about ten times stronger and more skilled and experienced than me in all sorts of different types of fighting and defense, trained by the military, heavy and coming at me with a lot more force than I was used to. And then there he was, on his back, me standing over him, confused at first, and then...
Triumphant.
After that, the moves started making sense. I continued to be stunned for awhile after that moment. My body was moving and reacting and responding in ways that I never thought it would. Or could. Apparently, we'd been doing the moves enough so that muscle and reflex memory was finally starting to kick in. The moves went from being awkward to natural, jerky to fluid, impossible to understood. I was learning self-defense. I was learning a martial art.
And gradually, as the new semester started, and a solid group of regulars started showing up, even the tone of the instructors started to shift, whether they realized it or not. It was subtle things - not calling us victims, not calling our attackers rapists. Having us partner with each other, using the language of "good guy" and "bad guy" instead of "victim" and "rapist" and focusing on the moves, not the situations. We were challenged to make the moves our own, get creative, and coach each other. We started getting good. Our instructors referred to us as students, laughed with us, encouraged us, taught us variations, and we were learning with and from each other, teaching our versions of the moves...
Suddenly, my fat, womanly, supposedly limited ass was learning jiu jitsu.
Over the past few weeks, I've come to the realization that I never really thought I could do this, that I hadn't found a place out in the city to take these classes because I was apprehensive. I was scared that I wouldn't be physically capable of what the instructors were going to ask of me and it would be just an embarrassment. Just like I felt when I started taking this class last semester. When you're continually told that your body is limited - especially as a fat woman - maybe you start to believe it. Despite all my efforts, all my acts of defiance, I had started to believe it.
I started taking this self-defense class as a way to temper my fear and to learn a martial art. I keep taking this class because of the way it pushes me to understand my body, my mind, the way the two are undeniably linked. It pushes me to understand the way others' bodies move and work, to get them to push at their own limits, to help them believe that we are so much stronger than we know.
My awareness of myself, of my abilities, of what I am truly capable of, has become sharper, more defined. I no longer have to imagine what I am capable of in any given situation: I know now. I am stronger than I had been led to believe, and had led myself to believe. And strength and capability, especially in this arena, meant something completely different than what I had originally thought it might. Do I recognize that I am coming from a very privileged place in regards to my level of ability? Yes, absolutely. Does the class require a certain level of physical ability? Yes, absolutely. But not much. Not much at all. The diverse set of bodies and abilities present in the class every week is always staggering to me. Big, small, fast, slow, slight, strong, tall, short, young, old. Doesn't matter. As long as you can listen, learn, and keep your mind open to all the things you and your body can do, it's possible.
This class has taught me that my true strength doesn't lie in being able to kick some dude's ass. This strength isn't about domination, hurting anybody, preventing rapes, or even really physically defending myself (though, admittedly, choking somebody unconscious with my thighs does feel pretty badass). This strength and capability is about something in me. It's about learning something new, it's about saying, "Fuck you, limits. I'm doin' this, and I'm doin' this my way." It's about feeling good about myself, and it's about pushing at the limits society has tried so desperately to place on me and my body. Guess what, society? You're a douche, and I'm a badass.
This class, like me, is a work-in-progress. It changes, ebbs, flows, depending on the students, where we're at, where our instructors are at, and what we want to get out of it. We all have a lot more work to do, a lot more room for improvement, and so much more to learn. We'll learn together. I leave these classes every week, tired, sore, bruised in random places, triumphant, and honored. I am honored to be surrounded by badass women, all of us learning that these so-called limits are actually up to us and not anybody else. And in those moments, when we can look at each other and know - truly know - that we are strong and capable, that our bodies belong to us and us alone...well, shit. I've never loved being a woman more.
Can't tell me nothin'.
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