Notes: I spoke with the professor about my piece and he suggested I focus on making it more of a travel writing piece than a feature article, since that was how it was leaning in the first place. So please don't expect this to be something you'd read as a feature; more like a blog, or maybe a travel piece in a magazine. It's still more a draft, but I feel a lot more confident about where this is going than I did the first version I posted. Please enjoy.
Chai over Sushi
“Are? Nihongo wakaru?” the clerk asks, his eyes widening in disbelief.
Smiling, I reassure him that yes, he’d heard me correctly; and yes, I did in fact just speak to him in Japanese. Then, I give him a minute or two to pick his jaw up off the floor while I fumble for my passport with numb fingers.
I’m used to this sort of shocked reaction; after six months of studying in Tokyo, I’m no longer bothered by the native speakers who are in awe of my abilities. It’s no longer surprising to me to have complete strangers congratulate me on knowing how to say “thank you”, let alone “Excuse me, I have a reservation here for a single”.
What I’m not used to is his soft chuckle a moment later. Instead of the usual stunned silence, the clerk informs me that I’m the first person at the hostel today to speak to him in his own language. I try to imagine being back in the States and spending an entire day using any language but my own. It doesn’t compute, and I laugh at the absurdity of it.
You get used to absurdity in a foreign country after you’ve been there long enough; knowing the language and the basic etiquette is only dipping your toe into the pool. It isn’t until after you’ve seen the sights and eaten the food—in this case, the sushi—that you realize that you might be the only sane (?) one in the country. What can be even more worrisome, however, is how quickly you get used to everything.
The clerk walks me through the usual routine as he glances over my passport, accepts my payment for the next few nights, and hands me an 8.5-11” receipt. How long have you been here? It’s cold outside, isn’t it? Have you tried the sushi yet? As I tuck the receipt into my bag, he sucks his breath in through his teeth. Eeeh? What do you mean, you don’t like sushi?
For some reason, disliking sushi is even more brain-breaking to him than the fact that I can understand his language. This is nice, because it means I can mumble something noncommittal—in Japanese, of course—about how ah, well, you see, it’s just a little bit… and leave things at that. He nods his head, and fishes for a key to my room while I have a look around.
As a student in another country, I decided it would be wise to avoid the high-end hotels for this trip down to Kyoto. Instead, I’d decided to book a hostel. However, instead of being confronted with fellow drunken students and questionable roommates, I had been invited into a guesthouse—a converted old Japanese house that could have passed for a bed and breakfast had it not been in an alley. Here, for about $25 a night, I had my own private room. It wasn’t much of one; when the clerk opened the room, I noticed it was barely big enough to fit a twin-sized, western-style bed, a nightstand, and about three paces’ worth of floor. But I was too pleased about having a space heater directly above the bed to care much about the lack of pricey water bottles or pay-per-view TV channels.
He hands me the key, and I stuff it into a pocket. Then, we go on a tour of the rest of the household while he asks about what kinds of food I do like.
Before I ever set foot on a plane to Tokyo, my Japanese teachers had warned me about how reclusive people might appear at first glance—not because they were trying to be rude, but simply because I had no part in their social circles. During my stay as a student, a couple of the local Tokyoites had reached out to me, but for the most part, I’d found their assertions to be true.
As we peek in at open group rooms—ones with tatami mat floors and sliding doors, instead of the lock and key I’d gotten—I find it reassuring that the clerk is going out of his way to be chatty. Then again, I can’t help but wonder if I really am the only person he’s talked to in his own language all day.
We pass through narrow hallways with creaky, wooden floors that protest as we slip over them with socked feet. Then, we peer in at the bathrooms—two private toilets, and two separate shower rooms. Sinks line the walls, so that anyone who needs a quick face wash or a tooth-brushing can do so without fighting over turns for the restroom.
At the end of our tour, we settle into the common room. It’s another tatami mat floor on the main level of the house, complete with sliding doors, a low table with cushions for seats, a bookshelf crammed with English language travel guides, and a television. We settle in to the room, falling silent in favor of watching what I guessed was a news report. I entertain myself with the idea that the clerk might understand the setup of Japanese television as much as I do.
Are you cold? he asks, worriedly. “Daijoubou?”
I’m fine.
Apparently I’m not very convincing, as he rises back to his feet and announces that he’s going to make some tea. As he heads out to the kitchen, I realize I’ve been rubbing my chilled hands together and pull them into my lap.
The apparently serious news report turns out to be some sort of gameshow, after all, as a panel of three people suddenly appear on the screen in place of the announcer from before. I lean back against one wall to watch the contestants try to figure out what was so important about the last few minutes, with a timer ominously ticking in the background to add suspense. It doesn’t work very well.
Tea arrives; hot chai tea with milk already mixed in. I accept my mug from the clerk with thanks, needing to hold it in both hands to keep it steady. To my cold hands, the nearly too-hot mug feels heavenly. The gameshow gives way to an eating contest, and I smile as I spot several big bowls of Japanese curry being set out for the contestants. I remark to my companion that I could definitely get behind a curry-eating contest.
He nods thoughtfully, sipping at his own chai—not minding that it’s still hot enough to burn one’s tongue. Then, he wonders aloud at the temperature, and how long it's going to be so cold.
It’s a quiet conversation that lasts until the windows go dark and the clerk has to get up to turn on a light or two. As he does, the front door opens, and he excuses himself to tend to the newcomers. His loud, heavily accented, “Herro, how ah yew?” shocks me awake from the lull that the chai and the constant TV chatter had sent me into, and I realize that it’s the first time I’ve heard anyone speak in English all day.
I finish my mug of chai, and set it down on the table, not sure what to do with it as the kitchen is off limits to visitors. After listening for a moment or two to the English out in the main hall, I slip up to my single room to relax. As I do so, I’m struck by the realization that I’ll have to go through this song and dance again once I reach home. People will ask where I’d been, how good my Japanese was, what sorts of amazing things I’d seen and how the “real” sushi tasted—exactly the sort of thing I’d been asked while I was here, living in the moment.
And thanks to my extensive practice, I’ll have my answers all lined up: the cities, reasonably good, a lot, and while I can’t tell anybody how good the sushi is, I can at least recommend the chai tea in Kyoto.
(Wordcount: 1339)
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Hostels: Basic Needs
It was about a week before my trip to Kyoto, Japan that I began to seriously consider where I was going to sleep at night. After all, I was going to be visiting for five days; finding somewhere warmer than the streets to sleep was somewhat a priority. On the other hand, I was a college student, just wrapping up a semester abroad in Tokyo. Spending hundreds of dollars a night for the rare opportunity to eat twenty-cent ramen in such a cultural capital was about as appealing as wrapping myself in newspapers on a city bench.
There was, thankfully, a happy medium: a hostel that offered a single bedroom for 25 dollars a night. I took a quick glance over the location- Gion, geisha district, Memoirs of a Geisha, blah blah blah - before booking and printing the ticket.
About a week later, as I wandered aimlessly through a city I'd only seen before in postcards and travel channel specials, it occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about hostels. The only information I had on me was the location and the price of where I'd be spending the next five days. Even the location was vague; after riding a bus to a stop specified by the website, I had to spend several minutes wandering down little back alleys before finding my bed for the night.
Hostels have interesting connotations. The uninitiated may think of the horror films; veterans from hostels of the distant past may recall something far worse, especially in the case of bathrooms. Others yet may think of them simply as cheap hotels with no room service, or a drunken kids' dream hangout- Hey guys I just had my first beer in Munich am I cool yet?
This particular hostel was as quiet as the back alley I discovered it on, likely due to the small temple directly across the street from it. It also felt much more like walking into someone's home than a hotel; I was required to leave my shoes at the door, and was given my own key to access the premises any time I needed to.
My room, located on the second floor, was indeed a single. Barely big enough to fit one person, it held all of four standard features: the light, the A.C./heater unit, the bed itself, and a small nightstand. The nearest sink was in the hallway, and the nearest bathroom was two floors down in the basement, along with the showers.
As I headed downstairs to check out these facilities, I flashed back on a memory of my mother recalling her adventures in Europe- particularly about the big holes in the ground with a rope hanging over them for balance. I shuddered at the idea, but took heart in the fact that I highly doubted such conditions would exist inside without there being an obvious... fragrance to the place.
My momentary fears were unfounded. Not only did I find modern amenities, but heated commodes for those cold winter mornings. The showers, though available for the entire hostel to use, were private singles with locks and separate showering and dressing compartments. Satisfied, I made my way back upstairs for sightseeing.
Hotels- particularly higher-end options- tend to be as inclusive as possible. Laundry facilities, fitness centers, lounges, bars, cafes, swimming pools, and so on. Hostels do tend to have one or two of these, but very rarely do they try to cover all. The point of hostels- including the one I was staying at- was to give visitors a place to crash every night that didn't break the bank.
So because of that, the laundry facilities were available, but extra. There was a computer with internet connection, but it was slow and worked only half the time. There was a lounge of sorts, but it could fit no more than five people at once and had little more than a small bookshelf of old Lonely Planet travel guides and a television with a bright green line running down the middle of it. There was a kitchen available to cook meals in, but no food or cookware provided. All of these things together combined to encourage visitors to head out to seek entertainment.
But at the end of a ten hour day of getting lost, eating strange foods, asking for directions in a language you don't fully understand, giving Buddhist monks some spare change, and snapping photos, what does a person really need? A hot shower, a meal, a place to collapse? I grabbed one of those things at a restaurant along the way back 'home', and found the other two waiting for me.
There will be a time when I once again decide to visit a strange city where I don't have a friend or an obscure family member to crash with. When that comes, I plan to seek out another hostel. I'll leave the fitness centers and room service to those who use them, and stick to paying what I can afford for what I need.
(847 words.)
(Note: This is completely different from what I planned, I know. It's also all over the place; I hope to clean this up and focus it more on a needs vs. want scenario for my second draft.)
There was, thankfully, a happy medium: a hostel that offered a single bedroom for 25 dollars a night. I took a quick glance over the location- Gion, geisha district, Memoirs of a Geisha, blah blah blah - before booking and printing the ticket.
About a week later, as I wandered aimlessly through a city I'd only seen before in postcards and travel channel specials, it occurred to me that I knew next to nothing about hostels. The only information I had on me was the location and the price of where I'd be spending the next five days. Even the location was vague; after riding a bus to a stop specified by the website, I had to spend several minutes wandering down little back alleys before finding my bed for the night.
Hostels have interesting connotations. The uninitiated may think of the horror films; veterans from hostels of the distant past may recall something far worse, especially in the case of bathrooms. Others yet may think of them simply as cheap hotels with no room service, or a drunken kids' dream hangout- Hey guys I just had my first beer in Munich am I cool yet?
This particular hostel was as quiet as the back alley I discovered it on, likely due to the small temple directly across the street from it. It also felt much more like walking into someone's home than a hotel; I was required to leave my shoes at the door, and was given my own key to access the premises any time I needed to.
My room, located on the second floor, was indeed a single. Barely big enough to fit one person, it held all of four standard features: the light, the A.C./heater unit, the bed itself, and a small nightstand. The nearest sink was in the hallway, and the nearest bathroom was two floors down in the basement, along with the showers.
As I headed downstairs to check out these facilities, I flashed back on a memory of my mother recalling her adventures in Europe- particularly about the big holes in the ground with a rope hanging over them for balance. I shuddered at the idea, but took heart in the fact that I highly doubted such conditions would exist inside without there being an obvious... fragrance to the place.
My momentary fears were unfounded. Not only did I find modern amenities, but heated commodes for those cold winter mornings. The showers, though available for the entire hostel to use, were private singles with locks and separate showering and dressing compartments. Satisfied, I made my way back upstairs for sightseeing.
Hotels- particularly higher-end options- tend to be as inclusive as possible. Laundry facilities, fitness centers, lounges, bars, cafes, swimming pools, and so on. Hostels do tend to have one or two of these, but very rarely do they try to cover all. The point of hostels- including the one I was staying at- was to give visitors a place to crash every night that didn't break the bank.
So because of that, the laundry facilities were available, but extra. There was a computer with internet connection, but it was slow and worked only half the time. There was a lounge of sorts, but it could fit no more than five people at once and had little more than a small bookshelf of old Lonely Planet travel guides and a television with a bright green line running down the middle of it. There was a kitchen available to cook meals in, but no food or cookware provided. All of these things together combined to encourage visitors to head out to seek entertainment.
But at the end of a ten hour day of getting lost, eating strange foods, asking for directions in a language you don't fully understand, giving Buddhist monks some spare change, and snapping photos, what does a person really need? A hot shower, a meal, a place to collapse? I grabbed one of those things at a restaurant along the way back 'home', and found the other two waiting for me.
There will be a time when I once again decide to visit a strange city where I don't have a friend or an obscure family member to crash with. When that comes, I plan to seek out another hostel. I'll leave the fitness centers and room service to those who use them, and stick to paying what I can afford for what I need.
(847 words.)
(Note: This is completely different from what I planned, I know. It's also all over the place; I hope to clean this up and focus it more on a needs vs. want scenario for my second draft.)
Monday, April 12, 2010
Profile Revision
(Still a work in progress, but I think it's a bit closer to where it should be... I may edit it one more time before class, but here's what I've got thus far.)
As I steal a seat in my sister’s classroom, I am suddenly struck by how big an age gap there is between the two of us. Jen is technically old enough to be my mother; and yet as her students for the semester began to file in to the classroom, none of them seemed to realize that she was going to be their professor for the next fifteen weeks. She may as well be a TA, albeit one in dated, almost frumpy, clothes.
The age difference between us doesn’t occur to me often, unless someone else exclaims, wow, she’s sixteen years older than you? I muse over that as the other kids my age start to settle in to their newly claimed territory, watching as they fiddle with pencils, text friends on their cell phones, and turn in their seats to chat to their neighbors. I overhear one of them mention Jen’s score on RateMyProfessor.com and fight the urge to laugh. I can’t help but smirk, however, as my sister clears her throat and starts the class. It’s too bad I’m in the front row, because I’m sure that the students’ expressions are noteworthy.
Even as she placidly takes over the class, I can already hear her after the class: at least they don’t think I’m an undergrad anymore.
Jen was blessed with a baby-face that, thus far, has only revealed an absolute minimum of wrinkles. But it’s funny how people tend to want what they don’t have, even when others would kill for that same thing. My sister’s of the firm belief that you should look exactly the age you are, and goes to war over her own looks every day to try and achieve that goal.
The students are silent as Jen passes out the syllabus. I take one, briefly entertaining the idea of being an undercover agent of some kind, and glance over it. Immediately I feel a rush of relief that my own days of taking gen ed classes are gone, even though the topic of this class—Intro. To Theater History—sounds vaguely interesting.
Jen’s been into theater for longer than anyone can tell, including her own parents. She took part in several plays in public school, from a casual walk-on in a Charlie Brown skit to a full-blown tour around the state in Nunsense when she was in high school. Dad likes to tell the story of my sister’s getting into college, and how after a semester of politely obeying her mother’s wishes to study business, she just as politely switched to drama, and hasn’t looked back since.
With her experience acting comes endless knowledge of makeup and costume design. Years of dressing up, down, backwards and diagonally have taught her how to look the part in any given situation, from the Lady Olivia in Twelfth Night to a nervous-ecstatic bride in her own wedding. The only time she can’t seem to get her act together is when she wants to the most: dressing herself for work. Two decades of mastering foundation, blush, and matching colors completely escapes her to the point where she is left looking not like a collected forty-year-old, but instead a thirty-year-old who might have stumbled into her mother’s wardrobe. Granted, the clothes would probably look classy on a lady in her fifties; on her, however…
I admit to myself as I watch the class that it’s funny I never think about our age differences much, except when we’re introducing each other. But then, maybe it’s the source of her chagrin that keeps me from thinking about her as older. After all, she’s been older than me from the start, so in my mind, nothing has changed. She’s still the ageless big sister I used to wave at during her performances amusing (and annoying) the theater at large with my declarations of that’s my sister!
A student asks a question, and Jen’s eyebrows lift with a silent question in turn as she listens to him. Then, she tells him that yes, it would be best if you showed up to class as often as possible. Then, with that twinkle in her eye, she adds in the same mild-mannered tone, I’d also recommend doing the homework, too. It should be pretty painless for both of us that way.
The student laughs a little, because he can’t tell if she’s joking or not. When she offers him a brief, close-lipped smile and then resumes discussing the syllabus, I turn my head in time to see him glancing at one of his friends as if to ask is she serious?
I smile to myself and pretend to return my attention to my sister’s words, but I’m far more interested in watching her move. Before class had started, I’d asked her if she ever felt nervous about beginning each new semester. When she’d agreed, I’d half-joked that maybe she should treat the first class as yet another play. However, as she moves to write her name and office hours on the board, I can’t help but wonder if she doesn’t already do that.
Her movements have always been deliberate, as though she calculated every flick of the wrist and the light squeak of the marker against the whiteboard. She doesn’t stumble or bump into anything as she paces back and forth along the front of the classroom, either; she takes a couple of steps, then stops for a beat before resuming.
Jen’s speech is as deliberate and thought-out as her moves. Her response to the student, her discussions with me, all begin and end with pauses as she considers the best angle to tackle something. Mom says Jen’s done that since she was a kid; rather than admit how awful dinner tasted, she would instead tactfully inform her parents that the peas made her knife smell funny and that she’d very much prefer if she could have, say, carrots instead.
That’s not to say that Jen is slow by any means, or that she’s low-energy. Really, each movement seems to be restraining energy more than summoning it; she only appears to release unexpected bursts of it if she laughs or is thrown out of her calculated behavior by an unexpected question.
And yet, with all of this careful thought put into her action, she still can’t manage to look like a thirty-nine year-old professor.
The syllabus was the only activity on today’s schedule, so when they finish reading it, Jen excuses the class. The room erupts in a series of sounds, from chairs scraping away from desks to the buzz of cell phones and the zip of closing backpacks. In less than a minute, the room is empty save for the two of us.
So, were you bored? Jen asks me, as she hunts for a whiteboard eraser.
I rise to help her look, shaking my head. Nah; I did kind of space out though.
That’s fine; I’m sure my actual students were, too. Her lips curve into a faint smile.
Maybe. You know, they looked kinda confused about you being up in front.
She blows a bit of hair out of her face, then sighs. At least no one asked me if I was the TA this time. But I really thought I’d dressed right this time.
I look over her stuffy cardigan, and offer a noncommittal Yeah; maybe you should just tell them how old you are upfront, or wear a nametag with your age on it or something.
Instead of taking my teasing for what it is, Jen decides to take it seriously for a moment, tilting her head as she pulls a paper towel out of her bag and uses that to wipe the board down instead. Maybe you’re right.
(Word count: 1295)
As I steal a seat in my sister’s classroom, I am suddenly struck by how big an age gap there is between the two of us. Jen is technically old enough to be my mother; and yet as her students for the semester began to file in to the classroom, none of them seemed to realize that she was going to be their professor for the next fifteen weeks. She may as well be a TA, albeit one in dated, almost frumpy, clothes.
The age difference between us doesn’t occur to me often, unless someone else exclaims, wow, she’s sixteen years older than you? I muse over that as the other kids my age start to settle in to their newly claimed territory, watching as they fiddle with pencils, text friends on their cell phones, and turn in their seats to chat to their neighbors. I overhear one of them mention Jen’s score on RateMyProfessor.com and fight the urge to laugh. I can’t help but smirk, however, as my sister clears her throat and starts the class. It’s too bad I’m in the front row, because I’m sure that the students’ expressions are noteworthy.
Even as she placidly takes over the class, I can already hear her after the class: at least they don’t think I’m an undergrad anymore.
Jen was blessed with a baby-face that, thus far, has only revealed an absolute minimum of wrinkles. But it’s funny how people tend to want what they don’t have, even when others would kill for that same thing. My sister’s of the firm belief that you should look exactly the age you are, and goes to war over her own looks every day to try and achieve that goal.
The students are silent as Jen passes out the syllabus. I take one, briefly entertaining the idea of being an undercover agent of some kind, and glance over it. Immediately I feel a rush of relief that my own days of taking gen ed classes are gone, even though the topic of this class—Intro. To Theater History—sounds vaguely interesting.
Jen’s been into theater for longer than anyone can tell, including her own parents. She took part in several plays in public school, from a casual walk-on in a Charlie Brown skit to a full-blown tour around the state in Nunsense when she was in high school. Dad likes to tell the story of my sister’s getting into college, and how after a semester of politely obeying her mother’s wishes to study business, she just as politely switched to drama, and hasn’t looked back since.
With her experience acting comes endless knowledge of makeup and costume design. Years of dressing up, down, backwards and diagonally have taught her how to look the part in any given situation, from the Lady Olivia in Twelfth Night to a nervous-ecstatic bride in her own wedding. The only time she can’t seem to get her act together is when she wants to the most: dressing herself for work. Two decades of mastering foundation, blush, and matching colors completely escapes her to the point where she is left looking not like a collected forty-year-old, but instead a thirty-year-old who might have stumbled into her mother’s wardrobe. Granted, the clothes would probably look classy on a lady in her fifties; on her, however…
I admit to myself as I watch the class that it’s funny I never think about our age differences much, except when we’re introducing each other. But then, maybe it’s the source of her chagrin that keeps me from thinking about her as older. After all, she’s been older than me from the start, so in my mind, nothing has changed. She’s still the ageless big sister I used to wave at during her performances amusing (and annoying) the theater at large with my declarations of that’s my sister!
A student asks a question, and Jen’s eyebrows lift with a silent question in turn as she listens to him. Then, she tells him that yes, it would be best if you showed up to class as often as possible. Then, with that twinkle in her eye, she adds in the same mild-mannered tone, I’d also recommend doing the homework, too. It should be pretty painless for both of us that way.
The student laughs a little, because he can’t tell if she’s joking or not. When she offers him a brief, close-lipped smile and then resumes discussing the syllabus, I turn my head in time to see him glancing at one of his friends as if to ask is she serious?
I smile to myself and pretend to return my attention to my sister’s words, but I’m far more interested in watching her move. Before class had started, I’d asked her if she ever felt nervous about beginning each new semester. When she’d agreed, I’d half-joked that maybe she should treat the first class as yet another play. However, as she moves to write her name and office hours on the board, I can’t help but wonder if she doesn’t already do that.
Her movements have always been deliberate, as though she calculated every flick of the wrist and the light squeak of the marker against the whiteboard. She doesn’t stumble or bump into anything as she paces back and forth along the front of the classroom, either; she takes a couple of steps, then stops for a beat before resuming.
Jen’s speech is as deliberate and thought-out as her moves. Her response to the student, her discussions with me, all begin and end with pauses as she considers the best angle to tackle something. Mom says Jen’s done that since she was a kid; rather than admit how awful dinner tasted, she would instead tactfully inform her parents that the peas made her knife smell funny and that she’d very much prefer if she could have, say, carrots instead.
That’s not to say that Jen is slow by any means, or that she’s low-energy. Really, each movement seems to be restraining energy more than summoning it; she only appears to release unexpected bursts of it if she laughs or is thrown out of her calculated behavior by an unexpected question.
And yet, with all of this careful thought put into her action, she still can’t manage to look like a thirty-nine year-old professor.
The syllabus was the only activity on today’s schedule, so when they finish reading it, Jen excuses the class. The room erupts in a series of sounds, from chairs scraping away from desks to the buzz of cell phones and the zip of closing backpacks. In less than a minute, the room is empty save for the two of us.
So, were you bored? Jen asks me, as she hunts for a whiteboard eraser.
I rise to help her look, shaking my head. Nah; I did kind of space out though.
That’s fine; I’m sure my actual students were, too. Her lips curve into a faint smile.
Maybe. You know, they looked kinda confused about you being up in front.
She blows a bit of hair out of her face, then sighs. At least no one asked me if I was the TA this time. But I really thought I’d dressed right this time.
I look over her stuffy cardigan, and offer a noncommittal Yeah; maybe you should just tell them how old you are upfront, or wear a nametag with your age on it or something.
Instead of taking my teasing for what it is, Jen decides to take it seriously for a moment, tilting her head as she pulls a paper towel out of her bag and uses that to wipe the board down instead. Maybe you’re right.
(Word count: 1295)
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Three Features
( Note: The only periodical I really read on a regular basis is the Washington Post. I tend to like reading about travel to far-off places, as well, so enjoy.)
A New Wrinkle on Japanese Menus
This piece combines travel, health issues and food critique into one short article, describing the use of collagen in one Tokyo restaurant's menu items. The lead into the article- a reference to the search for the Fountain of Youth- gets the reader straight into the subject-matter, as it should be in any news-piece. Then, the author goes on to describe the reasoning behind using collagen, a "connective protein in bones, skin and cartilage". He also touches briefly on the Japanese culture and the pressure to look as young as possible for as long as possible.
The layout of this piece allows the author to touch on several larger topics while focusing in on the one situation of a restaurant owner adding a "secret ingredient" to his menu. The article is about two pages long online, but is chopped up into several small, easy-to-read paragraphs that take seconds to skim over. The language is straightforward and the author makes sure to inform the reader of what they may not know, i.e. what collagen is.
A Village, or a Zoo?
This is a longer piece- 3 pages' worth in the online version- regarding a more serious situation for a group of women in Thailand. We've all read situations about people altering their own bodies either voluntarily or due to tradition and demand before; this focuses on the Padaung, a tribe of people whose women wear heavy brass rings to elongate their necks.
The work asks us a question to consider for long after we finish the piece, rather than wrapping up the entire thing into a neat little package. It's a question of morals, of tourists and tradition, and whether we should support or boycott practices that leave women- like in the article- in such uncertain circumstances. The paragraphs are longer, and the story winds through the narrator's seeking a way to see these long-necked women for themselves. It reads more like an excerpt from a travel blog or book than as an article that stands entirely on its own.
Why Are the Danes So Happy?
This piece immediately starts off on a light note, where the narrator claims to have simply set up a large sign in a park with the question listed in the title. Then, he slowly eases us into the meat of the story: the idea that while the Danes seem to be the happiest people on the Earth (at least, as of the publication of the article), the U.S. lists as only the 16th happiest. He then takes us through the possibilities of why, though the narrator keeps the tone of the piece lighthearted with little anecdotes of his own conversations with the locals and their reactions to his comments.
A New Wrinkle on Japanese Menus
This piece combines travel, health issues and food critique into one short article, describing the use of collagen in one Tokyo restaurant's menu items. The lead into the article- a reference to the search for the Fountain of Youth- gets the reader straight into the subject-matter, as it should be in any news-piece. Then, the author goes on to describe the reasoning behind using collagen, a "connective protein in bones, skin and cartilage". He also touches briefly on the Japanese culture and the pressure to look as young as possible for as long as possible.
The layout of this piece allows the author to touch on several larger topics while focusing in on the one situation of a restaurant owner adding a "secret ingredient" to his menu. The article is about two pages long online, but is chopped up into several small, easy-to-read paragraphs that take seconds to skim over. The language is straightforward and the author makes sure to inform the reader of what they may not know, i.e. what collagen is.
A Village, or a Zoo?
This is a longer piece- 3 pages' worth in the online version- regarding a more serious situation for a group of women in Thailand. We've all read situations about people altering their own bodies either voluntarily or due to tradition and demand before; this focuses on the Padaung, a tribe of people whose women wear heavy brass rings to elongate their necks.
The work asks us a question to consider for long after we finish the piece, rather than wrapping up the entire thing into a neat little package. It's a question of morals, of tourists and tradition, and whether we should support or boycott practices that leave women- like in the article- in such uncertain circumstances. The paragraphs are longer, and the story winds through the narrator's seeking a way to see these long-necked women for themselves. It reads more like an excerpt from a travel blog or book than as an article that stands entirely on its own.
Why Are the Danes So Happy?
This piece immediately starts off on a light note, where the narrator claims to have simply set up a large sign in a park with the question listed in the title. Then, he slowly eases us into the meat of the story: the idea that while the Danes seem to be the happiest people on the Earth (at least, as of the publication of the article), the U.S. lists as only the 16th happiest. He then takes us through the possibilities of why, though the narrator keeps the tone of the piece lighthearted with little anecdotes of his own conversations with the locals and their reactions to his comments.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Dialogue Exercise
“You’ve reached the hospital operator. This is Stefanie, how can I help you?”
“Hello?”
“Yes, sir, how can I help you?”
“Hi! Um, can I talk to a nurse, or are you, um, a nurse or something?”
“Are you calling in reference to a patient, sir?”
“Well, I just have a question. I need to talk to a nurse.”
“I might be able to direct your call if you tell me a bit more about what you need.”
“Can’t you just connect me to a nurse? You’re a hospital, so you’ve got them, right?”
“Si-“
“Look, just connect me, will you?”
“I can’t, sir. There are a lot of floors and a lot of nurses, so I need to know what to help you with to send you to the right place.”
“Ugh, okay, whatever. So it’s my wife.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“Hello?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Like I said, it’s about my wife. Can I talk to a nurse now?”
“What about your wife, sir? …Is that the patient-to-be you mentioned?”
“Obviously.”
“Are you bringing her in to be admitted?”
“See, that’s the thing, I don’t know until I talk to a-“
“Okay, well, we can’t really give medical advice over the phone, sir. Any nurse would tell you the same thing. If you think your wife needs to be seen, you should bring her-“
“But I don’t know if- honey, you talk to her. What do you mean, no? Hang on, I’m going to put my wife on the phone.”
“Sure.”
“…Hcckkssshh…”
“…Sir?”
“Yeah, uh, it’s me again. She says she can’t come to the phone. You’d think she was having the baby now or something.”
“She’s pregnant?”
“Yeah, actually, that’s why we’re calling. I think she’s contracting. What is it, honey, like every couple of minutes?”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, so we wanted to know how long we should wait before we bring her in.”
“Wait?”
“Yeah. I mean, we don’t want to come in too soon or anything, and we don’t want to wait a long time. One time I came in with a cold and they made me wait for, like, three hours. Can you believe that? …By the way, what’s the waiting time in the ER right now?”
“Sir, if your wife is contracting, maybe you should consider bringing her in.”
“So you do give medical advice over the phone.”
“No, si- er. This is just my personal opinion. I’m not a licensed nurse or doctor.“
“Yeah, sure. So should I bring her in now? …No, I know, honey, I’m about to ask her that—“
“Sir, what does your wife think about the matter?”
“Huh?”
“I said, what does your wife think.”
“Well, you know women. She wants to come in right now, but like I told her, we don’t want to wait around forever.”
“Sir, if your wife is contracting every couple of minutes-“
“Yeah, like every two or three minutes.”
“-Then you should bring her in unless you want her to have the baby in the car or at your home.”
“Really? …Are you sure I can’t talk to someone else? Maybe someone in the ER who can answer my questions?”
“…Okay, sir. Hang on a moment and I’ll transfer you to the ER, though they’ll likely tell you the same things.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Just a moment.”
“See what I mean, hon? Maybe now we can get some answers to our que-“
Click.
(Word Count: 569. Also, this is 99% true story.)
“Hello?”
“Yes, sir, how can I help you?”
“Hi! Um, can I talk to a nurse, or are you, um, a nurse or something?”
“Are you calling in reference to a patient, sir?”
“Well, I just have a question. I need to talk to a nurse.”
“I might be able to direct your call if you tell me a bit more about what you need.”
“Can’t you just connect me to a nurse? You’re a hospital, so you’ve got them, right?”
“Si-“
“Look, just connect me, will you?”
“I can’t, sir. There are a lot of floors and a lot of nurses, so I need to know what to help you with to send you to the right place.”
“Ugh, okay, whatever. So it’s my wife.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“Hello?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Like I said, it’s about my wife. Can I talk to a nurse now?”
“What about your wife, sir? …Is that the patient-to-be you mentioned?”
“Obviously.”
“Are you bringing her in to be admitted?”
“See, that’s the thing, I don’t know until I talk to a-“
“Okay, well, we can’t really give medical advice over the phone, sir. Any nurse would tell you the same thing. If you think your wife needs to be seen, you should bring her-“
“But I don’t know if- honey, you talk to her. What do you mean, no? Hang on, I’m going to put my wife on the phone.”
“Sure.”
“…Hcckkssshh…”
“…Sir?”
“Yeah, uh, it’s me again. She says she can’t come to the phone. You’d think she was having the baby now or something.”
“She’s pregnant?”
“Yeah, actually, that’s why we’re calling. I think she’s contracting. What is it, honey, like every couple of minutes?”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, so we wanted to know how long we should wait before we bring her in.”
“Wait?”
“Yeah. I mean, we don’t want to come in too soon or anything, and we don’t want to wait a long time. One time I came in with a cold and they made me wait for, like, three hours. Can you believe that? …By the way, what’s the waiting time in the ER right now?”
“Sir, if your wife is contracting, maybe you should consider bringing her in.”
“So you do give medical advice over the phone.”
“No, si- er. This is just my personal opinion. I’m not a licensed nurse or doctor.“
“Yeah, sure. So should I bring her in now? …No, I know, honey, I’m about to ask her that—“
“Sir, what does your wife think about the matter?”
“Huh?”
“I said, what does your wife think.”
“Well, you know women. She wants to come in right now, but like I told her, we don’t want to wait around forever.”
“Sir, if your wife is contracting every couple of minutes-“
“Yeah, like every two or three minutes.”
“-Then you should bring her in unless you want her to have the baby in the car or at your home.”
“Really? …Are you sure I can’t talk to someone else? Maybe someone in the ER who can answer my questions?”
“…Okay, sir. Hang on a moment and I’ll transfer you to the ER, though they’ll likely tell you the same things.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Just a moment.”
“See what I mean, hon? Maybe now we can get some answers to our que-“
Click.
(Word Count: 569. Also, this is 99% true story.)
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Profile Draft
My big sister is old enough to be my mother. It’s not a thought that I have often, unless someone asks her age and realizes wow, she’s sixteen years older than you? Considering I have yet to meet anyone else with such an age gap between siblings, however, I can’t help but turn the thought over in my head, prodding at it to see what might come of it.
We’re both members of a baby-faced family; Jen is thirty-nine, but is often mistaken for a graduate student on the campus she teaches theater at. While visiting her during her first week of classes, I remember an undergraduate approaching my bemused sister and asking her if she was the T.A. At least, she pointed out over tea later, they don’t think I’m an undergrad anymore.
It’s funny how you tend to want what you don’t have, even if others would kill for what you’ve got. Jen has refused to admit defeat about looking thirty instead of forty, and goes to war with what she knows best: costumes. Years of dressing up, down, backwards and diagonally have taught her how to look the part in a given situation, from the Lady Olivia in Twelfth Night to a nervous-ecstatic bride in her own wedding. The only problem is, her anxiety to look her age is her own downfall; she chooses clothes that would look classy on a lady in her fifties, but winds up making her look like a frumpy thirty-year-old. Foiled again.
Maybe it’s the source of her chagrin that keeps me from thinking about her as older. After all, she’s been older than me from the start, so in my mind, nothing has changed. She’s still the ageless big sister I used to wave at during her performances, announcing to anyone in sight that that’s my sister!
It could also be that, for someone who is so skilled at playing a part on the stage, she doesn’t do very well at acting like someone about to start her forties. While I sat at her desk during that first class and watched her introduce the students to their Theater Appreciation course, I saw the quiet energy under the surface that had always been there. Her movements had always been graceful, deliberate to the point where her crumpling a piece of paper or throwing away a piece of trash seems to have its own, distinct Jen-ness to it. And with every quiet scrape of the chalk against the chalkboard, I caught a twinkle of the eye, a twitch of the lips, the faintest thread of a hum from her throat.
Granted, Jen doesn’t have quite as adventurous a life as she used to, at least in my younger self’s view. She fell in love with acting in elementary school; by high school, she managed to get hired for touring troupes not only in Virginia, but that went as far as Tennessee. At five years old, Tennessee sounded as distant as Hawaii did, albeit with a little less swimming involved to get there. So when we went to visit her during one of her shows in her university years, I was excited enough to tell everyone we saw that we were seeing a play and my sister was the star and do you know how far away Tennessee is?
Or maybe a more accurate observation would be that her idea of adventure has changed. Instead of traveling in groups, staying in dormitories and eating as cheaply as possible to make her money stretch, she enjoys having a steady roof over her head. After all, with a home comes all of the lovely little amenities--like dependable running water and husbands to fix things when the water won’t behave. Rather than seek out her next casting in unusually-located warehouses and storage rooms so early in the morning she didn’t bother going to bed the night before, she participates in at least two shows every year through her university. She’s directed Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors and Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya, and played the role of Arlene in the musical Baby and a few walk-on roles in Bat Boy, all without having to leave town.
A student asks a question, and Jen’s eyebrows lift with a silent question in turn as she listens to him. Then, with the same paced deliberation she’s used to write her name on the board and hand out the syllabus, she tells him that yes, it would be best if you showed up to class as often as possible. Then, with that twinkle in her eye, she adds in the same mild-mannered tone, I’d also recommend doing the homework, too. It should be pretty painless for both of us.
Age and appearances are so important in everyday life, whether or not we agree with it. Jen has been forced to endure compliments where someone would wish aloud that they looked as young as my sister does.
However, after the class finishes, I can’t help but point out the age situation to my sister, as she debates wearing a stuffy cardigan to her meeting that day. You know, if you did look as old as you wanted to, people might mistake you for my mom instead of my sister, I tease.
That stops her for a moment, and her expression fades into a thoughtful frown as she considers this point. Then, she purposely slides the cardigan off of her shoulders and heads to the mirror to put her contacts in instead of simply wearing her glasses. Yeah, you might be right.
(Word count: 929)
We’re both members of a baby-faced family; Jen is thirty-nine, but is often mistaken for a graduate student on the campus she teaches theater at. While visiting her during her first week of classes, I remember an undergraduate approaching my bemused sister and asking her if she was the T.A. At least, she pointed out over tea later, they don’t think I’m an undergrad anymore.
It’s funny how you tend to want what you don’t have, even if others would kill for what you’ve got. Jen has refused to admit defeat about looking thirty instead of forty, and goes to war with what she knows best: costumes. Years of dressing up, down, backwards and diagonally have taught her how to look the part in a given situation, from the Lady Olivia in Twelfth Night to a nervous-ecstatic bride in her own wedding. The only problem is, her anxiety to look her age is her own downfall; she chooses clothes that would look classy on a lady in her fifties, but winds up making her look like a frumpy thirty-year-old. Foiled again.
Maybe it’s the source of her chagrin that keeps me from thinking about her as older. After all, she’s been older than me from the start, so in my mind, nothing has changed. She’s still the ageless big sister I used to wave at during her performances, announcing to anyone in sight that that’s my sister!
It could also be that, for someone who is so skilled at playing a part on the stage, she doesn’t do very well at acting like someone about to start her forties. While I sat at her desk during that first class and watched her introduce the students to their Theater Appreciation course, I saw the quiet energy under the surface that had always been there. Her movements had always been graceful, deliberate to the point where her crumpling a piece of paper or throwing away a piece of trash seems to have its own, distinct Jen-ness to it. And with every quiet scrape of the chalk against the chalkboard, I caught a twinkle of the eye, a twitch of the lips, the faintest thread of a hum from her throat.
Granted, Jen doesn’t have quite as adventurous a life as she used to, at least in my younger self’s view. She fell in love with acting in elementary school; by high school, she managed to get hired for touring troupes not only in Virginia, but that went as far as Tennessee. At five years old, Tennessee sounded as distant as Hawaii did, albeit with a little less swimming involved to get there. So when we went to visit her during one of her shows in her university years, I was excited enough to tell everyone we saw that we were seeing a play and my sister was the star and do you know how far away Tennessee is?
Or maybe a more accurate observation would be that her idea of adventure has changed. Instead of traveling in groups, staying in dormitories and eating as cheaply as possible to make her money stretch, she enjoys having a steady roof over her head. After all, with a home comes all of the lovely little amenities--like dependable running water and husbands to fix things when the water won’t behave. Rather than seek out her next casting in unusually-located warehouses and storage rooms so early in the morning she didn’t bother going to bed the night before, she participates in at least two shows every year through her university. She’s directed Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors and Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya, and played the role of Arlene in the musical Baby and a few walk-on roles in Bat Boy, all without having to leave town.
A student asks a question, and Jen’s eyebrows lift with a silent question in turn as she listens to him. Then, with the same paced deliberation she’s used to write her name on the board and hand out the syllabus, she tells him that yes, it would be best if you showed up to class as often as possible. Then, with that twinkle in her eye, she adds in the same mild-mannered tone, I’d also recommend doing the homework, too. It should be pretty painless for both of us.
Age and appearances are so important in everyday life, whether or not we agree with it. Jen has been forced to endure compliments where someone would wish aloud that they looked as young as my sister does.
However, after the class finishes, I can’t help but point out the age situation to my sister, as she debates wearing a stuffy cardigan to her meeting that day. You know, if you did look as old as you wanted to, people might mistake you for my mom instead of my sister, I tease.
That stops her for a moment, and her expression fades into a thoughtful frown as she considers this point. Then, she purposely slides the cardigan off of her shoulders and heads to the mirror to put her contacts in instead of simply wearing her glasses. Yeah, you might be right.
(Word count: 929)
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Revised Just A Boy
It’s a big word even for a twelve year old girl: tournament. As I stood in line for registration, the word rolled around in my mind, making me think of all the stuff you saw on television. A stadium as big as a football field—no, bigger. Shiny, golden trophies. Athletes waving like celebrities. Grunting and sweating and swearing and ow.
Well, my local Tae Kwon Do tournament wasn’t in any stadium; it was, however, an indoor gym that was more than enough for me. As I craned my neck to peer through the double doors, I saw that they’d pushed the bleachers as close to the walls as possible to provide the most room. Hard, gray metal chairs lined the edges of the room for parents and participants alike.
I caught a flash of gold, but before I could get a better look the line was moving and I had to watch where I put my feet. I hadn’t taken my shoes off yet, but lots of the other kids already had. Registration was quick; the instructor found my name on the list, stamped the back of my hand with a red symbol that I couldn’t figure out, and ushered me through the doors.
Somehow, the crammed high school gym managed to make me feel tiny; this definitely wasn’t the little room at the community center where I took classes, either. Instructors wandered about in packs. Black belts were everywhere, including a few that I knew were younger than I was. I fidgeted with my green belt, trying to come up with a good excuse in case they asked me why I wasn’t one yet.
An instructor with long, frizzy hair saw me standing by the door and called out, asking how old I was. “We’re putting everybody in groups,” he told me. “Age is one of the ways we’re doing that.”
I told him and he indicated the farthest possible corner of the gym, where I saw a laminated sign being waved in the air by one of the parents: 12-15 year olds.
I mumbled a thank you and shuffled over. As I dodged camera-laden parents and avoided the miniature black belts, I realized that everyone was split up into age groups; the little kids were all gathered in one corner, the not-quite-a-little-kid-anymore kids in between them and us, my group, the teens, and everybody over 18.
The adult waving the 12-15 sign offered me a grin as I made it to “my” corner, and after flashing him a smile I looked around at whoever else was going to be in the group. So far, we had a yellow belt girl, two green belt boys and… me.
Maybe everyone else is still in line, I decided, and moved to get ready for the tournament.
Everything fell into category after category; the reason everybody was being told to go into these groups was because of the kinds of things everyone wanted to do for the tournament. There were three main events each participant could do: you could do your best set of moves in front of the instructors for points; you could break boards; or you could face off with another person in a sparring match. (Dad had said something about the tournament being a waste if I only signed up for one, so I signed up for the first and the third things.)
I looked up at the gym clock over and over, and as the minute hand inched along, more and more people flooded the gym and were sent to their own areas to prepare. Our group never got bigger, though the number of instructors near our group did. I could see them looking at us and muttering to each other as it got closer to starting time.
Whatever the problem was, they didn’t seem interested in sharing with us; in a few minutes, the Grand Master Kim entered.
For a Grand Master, he wasn’t anything like what I’d seen in martial arts movies. After a minute or two, though, I decided I liked that; he had a big smile that more than made up for his height, and even the warmup moves he led us through were so graceful I felt like I’d accidentally wandered into a Tai Chi tournament instead. Even his jumping jacks made the ends of his uniform snap with his movements.
The next few minutes seemed to go faster and faster, the same as my heartbeat as I got ready to do my form in front of the instructor panel. Every belt level had its own form, a series of movements that you were supposed to be learning after earning said belt. Once you’d mastered each action, you were usually ready to move on to the next belt.
Both of the green belt boys sat to one side, and to my surprise, I was put up with the yellow belt girl at the same time. Weird, but it made sense; I guessed that maybe the two boys had decided not to do the forms. Yellow Belt and I made our way up to the panel of three instructors when our names were called. We bowed to them, to each other, then faced forward and began our own separate forms.
Before I made it to the tournament, my home instructor had told me to make sure I finished every kick or punch with a snap of my limb, like the Grand Master had done earlier; it was supposed to make the fabric of my uniform snap in turn, which made things look better. Now, though, as I started through my movements—kick, step, kick, double punch, turn—all I could worry about was trying not to run into Yellow Belt girl. We shot each other cautious looks as we turned and kicked and tried not to trip in front of our judges.
Somehow, the two of us survived. Yellow Belt stumbled toward the end and made me almost trip over my own feet in surprise, but in the end, both of us managed to finish around the same time and bow to the instructors. The instructors nodded, and dismissed us to ready the floor for the next part—breaking boards.
I glanced over at the other girl, who seemed to be completely focused on looking for her bag. “Are you doing the next bit?”
She shook her head. “I’m done… My parents just wanted to see what a tournament was like.”
“Oh.”
I found a gray chair that hadn’t been taken up, and had a seat as the two green belt boys moved out to break boards. As they did, I noticed the pack of instructors that had gathered before the first part of the tournament again. They were still muttering and looking over at our group. I could tell they were looking at all of us, because even when one of the green belt boys managed to break three wooden boards put together, they didn’t even bat an eye (usually, they’d applaud like everyone else).
Their actions were so interesting that I didn’t even notice it was time to get ready for the sparring until an instructor—Instructor Frizzy Hair—made his way over toward me. “Hey, you’re going to be in the sparring, right?”
I nodded.
“I’m asking because we have kind of a little problem… the only people in your group are you and the two boys.”
I didn’t see how that was a problem, so I just nodded again.
“In the tournament, we usually make sure that girls spar against girls and boys spar against boys, just to make sure the matches are as fair as possible. We can’t do that this time.” A pause. “Is it okay if we have you sparring with just the two boys? We can put you with another group of girls instead, if you want.”
Another group of girls? I looked around at a couple of the other groups, which were already sparring. The teenager group already had a pair of girls up—each way taller than me, and landing blows that made me wince from where I was sitting. The group younger than me, on the other hand, only came up to my chest.
I shook my head. “I’m okay with it.”
“Are you sure?” The instructor regarded me for a moment longer, then nodded. “All right. Well, you’re up against Brian, first, then.”
For the third time, I nodded, and slid off of my seat so I could put on my gear.
For sparring, everybody had to put on all sorts of stuff to keep us from getting hurt; arm and leg pads, and chest and head protectors (with other stuff for the boys). It made for bulky, awkward fighting, especially since that same gear acted like targets for your opponent; every time the other person landed a hit—say, on the chest pad—they would get a point.
Brian-Greenbelt was waiting by the time I was ready. He was a bit shorter than me, and kind of round-eyed at something that a female instructor was saying to him as she tied a red ribbon into his green belt. Each person sparring was assigned a color: white, or red. Instructors stood at the corners of the ‘ring’ and held matching color flags. Every time the ‘red’ won, the red flag would go up; same for the white side. Looked like I was the white side. Worked for me; a ribbon was just one more piece of bulk to worry about.
Whatever she said must have really bothered him, because the fight was a short one. Brian-Greenbelt acted like he’d never used this kind of gear in a match before; when he started toward me, I turned just enough and managed to land a solid side-kick straight on his gut that sent him staggering back a foot—and made the white flag go up. I grinned; he grunted, and came at me again. One point.
This time, he came to the side; I guess he figured out that the chest-protector was really easy to hit, so he was guarding the front with both hands. He even blocked a punch or two before I turned and slapped a back-hook kick against the side of his head-protector. Two points. My flag went up, and Brian-Greenbelt was finished in less than a minute. I couldn’t make my grin go away; looked like sparring with my black-belt instructor back home was a good thing!
Green Belt Two—whose name I never got—was a different case. As he entered the ring, I found myself leaning forward on the balls of my feet to try and match his height. He seemed to notice, and offered me a friendly grin. I smiled back and went on my toes.
My attention was diverted as Instructor Frizzy Hair made yet another return, this time to tie the red ribbon Brian-Greenbelt had been wearing to my belt. I sighed. Great. More bulk. At least it was tied in the back, and not in the side or front.
The instructor knelt down next to me so that he could tie the flag into my belt, and as he did so, he began to murmur into my ear, like that female instructor had to Brian-Greenbelt.
“Okay,” he said, as he tied the first loop of the ribbon. “I know this might be a little weird; have you fought a boy before?”
“Yeah.”
He paused. “You have?”
“Uh-huh. All the time.” I nodded.
“I see… well, then this match shouldn’t be a problem for you. Don’t get me wrong; he’s good. But he’s just a boy, just like the others you’ve fought, right? You can totally kick his ass today.”
I turned my head around to stare at him, but my head gear got in the way of my sight. It didn’t matter, though, because soon he’d tied the second knot, and was lifting a hand to let the others know that I was officially ready to fight.
Unfortunately for me, I was still so confused by his words that Green Belt Two—Just-a-Boy—managed to land a punch before I could even bring my hands up. That got my attention; my grin from earlier was gone as I brought my hands up into a defensive stance. Just-a-Boy grinned, probably in as good a mood as I had been. Well, I’d take care of that.
Soon, I was the one wearing the grin as Just-a-Boy fell for the same move that Brian-Greenbelt had—the side kick. However, while I got the point, the kick slid off to one side instead of sending him backward like I’d hoped. I tried again, and he spun to one side to aim a punch under one of my guarding arms. Blocking out of pure luck, I tried to punch him again.
It was a long enough sparring match that I thought I heard Instructor Frizzy Hair suggesting they set a time limit (which I would have protested, as Just-a-Boy had made his second point and I was behind). But since it was the last event of the day, everyone decided to let us fight it out on our own. Punches, kicks, blocks, steps, stumble-oh-no-block; it felt like the form performance earlier. The only difference was, this time we were trying to run into each other as much as possible.
The rest of the match wasn’t that memorable, beyond the next couple of days where we both had pretty bruises to show off to impressed friends and not-very-impressed parents. Just-a-Boy really was just another green belt, just like any other green belt I could have sparred with (though he was good like Frizzy Hair had promised). But as we were led up to the podium where all of us were going to get our trophies for the match, I realized that I’d get to go home with something that Just-a-Boy, the instructor, and maybe a bunch of others here wouldn’t: the understanding that some things really weren’t any different from each other. Not only in how sparring matches went--whether they were in a tiny community center or in a big tournament--but also the strange worries that adults could get over something like what might happen if a girl had to spar a boy.
Well, that, and the chance to get a smile and a handshake from the Grand Master himself as he handed over my prize.
…
And a bigger trophy.
Well, my local Tae Kwon Do tournament wasn’t in any stadium; it was, however, an indoor gym that was more than enough for me. As I craned my neck to peer through the double doors, I saw that they’d pushed the bleachers as close to the walls as possible to provide the most room. Hard, gray metal chairs lined the edges of the room for parents and participants alike.
I caught a flash of gold, but before I could get a better look the line was moving and I had to watch where I put my feet. I hadn’t taken my shoes off yet, but lots of the other kids already had. Registration was quick; the instructor found my name on the list, stamped the back of my hand with a red symbol that I couldn’t figure out, and ushered me through the doors.
Somehow, the crammed high school gym managed to make me feel tiny; this definitely wasn’t the little room at the community center where I took classes, either. Instructors wandered about in packs. Black belts were everywhere, including a few that I knew were younger than I was. I fidgeted with my green belt, trying to come up with a good excuse in case they asked me why I wasn’t one yet.
An instructor with long, frizzy hair saw me standing by the door and called out, asking how old I was. “We’re putting everybody in groups,” he told me. “Age is one of the ways we’re doing that.”
I told him and he indicated the farthest possible corner of the gym, where I saw a laminated sign being waved in the air by one of the parents: 12-15 year olds.
I mumbled a thank you and shuffled over. As I dodged camera-laden parents and avoided the miniature black belts, I realized that everyone was split up into age groups; the little kids were all gathered in one corner, the not-quite-a-little-kid-anymore kids in between them and us, my group, the teens, and everybody over 18.
The adult waving the 12-15 sign offered me a grin as I made it to “my” corner, and after flashing him a smile I looked around at whoever else was going to be in the group. So far, we had a yellow belt girl, two green belt boys and… me.
Maybe everyone else is still in line, I decided, and moved to get ready for the tournament.
Everything fell into category after category; the reason everybody was being told to go into these groups was because of the kinds of things everyone wanted to do for the tournament. There were three main events each participant could do: you could do your best set of moves in front of the instructors for points; you could break boards; or you could face off with another person in a sparring match. (Dad had said something about the tournament being a waste if I only signed up for one, so I signed up for the first and the third things.)
I looked up at the gym clock over and over, and as the minute hand inched along, more and more people flooded the gym and were sent to their own areas to prepare. Our group never got bigger, though the number of instructors near our group did. I could see them looking at us and muttering to each other as it got closer to starting time.
Whatever the problem was, they didn’t seem interested in sharing with us; in a few minutes, the Grand Master Kim entered.
For a Grand Master, he wasn’t anything like what I’d seen in martial arts movies. After a minute or two, though, I decided I liked that; he had a big smile that more than made up for his height, and even the warmup moves he led us through were so graceful I felt like I’d accidentally wandered into a Tai Chi tournament instead. Even his jumping jacks made the ends of his uniform snap with his movements.
The next few minutes seemed to go faster and faster, the same as my heartbeat as I got ready to do my form in front of the instructor panel. Every belt level had its own form, a series of movements that you were supposed to be learning after earning said belt. Once you’d mastered each action, you were usually ready to move on to the next belt.
Both of the green belt boys sat to one side, and to my surprise, I was put up with the yellow belt girl at the same time. Weird, but it made sense; I guessed that maybe the two boys had decided not to do the forms. Yellow Belt and I made our way up to the panel of three instructors when our names were called. We bowed to them, to each other, then faced forward and began our own separate forms.
Before I made it to the tournament, my home instructor had told me to make sure I finished every kick or punch with a snap of my limb, like the Grand Master had done earlier; it was supposed to make the fabric of my uniform snap in turn, which made things look better. Now, though, as I started through my movements—kick, step, kick, double punch, turn—all I could worry about was trying not to run into Yellow Belt girl. We shot each other cautious looks as we turned and kicked and tried not to trip in front of our judges.
Somehow, the two of us survived. Yellow Belt stumbled toward the end and made me almost trip over my own feet in surprise, but in the end, both of us managed to finish around the same time and bow to the instructors. The instructors nodded, and dismissed us to ready the floor for the next part—breaking boards.
I glanced over at the other girl, who seemed to be completely focused on looking for her bag. “Are you doing the next bit?”
She shook her head. “I’m done… My parents just wanted to see what a tournament was like.”
“Oh.”
I found a gray chair that hadn’t been taken up, and had a seat as the two green belt boys moved out to break boards. As they did, I noticed the pack of instructors that had gathered before the first part of the tournament again. They were still muttering and looking over at our group. I could tell they were looking at all of us, because even when one of the green belt boys managed to break three wooden boards put together, they didn’t even bat an eye (usually, they’d applaud like everyone else).
Their actions were so interesting that I didn’t even notice it was time to get ready for the sparring until an instructor—Instructor Frizzy Hair—made his way over toward me. “Hey, you’re going to be in the sparring, right?”
I nodded.
“I’m asking because we have kind of a little problem… the only people in your group are you and the two boys.”
I didn’t see how that was a problem, so I just nodded again.
“In the tournament, we usually make sure that girls spar against girls and boys spar against boys, just to make sure the matches are as fair as possible. We can’t do that this time.” A pause. “Is it okay if we have you sparring with just the two boys? We can put you with another group of girls instead, if you want.”
Another group of girls? I looked around at a couple of the other groups, which were already sparring. The teenager group already had a pair of girls up—each way taller than me, and landing blows that made me wince from where I was sitting. The group younger than me, on the other hand, only came up to my chest.
I shook my head. “I’m okay with it.”
“Are you sure?” The instructor regarded me for a moment longer, then nodded. “All right. Well, you’re up against Brian, first, then.”
For the third time, I nodded, and slid off of my seat so I could put on my gear.
For sparring, everybody had to put on all sorts of stuff to keep us from getting hurt; arm and leg pads, and chest and head protectors (with other stuff for the boys). It made for bulky, awkward fighting, especially since that same gear acted like targets for your opponent; every time the other person landed a hit—say, on the chest pad—they would get a point.
Brian-Greenbelt was waiting by the time I was ready. He was a bit shorter than me, and kind of round-eyed at something that a female instructor was saying to him as she tied a red ribbon into his green belt. Each person sparring was assigned a color: white, or red. Instructors stood at the corners of the ‘ring’ and held matching color flags. Every time the ‘red’ won, the red flag would go up; same for the white side. Looked like I was the white side. Worked for me; a ribbon was just one more piece of bulk to worry about.
Whatever she said must have really bothered him, because the fight was a short one. Brian-Greenbelt acted like he’d never used this kind of gear in a match before; when he started toward me, I turned just enough and managed to land a solid side-kick straight on his gut that sent him staggering back a foot—and made the white flag go up. I grinned; he grunted, and came at me again. One point.
This time, he came to the side; I guess he figured out that the chest-protector was really easy to hit, so he was guarding the front with both hands. He even blocked a punch or two before I turned and slapped a back-hook kick against the side of his head-protector. Two points. My flag went up, and Brian-Greenbelt was finished in less than a minute. I couldn’t make my grin go away; looked like sparring with my black-belt instructor back home was a good thing!
Green Belt Two—whose name I never got—was a different case. As he entered the ring, I found myself leaning forward on the balls of my feet to try and match his height. He seemed to notice, and offered me a friendly grin. I smiled back and went on my toes.
My attention was diverted as Instructor Frizzy Hair made yet another return, this time to tie the red ribbon Brian-Greenbelt had been wearing to my belt. I sighed. Great. More bulk. At least it was tied in the back, and not in the side or front.
The instructor knelt down next to me so that he could tie the flag into my belt, and as he did so, he began to murmur into my ear, like that female instructor had to Brian-Greenbelt.
“Okay,” he said, as he tied the first loop of the ribbon. “I know this might be a little weird; have you fought a boy before?”
“Yeah.”
He paused. “You have?”
“Uh-huh. All the time.” I nodded.
“I see… well, then this match shouldn’t be a problem for you. Don’t get me wrong; he’s good. But he’s just a boy, just like the others you’ve fought, right? You can totally kick his ass today.”
I turned my head around to stare at him, but my head gear got in the way of my sight. It didn’t matter, though, because soon he’d tied the second knot, and was lifting a hand to let the others know that I was officially ready to fight.
Unfortunately for me, I was still so confused by his words that Green Belt Two—Just-a-Boy—managed to land a punch before I could even bring my hands up. That got my attention; my grin from earlier was gone as I brought my hands up into a defensive stance. Just-a-Boy grinned, probably in as good a mood as I had been. Well, I’d take care of that.
Soon, I was the one wearing the grin as Just-a-Boy fell for the same move that Brian-Greenbelt had—the side kick. However, while I got the point, the kick slid off to one side instead of sending him backward like I’d hoped. I tried again, and he spun to one side to aim a punch under one of my guarding arms. Blocking out of pure luck, I tried to punch him again.
It was a long enough sparring match that I thought I heard Instructor Frizzy Hair suggesting they set a time limit (which I would have protested, as Just-a-Boy had made his second point and I was behind). But since it was the last event of the day, everyone decided to let us fight it out on our own. Punches, kicks, blocks, steps, stumble-oh-no-block; it felt like the form performance earlier. The only difference was, this time we were trying to run into each other as much as possible.
The rest of the match wasn’t that memorable, beyond the next couple of days where we both had pretty bruises to show off to impressed friends and not-very-impressed parents. Just-a-Boy really was just another green belt, just like any other green belt I could have sparred with (though he was good like Frizzy Hair had promised). But as we were led up to the podium where all of us were going to get our trophies for the match, I realized that I’d get to go home with something that Just-a-Boy, the instructor, and maybe a bunch of others here wouldn’t: the understanding that some things really weren’t any different from each other. Not only in how sparring matches went--whether they were in a tiny community center or in a big tournament--but also the strange worries that adults could get over something like what might happen if a girl had to spar a boy.
Well, that, and the chance to get a smile and a handshake from the Grand Master himself as he handed over my prize.
…
And a bigger trophy.
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