“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.)
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
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.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Outline of Profile
When it comes to making a list of people I admire- or feel I know a good deal about- the first thing I always think about is my older sister. When a lot of people refer to their siblings- older, younger, brother, sister, it doesn't matter- I tend to hear a lot of complaints about how annoying they are, or some quirk of theirs. There can also be praise or comments on how close the person is with said sibling, but that usually comes later, either as an afterthought or as a reassurance (to me or the speaker?).
In my profile of my older sister, I'm going to talk about what's formed our relationship to each other- mostly thanks to her. Several points I'll talk about include the big age difference (she's 16 years my senior), our interests and how they coincide/clash, and why that's affected her life (and my own as well). Some more specific points include:
-Age difference, our parents
-Her job as an actress on tour, then moving on as a professor of theater
-Our love of animals and musiic
More will likely come as I get to writing the actual piece, but these are three points that are certain to come into play.
In my profile of my older sister, I'm going to talk about what's formed our relationship to each other- mostly thanks to her. Several points I'll talk about include the big age difference (she's 16 years my senior), our interests and how they coincide/clash, and why that's affected her life (and my own as well). Some more specific points include:
-Age difference, our parents
-Her job as an actress on tour, then moving on as a professor of theater
-Our love of animals and musiic
More will likely come as I get to writing the actual piece, but these are three points that are certain to come into play.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Chasing the Chins
“Tas, go to bed.”
A small, round cross between a squirrel and a rabbit lifts his head to peer up at my mother. After a lengthy pause, the chinchilla lifts up a paw and wipes his nose at her.
Mom rolls her eyes and lets out a groan.
It was safe to say that my mom hadn’t been prepared to handle corralling chins—especially not three at a time. Nevertheless, despite the exasperated look she shoots everyone in the room (myself for not helping, the chins for being uncooperative, dad for laughing at her), she sets her jaw and reaches for one of the longer sticks that Tas especially liked to chew on. Ignoring Flint for now—our newest that had taught the nose-wiping technique to his brothers a month ago—she reaches in to gently start brushing along Tas’s back with the other end of the stick.
Tas startles and dives for his cage. Now, however, Mom has two more to handle: Fiz and Flint are moving in to nibble at the stick in their never-ending quest to determine: is it edible?
However, this is the break that Mom was looking for. Allowing a small smirk on her face, she begins to drag the stick toward the entrance of their cage. With a steady hand and a stream of patient, encouraging coos toward her babies, the last two are coaxed to bed.
Until Flint decides to pursue a tastier-looking stick.
“It never ends,” Mom grumbles.
(Words: 247)
Notes: I know this doesn't follow exactly what the assignment had in mind for the character sketch, but this wouldn't leave me alone. I originally wanted to do a piece sketching one of the chinchillas. Then I thought it would be a good idea to flesh out my mom, who cares for them. I think overall I could do a sketch of both, but the piece would have to wind up being at least twice as long as it is now. Oh well; I hope you enjoyed it anyway.
A small, round cross between a squirrel and a rabbit lifts his head to peer up at my mother. After a lengthy pause, the chinchilla lifts up a paw and wipes his nose at her.
Mom rolls her eyes and lets out a groan.
It was safe to say that my mom hadn’t been prepared to handle corralling chins—especially not three at a time. Nevertheless, despite the exasperated look she shoots everyone in the room (myself for not helping, the chins for being uncooperative, dad for laughing at her), she sets her jaw and reaches for one of the longer sticks that Tas especially liked to chew on. Ignoring Flint for now—our newest that had taught the nose-wiping technique to his brothers a month ago—she reaches in to gently start brushing along Tas’s back with the other end of the stick.
Tas startles and dives for his cage. Now, however, Mom has two more to handle: Fiz and Flint are moving in to nibble at the stick in their never-ending quest to determine: is it edible?
However, this is the break that Mom was looking for. Allowing a small smirk on her face, she begins to drag the stick toward the entrance of their cage. With a steady hand and a stream of patient, encouraging coos toward her babies, the last two are coaxed to bed.
Until Flint decides to pursue a tastier-looking stick.
“It never ends,” Mom grumbles.
(Words: 247)
Notes: I know this doesn't follow exactly what the assignment had in mind for the character sketch, but this wouldn't leave me alone. I originally wanted to do a piece sketching one of the chinchillas. Then I thought it would be a good idea to flesh out my mom, who cares for them. I think overall I could do a sketch of both, but the piece would have to wind up being at least twice as long as it is now. Oh well; I hope you enjoyed it anyway.
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