“Can we turn back now?”
“Sure,” my dad said.
“Really?”
“No.”
As we passed College Boulevard, I gripped the handle on my olive Hydro Flask, tracing its grooves. I can feel myself shrink as he shifts into the right-hand turn lane. Another left. Then, straight for 400 feet. 300. 200. 50. He unbuckles his seatbelt and grabs a gym bag from the backseat.
“Maybe another time,” I say, and laugh awkwardly. But that doesn’t stop him from shutting the car door and walking away. I tighten my ponytail, slip on some flip flops and readjust my electric blue Lulu shorts. Did I mention that it was 28 degrees? After trudging through chunks of ice, shivering, I hear a soft jingle, and I’m transported into another dimension entirely. Children running, other kids playing video games on a TV in the corner, older men speaking Portuguese and an odd combination of sweat and acai berries hits me hard.
“Hey, Bruce, this is my daughter, Sofia.”
We shook hands.
Bruce was a goofy guy, wearing comically large sneakers and a baseball cap.
“You train before?” he said.
I shook my head no. Did I mention the thousand tattoos Bruce had on his arms, legs, and back? Or the fact that his biceps were probably larger than my head, or that he only spoke about 50 words of English?
Did I mention that after seven years of gymnastics competitions, dance recitals, hair glitter and sequined leotards I’d set foot in a Muay Thai class, with men three times my age, and twice my size? Or that I was the only girl?
I carefully strapped on some gloves and shin guards. We practiced jab crosses in front of a mirror, then switched to partner drills and pad work. Towards the end of class, Bruce said something I couldn’t quite hear at first. Until realization hit, and I froze.
“Now we spar.”
I looked to my right, an older boy with a mullet and the kind of attitude that reminded you of Johnny Lawrence. You could tell the words “strike hard no mercy” were surging through his temples as he hit the bag with force. And to my left was Thade, who towered maybe two feet over me, and had an extensive background in boxing. However, I could tell from his shy demeanor that he would never hit a girl. But as I made my way toward him, Bruce motioned me over instead.
“Crap.”
* * *
I’ve only been doing Muay Thai twice a week, for seven months. Though I recently graduated with a red and white Pra Jiad armband, which means I attend Monday and Wednesday nights with my Dad, who’s been going for over two years now. My shins have stopped bruising, and I can even block hooks faster than some of the guys.
I’m also not the only girl anymore. Now there’s Stacy, one of the most positive people I’ve ever met, and her daughter Abby. There’s also Nicole, a mother of three, pharmacist, nail tech, hair stylist and yoga instructor (I want to be her).
Sometimes I still get hit in the face pretty hard, or else I’m tossed around even just by holding the bag for others. Don’t get me wrong, I still love this. There’s something so empowering about being a sixteen-year-old girl kicking grown men in the stomach. I finally see what Mullet Guy was all about.
But it makes me sad to think that, at one point, I was the only girl in my class of 15. And that alone was enough to make me not wanna come back. Sports such as martial arts are so dominated by men that women feel intimidated or not welcome. It’s the same, or similar, for fields such as STEM and IT. I felt that asking my dad to turn the car around and still went. Granted I kept asking every time for the first two weeks of classes.
The important thing is that I stuck with it, the smell of feet and man sweat is almost tolerable now. I can also sort of understand what Bruce is saying. And if sparring with a professional Brazilian fighter on my first day didn’t kill me, I don’t know what will.
