All the Horrible Girliness

The Raw Gym in El Segundo is a fighting gym. There's a ring and a big black mat, some ancient metal weights, more rolled-up mats and a no-nonsense bathroom. I go there once or twice a year to watch the Dog Brothers gatherings. For ten bucks, you watch men go no-holds-barred on one another with rattan sticks and metal practice blades.

The bouts are meant to simulate real fights, so they're each two minutes long. Real skirmishes on the street don't go on round after round; hell, most don't go past the first strike. For two minutes, you're expected to do whatever you must. There is none of the circling and hugging you get from tired heavyweight bums in a boxing match. On foot or on the ground, the fight goes on. You lose your weapon, you'd better have a Plan B.

Fighters pay nothing and win nothing. They can fight as many or as few times as they have willing opponents. They wear fencing masks; these are pulled off when the fight goes to the ground. They all wear gloves to protect their hands. Best way to get a stick out of an opponent's hand is to whap him a good one on the knuckles. Broken hands don't grip well.

For the sake of realism, death by knife is called out throughout a bout by the ref. No two minute bout ends without at least one death. Sticks meet with thunder cracks that make the stick vibrate until it's hot to the touch. The sound makes your ears ring. When the stick strikes flesh or bone or joint, or slams dents into the fencing masks, your eyes close. You can't help it. You're watching a bludgeoning. Some fights are paused to mop up blood.

What separates this gathering from any other back alley fight club is, these guys are a brotherhood, out to protect one another. Going too light on an opponent will teach him nothing; beating the shit out of him breaks his spirit. After each fight, the men embrace. There are few rules, but they're important: everyone is friends at the end of the day; nobody spends the night in the hospital; nobody sues - and that includes spectators.

My first time, I held my hands over my mouth the whole time. I'm not your typical sissy girl. I watch Pride, UFC, some boxing. I've trained as a kickboxer for a few years. I've heard the sound of my neck snapping back from taking a good jab to the jaw (I really need to keep my chin down). But this - the fundamental reality of men's innate violence - it is beyond my realm. The non-words they cry and the blood and the sweat and the nasty welts (or "stick hickeys") that rise on their skin. The pictures they pose for, wrapped in gauze and covered in ice packs afterward, arms around one another. The way they collapse into the hug when time is called. It's a place women cannot go, where we will never really go.

The fight before my husband's first, one man stomped his opponent's ankle. My control instinct told me to run to Mister Aran, tell him no, there was no way I could watch that, because what he feels, I feel too. If I'd done that, he would have let me take him to the car without an argument. But I knew that he had to face his biggest opponent: himself. I stayed in my seat and let him go.

I've watched him fight many times. Each time, I feel acutely what he will not feel until much later, when the adrenaline wears off. Our connection is as strong during these times as it is during sex. In the most primal of moments, thinking is replaced with muscle memory, raw rage, biology, psychic connection. I can feel when his strength is wavering, and I give him mine. It's an almost visible cord between us, though he is unaware.

In the years since I first watched him fight, I've felt powerless to understand. We're connected, but will never commune in that space of being. While he fights, I'm the thin tail part of the yin glued to the fat part of the yang: holding it together, but still a whole goddamn other color.

***

It hurts to twist too much, hurts to laugh unexpectedly. I can't sit for long, can't stand for long. Have to switch sides several times at night because my hips ache after too long with pressure on them. The kid went leaping around like a fish on deck last night; I put Mister Aran's hand on my belly and his palm got whacked. This is the part where most women really get into it, the whole miracle of the thing. I just haven't. It feels strange to have something living inside me, almost grotesque. I've been thinking I'm a bad mother. But tonight, I know it's a battle. I'm facing my ego in a 40-week long bout that will leave my life and body forever changed.

In a few months, I'll have the hardest, most painful day of my life. It will most likely take hours, even days. He'll be with me, walking me around, holding me up, watching me cry, whispering encouragement. It will make him feel powerless. No matter who's around me, I will fight alone. Ultimately, I'll be doing all the work. Though he'll be holding the circle together, he'll feel like the little tail of the yang fused to the fat part of the yin, until it's over and he can bandage me up, rub my muscles down, hand me the ice packs, and take pictures of me with my arms around our son.

posted by Samus @ 10:40 PM