Self-Defense

Mark Pritchard

My last job was working a copy machine in a law firm. All day long I stood in this windowless room and ran things through the xerox. Several times every day something would go wrong and I'd have to throw away a batch of copies that had something wrong with them.

Secretaries liked to come in and bug me, asking where their shit was, and if they blindly reached out and put their hands on one of the copies I'd already rejected and was doing over, they'd start screaming, "WHAT IS THIS SHIT? I CAN'T USE THIS SHIT!!" because the lawyers did the same thing to them, and they had to make themselves superior to somebody. So I was throwing away hundreds of sheets of paper every day that weren't usable.

So I thought, well, it obviously doesn't make any difference to them how much paper they use, and I slipped in one of my own jobs, I ran a hundred copies of a flier for one of my performances. They said, "Employees must never use the facilities of the firm for personal gain!" At a law office, right?

So I got fired. After that it took me weeks to find another job. I didn't want to work at an Oh-La-La coffee bar and I was too old to be a bike messenger. What I really had in mind was a job at a book store, but they always asked me if I had bookstore experience . What kind of question is that? Is working in a bookstore really that different from working at a deli? For some reason they thought it was important and I never got a job at a bookstore.

I kept scraping around town trying out these increasingly improbable places. I filled out so many job applications day after day, you know how boring that is? What high school you went to? Your major in high school? Who had a major in high school? I fantasized about getting a rubber stamp with my entire education history on it, and another one with my employment history on it, and to fill out the application I'd just go Bam! Bam!

It got to where I wanted to TAKE ANY JOB just so I wouldn't have to fill out another application. I even went down to Pier 39 and applied at a fudge shop. I didn't get it. They said they'd get back to me. What was the matter with me? Why couldn't I get a job at a crummy little tourist trap at Pier 39? I got really depressed and sat down on a bench and within 15 seconds two Moonies came up and started charming me and invited me to have dinner at their house. I thought, great, no wonder I can't find a job, I look like a sucker.

After four weeks I started to feel really depressed. I was on food stamps and I was afraid I was going to lose my apartment. I was desperate. Then I found this ad in the Bay Guardian that said "Assistant needed for women's self-defense class. No experience necessary, must respect women's power." I thought, there's nobody who respects women's power like I do, I got fired from my last job by a woman. So I called them up and they scheduled me for an interview. I forgot to ask them exactly what the job involved, I didn't care, I was so desperate.

I went out to this little church on the back side of Noe Valley. I sat at this little kid's desk and filled out one more application. At the end of this one, there was an essay question, "Do you respect women's power?" I wrote Yes, comma, and then thought for a while, and then put down something like I believed everyone had a right to their own personal space. I gave the application to this woman, and she looked at it. She was this kind of nondescript middle-aged lady with black hair with streaks of white in it.

She told me, "This job involves assisting in a women's self-defense class." I said yeah, yeah. She asked me, "How do you feel about women being able to protect themselves?"

I said, "I'm for it."

She said, "Well, this is kind of a special class. We teach real self-defense moves. It's not like some classes where you just make karate chops in the air. We hit real targets."

"What do you mean by targets?"

She said, "We use a real person as the attacker. We teach the woman how to defend herself by letting her actually hit and kick back as hard as they can."

"Sounds painful," I said.

"Well, you'd be heavily padded."

I said, "Wait a minute, I don't know anything about self-defense. I've never even been in a fight before. I'd probably benefit more from taking the class myself."

She said, no, they had a certified instructor to teach the self-defense moves. I would be employed strictly as the attacker. She asked, "Have you really never been in a fight before? That's actually good. It means we don't have to untrain your ingrained aggressive responses. The suit's over there. Why don't you try it on? If it doesn't fit, there's no sense in going any further."

I went over to this pile of stuff on the floor. She called it a suit but it's really just a bunch of pads you wear. Pads for your shoulders, pads for your neck, and elbows and knees, and stomach, and that all-important zone, la-bas. And finally there's a helmet you put on.

It took me about 20 minutes. When I was finished I felt like the Michelin Man. But . . .it fit perfectly. In fact, I never felt safer in my life.

Now during the time that I'd been putting the pads on, some people had been coming in, and I'd realized they were the members of the class. They all went through a door over here.

The woman asked me, "How does it feel?"

"Fine. Really good, actually. It fits really well."

So she said, "Why don't you try it out?" and she held the door open and pointed to the room where all the students had gone.

I went in there and it was like a small studio about this size. There were 15 women in there, they were stretching. I stood there in the corner like a snowman. I didn't want to interrupt them, and I could hardly move. Finally the instructor called me over.

The instructor was this big blond woman about 35 who looked like a ski instructor. She even had a peeling nose. She announces to the class, "Today we're going to learn six ways of how to defend yourself if you're attacked from behind." She turns to me and says, "Attack me from behind."

"What do I do?" I asked.

"Just pretend you're a mugger. Grab me somehow."

She turned her back on me. I had no idea what to do and I awkwardly put my hands on her arm. Instantly I was on the floor. I was about to get up and say, "Wow, that was interesting," when she kicks me as hard as she could right in the ribs, and even with the pads on, it hurt.

I said, "Ow, man, stop that." But she totally ignored me and turned to the class and says, "Now let's learn the first way."

Barely had I struggled to my feet when she says, "Do it again." I said, "Look, don't do the kick. The kick is too much."

She says, "OK, sorry, the kick was just instinct. THAT'S WHAT WE LEARN," she yells, turning to the class. "WE LEARN TO HURT BY INSTINCT, WITHOUT THOUGHT. HIT TO HURT!" And they all yell back, "HIT TO HURT!!!"

So we go through it in slow motion, ten times, and then each of the students do it, and I'm on my back on the floor four times a minute for the next hour. And they kick. They don't kick as hard as the instructor, but they do it viciously. The instructor's yelling, "Don't think about whether it hurts the mugger! Use your anger! Hit to hurt!!"

So they're kicking as hard as they can, yelling "EEEEEYYYAAAHHH!" because it helps crowd out the thoughts of whether or not they're hurting me. And the others are standing around going "HIT TO HURT, HIT TO HURT."

And have you ever tried getting up off the ground every fifteen seconds for an hour straight? I was exhausted.

At the end of an hour, the class ends. Nobody says a word to me. They just stop and do some stretches. I collapse over on a bench on the side. The instructor disappears through a side door and the students gather up their things and leave. They don't even look at me. I have just gotten the shit beat out of me for an hour and nobody says as much as thank you. I staggered out to the lobby where the woman had interviewed me, but she was gone too. So I finally just pulled off the pads and left.

The next day I got a phone call early in the morning. It's the woman who interviewed me. "How was it?" she asks.

And lying in bed, sore all over, I think about going out for another day or another week of looking in shitty little places for jobs and getting food stamps and I think, let's not blow it, and I say, "Well, not bad."

She says, "Think you can handle it?"

I said, "Well, I guess so, if it's just for an hour."

She said, "There are two classes a night. Five nights a week."

"That's a pretty rough schedule," I said.

"Well, we need someone who supports women taking the power that is rightfully theirs. I thought you supported women taking their power."

"I do, I do, but what about my power?"

She says, "You as a man ask that?? Don't you know that men have all the power and privilege in this society, that you're entitled to all kinds of things just because of your race and gender?"

I said, "Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Sorry."

"Don't think we're trying to take anything away from you. We're just taking the power that is rightfully ours."

"Great, great. I support that."

So I took the job.

That was two years ago. Since then I've been a professional mugger in this self-defense class, two hours a night for fifty weeks a year.

And really, it's gotten a lot better. At first no one would speak to me, they didn't want to develop any kind of feelings toward me. They directed all their anger toward me, they screamed at me and kicked me and punched me and threw me on the floor. But then after a few months, one of the women asked me to stay after class because she wanted to get in a little more practice. So we stayed after and she practiced her kicks to the head, HHEEYYAA AAAHH! I wasn't getting paid, but I didn't mind, because finally I was getting a little recognition. And then some of the other students began to stick around and use me for a little extra practice. I was so grateful. It was wonderful to be needed.

Now, at first, it was difficult because even though I was so padded, I was pretty sensitive, and when they hit me, they really did hurt me. But then I wanted them to like me, and I wanted to be useful to them, so I tried as hard as I could to ignore the pain, and it got to where it's a point of pride. I say, "GO AHEAD, DO IT AS HARD AS YOU CAN. I CAN TAKE IT," so they really cut loose, IIIYYAAAAHH!

And sometimes, after a really good combination, when they've taken three or four really good licks, they look at me kind of misty-eyed and they say, "That was great. This must be what it feels like to use your strength." And I'm really proud because I've helped give them that feeling.

And I never fake it. If a woman is small, I never take a fall just to make her feel good. She has to learn how to take me out. And when she finally knocks me down or knocks the breath out of me, it's such a sense of accomplishment for her. And for me, too.

Now imagine fifteen women all around you, and one after the other they take you and rip into you, they're yelling at the top of their lungs, and the others are all around yelling HIT TO HURT, HIT TO HURT. They enjoy it, I know it feels great to them! And it feels great to me, too. But you know what I like? Every one is different. In the way they kick or yell, they way their hand feels. The size of their foot between my legs. Every one of them clobbers me a little differently, and I don't think I've done my job well unless I'm able to draw out from each of them their distinct style of attack. All these different women, each one of them a different size, a different shape, a different strength, there's AN INFINITE VARIETY OF PUNISHMENT, and it's ALL FOR ME!! It's a perfect world!

That's my job. I'm helping women to find their power. THEY NEED ME. And while it's true that I enjoy it, that I want them to hit me over and over again -- sometimes I urge them on, "Do it, do it, hit me! I'm the man! Hit me! I'm the man!" -- even though I love my work, that's not why I do it. I'm committed to women getting stronger. I'm working for women learning how to fight back. I don't do it for me -- I do it for them!