I was not much in the mood to get beat up in my women’s self-defense class, but I made myself go anyway. It’s all too easy to let these things slide. If I missed one class, I might as well kiss off the rest. At three thirty, I made a quick trip home, where I changed into my workout clothes and picked up my gym bag. By four, I was seated cross-legged on one of the floor mats with my fellow students, listening to our instructor’s introductory remarks.
On the subject of self-defense weapons, we were advised that in most states it’s legal to carry Mace as long as the container is 2.5 ounces or less.
She said, “It’s important to remember that criminals don’t operate by such a tidy set of rules. Actually, it would be hard to imagine a rapist complaining to the police about your failure to comply.”
This netted her a laugh. She went on to remind us that we should recognize and avoid dangerous situations, bypassing dark and deserted areas, walking with others, parking near streetlights, moving with purpose and confidence. This wisdom had been drilled into me before. It was all common sense, but it was amazing to me how often we overlook the obvious. The problem is that it’s almost impossible to live in a state of constant vigilance. The sustained spike in blood pressure alone would condemn you to an early grave. So what were we meant to absorb? An awareness of the perils unique to womanhood: rape and physical assault at the hands of strangers and acquaintances alike. The majority of rapes are perpetrated by men we know, a sad cause for reflection when embarking on the dating scene. I counted myself wise to confine my love life to cops and other law enforcement worthies to whom I could at least recite the relevant penal code.
Having paid big bucks for the class, we were gifted with a pinch light and whistle attached to a key ring so we could summon assistance if set upon by thugs. The whistle was tiny and emitted a high-pitched shriek in a range doubtless only heard by dogs, but it was better than trusting ourselves to yell for help. Early on, we’d practiced screaming in an exercise designed to attune us to someone approaching from behind. One of us would walk and a faux-assailant would come up from the rear, closing the distance with stealth. The minute you became aware of your potential attacker, you were supposed to turn suddenly and scream at the top of your lungs. I did a fair job of it, but most of the others could barely manage a squeak. One woman said she was worried about hurting the guy’s feelings if she misunderstood his intent.
We spent the remainder of the hour in a series of exercises—simulated kicks and punches, which were designed to tax and strengthen our hard-worked muscles. As had been true the week before, I was quickly drenched in sweat and panting for breath. The last thirty minutes, we engaged in combat with the well-padded opponents hired to acquaint us with the rapid response necessary when attacking and being attacked. At the end of the class, I showered under blissfully hot water, feeling energized and buoyed by the exertion. I knew that within thirty minutes, my body parts would begin seizing up to the point where I could barely lift my arms. I drove home, hoping I still had ibuprofen on hand.
Back in my neighborhood, I found one of those miracle parking spots that so seldom come my way. I was only four doors from home when I locked my car and hit the sidewalk. Up ahead, I heard the gate squeak and looked up to see Pearl in her wheelchair, trying to get through the opening, with her one wheel catching against the fence support. She was banging at it with one of her crutches as though it had attacked her and she was having to fend it off. I’d never seen her in such a snit. Once she lurched free, she came barreling down the walk toward me. Her arms were moving fast and her wheelchair tilted slightly at a crack in the sidewalk where a tree root was pushing up. I thought she’d topple over and lie there with her wheels spinning ineffectually. Instead, she nearly plowed into me.
I said, “Hey! Slow down. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m mad is what’s the matter. You never seen a temper tantrum? Because this is what they look like where I come from.”
“What’s made you so mad?”
“Not a what. It’s a who.”
“Who are you so mad at?”
“Henry, who else? And I’m not just mad, I’m furious!”
“Why?”
“Because I messed up. I wisht he’d never encouraged me to bake because I can’t get it right. I don’t know why I even bothered to try.”
“I don’t get what happened.”
“I’ll tell you what happened. I put together this cake and baked it exactly like the recipe said. The whole middle sunk, and when I cut into it? Nothing but goo.”
“Aren’t you supposed to touch the center of the cake and see if it springs back before you take it out of the oven?”
“So now you want to criticize?”
“Sorry. What did Henry say?”
“He said his oven temperature was off, but he was bullshitting so I wouldn’t be upset. Said he’d have the gas company come out, but he was just being polite.”
“Henry wouldn’t do that. If the oven temp is off, the same thing would happen to him, so of course he’ll have it looked at. Even if you made a mistake, so what? Don’t you ever fail at anything?”
“No, I do not. And you want to know why? Because I hate feeling like this. Feeling like this is the story of my life and it stinks. I remember in grade school when I couldn’t do arithmetic standing at the board and I couldn’t spell for shit. Eight years old and I never been so humiliated in my life. I told my mama how bad I felt and you want to know what she said? She said, ‘Now, Pearl. That is the wrong way to look at things. You’re not all that smart, so you ought not to expect so much of yourself. You do the best you can with what God give you and in your case it’s not enough to worry about.’”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Would you listen to yourself? Your mother was a moron. There’s nothing wrong with you. You don’t like doing a bad job and neither do I. Who wants to feel stupid, incompetent, or inadequate?”
“But you can do all kind of things.”
“No, I can’t. I can do a few things well enough. Everything else, I try to avoid. Once in a while I learn something new in spite of myself, but that’s about it in the way of my accomplishments.”
“Name one new thing you learned.”
“I learned to pump my own gas.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. You didn’t know how to pump your own gas?”
“So now you’re criticizing me?”
“Well,” she said, grudgingly. And then she couldn’t seem to think of anything else to say. “Anyways, I’m off to Rosie’s. She said I could help in the kitchen, peeling taters for which I’ll get paid. Miminum wage, but I can’t complain.”
“You mean minimum wage?”
“That’s what I said. Miminum wage.”
“Well, there you go then. Gainfully employed.”
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