My Fight / Your Fight (6 page)

“You did a great job. Don't feel bad, Anastasia is a junior national champion.”

I felt consoled for about a second, until I noticed the look of disgust on Mom's face. I nodded at the coach and walked away.

Once we were out of earshot she lit into me: “I hope you know better than to believe what he said. You could have won that match. You had every chance to beat that girl. The fact that she is a junior national champion doesn't mean anything. That's why they have tournaments, so you can see who is better. They don't award medals based on what you won before. If you did your absolute best, if you were capable of doing nothing more, then that's enough. Then you can be content with the outcome. But if you could have done better, if you could have done more, then you should be disappointed. You should be upset you didn't win. You should go home and think about what you could have done differently and then next time do it differently. Don't you ever let anyone tell you that not doing your absolute best is good enough. You are a skinny blonde girl who lives by the beach, and unless you absolutely force them to, no one is ever going to expect anything from you in this sport. You prove them wrong.”

I was ashamed that I had been so ready to accept losing, to accept as fact that someone else was simply better than me. The remorse lasted only a second before it was replaced by a more intense emotion. What I felt then was a deep desire to win, a motivation to show everyone on the planet that no one should ever doubt my ability to win again.

From that moment on, I wanted to win every time I stepped onto the mat. I expected to win. I would never accept losing again.

In sports, there are rules that keep you safe. In life, there are rules that keep the world from descending into total chaos. In both, there are rules that people make up to hide behind or for their own benefit. You have to be smart enough to know the difference.

There were four major rules in my house growing up.

Rule No. 1: No taking things out of people's hands.

Rule No. 2: You are only allowed to hit someone if that person hits you first.

Rule No. 3: No being naked at the dining room table.

Rule No. 4: You are not allowed to eat anything bigger than your head.

Rule No. 4 was initiated because I always wanted those super-sized lollipops at Chuck E. Cheese's that were about four times the size of my head.

Rules No. 1 and 2 were instituted to combat the fighting that tends to occur when you have three children within four years. Rule No. 1 was meant to prevent the hitting that would engage Rule No. 2. Moreover, because Rule No. 2 was structured so that you could only hit someone if she hit you first, you would think it would be a catch-22. It did not work out that way.

People talk about brothers roughhousing and fighting, but the three of us girls would throw punches, kicks, and elbows and inflict chokeholds that would put the neighbor boys to shame. In addition to our bodies, we often utilized everything in reach. We would launch ourselves off the stairs or furniture in order to gain leverage, taking advantage of the laws of physics when possible.

There was the time during a fight when—at about four years old—I threw a full can of Coke at Jennifer's eye, leaving a large gash.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” our mom asked me.

“Yes,” I said, pumping my fist in victory.

And though I hate to admit it, I did not always emerge victorious. I was the youngest, so I did not have size on my side. (Ironically, I am now the tallest of the bunch. My older sisters like to joke they are among the only women on the planet who can claim to have beaten me in a fight. They also say we are now too old and mature for me to demand a rematch.)

There was the three-way fight between Maria, Jennifer, and I, where each of the thirty-two books of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
(A through Z) was either used as a projectile or to whack another person over the head. If any one of us emerged victorious on that one, the joy of victory was quickly tempered by the rage my mom unleashed on all of us upon seeing the aftermath in the living room. After a serious yelling at, we were all grounded and assigned extensive amounts of household labor for the next several weeks.

One of the last fights was perhaps the most memorable. It was between Jennifer and me. I can't remember what it was over, but I am sure it was all Jennifer's fault. I had started judo, but knew better than to use the moves I had learned on my sister. I was more scared of the wrath of Mom than I was Jennifer. We were in the narrow front hallway, which had bookshelves against one of the walls. I was on Jennifer's back and had her in a headlock. I had the unquestionable advantage and was clearly winning.

“I don't want to hurt you, Jennifer,” I said, cautiously. I knew my mom would be furious if I sent my sister to the emergency room.

“Fuck you,” Jen said, my forearm still around her neck.

“I'm going to let you go,” I informed her.

I slid off her back, peeling my arm away from her windpipe.

Jen turned on me. With incredible speed and a strength I didn't even know she possessed, she grabbed my head by the hair. Before I could fully process what was happening, she pounded my head several times into the nearest bookshelf.

The rule about hitting someone only if they hit you first was also in play outside of the house. We were in no way obligated to walk away if some bully smacked us on the playground, but we could not just pop a jerk who was teasing us.

I was a scrawny kid. One of my mom's nicknames for me is “Bean,” because I was as skinny as a string bean—even after I started doing judo I didn't look like much of a fighter.

When I was in sixth grade, a boy named Adrian bullied me relentlessly all year. One day, he crept up behind me and reached around and grabbed my throat, squeezing me until it was hard to breathe. I didn't bother to push his hand away; I threw him over my hip, right onto the cement. The skin on the back of his head split open.

The kid was so embarrassed he just went to his next class without saying anything to anyone, until his teacher realized he was bleeding. He ended up having to get several stitches.

I was sent to the office. My mom was called. I cried hysterically.

“We're not exactly sure what happened,” the principal told my mom when she arrived. “It seems there was some sort of altercation between the two of them. He says he tripped, but other people said she pushed him.”

“Well, it sounds like it was an accident,” my mom said quickly.

“It was n—” I started to protest, but Mom thrust her hand over my mouth.

“Ronda is
very
sorry,” she pressed on.

The principal seemed uncertain where to take the conversation next. Instead, he stared at his hands, then dismissed us. We walked to the car without saying a word.

I would like to say that word spread of my kick-ass skills, and no one messed with me again, but a few weeks later, I was waiting for Mom to pick me up when an eighth-grade girl shoved me. This girl must have weighed twice as much as me and she had been taunting me constantly. She would make fun of me carrying my bassoon through the hallways. She would throw leaves or crumpled-up pieces of paper at me. She threatened to beat me up. “Bring it,” I told her.

I guess she decided that today was the day. I had been looking at the line of cars for my mom's minivan when I felt a shove. I turned, and was face-to-face with bully-girl. She shoved me again.

I dropped my backpack and a few seconds later I dropped the girl as well.

The school staff ran out to separate us, but that wasn't necessary—I was standing; she was down on the ground. We were led to the office and told suspensions would be handed down to both of us. The school secretary was picking up the phone to call our parents when my mom burst in.

I was already crying uncontrollably because my mom had made clear that there would be serious consequences if I got into another fight at school. I started to open my mouth to explain, but Mom shot me a silencing look. The sobs heaved out of my throat. Mom demanded to know who was in charge. The counselor came out of her office and started to explain that I and the big girl had gotten into a fight, but she did not know who she was dealing with.

“Did you see what happened?” my mom demanded.

The counselor opened her mouth to speak, but there was no need. It had been a rhetorical question.

“Because I did,” my mom continued. “I was sitting in the car waiting for Ronda and saw the entire thing. Ronda was standing there when this girl”—my mom pointed at her—“walked up and started pushing Ronda.”

“She will also be suspended,” the counselor said.

“Also?” My mom was incredulous. “No, Ronda is not getting suspended.”

“We have a very strict ‘no physical violence' policy,” the counselor said.

“And I have a very strict ‘no being an asshole to my kids' policy,” my mom said. “Ronda is not getting suspended. She was protecting herself against someone who resorted to ‘physical violence' as you called it. She will be here bright and early tomorrow morning, and she will be going to class. If anyone tries to stop her, you will have me back in here again and will have to deal with me. And what you do not understand right now is
this
is me being nice and polite.”

The counselor was tongue-tied.

“Come on,” my mom said in my general direction. “We're out of here.”

I grabbed my stuff and hustled out of the office.

The next day, my mom dropped me off at school and I went to class.

I have an ability to ignore all of the information coming from my body, even pain in general. I dissociate from pain, because I am not the pain that I am feeling. That's not me. That's not who I am. I refuse to allow pain to dictate my decision making. Pain is just one piece of information that I'm receiving. My nerves are communicating to my brain that there is something going on physically that I should be aware of. I can choose to acknowledge that information or I can choose to ignore it.

Let the following story serve as a cautionary tale if you are considering cutting class.

My sophomore year in high school I decided I was going to skip class. I had never ditched school before and I just wanted to try it.

My high school had a big gate and a chain-link fence surrounding the campus, both to keep unwanted visitors out and aspiring delinquents in. The fence was scalable, but there was a drop on the other side.

As I climbed the fence with my heavy backpack on I felt a twinge in my right toe, which I'd hurt at judo. When I jumped off the fence I realized I had underestimated the distance to the concrete sidewalk below. I landed, with all of my weight plus the weight of my backpack, on my good foot. As soon as I hit the ground I knew my left foot was broken.

I refused to accept defeat. I had skipped school to skip school, and I was going to do something during that period to make it worthwhile. I limped the quarter mile to Third Street Promenade, which is an outdoor shopping mall. I sat on a bench watching the stream of midday shoppers and tourists, my foot killing me.

This is bullshit
, I thought. I felt my foot swelling up in my shoe. I angrily got up and shuffled the nearly mile-long walk home and climbed into bed. I knew there was no way I would be able to train that night. Fortunately, my mom was in Texas for work. That evening, I told my stepfather Dennis that I wasn't feeling well. More than happy not to have to drive me through two hours of traffic to practice, he didn't press the subject.

But I had a tournament the next day against a rival club from Northern California. The Anthonys, another family from my club, picked me up to take me to the tournament. I tried to walk normally to their car, but every step was like stepping on a shard of glass.

I have never been less excited to compete. We walked up to the table to register and Nadine Anthony started filling out the forms for her children and me. The guy working the table looked up. He looked at Nadine, then at me. Nadine is black.

“She needs a parent or guardian to register her for the tournament,” he said, gesturing to me.

Joy surged through my body, but Nadine's expression hardened.

“What are you talking about
parent
?” Nadine spat. “I'm her mother. You got a problem with that?”

The guy's eyes widened. He looked around the registration table as if hoping to find an escape route.

“OK, then, of course,” he said, taking the registration forms.

My heart sank.

When I was twelve years old we were at practice when one of my teammates twisted her ankle. She limped off the mat, and both of her parents descended upon her in concern. Her dad rushed out to their car, returning with a pillow. With her mom massaging her shoulders, my teammate sat with her foot propped up. Less than twenty minutes later, I jammed my foot doing
randori
, the judo version of sparring. I limped over to my mom, who was running the practice.