Taking Back the Power
by Darwyn Carson
I’m a runner. Five, six miles at a stretch. I like to run at night when it’s quiet. Ten, eleven o’clock. Traffic’s died down—hopefully the wind has blown a good deal of the carbon monoxide away.
Some time ago, I made a decision not to do any more late-night jogs, no matter how enjoyable. Although I made it a point to keep to the main thoroughfare, I couldn’t help but notice the emptiness the streets held for long stretches at a time. Or the moments when a car-load of males would drive by, issuing hoots and cat-calls. At times like that, my heart rate became rapid. It beat fiercely, in a way that had nothing to do with my workout.
I felt isolated as I looked around, realizing just how alone I was on the street. I watched the red tail lights of the offending vehicle as it grew smaller in size. I was grateful that a couple of obnoxious comments were the only things that came from its depths. I sighed in relief that this didn’t turn into a situation that I had to “handle.”
The truth is, for all my bravado and careless comings and goings in the middle of the night, I didn’t know the first thing about correctly “handling” the situation. I might scream, but just how many good people would come to my assistance? Would you? This isn’t a trick question. It’s simply a reality check. And let’s face it, even if some brave soul did stop, by the time they figured out they weren’t just hearing something from a late-night TV, somebody or somebodies could have me in their car and be half-way up Laurel Canyon.
Four years ago, Francine, a co-worker, told me that she was about to take a class in self-defense.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I commented, and then forgot about it.
Six weeks later she invited me to her graduation.
“You get to see everything I’ve learned,” she said. “You wouldn’t recognize me. I mean, this class really teaches you how to take care of yourself.”
Inside, I said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Outside, I said, “I’ll try to make it.”
Four years later, and I’m afraid to run at night. When I told a male friend that I had given up running at night and why, he said, “No, you can’t let the criminal element take over the city. If you want to run at night, by gum, run at night.”
I agree with him in theory, but I don’t want those to be famous last words. I don’t want to be the lead story on the nightly news. I need to take back my power. I think I’ve found the way.
Francine was so jazzed by what she learned at Impact Personal Safety that, after she graduated, she took the advanced course and, following that, began assisting. Assistants work for free, aiding the instructors of the six-week course, and they do so quite happily. When I finally got my butt to a graduation, I understood why.
The first thing I learned was that Impact was formed by a group of martial artists after a young woman had been brutally raped and was unable to defend herself. The surprising element of the story was that this woman was an award-winning, black-belt student of Karate. Obviously, something was missing from her training: that something, they decided, was realism. That is what makes Impact different from many other self-defense courses. Impact creates realistic simulations of attacks on women. The assailants are male instructors protected by heavy padding. This allows the women to use full power when defending themselves. If the instructors weren’t enveloped in padding, the force of the blows could render them unconscious or, at the very least, temporarily disabled.
According to Annette, the female instructor in charge of the graduation, the body doesn’t know the difference between a real attack and one that is simulated. Women characteristically freeze when surprised by a mugger. The mind goes blank, and the rest is history. In Impact, after over 30 simulated assaults during the 20 hours of instruction, the women no longer instantaneously freeze. Their bodies automatically respond when confronted by a threatening situation. The training takes over.
Annette, who stands all of 5’3” and weighs in at 100 pounds sopping wet, was very clear about the purpose of the program and who the women are fighting. “Impact is about empowerment. We are strong. We can fight back and protect ourselves if we are attacked. Violence is the enemy, not the man. It’s violence we are attacking here.”
During the graduation I saw three kinds of situations demonstrated: a “rear attack,” a “reversal” (where it looks as if the attacker has the upper hand and the victim reverses the situation) and a “frontal confrontation.”
I was amazed at the strength and power that the women in the class exhibited. Women just like me (some seemed even a bit meeker). But when they were called to the mat they protected themselves with a vengeance—kicking, clawing, elbowing, kneeing, doing whatever they had to do, what they had been taught to do, to get out of the situation alive and in one piece. The women are taught that the fight isn’t over until they have reached safety. As far as I could tell, every angle had been covered, including safety precautions and psychological issues (many of the students are victims of past muggings).
Watching the mock attacks was very emotional. I had been warned ahead of time that it might be. I couldn’t help but recall a time, long ago. I hadn’t been in L.A. but a few months. I ended up in the apartment of a young man that I had known from a class we were both taking. He seemed like a nice guy. We talked for a while. Played a board game. When I asked to be taken home, his attitude changed. He didn’t understand why I wanted to leave. He sat close to me on the couch and began to manhandle me. I tried to be cool and pretend that it didn’t matter that he was violating my boundaries big time. Pretty soon, it became all too obvious, with me trying to push him off and he, being the stronger, forcing me down.
I had a cigarette in my hand and, in one brief second, it entered my mind that I could burn him. The next second, just as brief, I squashed the impulse. My “good girl” side took over and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. After that, it was too late. He took the cigarette out of my hand and lit it. He lit it.
This story has a happy ending. By some freak chance I managed to receive a phone call while pinned under him, grab my purse, and run out to the elevator. I have not looked back at him.
I found myself without a dime to my name in a part of the city I had never been to—but that’s another story. The truth is, I was just plain lucky. According to the statistics, one out of every three women will be attacked. I am one out of that one. This time, at least, he didn’t come back.
So when I think about it, just the thought of hitting the padded instructor is as intimidating for me as the thought of being attacked by some late-night stranger. That realization is the whole point.
That cigarette. That moment is the very reason I have chosen not to give up running late at night just because a troubled individual might cross my path. I refuse to surrender the streets to the late-night rapists. It’s all about choosing not to be controlled. Choosing to take precautions. ♦