Fall 2012

When a past close friend of mine once told me, “Chloe, no matter how much you train in a martial arts, you’ll never be able to beat a man, because men are bigger and physically stronger than women,” and challenged me to a sparring match right then and there, I had no idea what I was in for.  And I certainly didn’t know that my future path in life would change because of that moment.

I smiled playfully then, and agreed to a light sparring match with my friend. I thought this would be something like from my Tae Kwon Do days as a child: enthusiastically trying to get good, accurate kicks to make contact on my opponent’s head or body.  Of course I wouldn’t go for a hard kick, as I learned over my years of Tae Kwon Do training to respect my opponent and harness self-control—but I wanted to make that contact.  It shouldn’t be too hard for me to land a good kick or two, right?  Having trained specifically in a kicking martial arts for 5 years, and attaining my first degree black belt at my Tae Kwon Do school before leaving for college, I figured I’d be able to make that contact once or twice to his body.  

But that never happened.

Instead, “Douche Bigalow” charged headfirst towards me, and tackled me to the ground. He proceeded to throw hard, fierce punches anywhere he could land them, bruising my legs and pounding my stomach in the process, before clasping his hands tightly around my neck.  I cried out in pain and felt the purest form of fear and desperation take over me as my airway closed completely to his hateful clutches. At that precise moment, I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do to defend myself. All those years of training in a martial arts, and there I was, completely and utterly helpless to an angry, hateful man.

I tried desperately to choke back the tears, to no avail.  Like a pathetic loser who just challenged someone to a fight only to lose in embarrassing fashion, I let the tears roll down my face before I begged him to let go.  Thankfully he still had some sanity left in him to release his hold on me (though now I believe he did so only because his roommate was in the college apartment with us and he didn’t want a witness to get involved).  Shamefully I rose from the ground, defeated and battered, and left the apartment without saying another word to him. I refused to let him see the full effect he had on me then, and walked back to my own college apartment room, tail in between my legs, before I closed the door to my bedroom and cried hysterically into my pillow.

It wasn’t just my windpipe that had been crushed that day.  My pride, my security in knowing that I could defend myself against a male assailant if the need arose, completely dissipated.  And his words—those words he sputtered out with such condemnation that day: “No matter how hard you train…you’ll never be able to beat a man” stuck with me ever since.

Fall 2014

Fast forward two years later: I anxiously arrived on the mats of the College Ave gym of Rutgers University to attend my very first Judo class.  A martial arts friend of mine over the years had suggested I give Judo a try, claiming it was a great martial art for women.

“It’s the martial art of throwing people against their own force and momentum,” he explained to me then.  “You don’t need to rely on physical size and brute strength, because you’re using the strength of your opponent against him.”

After hearing that I was really tempted to give this Judo a try.  After all, I reasoned to myself, if Judo is indeed a martial art where you can “use the strength of your opponent against him,” wouldn’t that completely rebut Douche Bigalow’s statement two years ago?  

That despicable statement: “No matter how hard you train in a martial arts, you’ll never be able to defeat a man, because men are bigger and physically stronger than women.”  I had to see for myself if Judo was my answer to his argument once and for all. 

I came to that Judo class filled with a lot of hate and feelings of vengeance from the years I suffered before.  Douche’s words still lingered in my thoughts.  Whatever this Judo class was going to have me do, I vowed to myself then and there that I would give it my all and make sure I was equal in capability to the men training along with me.

And I did.

That very first day of Judo, I not only kept pace with the rest of the men in the room, I excelled over many of them.  Push-ups, sit-ups, front rolls, break falls, throws—whatever Sensei Roberto Chinen had us do, I did with twice the enthusiasm and determination as my male rivals in the room.  I was throwing the other white belt newbies during randori (free sparring)—no matter their size or strength—with a mean vengeance.   And Sensei Chinen took notice.

From that day forward, I was hooked on Judo.  Sensei Chinen would focus on my technique and work with me one-on-one.  He paid close attention to me, because in me, he would say just two years later, he “saw a Champion.”

Now when I think of Douche’s words from that fated day, I can’t help but have a smirk on my face. I now know with full confidence that size and physical strength are merely a small component to a fighter’s capability, and that training time, technique, speed, sheer determination and willpower could conquer anyone bigger or physically stronger than me.

I know now that if me and Douche were to ever have a rematch, he would never tackle me to the ground the way he surprised me that one day.  He could never punch me mercilessly as he had done.  He would never get his hands around my neck the way he did, with all the ne waza ground-game training I’ve done.  I’m confident I could reverse his hateful aggression against him, throw him to the ground , pin him and mercilessly hold him in an arm lock or choke of any kind I wanted. My self-confidence had been crushed at Douche’s hands, and revived at Rutgers University Judo.

So is this a personal story of revenge?  I haven’t decided if that’s the appropriate word for it.  But I do know one “R” word that I feel resonates with me more.  That “R” word for me is Resilience.