Conditioning

The bell jolted me out of my chair. Everyone walked out of the class whispering, anxiety engulfing the air, discussing possible test answers. I skipped over to my friends, together we all headed downstairs for lunch. As we ate, the math test was the lingering topic of discussion,

“Lauren she really laid into you today. I would have cried if I was you.” All my friends from math chimed in agreement. I leaned against the window, the sunless day loomed through the glass. I raised my eyebrow,

“What are you talking about? Who?”

“Mme Theissen, she was yelling right in your face for asking a question. You didn’t even react, it was crazy!” I shook my head, a soft smile creeping across my lips,

“She did? That wasn’t even yelling!” I chuckled “Takes a lot more than that to rattle me,” Everyone laughed, a sickly chiming sound filling the lunch hall. Gradually, the conversation turned to static noise as I stared into the distance. I couldn’t listen as a question lingered in the back of my mind, as though it were repeatedly poking my back demanding attention.

“Why hadn’t I reacted to her yelling at me? Why didn’t I notice?”

“Novice class come line up,” I bowed and quickly ran onto the dojo. I clenched my hands into soft fists, placing them in front of me at an exact angle of 45 degrees. I was ready to start class, at seven years old I was ready to start. I looked up at the Sensei, a 5 foot tall giant towering over me with a gentle smile. As we bowed to begin the class, I saw them in the corner. The wooden boards.

“What are those for?” I wondered.

The bell rang, we all headed to our last two classes. The rest of the day was miserable, the lightless sky seemed to radiate its aura. Or maybe I just wanted to believe that it was the sky causing the unsettling feeling gnawing at my insides. As if there was nothing else that could be affecting my mental state. I stepped on to the bus then hurried to a window seat; that's when the rain started.

“Line up behind a Sensei,” instructed the lead Sensei, waiting for us to take action. Despite our age, extreme discipline was expected. After we lined up, the Senseis all went to grab something, I leaned to the side to get a better look. The boards! They were getting the boards! But for what?

The bus ride was a blur, as my mind vibrated in resonance with the buzz of the pouring rain. Its quiet murmur followed me when I got off the bus and walked home. My strides slowed as I stepped up onto my porch. My hand clasped the icy handle, I opened the door to a shadowy hall, past memories ringing in my ears. I stepped inside and shut the door, for a moment it was dead silent.

“You are to punch the board, let’s go,” I stood up and the line started moving as the two students in front of me took their turns. I was looking around, my lips sewn shut with fear and my heart beating against my chest, with great force I opened my mouth,

“Why are we hitting them? Won’t that hurt?” but, the words got stuck in my throat. Now there was no more time for questions. It was my turn. The Sensei looked at me with a friendly smile as the dreaded phrase fell easily from his lips,

“Hit it.”

I headed up to my room, dropping my bag on the ground. I closed my door and sat on my bed leaning my head against the cold window; trying to relieve the pain in the back of my mind caused by the lingering question. The roaring of the rain faded into a familiar sound, my father’s voice. Suddenly as I looked through the half-open closet door, the darkness formed into the eyes of a young child.

“Hit it,” he repeated sternly. I took a shaky breath, my heart pounding in my ears. I closed my delicate baby like fist and pulled it back. With every bit of courage I had, I launched it forwards.

I stood in the living room, tears gliding down my baby cheeks. With a heavy tongue I tried to tell my dad that someone had been mean to me, that I was hurt. He mocked me. Yelling that they did it because I was an easy target, because I was so sensitive. I ran upstairs into my closet and looked into the mirror breathing heavily. I hadn’t realized it was my fault I was crying. I angrily wiped my eyes and furrowed my brow, next time I wouldn’t cry.

It hurt, God it hurt, it was like nothing I had ever felt. I immediately burst into tears clutching my now bruised fist, a stinging pain spreading along it.

“Again,” Sensei demanded, I shook my head. He looked me dead in the eyes, “I said again.” My chest tightened, hot tears staining my cheeks, I took a shaky breath and pulled back again. Then I hit again, and again as instructed. I left class blood dripping from my knuckles.

Every time my father yelled, it filled my ears. The insults flowing at me, each one aimed at a different inadequacy. I stayed completely still, no words, potential tears stinging my eyes as I tried to slow my breathing to stay calm. I just listened. Letting the words harden me; as they had been over the years.

“Masters class come line up,” I moved to the line at a calm pace and put my fists forwards, then bowed. After all these years, I was now face to face with Sensei. We walked over to the boards being held. I didn’t have to be told, I knew what was going to happen. I got in line first and delivered a punch. There was a slight sting, but no truly tangible pain. I heard a yell,

“One minute intervals, lets go” I took a deep breath. I was older. I could do it.

I stepped forward as the timer started. I began punching, the well formed calluses on my knuckles preventing any pain from reaching me. I looked at the board with no expression, suddenly redness spread along the fibres of wood. I didn’t stop. Maybe it hurt, but it would only make me stronger. So that next time, that amount of force wouldn’t make me bleed.

I ignored how my father’s words burned like a poison slipping into my veins. It was better to view it as a learning experience. Maybe even an achievement, that even when he told me I would never find anyone that would be able to love me, I didn’t cry.

The karate class was dismissed. I squinted as the sun shone through the window onto my face. Outside I saw a couple holding hands and noticed his fingers running along her knuckles affectionately. I looked down at my hands, at my knuckles. They were strong, unfeeling, covered in calluses. I wondered, if someone held my hand, would I even feel it? I took a deep breath, that didn’t matter right? I was ready for a fight, that's what this had been for. To prepare for the hard reality of life. Somehow looking at the couple, I wondered if maybe there was more to life.