It was the early 1970s in Kitsilano, hippies everywhere. The mantra was: “Sex, Drugs and Rock’n Roll.”
One afternoon Anne asked me to come after work to the Women’s Health Collective. The office was cramped, full of magazines and posters. There were eight women, most dressed in plaid shirts and torn jeans. They sat on desks and squeezed into the old couch.
“Marsha, we need you to teach a workshop on Women’s Self Defense.”
“But I don’t know Women’s Self Defense.”
“You’re the only one we could think of. You study judo.”
“I know throws, falls and wrestling. I don’t know how to teach self-defense. There are better teachers in the gyms.”
“Well, those men at the gyms love grabbing women’s breasts. Some of the women who need a self defense class have been raped. They can’t have a male instructor.” The Health Collective women stared at me.
“O.K. I’ll do it.”
I knew I’d better quickly learn self-defense. I asked my judo teacher.
He said, “There’s no point hitting a man in his chest. But, if a strong guy, even an Olympic weight lifter, is all tied up on the ground, and if you tell a toddler to poke him in the eye, and keep poking. Eventually the toddler will blind the big man.”
I was shocked at the idea of poking out a guy’s eye. How could I hit like that? I bought a little book on self-defense. It showed how to break holds, block punches and strike vulnerable areas: eyes, throat, temple, groin and kneecap. The book also showed how to make a fist with your thumb outside, pinning your curled fingers. And it showed which knuckles should make contact. This was basic information. Little boys learned this in the playground. But it was all new to me.
Twelve excited women showed up for the workshop in jeans, t-shirts and running shoes. I showed them the tricks I had learned: how to make a fist, how to break holds if someone grabbed their arm or their neck. I showed them how to fall safely. We practiced punches against targets of rolled newspaper. I showed the vulnerable spots. We yelled. We broke boards.
“You could jab a pencil into the attacker’s eye.”
“Yuk, I could never do that.”
“It would work better than beating on his chest like those helpless women in the movies.”
The women in the class did not suspect I was ignorant. Even I didn’t know how much I didn’t know. So, the class went great. The students looked up to me. Some of the women had been raped and were highly motivated. Some were flirting with me. They were cute. We planned another workshop. I knew I needed to quickly learn more.
My former husband worked with a guy who studied Kung Fu in Chinatown. Larry introduced me to his teacher, Sensei Wong Ha in his basement gym on Hawks St. I bowed to the thin stern man dressed in black. He had been a Hong Kong enforcer before the Wong clan brought him to work for them in Vancouver. He spoke only Toisanese. Reluctantly he agreed to teach this strange white woman. He carefully showed me the first stance and kicks of the classic martial arts sets. I loved the graceful, powerful choreographed fighting moves.
After work I would rush down to the dingy basement gym and join young Chinese kids kicking, leaping in the air, twirling swords, smashing each other with staffs and chains. I learned to punch and kick and jump but Sensi refused to teach me sparring.
I had studied judo. I was teaching self-defense, but in the Kung Fu class I was only learning choreographed fights. I wanted to learn to really fight.
A psychiatrist colleague introduced me to his daughter Katie, who was fighting in her karate club. I caught my breath when Katie looked at me with her intense blue eyes. She met me downtown at her slightly sleazy gym. The room was all sweaty grunting men except for Katie’s slim lovely Asian girlfriend and one other tall dynamic young white woman. Lorraine had long brown hair and a quick grin. She was barely out of high school, but she was the star fighter. We bowed. I threw snap punches to her head, her body. I kicked low. She smiled as she easily blocked every punch and kick. She was so fast. I wasn’t half done blocking her return punch and she’d already jump kicked to my head. I was awed, and just nodded when her instructor told me she was as good as any Olympic athlete.
Lorraine kindly agreed to teach a women’s karate class with me at UBC and in my backyard. Lorraine moved into the spare bedroom at my house. She studied trades. Her girlfriend Anita moved in. Their friend Rusty joined the classes. On weekends, Lorraine entertained me with stories of fights she would win at the Vanport Hotel bar.
“I just walk past one of these big old diesel dykes as she’s taking a drink. I ‘accidently’ bump her arms so she spills her drink all over. They go nuts and start swinging. I floor them.”
“You really fight. Hit them?”
“They are so drunk. So slow.”
“Does anyone get hurt?”
“It’s just fun. You should come to the Vanport Saturday with me and Rusty.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t want to get in a real fight.”
“Well, just go in the daytime. Check it out.”
“O.K.” I said.
I was too scared to go to the bar with Rusty and Lorraine at night. I hadn’t been to many bars. I wanted to see the lesbians, but the smoke made me sick. Lorraine kept talking about her fights at the Vanport. I was very curious so I worked up my nerve to visit – after work when it was not the time for fights.
I walked in at about 4:30. The room was cold, dark and almost empty. It smelled of smoke and beer. The floor was sticky. I sat alone at a table and looked around feeling very self-conscious.
There were three women with thick makeup, big boobs and high sprayed hairdos sitting across the room. They stared at me. I looked away. There was light and activity at the pool table. Large fat men stood around smoking and shooting pool. They had Brylcreemed ducktails, tattoos on their bulging arms, and their shirt sleeves were rolled up above their biceps. Inside their rolled-up sleeves each guy had shoved a pack of cigarettes. They glanced at me casually as they blew smoke rings, took shots at the balls and joked to each other. I squirmed in my seat and looked into every dark corner of the room.
The three big breasted women were drinking steadily. They crossed their legs and one studied her shiny high heels. One stared at me. I didn’t like her dark mascara, thick lipstick and stiff puffed up hair. She glanced at me scornfully. I felt awkward sitting there, sipping my coke in my slacks and work jacket. Where were the lesbians? This wasn’t what I was expecting. No high energy like at a women’s dance or women’s group. Nothing much was happening. I felt uncomfortable. I finished my coke and went home.
“So, did you go to The Vanport?” Anita and Lorraine wanted the details.
“Yes, I went after work.”
“Were there any fights?”
“No fights.”
“You went too early for fights. Did you meet anyone.”
“No. I didn’t even see any lesbians. “
“No lesbians? Who was there?”
“Just the bartender, some women with big breasts and too much make up. And some big fat guys with ducktails, smoking and playing pool.”
They burst out laughing. I looked at Lorraine, confused. She slapped her leg, wiped her eyes.
“What’s funny.” I asked.
“You didn’t see any lesbians?” She couldn’t stop laughing. I was embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re so funny! Those big fat guys, the guys blowing smoke rings around the pool table. You saw them.”
“Yes.”
“Those were the lesbians.”
