It was the early 1970s in Kitsilano, hippies everywhere. The mantra was: “Sex, Drugs and Rock’n Roll.”
One sunny afternoon my friend Anne asked me to come to the Women’s Health Collective after work. They needed to talk to me about something. The tiny office was cramped with piles of leaflets and posters. Eight women wearing t-shirts, plaid shirts and torn jeans sat on desks and squeezed into the dusty 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.”
“Judo is just break falls, throws and wrestling. It’s not self-defense. There are better teachers in the gyms.”
“Do you know any women there?”
“No, they are all men.”
“Well, many of our women have been raped. And those men at the gyms love grabbing women’s breasts.”
They stared at me. I knew they were right. I remembered the time a guy at work twisted my arm painfully behind my back and rubbed his crotch against me as he laughed. The Health Collective women were still staring at me.
“O.K. I’ll do it.”
I had to learn self-defense quickly. How to do that? 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 a man’s face? 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 strike. 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 targets, jabbed 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 helpless women in the movies.”
The women in the class didn’t guess 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. The women who had been raped were highly motivated. Some cute women were flirting with me. We planned another workshop. I knew I needed to learn more quickly.
My ex-husband worked with a guy who studied Kung Fu in Chinatown. He introduced me to his teacher, Sensei Wong Ha in his basement gym on Hawks St. I bowed to the small stern man dressed in black who had been a Hong Kong enforcer. 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 the Kung Fu fighting I was learning was all choreographed. 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 my 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 stepped back and bowed in awe, gasping for breath. I 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. The self-defense classes got better. Lorraine moved into the spare bedroom at my house. And then her girlfriend Anita moved in. Their friend Rusty hung out with us. 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 big but so drunk. So slow.”
“Does anyone get hurt?”
“No, 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. The smoke made me sick. But I wanted to see the lesbians. Lorraine kept talking about her fights at the Vanport. I was very curious so I worked up my nerve and said I would go to the Vanport after work when it was not the time for fights.
I walked in at about 4:30. The room was dark, cold and almost empty. It smelled of smoke and beer. The floor was sticky. I got a coke and sat alone at a table. I glanced around feeling self-conscious.
Sitting across the room were three tall women with thick makeup, big boobs and high sprayed hairdos. 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. These guys combed back their Brylcreemed ducktails. I saw tattoos on their bulging arms as their shirt sleeves were rolled up above their biceps. Inside their rolled-up sleeves each guy had shoved a pack of cigarettes. They were scary tough. They looked at me casually as they blew smoke rings. Then they turned back to their 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 red high heels. One kept staring at me. I was turned off by her dark mascara, thick lipstick and stiff puffed up hair. She looked 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. Nothing was happening. I felt uncomfortable, embarrassed to be sitting there. I gulped my coke and slunk out.
When I got home, Anita and Lorraine were all ears.
“So, did you go the the Vanport?” They wanted all the details.
“Yes, I went after work.”
“Were there any fights?”
“No fights.”
“You went too early for fights. Did you meet anyone?”
“No one talked to me. I didn’t even see any lesbians. “
“No lesbians? No lesbians? Well, who was there?”
“Just the bartender guy, 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?” I asked again.
“You’re so funny! Those big fat guys, the bartender, the guys blowing smoke rings around the pool table. You saw them.”
“Yes.”
“Those were the lesbians.”
