I do not want you to hit me as hard as you can
Although the boxing gym looks nothing like this, there's still a bit more fighting involved than I prefer.
On Monday, I went with three other EWU MFAers to a boxing gym. I know this sounds like the start of a joke – four writers walk into a boxing ring and – but it’s not. My friends joined the gym at the start of the quarter and have been working out there three times a week. At a party last weekend, they were singing the praises of the experience and I, a few drinks deep, said something along the lines of “Take me with you! I wanna punch some bitches!” So on Monday, they took me with them.
I got an introductory lesson on how to stand, how to protect my face, and how to throw a punch. This was pretty rad. I’m sure to anyone watching, I looked like a giant Gumby doll wearing boxing gloves – floppy, too-long limbs folded at awkward angles. But just being in a real boxing ring with my fists up made me feel kind of tough and cool. Plus, my tiny, feisty girl instructor shouted “get your shit together” every time I lost my balance, which is a surprisingly effective instruction. I wish some one would come by my desk once an hour and say it to me while I write. Anyway, it was a great workout. Afterward, the gym’s owner pulled me aside and asked me how I liked it and if I wanted to join the gym. I told him I did like it, but I would have to think about it.
So I went home and thought about it, and here’s what I’ve decided: Despite my initial (drunken) proclamation that I wanted to “punch some bitches,” I actually have little-to-no desire to hit another human being. I have even less desire to be hit by another human being. It’s my understanding that both these things – the hitting, and the being hit – are fundamental parts of boxing. So, good workout or not, I have a hard time getting super excited about learning the skills for sport I will ultimately never really want to play. This leads me to believe I should not join the boxing gym.
Before I came to this rational and reasonable conclusion though, I was, at least for a little while, leaning hard the other way. Not because part of me thought I might want to box. But because learning to box would be an awesome thing to write about. As soon as I got into the ring with the instructor, I was already mapping out the no-doubt kick-ass nonfiction piece that would arise from the experience. I mean, it’s a great set-up. Scrawny, pacifist female grad student becomes involved in a violent, traditionally male sport. I could talk about being an only child and never ever hitting anyone as a kid, even in play. I could talk about the rise of popularity of boxing among women. And finally, I could talk about my own path toward boxing greatness – or toward hating it and giving up. Either way could work just fine, story-wise, I figured.
But then I remembered that doing something just because you want to write about having done it isn’t actually all that great of a plan.
In fact, not to brag, but I’m kind of an expert in the whole doing-shit-so-you-can-write-about-it scene. About four years ago, I worked for a tiny community newspaper outside of Seattle and along with my weekly news writing assignments (“City Council Still Deadlocked Over Bike Lane Proposal,” “Local Second-Grader Wins Chess Championship”), I wrote a column called “Never Have I Ever.” The premise was pretty straightforward. Every week, I picked an activity I’d never done before, tried it, and wrote about it. Such activities included speed dating, clamming, firing a machine gun, getting hypnotized, riding a unicycle, playing the accordion, getting a hole-in-one in golf, and so on.
My one and only accordion lesson.
The column was very popular among the paper’s readership (who, it should be noted, were mostly elderly or otherwise homebound individuals). But after just a few weeks, I started to have this distinct imposter feeling. There are plenty of people out there who actually golf, unicycle, speed date, machine gun, etc. on a regular basis and who engage seriously with these activities and derive some enjoyment or meaning from them. For me to show up and try something once just so I could say I’d done it meant I was always missing the important part of whatever I was trying. I never loved or cared about or even hated any of the things I tried. As a result, every column turned out pretty much the same – a brief recounting of the event and some self-effacing remarks about how I wasn’t any good at it. I could be marginally clever in these columns, but I could never really share the experiences of learning to play the accordion or hitting a hole-in-one because I didn’t do them in earnest. I did them only with an eye toward gathering quotes and cracking jokes. As a result, my columns lacked an emotional core.
It would be the same way with boxing. Signing up just so I could write about it would mean signing up with the intention of maintaining a certain level of distance. I.e. “I don’t really care about this, I just care about my essay.” I think if I want to write good nonfiction, I’ve got to find topics I can get at eye-level with. By that I mean, I have to see the subject matter the way the people who whatever I’m writing about matters to see it. If I can’t do that, the best I’ll ever manage are pieces about the times I’ve been an outsider, looking in. So, maybe it would be better to stop hunting around for some amazing new experience and start writing from places where I’m already involved, engaged, and invested.
“my piece on riding a unicycle lacked an emotional core.” spoken like a true mfa’er.
in all seriousness, though: truly excellent post, leyna. and i would fucking love to read your old columns.
Thanks, Jason! I actually read through a bunch of my old columns recently, hoping to mine them for material, and I have to admit the writing in them is…not good. It was kind of like unearthing a time capsule and in that time capsule was a younger, less eloquent version of myself. I found this unnerving.
This post is so killer. I especially love “Plus, my tiny, feisty girl instructor shouted “get your shit together” every time I lost my balance, which is a surprisingly effective instruction. I wish some one would come by my desk once an hour and say it to me while I write.” Also, I just laughed loud enough at the photo that a person passing by my closet glanced over nervously.
Yes. I want this girl as a writing coach too.
I love that too.
I have my comp students write profiles, and this question of insider/outsider perspective usually comes up. On one level, I want to tell them that the writer must be an outsider in order to have any kind of perspective and in order to present that perspective to a readership who are also, presumably, outsiders. But, on the other hand, I want them to invest enough energy into the subject that they understand it more deeply than an outsider can. I guess I want them to occupy a kind of middle ground, where they can speak authoritatively (as an insider) but universally (as an outsider to other outsiders).
Great post. Really interesting.
Also, one time I hit my little brother in the face by accident. We were fake fighting. I don’t know which of us was more surprised.
It’s something I used to think about a lot in my journalism days, actually – the idea of being objective vs actually being involved. Journalists are supposed to be objective, but that’s never totally possible on account of them (usually) also being humans. The middle ground, I think, is the best anyone can hope for.
Really fantastic post. As an undergraduate, I did Shotokan Karate (started out as a physical education credit and ended up being a pretty big part of my life for three years), and that issue of “This would be amazing to write about” was constantly in mind. I did write about it, a rather hackneyed attempt to yoke together the acts of writing and karate, and I lived, in many ways, for the feelings of toughness and resilience the practice sparked in me. (Maybe I thought it made me a tougher, more resilient writer; maybe it actually did. I learned both arts at the same time, so I can’t tell you if they were separate then.)
I never reached the stage of free-sparring, wherein there was a good and proper likelihood of hitting someone, and I think I’m grateful. Sometimes I wish I had reached that point. I admire very much how you articulate that moment–not wanting to hit anyone, not wanting to be hit–in your post above.
And, of course, I’m with you (and the other commenters) on wanting that voice to shout, “Get your shit together!” as I’m writing. Excellent advice for all occasions, I think.
Thank you!
Thanks for sharing, Holly! You should try writing about karate again (if you haven’t already). Just because the first pass didn’t work out doesn’t mean it’s not still a cool topic. I say give it another whirl.
I was smiling (or laughing) this entire post. You somehow made this poignant yet delightful all at the same time.
Also, sidenote, I don’t know where/when I saw that photo before, but when I hit “read more” and it popped up, I laughed all over again. Its the facial expression.
I laugh at it every time I look at it, too.
Please don’t box anymore.
~ Your father.
But when I was a kid, you tried so hard to get me interested in sports…make up your mind!
*something enlightening that I didn’t say to you earlier*
I just wanted to be under your dad.
This is not funny.
This is so funny.
I agree, this is very funny. The post AND the comment from your dad AND these comments.
Um, can I borrow your tiny, feisty girl instructor for some general life coaching? Great post, as always!
I want a tiny, feisty, person to sit next to me when I write and shout “get your shit together.” Maybe I can put a sign on the dog.
[...] of activities, from accordion lessons to firing a machine gun, claiming it is research for a “Never Have I Ever” [...]
p.s. I love the idea of a “Never Have I Ever” column, though I understand the basic problem with it. I think Lucy Grealy actually wrote a book with this premise, “As Seen on TV.”
[...] of activities, from accordion lessons to firing a machine gun, claiming it is research for a “Never Have I Ever” [...]