How to Throw a Punch

A few weeks ago, I was scrolling through Twitter and I stumbled upon a news article about a recent sexual assault case. I read the article and then, against my better judgement, immediately went to go look through the replies to the original tweet. 

I was pleasantly surprised to find that nearly all the replies were full of empathy and compassion for the survivor, but there was one comment from a man that made me pause. 

Though I don’t remember the exact wording, the general gist was this: “What a horrifying story. This is why I always buy women weapons for Christmas.” 

At first, I found myself laughing at the absurdity of the visual. “Hope you enjoy the AK-47, honey! Thought it would go great with the machete I got you last year.” “Aw man, Uncle Pete, ANOTHER assault rifle? You shouldn’t have!” 

The initial humor soon wore off, though, and I was left with a lingering feeling that I’m still struggling to categorize. Frustration? Sadness? Fatigue? Some fun combination of all three? The best word I could use to describe it would be a vague “discomfort.”

It’s uncomfortable to hear people (usually men) talk about self-defense or arming oneself as a catch-all “rape preventer.” The worst part is that it usually comes from a good place. They understand that sexual violence is wrong, they don’t want it to happen, and they’re looking for a way to stop it. But the way they hope to do that is by putting all of the onus on the victim–the rape is inevitable, an unpreventable part of the world that we must simply protect ourselves against. 

It’s like this: when I was thirteen, my dad taught me how to throw a punch. 

We’d just watched a frightening news story about a sexual assault case in our area. The details of the case are long gone from my memory, leaving only the clenching sensation of anger and fear. The survivor was a young woman, I remember that at least. 

The story really unsettled my dad. I don’t have kids, so I can’t say I’ve experienced the feelings of fear and powerlessness parents get over their children’s safety, but then and there, I could imagine it. So he did the only thing he felt he could do in the moment; he taught me how to punch. 

Just like with the news story, I only remember the outline of it all. Don’t tuck your thumb under your fingers–that’s how you break it. Keep your stance grounded. Shift your weight from your back foot to the front as you move your arm. 

I’ll be honest. I don’t know if any of that is good punching advice. My dad is a gentle man who doesn’t punch anybody. Plus, he’s 6’4”–if he wanted to, he could probably get a good hit in whether he was punching properly or not. Personally, I haven’t punched anyone yet and I don’t plan to. I’m not sure I’d do it right if I had to.

When I was fifteen, my Girl Scout troop did a special Krav Maga seminar. 

It was October, I remember, because I was going to a Halloween party immediately afterwards. Two hours of self-defense and then some good spooky fun; y’know, your typical teenage night. 

I’ve always thought Krav Maga was an interesting fighting style. I like its focus on efficiency over style or some people’s idea of ‘honorable fighting.’ Target your opponent’s weakest points–you’re trying to end a fight quickly, not prettily. Not that I’ve done a lot of Krav Maga in my life! I just find it intriguing.

So anyway, we spent two hours learning to go for the eyes, the groin, etc. There was a girl a few grades above me who took high level classes at the Krav Maga studio, and she was brought in to run through exercises with the instructors. 

I literally don’t remember any of the self-defense techniques we learned in the seminar. I do, however, remember the way the male instructor kept grabbing his assistant’s hand and putting it over his crotch–to show us the place we were supposed to grab and twist. I remember my friend leaning over to me and whispering, in that incredulous mocking tone that so often belies genuine discomfort, “Does he have to keep doing that?”

When I was seventeen, they made all the girls in the senior class spend a whole day in a self-defense workshop specifically tailored towards teaching young women how to “protect themselves” from the threat of sexual assault. 

They started the class by telling us how likely it was that each of us would be assaulted in college. 1 in 5, the statistic was, if I remember correctly. Then they taught us about how to break out of holds we might find ourselves in, how to use our opponent’s weight and momentum against them.

Meanwhile, as the girls learned to fight for our lives, the boys were in a workshop called “Choices.” I can’t imagine what the choices were. 

Now, there’s a lot I could say here: about how the division of these classes ignores male rape victims, about how the gender binary is a sham anyway, so on and so forth. But I’ll say this. Just like with the punch, I remember the shape of things they taught us, but I don’t know that I could enact any of those techniques successfully. I don’t know if any of it could save me. 

Because that’s the point, isn’t it? People recommend self-defense because they want it to “save” you. They tell you to buy a gun because maybe that will “save” you. Drape yourself in armor, learn to fight, do not be soft–this will “save” you, you will be spared. 

Do they know that so often, the person doing violence to you is someone you love? Someone you trust? A friend, a family member, a lover? Someone you would never imagine raising a hand to?

I’m not saying self-defense can’t be empowering. And perhaps, if I bought a gun or a taser or a particularly menacing pepper spray, I would sleep easier at night. But I think we need to stop acting like the only way to stop sexual assault is to make potential victims “strong” enough. 

It’s like trying to stop up a leaking dam with a bandaid. And then, after the flood, asking the drowned village why they didn’t make their adhesive strong enough.