Crouching Tiger, Hidden Daughter

by John Christmann

As much as I abhor violent behavior, I have come to the conclusion that it is a God given right for siblings to torture each other. In the small microcosm of the family, it is surprising what forms of physical aggression we tolerate with minimal retribution. This is not because we are morally lax with our children; it is just that we can’t possibly referee every single infraction involving finger prods, knee bumps, and elbow jabs that occur on a daily basis. Where we practice civility outside of the house, inside we reluctantly abide more by rules laid down by the World Wide Wrestling Association.

When I was growing up there was a name for hand-to-hand combat among siblings: roughhousing. Roughhousing can best be described as a form of play that ends up in tears and broken furniture. But in truth, I was more familiar with the concept through my friends that had brothers. In my own house there was only my sister and I. She was five years younger and the balance of power was just too great to engage in rough physical play without getting into really big trouble. So I exerted my power in more sublime ways: when she tested my tolerance I gave her noogies on the top of her head with my knuckles.

Long car rides were particularly fervent breeding grounds for physical torment. After my sister and I squabbled for hours, routinely jabbing each other with our elbows until I finally made her cry, our parents set up an imaginary line that neither could cross and we were instructed to sit in silence. I immediately rested my hand on the car seat well across her side of the line and just below the field of vision afforded by the rear view mirror. Then I poked her.
“Hey, he crossed the line!” she yelled.
“Did not!” I yelled.
“Quiet!” my parents yelled.
And then, when everything died down, I would place my hand across the line again.

Years later I thought about this while sitting on an airplane next to an extremely large man whose arms dripped over the arm rests forcing me to sit for five hours with my elbows tucked awkwardly in my lap. I wanted to jab him hard in the ribs and yell out to the flight attendant: “Hey, he crossed the line!” Instead, I passively let him spill over into my space, take off his stinky shoes, and spill peanuts onto my lap for the remainder of the flight. I never would have tolerated this if he were my sister.

Because I am shaped by my experience as a mean older brother, I naturally worry about my own daughter. Although she has already developed some tools to help hold her own against her physically superior older brother at home, I worry about what she will face when I cannot protect her from bullying behavior. And so, being the enlightened Dad that I am, I decided to help her feel more secure and confident in a world where push can sometimes lead to shove: I enrolled her in a martial arts class.

This was not to help protect my daughter from her brothers, as you might think. No, this was so that my daughter could strike fear into the hearts of all boys. This was so she could sit next to Jaba the Hut on an airplane, muscle his big limbs off the arm rest, look him square in the eye, and say to him in her own polite, but firm way: “Dude, put your shoes back on, you’re stinking up the whole airplane.” And if in the course of her martial arts training she also learned to fly through bamboo trees and pierce walls with her fingertips, all the better.

After looking around, I found a Karate class for kids at the local YMCA and took my daughter there to check it out. Inside children of varying ages stood neatly in line throwing punches and kicks in time to the instructor’s counts in Japanese. Toward the back of the room a thirteen-year-old girl with a black belt was practicing her skills convincingly with several much larger boys. My daughter was enthralled, and I could almost see the “that-could-be-me” imagery in her head. I was very impressed too. Not because the kids were throwing punches and kicks, but because for the entire class the instructor, or Sensei, was able to keep them all in a straight line without once raising his voice.

After the class I talked to the Sensei. He was a very engaging and affable guy who had a real passion for his art. He explained to me that his form of Karate was not about using physical force to resolve conflict; it was about developing the mind and its connectedness to the body. It was about coordinating physical movement and balance, which over time transcends all aspects of life. Karate, particularly among kids, was about building confidence to overcome difficult situations he said.

I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
“How long before she can kick major butt?” I asked.

Six months later my daughter was ready for her first belt promotion, the first of what I hoped would be many. Already I had noticed a difference in her attitude. One day I heard her yelling in frustration at her older brother who was threatening to forcibly connect her eyebrows with a magic marker. I moved quickly to diffuse the situation, but as I arrived she was standing rooted and tall and barking out to him, “NO!”, as if he was nothing more than an annoying house pet. He stood still sizing up the situation, then slinked away to pester his little brother.

As impressive as this was, I was anxious to see what she had actually learned in her Karate class. On the day of her test, as we were leaving the house, I perched myself squarely in her path by the front door.
“Grasshopper,” I said to my daughter, “before you leave the temple, you must face the master.”
I was teetering in front of her on one foot in a stance reminiscent of every bad Kung Fu movie ever made. My knee was suspended high toward my chest, my dangling foot ready to strike at the beat of a hummingbird’s wing. My elbows were pinched together tightly above my belt and my hands were curled ominously outward like gnarled monkey paws.
My daughter looked at me as though she was embarrassed to have me as a father.
“You look like a rubber chicken.” she said.
I said nothing, but cooed deep in my throat like a sickly crane.

And just like that she shuffled forward, grabbed my hips, and twisted me over her leg which she had cleverly placed behind mine to prevent me from catching my balance. I went crashing to the floor in complete surprise, at which point she drove her foot in my arm pit and yanked my arm up with both of her hands.
“Ouch!” I said. I couldn’t move.
Then, with my outstretched arm tight against her body, she arched her back so that my elbow bent back in the wrong direction.
“Owwww!” I yelled again, this time in real pain.
“Daddy,” she sighed, “Can we go now? Please?”

My wife, who was looking on in amusement, said “Don’t hurt your father, honey. You know what a wimp he is.” Then, turning to me, she added, “Nice job, Karate Kid. What are you going to do when she is sixteen and demands the car? Say no?”

My daughter passed her test with flying colors. She was beaming. I was beaming. My wife was beaming. And her brothers were squirming nervously. As she was given her new belt she stood quietly in line with the other Karate students, and then bowed gracefully to her Sensei. I was awed by the respect he commanded, and instantly knew what I had to do.

Two nights later, standing perfectly still, feet together, hands at my side, in a straight line, at the YMCA Evening Karate Class for Beginning Adults, the Sensei greeted me warmly.
“Let me guess.” he said, smiling “you want to learn how to defend yourself against your daughter.”

“No, Sensei.” I said, bowing humbly. “I want to learn how you keep her in a straight line.