On the first day of self-defense class, I learn to say “no.”
We’re in a Southern California martial-arts studio not far from an In-N-Out Burger. The space smells faintly of cooked meat. I’m one of six students, all women: four nurses, one flight attendant, and me. In this introductory session, we’re supposed to get a taste of what it means to protect ourselves—and, if necessary, to fight back.
For the longest time, I had wondered what it would be like to hit someone. Like, really hit them. I had grown up understanding that women aren’t supposed to engage in fantasies about violence, which is to say that we aren’t really supposed to think about it. But many of us do. All the time.
