Autumn 1996
I walk onto my apartment’s balcony holding the cordless phone to my ear. “So,” I tell my brother who’s taking his PhD in Agriculture in Manitoba, “I’ve signed up to take a six-week self defense workshop.”
“That’s cool,” he says. “Any particular reason?”
“No, not really. My friend wants to take it, and the self-defense is judo based, which sounds interesting.” I shift the phone to my other ear. “It also includes assertiveness training lessons.”
“It what?” he asks.
“Includes assertiveness training. Forty-five minutes of self defense and another forty-five of a workshop. About empowerment, I think.”
My brother starts laughing. In my family, we find humour everywhere. It can be annoying.
“You know, it’s not that funny.”
“It is,” he says. “I give you two weeks until you’re running the class.”
Winter 1996
I adjust my gi and tighten my white belt. Having enjoyed the self defense lessons, I’ve enrolled in an adult judo class. Our belt colours span the rainbow, all brighter and better than my beginning hue.
Halfway through class, after practicing numerous holds and releases, we ground fight in partners. I hold back, unaware both of my strength and where my limbs are. Eventually, our instructor, an nth degree blackbelt who competed for Canada at the Olympics, invites me to ground fight.
I’m no longer hesitant; I can’t hurt him.
I wriggle out of holds, attack, writhe, wrestle.
I sweat. Grunt.
I’m not pretty.
And I don’t care.
Later, seven of us are out for a drink.
“Leanne,” the instructor calls across the table, “I’ll bet this round that you have a big brother.”
“Yup,” I answer, taking a sip of my beer. “A 6’4″ one. How’d you know?”
“Did you used to wrestle with him?”
“All the time. If he pinned me, he’d tickle me until I begged for mercy or cried. I usually lost,” I say. “He’s 8 years older.”
“I knew it,” he says. “You can’t teach ground fighting instinct like that.”
Weeks later, at another post-sweat pub session, I speak about missing the next class because I’m going back to the farm for an extended Christmas vacation.
“You grew up on a farm?” my instructor asks.
“I did.”
“Did you work on it?
“Oh ya,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “No animals, though. Just grain.”
The instructor smiles. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” I ask.
“You.”
It isn’t until years later, when I’ve been away from the farm long enough, that I realize this is a compliment.
The farm and an older brother: two formative influences.
Photo credit: Tim Reisdorf
*
What events, settings, or people have formed who you are?
I was raised by my grandparents. They are simple folk with simply pragmatic values. I’m a hard-headed devil, so after many mishaps and acts of stupidity, it was the simple and pragmatic values that they instilled quietly in me that saved me from self-destruction.
Great post, Leanne 🙂
Simple and pragmatic are all too rare qualities; however, I’m not surprised at all that you possess them. 🙂
What a wonderful and well-told story!
I was raised moving all over the country by wild gypsy-like parents.
Now there’s a memoir waiting to be written!
Can take the girl off the farm but can’t take the farm out of the girl…
You know it!
I too have an older brother. and yes, he did teach me great fighting skills. and how to shotgun a beer in 3 seconds flat. two very important life lessons i use on pretty much a daily basis. kinda like calculus and chemistry.
Despite knowing this reply is tongue in cheek, I am getting lots of amusement trying to imagine a lifestyle in which all four of calculus, chemistry, hand to hand combat, and shotgunning beer were daily activities.
Laughing at (I mean “with”) you both. My brother also taught me to shoot a shot gun…
In a certain video game, there is a scene you just reminded me of, in which character A is annoying character B by asking B if she does not miss their long conversations about her health and history (in the prior game in the series). It ends with this exchange:
A: But it was an opportunity to share.
B: This conversation is over.
A: Tell me again about your immune system.
B: I have a shotgun.
A: *pauses* Maybe we’ll talk later.
Leanne!
Gorgeous! I bet you and I could have a serious throw down. You’d be much faster about getting me down, but I would go on and on forever, #iykwim.
Trust me, I know what you mean…
This story explains you to a tee. Take that as a compliment. Tough, practical and caring. What a great combo.
Aww. I’m almost blushing. It could be the wine, though. 🙂
I grew up on Nintendo and had two older sisters. I think that explains me now that you tell your story. So how far did ya go with judo?
Just imagine what you would have been like without your sisters?! The horror! 😉
Fantastic! Who knew all those wrestling matches with your brother would bring such kudos later in life?
True enough…
I grew up playing with my younger brother and the two boys down the road (we lived in the country too). We spent hours playing various sports, running through the woods, riding bikes and sliding down hills on toboggans. When we weren’t doing that, the boys were unwilling actors in plays that I wrote that we performed in the back yard for our parents. Summer mornings were spent picking whatever was in season for pocket money…afternoons, we delivered the daily newspaper. We got up early, and went to bed early too. I continue to do that today, and my kids think I’m nuts when I tell them I had my first job at age 10.
Wendy
Somehow, Wendy, none of that surprises me about you. “Salt of the earth” comes to mind. 🙂
I’m a city boy with three older sisters. I’m really good at hiding.
Great post, Leanne!
Ouch. Three older sisters. I bet you’re good at hiding!
Hi from a wimp who doesn’t know how to catch or throw a football (or baseball), hit, run correctly, grunt, wrestle, or do any of the dirty work taught to girls by older brothers.
I want some of that ground fighting instinct, but I only had sisters.
Great post. (-:
Thanks
I’m sure you have a lot of other skills, though. I’d be interested in hearing about life with lots of sisters!
Great post, Leanne.
It’s interesting to see how our lives shape us in ways that we may not notice; but others certainly do.
Thanks, Christian. So true. I used to think being called a “farmer” was an insult. I’m rewriting that proverbial chapter.
Heh. That’s awesome. (I was a farmgirl in the summers only – and when we had chickenpox as kids. It was awesome.)
Well, Nat, you’re getting enough outdoors now to be an honourary farmer!
A compliment indeed, I would say. Along with lessons in life that I wish more kids could experience.
Yes…including my spawn.
I am the youngest of five children to immigrant parents. We were too Portuguese to be normal Americans, but too American to be real Portuguese. I was born after my four siblings had already sort of paired off, and so I ended up left to my devices on a fairly regular basis (though we have always had a blast when we do all get together). I have 3 sisters and only 1 brother, and we all knew how to both stand up for ourselves but also know when we were outnumbered. We all spent tons of time in the woods behind the house, making our own entertainment.
I think this all explains a lot about me – how I have never felt like I quite belonged anywhere and so I’ve learned to just quietly go my own way. 🙂
I thik that never quite belong is indeed common among second generation kids. There is a certain freedom to being comfortable with being different without letting it get you bitter. 🙂 I’ve got a friend who’s still very torn between her parents’ culture and American culture.
Great points. I can’t speak much to second generation kids, but when I taught overseas, I did a fair bit of research on Third Culture Kids, children who grow up outside their home culture. It’s interesting stuff, that’s for sure.
Well told. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks, M.
My dad was a high school coach, and he used to give wrestling lessons to my older brother and his friends in our basement.
This was well before the days that respectable girls could wrestle on teams, but I joined in some of the time.
One day I beat a neighbor boy who was a bit older than me.
Strange. I never got wrestling lessons again.
Jodi
You didn’t need them, Jodi! Well done…
This is beyond awesome. AND it makes me slightly resentful that I grew up in a boring tract house with one sister who was 16 months younger than I.
On the upside, I learned to read a lot of Judy Blume.
On the downside, pretty much EVERYONE can kick my ass.
But either way, I do really like grain.
A lot.
I like these glimpses into your pysche! Great post.
I now realize the reason I got a B in self-defense was that I was raised in the suburbs and my brothers didn’t wrestle with me.
Can I just “Ditto” Julie Gardner? Because between the two of you, I can’t type for giggling…