A Girl Needs to Know How to Defend Herself
By Karen Krueger
There was never any doubt that my dad loved his daughters but his desire to have a son manifested itself by his insistence in teaching us "boy things." Boxing was one of those things. He considered it a necessary skill for girls.
The lessons took place in the garage or his workroom, away from the disapproving eyes of my mother. Boxing wasn't something girls did and she reminded dad of this often. My dad, instructor, punching bag and sparring partner, watched for times when we could sneak in a lesson. I learned to dodge, duck, jab, fake with left, hit with right, fake with right, hit with left and deliver a nasty uppercut. I practiced in front of a mirror. I was Jack Dempsey and I couldn't wait to try out my new skills.
My chance came the spring of sixth grade. I was the only girl in my neighborhood, except for my prissy niece, three months younger than me, who wore dresses and played Barbies. Not me, I hung with the guys, Erich and Carl Belz, who lived one house down from mine. Carl was the closest to my age. He was a big 7th grader and a bully who liked to pick on smaller kids and girls, though he pretty much left me alone.
The fight happened one morning while we were waiting at the bus stop. I don't recall how it started, but I remember how it ended. I faked with a left and jabbed with my right, my fist landing, just as daddy taught me, squarely into Carls' right eye. In the speed of a punch I became a hero that day.
Word got around I had punched out the school bully. Congratulations came in the form of gum, candy and cuts in line. His brother even picked me up at school that day in his car and took me for ice cream. I was pretty full of myself, a legend in my own mind, until I got home. Mom met me at the door with her hands on her hips and a dish towel thrown over her shoulder. You're a girl," she explained. "Girls don't hit, girls don't fight and for that matter girls don't do anything boys do." She told me it was high time that I adjusted to being a girl and that I should spend time playing with my niece, who was a fine example of a girl, instead of those boys, one of which I was not! She sent me to my room until my "father" came home. As I walked by I heard her questioning God about not giving her a boy to keep her husband from ruining her girls. When my dad got home she dished him the same lecture I'd had plus seconds for teaching me to box.
Dinner was quiet that evening. While mom finished the dishes dad and I retreated to his workroom. I saw the smile on his face as I recited my embellished story and reenacted my moves in the air. He said that even though the kid had had it coming, I should, for my moms' sake, apologize to him. He also added, "there is nothing a boy can do that you can't. It's just gonna be a little harder, because you are a girl."
I only boxed one more time after that. Dad walked by me, turned, and "put up his dukes." I instinctively responded with a fake and a jab, he bobbed forward a little farther than I anticipated. My fist connected. The soft tip of his nose collapsed back into the hard bone of his face. Blood poured from his nose. I stood frozen as he ran for the bathroom. My hand throbbed but I didn't move to rub it. Mom came to my fathers' first aid. As she walked past she said quietly, "Wouldn't want to be you right now."
I was still frozen in place when he finally came out. My Dad was not prone to fits of anger, nor was he in the habit of punishing me, but then I'd never punched him in the face before. Mom watched as I was escorted to the garage and placed in the car. We headed toward town in silence. I glanced at him but he kept his eyes forward in a stonefaced stare. I lowered my eyes and stared at my bruising knuckles. The car slowed, made a turn and stopped. The Dairy Queen? He winked as he told me I could have anything I wanted! Just don't tell mom, she thought we were having a serious chat. He told me how impressed he was that his little girl could throw a punch like that, even told the guy at the counter as he pointed to his nose and my fist.
My urge to box died that day. It wasn't fun anymore. Dad must have understood as well, for he never asked me to put up my dukes again, he started treating me more like a girl, and he quit calling me "lil Jackie D" but he never quit telling me there was nothing I couldn't do.