Letters from the Front

I've posted before about the importance of women learning to defend themselves. It's not something I take lightly. In the year since I took my first full-force self defense class, I've become fully committed to the cause; to EVERY woman getting that her life is worth defending. I had one of my final training sessions today in preparation to become a full-fledged teacher of full-force. In the new year, I will teach at a local high school. I am honored to be able to instill these amazing skills in a new generation of young women.

Another sister out in the trenches with me is the indomitable, charismatic activist/writer Ellen Snortland. She sends this missive to the defense community today:

Lessons Learned
A would-be sexual predator tangles with the wrong girl
By Ellen Snortland

My strong suit is persistence. Even though I'm a nationally known self-defense advocate, it's still embarrassing to pick up that phone one more time to plead with friends: "Hi, me again. There's another self-defense class coming up. How about it?"I have friends I've contacted for 15 years, every year. I don't get paid nor do I get a free toaster oven for referring students. What I get is the utter joy of knowing that I can possibly avert injury, maybe even — heaven forbid — death for people I care about. Indeed, there was an assault at a gay bar in Pasadena several months ago that a dear friend finally told me about. I'm going to call her Wendy Whoop-ass because although hers is a story of victory, not victimhood, she's still reluctant to have her name or the name of the bar publicized. I'd pestered Ms. Whoop-ass for four years to take a full-force, full-impact class — which she finally did. So while this is a self-defense "success story," it's also a cautionary tale.

Many women have discovered over the years that gay men's bars provide a place for dithering, dancing and drinking the night away without constantly having to deal with being hit on by men. Nights out at a gay bar are kind of like having your beefcake without the bullying. This story erodes that assumption of safety.

Ms. Whoop-ass was dancing her ass off with a guy she assumed was "safe." She then went to the ladies' room. She was in her stall when she heard the door to the bathroom open. She heard a man's steps, looked down and saw the tips of black cowboy boots sticking into her stall. (What is it with men, toes and stalls, anyway?) Then the toe tips disappeared and the outside door opened and closed. Tipsy herself, she finished, opened her stall door and stepped out toward the sinks. That's when she saw the man she'd been dancing with standing with his back against the bathroom door to keep her from leaving."Now I'm going to fuck you," he said as he grabbed her shoulders and threw her up against the paper towel dispenser where she hit her head hard.

That's when her fury and training kicked in despite her blood-alcohol level.

She remembers that he ended up on the floor not moving. She left the bar and called them later to tell them about the attack. She then went into a funk for a couple of months, not really realizing that she'd "won."Why didn't she tell me right away? I am her self-defense "fairy godmother," after all. I needed to know that her class had worked to give me strength to keep encouraging my other friends (for however long it takes) to get them into classes too. Her class at Impact Personal Safety was 20 hours that had really paid off. Their basics class gives students confidence, physical and verbal boundary skills and the ability to "open a can of whoop-ass" on an attacker. (They have men's classes also. Men get assaulted and raped too.)

"I was embarrassed because I'd had too much to drink. I'm also upset that I let him get as far as I did. He shouldn't have gotten a chance to throw me up against the wall," she explained.

"Excuse me? You successfully prevented your own rape and you're upset at yourself for not having done it perfectly?" I asked. This was a new angle on "blaming the victor." She laughed. Hers is a success story if I ever heard one. This training works! Did she have any memory of what she did?

"I think I went for his eyes first, and then kicked him in the crotch, but it all happened so fast. I just wanted to get away," she said.

I got into the field of self-protection because I too had my "it could never happen to me" denial shattered once and for all by an encounter with violence that was unrelated to gender. I too prevailed. I began to research just how many "success" stories there are and how they often go unreported by the victim and or the media. Success stories by their very nature mean that an attempted crime was stopped. Unfortunately, we learn to be more afraid from hearing stories of completed crimes than we do of attempted crimes where something the intended victim did worked after all.Wendy Whoop-ass' would-be predator is smart. Was he a straight, bi or gay rapist? Rape is a crime of violence, not totally sexual attraction, so who knows what his orientation is? Wendy Whoop-ass is now on the road of persistence with me. She calls her friends every time there's a new cycle of classes and says, "Hi, me again. There's another self-defense class coming up. How about it?"

Ellen Snortland is the author of "Beauty Bites Beast." Contact her at: www.snortland.com .

Party of Three

Cabo, Part 2

Cabo is no longer the bargain it once was. It’s pretty much like being in an American colony. It’s like Palm Springs with an ocean. Price-wise, you might as well be in Tokyo.

My boyfriend joined my dad and I several days after our bumpy arrival and we were horrified to discover that our lunch of two quesadillas and two margaritas cost us $70. But then Dad’s favorite trip pastime is to moan about “how much more the food costs this year.” Thanksgiving traditions are important. This year saw some shifts in ours.

This was the second time I’d brought a boyfriend with us. But this time was vastly different from the last time. Last time, dad and I had known the guy was on his way out. That time Cabo was a final try in a relationship that had been sliding downward for some time. Dad had known that, despite the presence of a boyfriend, he was still my number one guy.

This year – this boyfriend - was different. This one wasn’t sliding. This one wasn’t making me miserable. Dad knew this one loved and adored me. Like he did. We three sat on the beach where silence and book-reading replaced the engaging, get-to-know-you conversations I had envisioned. It was, in a word, uncomfortable.

Despite my best efforts to get things rolling with conversation topics of things I knew they had in common, it felt like we were all floundering, wondering how we all fit. And the truth was I didn’t know the answer.

In the past, I’ve been fortunate enough to go on many exciting jaunts around the world with my dad.

“I’m sure lucky you’re still single and can go with me!” Dad always chirps.

Yeah. Me…too. Of course, I’m grateful for the travel opportunities and to spend time with a wonderful individual like my dad. But like any single girl who dreams of marriage, it feels like a back-handed compliment; ‘good thing you’re still such a loser!’

At the same time, it’s been the prevailing dynamic for the better part of my life. My parents divorced when I was three. At five mom remarried. At nine I moved to San Francisco to live with my dad. It’s pretty much been the two of us ever since. Through the teen years I was naturally convinced he was the biggest asshole on the planet. But as I finally matured through college and after, we developed a very close friendship. I know I am his number one girl and, one engagement aside, he’s always been my number one guy. Faced with the real possibility of that dynamic changing, we’re all a bit off balance.

Dad left the beach on our last day feeling like a third wheel despite my best efforts to set aside time just for us two. I was wracked with guilt for somehow failing to be a dutiful daughter, a good girlfriend and get my two primary men to be best buds.

Safely back in LA where the quesadillas cost a few bucks like they’re supposed to, I moped around my boyfriend’s house.

“Honey, it’ll all work out,” he comforts me.

While I feel it’s partly up to me to create a new dynamic that works for everyone concerned I know it’s up to dad to come to grips with me leaving the metaphoric nest.

As for me, the best adjustment I can make is grounding myself in that there is no number one. There is just love. And plenty to go around.

No Thanks (Giving)

Cabo, Part 1

“Sorry again for the delay, folks. We’ve just gotten word that there was a baggage problem. Apparently a suitcase burst open and the guys are trying to put it back together before we can shut the cargo door.”

The passengers on our flight to Cabo collectively groaned. We’d been stuck at the gate for over an hour. Everyone knew it was their bag.

But the thing was I knew it was ours. That’s the kind of day it was.

We’d gotten to the airport late thanks to an unannounced off-ramp closure off the 405. In truth we’d been there in time to make the flight but the check-in counter folks debated about letting us through security so long we’d missed it. This set off a mad chase to find another flight leaving that day. After running back and forth between terminals 4 and 6 at LAX several times, the reluctant Alaska folks had finally issued a ticket credit American could accept and we were booked on the next American flight. Which was then delayed two hours. Which then sat at the gate for an hour.

Dad and I spend every Thanksgiving in Cabo. It’s a lovely turkey-free tradition. Every year there is some nuttiness at the airport. Oddly, it usually it involves a frazzled mom screaming at me though I am just standing there. As this year's airport ick mounted, I thought I’d rather have endured another unearned screaming than this craziness, and whole day without sunshine.

Seven hours after our scheduled arrival, we landed. And sat on the Mexican tarmac for another hour. Finally, as night fell and we lost an entire beach day, we collected dad’s bag from baggage claim – indeed the burst-open culprit.

We arrived at the hotel to find they’d given our room away and instead put us under the rooftop restaurant which meant no sleep until after they closed at 11pm…or after they opened for cleaning at 5am daily. Sometimes you wonder if you should just stay home. Or, if you’re us, you take the absurdity and run with it.

Making coffee that morning, we found a gigantic spider. I’m talking tarantula proportions. Brown and hairy and thankfully rather dazed. Dad gleefully bagged the furry friend in the Ziplock that until moments before had contained my cranberry snacks. Still in his PJs, he donned the hotel robe and dashed from the room.

After a few minutes the door opened. “Pack up, we’re changing rooms,” he reported.

It seems he’d marched up to the concierge and dumped the spider from the bag onto her desk causing the lobby to erupt in screams. Some even scrambled for cover.

“Was that necessary?” I asked.

“We got a better room.”

“Just because we found a spider in the kitchen?”

“Well. I told them I woke up with it on my pillow.” I swear there was a gleeful glint in his eye.

You had to admire a little creative mayhem from a parent known for practicality.