Just a Little Bit More...

Ch2: Karate's Code

When I was nearing six, my Mami was especially ecstatic in having me participate in more sporty activities. And what better yet than to force your daughter into karate classes?

It was difficult for me at first. I was a bit on the louder and aloof side, and although I tried my best to talk to the other students, I never really stayed on the same level as them. My mentor, whose name had slipped past my mind over the years, was patient with me and my uselessness. There was also the reason that I wasn't attending the practices as much.

And that, to be fair, wasn't even my fault. It was my parents'.

I scarcely remember the arguments. All I could really visualize was the shrill of anger and the yells of frustration. It's weird for a child sometimes. One day everything seems continuous and consistent, and to us, consistency is like the physics of our childlike reality. Take a child their ice cream cone away, and they bawl. Take a child out of their routine, and they cry. Take me away from the harmony of my family life, and I sob.

Sometimes I didn't really understand what I was crying for. I just knew that something was wrong. And my five year old brain wasn't able to really compute anything other than that something was changing, perhaps for worse. And arguably may something was changing terribly for my family life, but perhaps amazingly for my parents.

One thing kids don't really learn how to understand is that their parent's decisions aren't always aligned with a child's wants. Which is normal, people want happiness, peace and sometimes freedom. By removing something or bringing in something else.

But under the cozy blankets of my Little Mermaid bedsheet, I would sob, loudly as my personality always was. But they often didn't hear me. They couldn't have with their concentration being so intensely focused on their tantrums.

I remember bleakly staring out the window of My Mom's minivan, my eyes barely able to climb over the sill that housed the power window controls. My fingers bobbed boredly over the glowing up and down window buttons. We were at a red light, and the grey clouds cried a bit over all the cars; droplets forming a race over my visage of the glass.

My Mom tapped the turn signal to the left, the faint clicking sound humming dronely in the air. Then we sped off, instead making a u-turn from the direction we were originally going to go. She bit her nails before sighing a bit.

"Mami, what about karate?"

"No, not today Lailah. Today isn't a good day."

"But, my teacher keeps saying that if I miss, I'll never be able to be better!"

"No. We can't."

"But Mami!"

"Lailah shut up! Quiet girl! I said no!"

And I whimpered a bit and recoiled further into the corner of the passenger seat. She had snapped at me, and although I should have felt relieved that I didn't have to attend something I didn't want to, I certainly didn't feel pleasant about it.

I was too infantile to properly bridge the thought, but now that I'm older I know how to perfectly describe it. That terrible feeling of being forced into something by the tightening control of your parents, only for them to deny you the possibility of improving. Just to add salt to a wound.

We went back to the house, and my Mom shut the door heavily, the lock swaying loudly over the metal frame of the handle. She stormed off into her room without even turning on the lights, leaving me in total darkness; darkness that closed in from every angle.

The small shine of light that did pass by came from the curtained window, whose light grey aura illuminated my way to the nearest light switch. I tiptoed but I still couldn't reach. I stumbled into the kitchen, my pudgy hands tapping cautiously over the sides of the wall. I found my plastic step stool that I used to wash my hands over the sink, and grabbing it, I brought it over to the light switch.

With my own efforts, I turned the light switch on, casting out the darkness for most of the area. But still, I had only turned on one light, while the corners of black in the room still stalked along. They would close in again, my premature cognition of science thought out, they would close again when I turn off the light. And then nothing would have changed.

I went to my room, and I pressed the large belly button of my huge, blocky T.V, whose olive glass light up with a scratchy and fuzzy view of a favorite show of mine: Spongebob. The way he managed to constantly be optimistic and somewhat determinant for his simple lifestyle, often made me happy.

When he would laugh in his annoyingly, nasally voice, I would too. When he felt cheated or disrespected, I would be angry with him. But there was something about tonight, that I couldn't quite understand. I wasn't laughing. I wasn't getting angry. He would laugh along his equally dumb, pink, best friend, but I couldn't laugh.

The window began to cling and clang with bits of rain plopping all over it like a volley of pressurized water. Mud and dirt began to spike off and stain itty-bitty splotches on the window before being chased away by a tail of water.

The window, an opportunity, an escape. An escape from what? Well, my mind was too naive and small to properly address. Maybe an escape from the 'bad feeling', or maybe even an escape from the tantrums. Or perhaps an escape from the chain that my parents put on me.

But even if I went out the window and flew out into the world, the stormy weather would knock and strip off my toddler feathers, crippling me of my wings. So I stayed put, like a good girl. Like a good pet.

That night, my Dad brought me some chocolates. I ate them joyfully, but the smile dissipated as soon as the sweets were gone. Adults have a curious view on children. They think that they're mindless animals so easily taken care of with sugar-like using treats as some sort of drug to calm us down. To calm our emotions away. But it didn't work. Maybe in the moment, but not in the long run.

The arguments started again over and over for a couple of months. After school, my Mom would continue her agitation. My Dad would come home after several jobs— he worked many to keep us afloat, with a tired expression of frustration.

I rarely heard what the shouting was about. All I knew was that at some point my Dad lost his calm demeanor and let loose. That was the only time I paid attention. Most of the time, I hid under the blankets, staring at my wonderful friend Spongebob. His blue eyes conveyed a kindness that was recently lacking in my Dad's. But his laughs couldn't contagiously catch onto me now. I just stared with an expression I could only remember as empty.

After a couple more months of the same daily routine, I had gone back to the dojo. It was my first time in a while, which coincidentally was also the day for evaluations, specifically in my class to get the yellow belt.

Yells and applaud echoed in the hall, all with camera flashes coupled with excited jolts from parents. Today, both my parents decided to behave as they nested nearby with my grandparents. They looked to me slightly encouraging yet still with worry in their eyes.

My classmates excelled, and some of them performed majestical feats of physical prowess. I was impressed, and honestly quite intimidated. Then it was my turn to go on the mat. My teacher and other judges stood watching.

I was frozen, unable to move. The audience watched in silent cringe, or perhaps horror, or maybe even embarrassment. I could hear some adults await with bated breath.

I didn't pass, and my teacher scolded me for my lack of practice and diligence. My parents tried to object as to why I shouldn't have passed, but they were dismissed.

On the car ride home, the weather had worsened as it began to drizzle. Cars slid around in a way that made me angsty. My parents rambled on with increasing volume, as well as increasing fury. For once they had seemed to agree on something, their distaste and anger against the karate dojo; although unjustified anger.

But the more they ranted, the more squirmish I felt. They were disappointed in the way my performance was handled, and that alone pissed them off. But in the mind of a child, and in the eyes of a present adult, it seemed that my parents had finally agreed that they were angry in me, vicariously through the dojo and the reception of my performance.