Pronoun Problems: A Novel About Friendship, Transgender and (eventually) Ninjas

41 - Legs For Days

August, 2011

When we think about change, we tend to see it as a choice we make for ourselves. We hear it all the time in the language of pop psychology: Self-improvement, personal growth, individual transformation, Deepak Chopra. But the truth is that whether we mean to or not, change is also something we foist on others. One person's change becomes everybody's change, the inevitable and often painful collision of kinesis and stasis, new revelations and old wisdom, complacency and expectancy. This was one of the many things (well, three things) that I learned when Tom's transformation knocked me off-axis. Change is not just a quiet private personal journey. Change, my friends, is a contact sport.

In my case this was demonstrated quite literally, in the form of my new Ninja avocation. Although Sensei Gilbert hated when people used the word sport in reference to what he taught. Mixed Martial Arts is a sport, he would insist. We are a battle art. Either way, there was definitely plenty of contact, and I had the bruises to prove it.

(And for any MMA practitioners who are offended by what they've read and want to prove how tough their "sport" is by kicking my ass, let me say two things. First, I'm a fifty-something middle-aged overweight arthritic Jew. Of course you can kick my ass. It would be sad if you couldn't. Second, since when do MMA practitioners know how to read?)

Anyway, it is strange to think that were it not for Tom's transition, I probably never would have walked into Sensei Gilbert's dojo. Which, at least early on, would have been more than fine with him. I was a fan of Sensei Gilbert, but he could barely tolerate me. He thought I was obstinate, contrary and reckless. He was a perceptive guy, but I believed he misread my intentions, mistaking incompetence for intransigence.

Although I did accidentally break Darian's foot, dropping knee first onto his instep approximately three seconds after Sensei pointedly told me not to drop knee first for this exact reason. So maybe he did have a point.

(Darian, it must be noted, embraced his broken foot as an opportunity to further his training. Who knows? he said, The day might come when I have to face an opponent one-footed. Thanks to you, I'll be ready! Darien was hard core.)

Overall though — Sensei's annoyance and Darian's crushed metatarsals notwithstanding — Sherman Oaks Martial Arts was doing for me what I hoped it would. Restoring some sense of balance to my life. Taking the edge off of my stress. Both of those things would be especially important on this particular day. Because after class I would go home, shower, get changed and, finally, meet Tamara for the first time.

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She drove past our kitchen window and then turned into the carport. Cookie, as usual, was flipping out.

I took a loud, theatrical breath."Here we go," I said to Samantha.

"You can do this,"she said, making light of my apprehension, but not unkindly. "Be strong."

I smiled and raised a power fist, then walked outside to greet Tamara, closing the door behind me to keep Cookie from running out onto the driveway.

"Good morning!" I said, affecting a casual air.

"How's it going?" she said, doing the same.

Tamara was wearing a a floral print wrap dress. Shades of purple, splashes of white, a smattering of mint. She had oversized movie star sunglasses that were pushed up on her forehead and dangly gold earrings that matched her jingly gold bracelets. Her pedicured toes sparkled through open-toed sandals. (Her fingernails, however, were still unpainted and would remain that way until she finally came out publicly.) Her makeup struck me as overdone. Inexpertly applied lipstick, heavy-handed eye shadow and too much blush, reminiscent of my teenage daughters' early works.