A Quest for Peace and Quiet

Where can a woman go to read a book?

By Mongoose750 (mongoose750@yahoo.com)

In a deserted gym, a father was spending time teaching his ten-year-old daughter.

"Dad, I still don't understand; why do I need to learn this?"

"Well honey, someday you may run into people who will try to put their hands on you where they don't belong."

"But I get along with everybody, dad."

"For now. In the future, there may be boys out there who will want to put their hands on you where they don't belong."

"Boys? Eww!"

"I knew I'd hit on something. It's a rough world, baby, and as much as we would want to, mom and dad won't always be there to protect you. So I'm teaching you how to protect yourself."

"I understand. So how long will I have to learn this?"

"You'll know all the techniques and their basic uses in two years under my instruction. By the time you enter high school, you'll be a master. No bully or anyone who has sense will want to mess with you. When you are sixteen, you're free to practice a martial art of your choosing. Until then, this will keep you safe."

"Daddy, did you ever have to use this chin pa-'"

"Chin na."

"-chin na against anybody?"

"Only a few times, but it worked."

"What about mommy?"

"Quite a few times, and it worked very well."

"Really? How'd you know?"

"Because she used it on me."

"She did?"

"Yeah, we were on a date, and-" the father found himself turning red, "you'll understand when you get older. Anyway, one day daddy was very bad and mommy punished him ' let's leave it at that. Anyway, I wanted to learn what it was, and I begged her to teach me. She taught me, I taught others, and now I'm teaching you. Now no more questions, let's get started."

Since her father started teaching her the art of chin na, it had been very effective in Daya Coffman's life. In middle and high school, she used it to subdue five bullies, several women who wanted to beat her up just because she existed, and a multitude of boys either on dates or otherwise who didn't understand the meaning of "no."

Chin na, meaning "seize lock" in Chinese, was an aspect of nearly all kung fu styles. It's a system of seizing and catching joints, tendons, and ligaments to control and opponent. At its most devastating, it also included joint breaks, throws, chokes, and pressure point attacks. With the proper training, a child could easily snap an adult's wrist, for example. After being employed in kung fu for thousands of years, someone painstakingly took the entire chin na techniques, and made it a discipline all its own.

Daya was a black woman with dark skin, shoulder length wavy black hair, and a 5'6' plus-sized pear-shaped build. She participated in basketball, threw the javelin in track, and was well liked by most everyone. Everyone except the punks and would-be Romeos, but after hearing of how with a twist of a hand, she sent the largest people in school to their knees, they gave her a wide berth.

When she turned fourteen, Daya and two of her friends went around shopping for another martial art to practice besides her chin na (because of her expertise, she was able to talk her parents into seeking another discipline a few years early). While chin na was simple, effective, and very versatile, not to mention not physically demanding, she wanted something with a little more movement to it.

After looking at a few studios, the trio finally stopped at an aikido dojo. The instructor explained to them how his style was slightly different from the norm. He explained while aikido as a general rule didn't use very many blows, his particular style used elbow strikes and forearm smashes. Daya observed what some of the practitioners wore along with their white gi, a black uniform that looked like a skirt.

"What kind of outfits are those?" She asked.

The instructor then explained what the skirt-like outfit was. It was called a hakama.

"Only black belts can wear those, however," he said.

"Very well, I'll join," she replied. Her friends, also impressed, followed suit.

Later, on their way home, the three told what they liked about what they saw. Daya's answer stunned the other two.

"You signed up for classes because you liked the uniforms?" One of them said in shock.

"Yeah; you saw those black skirts? They were so long, no one could see your footwork."

"Yeah," the other friend agreed.

"And no one could see your feet either."

"Oh," both friends groaned.

For Daya hated shoes. However, to coexist with a shoe-wearing world without having to always defend herself, she would either grudgingly wear them, kicking them off at first opportunity, or more often hid her feet with long skirts or long pants almost bell-bottom, flared at the leg, so no one could tell, unless they dared to look underneath. By the time Daya received her black belt, a little sooner than most, she adapted the aikido uniform style into her regular wardrobe: a blouse, T-shirt or sweater, depending on the weather, a long flowing skirt allowing for plenty of movement, and no shoes. In public, sometimes one can see a small smile of contentment on Daya's face, mainly because she was enjoying her secret pleasure, and no one would know, except her close friends who sometimes went barefoot with her.

After high school, the trio attended college not too far away from home. For Daya, it seemed a little like high school. Some man would hit on her, she would say no, then she would have to empathize that point with a nerve pinch or a new aikido throw. Aside from being with her friends, sports, and a few social functions, she liked to be left alone.

One day, Daya went to a new coffeehouse, or rather one new to her; she wanted to go someplace different. After she ordered a scone and some herbal tea, she pulled her paperback book out of her purse and began to read. Her close friends were in class, and there wasn't anything else going on, so it was just she and the author. She wore a sleeveless black T-shirt, and a long red skirt that covered her bare feet. Those same feet that she rested on the booth in front of her.

Unknown to Daya, the coffeehouse she was in received a steady stream of skinheads from time to time. The ones that came in noticed this black woman sitting at her booth, then utter an ethnic slur or joke; but none of them came between Daya and her book. Finally, Daya put down her book, and took a final bite of her scone. After she finished and planned to pick her book up again, a female face suddenly popped up beside her.

"Hello Daya. Remember me?" She said.

"Er, no, I don't," Daya replied.

"I'm Deborah, I was Michael's girlfriend. You know, the one you hurt two weeks ago?"

"Okay, I remember him."

"That was a nasty thing you did. I didn't like that at all."

"Hey, he was the one who was hitting on me. I told him I wasn't interested."

"You hurt his arm!"

"Not that bad; he should've got the feeling back in it by now. Maybe he knows now that when someone says "no,' they mean it. And he shouldn't pinch people's butts."

"Well it doesn't matter now, he's history. I have a new boyfriend now; he's better," Deborah said with a grin.

"Good for you!"

"Yes. Come here, Wolfgang, honey."

"Wolfgang?" Daya said almost aloud.

The 5'7" brunette with shoulder-length brown hair and a slim figure, was joined by a six-foot man with a shaved scalp that glistened in the sunlight and the lights of the coffeehouse, enough tattoos on his arms to advertise for any tattoo parlor in town, and more metal on his face than Daya and Deborah had on their hands, ears, and toes combined (Daya wore an ankle bracelet and toe rings). He sneered at Daya.

"After I found out what you did to Michael, I dropped him and found a real man. Wolfgang, has shown me his manhood, and the glories of white supremacy; not to mention what you people have done to this country," Deborah said.

This is better? Daya thought. Out loud, she said, "So what have I ' scratch that ' what have "my people' done to you?"

"Oh a little bit of everything, including take our jobs."

"That's funny, I thought my ancestors were originally brought over here to do your jobs."

As the couple digested that remark and attempted to come back with a reply, Daya said, "Look, you're happier, that's cool." Actually it wasn't, but Daya's mom told her a long time ago never to argue with fools, and she was looking at a pair.

"Well what would make me happy is Wolfgang doing a little of that "ethnic cleansing' he's been wanting to do for a while. Take care of her, honey."

As expected, the coffeehouse grew silent. Daya didn't have any qualms in leaving, but Wolfgang blocked her way out, and even if she did leave, he didn't figure Wolfgang as the type you turned your back on. So she stayed in her seat staring at Wolfgang.

The skinhead drew himself up to his full height, which was three inches taller than Deborah, and said in an authoritative voice, "Time to take you out, nigahhh!"

He placed a hand on Daya's shoulder, to which she responded by placing her hand on his, and grasped his pinky finger. Wolfgang was sent to his knees.

"Her last boyfriend made the same mistake; do not touch me," she said.

Five men, fellow skinheads, rose from the table to help their fallen comrade. Daya sighed. The biggest number of opponents she fought once was four during her sophomore year of high school. She was victorious, but it got messy, leaving a few dislocated joints, twisted muscles, and broken bones behind. She feared the parents of the bullies would be successful in suing her family for damages and medical bills. The judge laughed, gave a thumbs up to Daya, and praised her parents for teaching her how to take care of herself. This case might still be messy, but this time, she had another discipline to help her.

Using the other hand, she closed her book and placed it in her purse. Being careful to step over Wolfgang, she left her seat to stand out in the aisle. Finally, she released Wolfgang's pinky finger, leaving the skinhead to shake feeling back into it and bend it to make sure it still worked.

"All right then; let's get this over with," Daya sighed.

"Get her!" Wolfgang sneered, working his pinky back and forth.

The lead thug wasted no time, flicking open a switchblade and advancing on the black woman. Daya saw this as an opportunity to try out a move that combined both disciplines. Sidestepping the lunge, she grasped the skinhead's wrist, converting his action into a throw. But as she did so, she squeezed a nerve on his arm. As Daya threw him in front of the four men, he landed stunned, disarmed, and with a numb arm.

"I can't feel my arm!" He squealed. The knife fell from his numb fingers, and he shook the arm franticly to restore feeling back into it.

Cool, it works, Daya thought as she used another aikido throw to slam her next opponent on his back, stunning him. She remembered her dad telling her that chin na can be used with practically any martial art discipline, especially those that use grappling. The remaining three men hesitated before attacking. In the space of maybe a minute, this black chick took out three of them. Deborah was frantic.

"What are you waiting for, get her!" She demanded.

Wolfgang rose, realizing his pinky will work after all, and the man with the switchblade remembered he had another arm to continue his attack. That was unfortunate, because he would again be the victim of Daya's attack. Daya grabbed his left arm (his good arm), and pulled it straight across her chest. She then bent forward, ducking a right punch from Wolfgang. The knife man screamed this time as Daya stood up and tripped him with a foot sweep. He now had a dislocated arm to match his numb one. Wolfgang received a forearm uppercut that caused him to trip over one of his downed men, and sent him to the floor in front of the three remaining attackers.

One of those three ran across the tables for an aerial attack while the other two circled around the long way to reach Daya. The first man leaped from the tables. Daya just sidestepped, and he hit the floor, more precisely, Wolfgang and the knife guy. Another man grabbed Daya from behind, where she countered by grabbing the fleshly part between the thumb and index finger of his right hand and squeezed. A blaring pain roared through the man's being, accompanied by a growing numbness crawling up his arm. Daya swung the howling man in front of her to use as a shield to fend off the last attacker. While he was trying to move around his friend, Daya grabbed his right arm and struck the shoulder blade area with her right forearm, taking care not to strike too hard. The man suddenly had problems breathing, and sunk down to his knees gasping for air.

The floor of the caf# was covered with the five attackers, one crying over his dislocated and numb arm, another knocked out by his aerial attempt, another with a numb arm, another one on the ground gasping for breath, and another that finally rose from being thrown. That is until Daya took the leathery sole of her left foot, and kicked him in the head as she walked by. The few bystanders and the waitress, a slim woman with long blond hair, who were normally used to these occurrences, were quietly still. Wolfgang stood near his buddies swearing in German. Deborah was next to him screaming encouragement. He looked at Daya and swore at her using a few German words.

"You know, I took German, and I am offended by what you said," Daya said. "I'd ask you to apologize, but I'll just settle for you and your goons to stop attacking me."

"Get her!" Deborah yelled.

"If you want her so bloody much, then you get her," one of the men said.

The question that formed in Daya's mind was will Wolfgang have sense enough to back off, or will he be stupid enough to follow Deborah's request. As Wolfgang started to advance on her, she concluded yup, pretty stupid. Wolfgang threw a right straight punch, which was supposed to be sudden enough to catch her off guard. Daya simply blocked the punch with her right hand, then caught his arm by the wrist and simply twisted it downward. Overcome by pain, Wolfgang had no choice but to get down on his knees. That had him out of the way, Daya concluded, but she needed a finishing move. Using a variation of what she did earlier, Daya swung her right foot up and slammed her bare sole around Wolfgang's shoulder blades. When she heard him wheezing and trying to catch a breath, Daya dropped his wrist. Now it was time to deal with the one who started all this. However, as she turned around, Deborah was gone. The only evidence that proved she was even there was the door to the coffeehouse closing.

Daya walked up to the waitress, paid her bill, gave a sizable tip, and said, "Sorry about all that. At least nothing was broken."

As she exited the coffeehouse, Daya received her second surprise of the day when her two friends suddenly showed up when she opened the door.

"What were you doing in there?" Theresa, a 5'6" longhaired wavy brunette with an athletic figure said.

"Why hello to you too," Daya replied. "I was reading."

"It looks like you did a little more than that," Rosie, a 5'5" Hispanic with shoulder length black hair with a medium build said. "A few of these guys don't look so good."

"You were fighting again, weren't you?" Theresa asked.

"Hey, they started it," Daya protested.

"Didn't we tell you the next time you go someplace new, you need to ask if we or anyone else know anything about it? That coffeehouse has a reputation for having skinheads, Nazis, and other racists for customers."

"I know that now. I just wanted to read a book."

"We understand that, Daya," Rosie said, placing an arm around Daya as they walked back to campus. "It's just that, I don't know why, but trouble seems to have a habit of following you around, and all the weirdoes come from out of the bushes to bother you."

"It seems like all the bullies, thugs, and punks want to pick on you, until you kick their butt. So what happened anyway?" Theresa asked.

"I thought I'd check out this coffeehouse I've never been to before to read my book, when this woman gets on me for beating up her boyfriend," Daya explained.

"Which one?" Rosie said.

"Michael."

"Oh, the one who liked your butt so much, he couldn't keep his hands off," Theresa said.

"Yeah. Well, she has a new boyfriend now who has taught her the glorious life of being a skinhead. And to prove his devotion to her, she asked him to beat me up. You can guess the rest," Daya replied.

"How bad did you beat them?"

"No broken bones or long hospital stays, so they'll be fine. That woman flew out the door, so I don't expect to see her again anytime soon."

"Oh yeah, we saw her. If it wasn't for her running out the door, we wouldn't have found you. Come on, let's get back to the school cafeteria. The food may not be as good, but at least nobody will bother you," Rosie said.

Suddenly the waitress ran out of the coffeehouse. "Ma'am?" She shouted.

Daya slowly turned. "Look, I'm sorry if there's anything broken. They attacked me, and-"

"No, no! I wanted to ask if you could teach me how to fight like that."

"Well I guess so, but-"

"She teaches a handful of people around eight o'clock every morning on weekdays in the school gym. Grab some loose clothes, leave your shoes at home, and show up on time," Rosie replied.

"She's in charge of booking," Daya said rolling her eyes.

"And I'm in charge of PR," Theresa replied, handing the waitress a card. If there are any problems, call one of these three numbers."

"Thank you; and thank you for what you did back there. Those men have been asking for it for quite a while. I need to go back and call an ambulance. I'll see you tomorrow morning." She trotted back in the coffeehouse.

"Thanks to you two, I have yet another reason to not sleep in on my days off," Daya remarked. "I might as well just get certified, and open my own dojo."

Rosie and Theresa gave each other a sly grin. Daya took that opportunity to leave, walking quickly back towards campus.

"But think of the possibilities!" Theresa shouted, trotting after her. "You can be the head teacher, and we'll be your assistants. We could do it part time so it won't interfere with our schedules."

"We can make it affordable to college students, and you don't even have to wear shoes! It's perfect for you!" Rosie yelled, following after the two.

The only reply that Daya uttered was a loud groan. She should've known it was coming to this, knowing these two. But she had to admit, having your own business where footwear was optional did sound interesting . . .

For suggestions, comments, or story ideas, email the author at shrewsberry@juno.com.

#Barefoot Heroines, 2008.