Reflective Essay first draft

So here's the first draft of my reflective essay I have to write for my upper division writing course. My AC adapter for my laptop died around the time I was getting to the conclusion so my paper's finally isn't very developed. Oh well, it's only a first draft so no big deal.

Shadow Boxing

William Chandler

For a moment, everything is still, as if a single instant had been perfectly plucked from the stream of time. In this moment, awareness of location, time, and even identity are empty and I am seduced by the silence.

Two dark shadows obscure my vision above my eyes, while two parallel columns dim my vision to the side. These foreign obstructions float too close to my face to make out yet seem familiar to me somehow. This vague framework boxes out my peripheral vision. There is only the space between that remains. During this moment, I am a meditating monk, entranced by the nothingness presented in front of me. Yet something nags at me, attempts to lure me and break my trance. There is a strange aura emanating from outside of my shelter, an intimidating pressure that heats the air around me and bears down on me. Despite its hostility I find myself anxiously awaiting its arrival. What could it be? It is still distant however and so the thought leaves me just as easily as it came.

The moment lasts only a breath. I hear my heart beat, feel my chest elevate and fall, experience the rush of air inspiring through my nostrils, and observe the space in front of me. There is a solace in the silence, a momentary respite. For this brief moment, I feel safe.

Thoomb!

My head trembles and my knees recoil to absorb the impact and just like that I am forcibly ripped from the moment and slammed back into reality. My senses return to me as well as my awareness of my current situation. I am boxing. My black boxing gloves are up in a heavy defensive guard like binoculars, my forearms and elbows tucked in, my chin sunken into my chest, my eyes peering through the bottom of my top eyelids, my back hunched forward, my knees slightly bent, my weight distributed over my back leg and my heels raised off the floor. Oh yeah, and there is a guy in front of me trying to knock my head off.

Thoomb! Thoomb! Thoomb!

Three more heavy hooks crash against my gloved fortress walls. The concussions shake my head and arms but I remain firm.

“Don’t get stuck! Use your feet!”

Dammit! I’m stuck! I gotta move! My coach’s voice only echoes what my mind already knows but for some reason my body fails to comprehend. Is it the fatigue? No, I’m not at my physical limit just yet. Is it the pain? No, I’m wearing headgear and gloves, and my body is pumping out adrenaline. My mind races. What the hell am I doing? Move damn it! Get out of there! Yet the pressure is too thick to move in. Gloved fists continue to rain down on me and I feel my guard weakening as punches begin to sneak past my padded sentries. Left? Right? My 16 oz. gloves feel enormous and cumbersome all of a sudden. With my peripheral vision sacrificed for protection, I stand feeling blind and vulnerable. Protection from what? I can’t see the punches coming at all. I can’t see anything! A hard uppercut connects underneath my rib cage. My arms lower reflexively from the jolt. A throbbing pain knots my stomach and I am forced to grit my teeth to keep myself from spitting out my mouth guard. Dammit! Hands up! Can’t reveal my chin! I raise my arms back up and resume my defense but a sense of futility overwhelms me. I am merely biding my time, praying the end will come, either in the form of the round buzzer or a sharp cross to the face. What the hell am I doing here!? I must be crazy! My mind panics, my body tenses and I feel my strength leave me with each blow. I don’t feel safe. There is no safety here. This was a mistake. I am powerless hiding behind these gloves. Behind these gloves, I am weak.

* * * *

I was a pretty quiet kid growing up. I was shy, clean cut, obedient, and bespeckled. Cursed with my father’s family’s horrendous eye sight, I wore large round eye glasses. My hair cut in a bowl with my bangs parted to one side. I looked like a Korean love child of Harry Potter and Kermit the frog, although I remember once an optimistic age when I walked around with perfect vision and a fashionable McGuyver hairstyle, short ponytail in the back and all. Somehow the addition of glasses transformed me from the super cool McGuyver to ordinary Clark Kent, without the cape and blue and red tights. Thus, my path became paved for me the day my vision left me.

I always admired the strong, tempered silence of my father and, whether consciously or unconsciously I do not know, followed in his footsteps in regards to demeanor. But I was first and foremost a “momma’s boy.” My mother always told me how she wanted a daughter, and had I been born without the Y sex chromosome I would be Samantha Chandler rather than William. This didn’t stop her from using me as an excuse to play dress up though and she continues to this day to try and influence my attire whenever she can. I was her only child and as such was greatly doted upon, as is the case with Korean mothers and only children. Yet being the only child in Asian cultures means carrying the heavy burden of expectations of the family name. Whether these expectations are real or implicit, they become ingrained in the children regardless of their parents’ intentions. It seems that in Asian families, parental love is something earned than freely given.

I remember a large indoor gymnasium. I believe that there was actually room for two basketball courts within this building but perhaps that is my memory exaggerating my small stature. I remember the orange hardwood floor looking especially shiny under yellow fluorescent lights. Standing off in the distance, occupying the court opposite of me were funny looking people all standing in neat lines and rows in uncomfortable looking wide stances wearing white pajamas. A man stood in the front mirroring this bed ready army. He would shout and a quick shift in his arms would follow. Then the funny pajama people would mimic the same movement and shout back. The yells resonated within the large auditorium till it reached my ears. My friend’s mother asked if I wanted to join them, my friend already out there in the mass of white pajamas looking completely awkward in his movements but earnest in his effort. I just stood quietly and observed through goggled eyes, clinging tightly to my mother’s arm.

There was one thing that motivated me out of my timid nature. It was not the incredible physique and the god like speed of Bruce Lee or the fast mouth and hands of Muhammad Ali. It was not the intricate and humorous choreography of Jackie Chan or the swaying power of Mike Tyson. I had never heard of the names Masato or Buakaw por Pramuk, or of Manny Pacquiao or Shane Mosely. I knew nothing of “Hitmen,” “Flying Dutchmen,” “Black Mambas,” or “Counts of Monte Fisto.” It was not the intriguing combination of philosophy and violence or the physical mixture of speed and power. I never knew my Korean uncle had learned Taekwondo and that my Korean grandfather was a 6^th degree black belt who had taught Taekwondo at one point. Though I would come to appreciate and learn of all of the prior they meant nothing to a diminutive six year old boy. Instead, what excited me were four green anthropomorphic reptilian heroes in half shells bestowed with what their cartoon’s theme song described as “turtle power.” With the encouragement of my ninja turtles’ action figures, I would throw on a green backpack and swing around plastic swords and daggers and fight off invisible ninjas. I would kick and punch wildly in unbridled passion at imaginary opponents and my mother would scream at me to stop unsettling dust. More than half a decade later, I am still kicking and punching, though now with more disciplined technique, at imaginary opponents and my mom is still yelling at me to stop disturbing dust.

I must have begged my mom a thousand times to let me learn Karate. It was too dangerous she would exclaim, in her eyes I was too fragile and delicate for anything rough and physical. When my mom finally yielded to my pleas to take lessons and I finally was presented the opportunity and invitation to join in, I did nothing to prove my mother wrong. All I could do was stand there, frozen in place, feeling small and insignificant. I felt oppressed by the atmosphere within that orange gymnasium. Self doubt overtook me. I was just a little Piglet, so tiny and meek. There’s no way I’m going out there! I can’t do that! I’d just embarrass myself. I felt like I wasn’t worthy enough to be there with those pajama wearing martial artists. Maybe if I came back in a few years after training in solitude on a mountain somewhere like every other legendary Karate warrior does then I might be worthy of standing in the back where I could do no harm bothering any one with my poor technique. But as it were then, I was just not good enough to be there. So I stood there with my iron grasp of my mother’s arm, burying my head in her sleeve like a scared turtle hiding in its shell.

Fifteen years later, ten years worth of martial arts training; now wearing contacts though still sporting a similar hairdo, it feels as if I’ve squandered my life. What have I been doing all these years? I ask myself behind my gloved guard. Pinned down by enemy fire, I can’t help but to recall that shy meager little boy, who could do nothing but to barricade himself in his concealed state of weakness. Nothing could be more frustrating.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

The electronic bell warns of the conclusion to the round. Only thirty seconds remain. My left leg is bruised and knotted after receiving numerous hard low kicks. Looks like I’ll be sore for a few days. My arms feel like rubber. The very act of holding my gloves up has become a difficult chore in itself. My jaw lazily hangs open in a useless attempt to suck in more air. I’m just asking to get my jaw broken. With time fleeting I know I have to make something out of this round. I rally my morale one last time. Thirty seconds! Gotta finish strong! Gotta move forward! Gotta attack!

However, the victory had long been decided, the doubt long planted in my mind and the damage already done. For try as I might, I cannot. Or maybe I can but have given up. Go! My mind screams but my body is deaf. Or perhaps my body is listening but my mind is mute. The psychological fatigue weighs heavier than any physical exhaustion. I’m too tired. It’s over. I’ve lost. Just let the clock run out and go home. What’s the point in fighting anymore?

“Are you just going to sleep your life away?”

I ignore my mother’s callous baiting. I don’t care to get into a shouting match with her today. I don’t care to do anything really. I just want to wallow in my own self pity and be miserable and withdraw completely from the world underneath this blanket. I want to be swallowed up by these bed sheets. I wish I could make the world outside just disappear and everything and everyone to just go away. Maybe I will. I hear carbon monoxide poisoning’s a rather painless way to go. I’d be sure to remember to bring a pillow.

I twist the key and pull down the mailbox’s door and grab its contents with one hand. Bills. Bills. Coupons. Wait a sec…There it was. The result of four years worth of studies, late nights full with essays and homework, interviews, recommendations, examinations, tests, and every other hurdle that could possibly be thrown at me. A simple piece of white paper folded neatly into three sections so that it could fit within the confines of a single 4 and 1/8” by 9 and 1/2” white letter envelope. It seemed unfathomable; how a person’s entire future fit neatly inside an envelope defied the very laws of nature and the universe alike. I greedily tear at the package from the side and pull out the letter that would dictate my destiny. I scan the typed lettering, taking note of official signs and emblems, it was even signed. I embrace myself and begin to read.

Out of the twenty six letters that make up the English language and the millions of words that exist within its vocabulary and the infinite number of possible combinations, never have five words hurt me so.

“I regret to inform you…”

My eyes dart frantically to take in the rest of the letter, desperately searching for some sign that a mistake had been made. Blah blah blah, thousands apply, only hundreds accepted. I read the letter over and over and over again, wishing somehow that the typed font on the page would somehow rearrange themselves or alter themselves in some pleasing way. It was not to be. Those first five words told me everything I needed to know from that cold and impersonal letter.

In my brief career as a kick boxer, I have shaken off kicks to the head, knees to the groin, my legs swept from under me, walked on blistered feet, had my neck snapped back by a stiff jab, my eye blackened by uppercuts, my brain rattled by hooks, and my cheeks puffed up by right crosses. “Boxers don’t feel pain quite the way we do,” as American author Joyce Carol Oates once proclaimed, “pain is something other than pain.” Psychological pain is a far more deleterious damage than any physical blow can deal. Despair is a dark demon of depression, a shadow, which buries itself in the heart and sinks its claws deep. This pain lingers, siphons away at the confidence and the courage essential to live. This depression manifests itself in the form of a broken heart, a failing academic grade, a poor athletic performance, and all other disappointments, gaining strength with each personal defeat. It is a pain that is visceral and real but unlike pain experienced on a daily basis. It is a pain that the spirit has only so much of a tolerance for before it is totally broken.

I throw my back wearily against the wall and sink to the matted floor. I have the round off. I take a moment to recollect my thoughts, feeling a drop of sweat fall from the tip of my nose and splatter on the ground. I try to catch my breath, knowing full well I would do better to stand up and elevate my arms overhead but I am too beaten to rise. I tear my gloves off and unhook the chin strap on my headgear in resignation. All I can think of is my inability. All I can see are my personal shortcomings: my lack of cardio, my lack of speed, my lack of strength, how I couldn’t block this kick or cover up and can’t see that punch. I am disgusted with my own pathetic existence. I feel defeated, not by the opponent in front of me but by the shadow residing in my own mind and heart, the demon of doubt, the voice that reminds me of those five words that stabbed my courage so long ago and their true meaning.

“I regret to inform you…” You just aren’t good enough.

“Don’t get stuck! Use your feet!”

I bury my head into my opponent’s chest, unloading a left hook to the liver. I recoil from the punch and dip to my left, loading up on my next strike. With all my strength I swing my arm upward, aiming for my opponent chin. He sways back and the uppercut slices through the air. He throws a right cross and long left hook as he steps back. I cover up. Swaying my upper body to avoid the blows the punches graze the top of my head, thudding on impact but doing no serious damage. I recover my composure and take in the new distance between us, the perilous bridge I have crossed countless times before and one I know I will have to cross once more to reach my destination yet again.

Boxing is an odd sport, one many find brutal and pointless. When asked why I do it, why I would volunteer myself for physical and mental abuse, why I would dedicate myself to a deliberate science dedicated to injury, I find myself grasping for words. I am unable and ineloquent at describing my passion because the very sport defies any logical explanation. It is barbaric and somewhat pointless. Joyce Carol Oates describes it best when she asserts that “the punishment – to the body, the brain, the spirit – a man must endure to become even a moderately good boxer is inconceivable to most of us whose idea of personal risk is largely ego-related or emotional.” Joyce Carol Oates would even go so far as to deny boxing as a sport because “there is nothing fundamentally playful about it; nothing that seems to belong to daylight, to pleasure.” It is a constant and inescapable cycle of suffering. The act of stepping into a vulnerable range, trading blows, and then stepping away, only to create a distance to be overcome once more so that the cycle may continue all over again. Training for fights is a battery of repetition, drilling techniques and hitting punching bags and mitts over and over till the techniques are ingrained into the muscles’ memory. Winning a fight means momentary celebration before returning to the gym to put in more work on the heavy bags and focus mitts once more in preparation for the next fight. The monotony of training is rarely fun, often difficult to get motivated for. Loosing a fight makes getting motivated to train again all that much harder.

So why fight? Why keep training? Why keep suffering? Why do I, as well as thousands, continue to punish themselves in dedication to a sport that seems intent on breaking its participants. I often wonder how many fighters have been broken along the way…

More importantly, how? How do you get up after your courage has been dragged through the bedrocks of dejection till your heart is a color of dolor and beats despondently? Where do you find the strength?

I step forward. The jab greets me but I evade it with a quick slip to the right. Another jab follows, I parry it with my glove. Jab, cross. Slip to the right, weave to the left, I avoid the combination. I fire back with my own. Jab jab! I step back to avoid the possible counter. I circle to my right, keeping my head rhythmically swaying. The jab comes. I slip to the outside. My opponents shin crashes down on my left quadriceps muscle. Check the kicks! I fire back with my own combination: right cross, left hook. My opponent covers up and steps to the side at an angle and fires a right uppercut under my ribs before stepping away. Dammit! Stuck again! I step back and take a moment to ward off my frustration.

I step forward again. Another jab. I slip to my right again. The jab comes once more. This time I step forward with my slip, grazing my cheek along the path of the punch and forcing my way inside. I’m in! I deliver a right cross over the top followed by a left hook. The punches land on the gloves of my opponents guard. He steps back to avoid the onslaught. I’m not finished yet! I step in hard and whip my leg into his body, the shin slamming into his ribcage. My opponent reels. The gloves lower.

And there it was! An opening! Like a glorious glimpse of some heavenly promised land, there stood the exposed cheek of my opponent. Time stood still once more. There was no more fatigue, no more self doubt, no more weakness or suffering. These empty feelings left me as I stood in observance of what was not just an opening but a window into enlightenment.

My head shook violently. A chopping right cross spun my head forcefully and the opening was gone, the moment dissipating. I stagger back and regain my composure. I bring my gloves up to arms once more.

Truthfully, I don’t know. I have no idea how a fighter gets up in the 8^th and 10^th round after being cut and knocked down to the canvas. Nor do I really even understand how I turned away from my suicidal depression. There was no training montage I undertook accompanied by cheesy inspirational 80’s music that pulled me through. I’m not even quite sure exactly what I seek to gain from boxing at all or if what I seek is something attainable at all. Strength is as impermanent as weakness. I can only imagine that the boxer continues to fight despite being knocked down because he’s searching for something. Although he may be bruised, beaten, and exhausted both physically and mentally, he knows that these empty feelings will pass. He may not believe it in the presence of the discouraging and defeated mind but he knows it, somehow deep down that there is still that chance to find that brief moment where he can shine and burn as brightly as he can. That brief moment that signifies the culmination of all his training, all his suffering, the moment that symbolizes his totality of being. Perhaps, it is the will to continue, to search for that moment in the face of suffering, the true meaning of courage.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

I remove my mouthguard. I stand up, throw my arms in the air above my head and pace around a little to try and catch my breath. I concentrate on my breathing. “You want to call it a day?” my coach asks. I look at my coach and then my sparring partner. His eyes meet mine full with determination. I match his fierce eyes with my own. I insert my mouthguard back into my maw and answer my coach’s question.

“One more round.”