THROW ME

by

Danielle LaVaque-Manty
 

I went to that dojo more than a thousand times, unlocking the door and switching on the light if I got there first, changing into my worn gi and hakama like a shabby samurai.

Joy: taking a crazy fast hit that flipped me over hard against the mat, then bouncing up again, like riding for free at the carnival.

Every night for three hours, on that mat, for five years.

Pain: cracking open the stiff tendons that held my toes to my foot, tendons that began to heal while I slept, only to be wrenched back with the first roll of the day, a dive into icy water at the beginning of each practice.

I thought I was studying nonviolence and conflict resolution, but what I really learned was the difference between damage and pain. A wrist bent this far will hold a sword again tomorrow; a wrist bent that far will snap.

Damage: a rift springing up between friends when a teacher asked us to do his laundry and buy his groceries. Some did it, but others walked away, tossing the word "cult" briskly over our shoulders.

I went back, just once, five years later, and they were still there. I'm okay, I told myself as I watched, as I longed to take those flying falls again, to press my hand into an elbow at such a precise angle, to sweat until I might topple from thirst. This feeling isn't damage, only pain.




Danielle LaVaque-Manty lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her work has appeared in Vestal Review, In Posse Review, Zoetrope's All-Story Extra, Bold Type, Eyeshot, and Literary Potpourri.

Reach her at dlavaque@umich.edu.