foreign fights

from Pandora's Box Spring 2023

limericks i wrote when i was bored

Julia Kang

A foreign location but familiar activities. I stepped out of the car onto the cold pavement, gazing up at the sign at the front of the building. Large vinyl stickers were plastered onto the tops of the large glass windows. Cartoonish cows seemed to be fumbling over basic movements due to their large heads. I wondered who designed such a figure and also who would want to use it for their business. Staring inside from afar, a few parents stood with their backs faced to the entrance as they observed either their own children or the lights of their phones. I didn’t want to enter past the small chalkboard sign and through the open door. Only when I heard my mom closing the car’s driver seat door and inserting the keys to lock it did I reluctantly head inside. I took a last glance at our run-down Sienna as it stood out in the line-up of newer cars in the parking lot of this affluent neighborhood.

The taekwondo studio itself was much larger than my previous one. It had a relatively spacious entrance perfect for containing rowdy kids before and after classes as they got their shoes off the racks and took their water bottles in their hands to head home. Inside the studio, they were sparring or kicking paddles. The loud clapping of the paddles, the uncoordinated yells of each kid, and the instructor silently observing everything while sauntering around. All things I was familiar with, all things I had done for years. But it felt so foreign.

I was in my uniform and belt, the one I had worn for years, worn like how I always wore it, but it was different from theirs. It felt different even though it was the same sport and the same type of uniform. That’s the interesting thing I realized about uniforms in that moment: they promote unity and give you a sense of belonging, but they can do the very opposite of their intended purpose if you stand to face off against a unified group you are not part of.

I was pulled to a back room, now standing barefoot on floors lined with foam puzzle mats, each interlocking with the other. There I met this master. He was an old Korean man. Perhaps you could tell he was balding. He had a stern, strict expression on his face, exerting an aura of authority. He didn’t seem very eager to meet me, as if I was wasting his time by being there in front of him. Very intimidating. His black belt was worn and you could see the edges of the knot fading in color. You could tell he had done the sport for a while.

I don’t remember exchanging many words with him, if I said anything to him at all. The only thing I remember clearly is the feeling of fear that struck me down to my bones, almost to the point that I couldn’t move to serve my purpose of demonstrating my skills to him. He ordered me to perform a few forms—combinations of stances, blocks, and kicks to mimic true fighting sequences. This was my opportunity to prove that I knew what I was doing and was deserving of my rank. I had started at the age of five and had acquired five years of experience and a first-degree black belt since then. I felt certain that I would be able to impress him with my techniques.

But he only watched me do one form, the first one in a series of about ten. He didn’t even let me finish because I was cut off after the first few moves. But he looked at me with an astonished gaze. Almost as if he couldn’t believe the atrocity I had committed.

“This is the old style. I haven’t seen this in years. Nobody does this anymore.”

At first, I was confused. I had done the form correctly without mistakes. Questions started filling my head. What do you mean ‘old style’? It was literally just a form, how could you do it with an old style? What were you expecting of me? But the longer the words held in the air, the more my eyes started to sting and tear up. I wasn’t sure what the words meant but I was sure that they had wounded my confidence and self-esteem. While those words may have been meaningless to them, each word left scratches and scars for me to bear for the rest of my life.

It was a combination of factors that led to my overflow of emotions. I wasn’t used to being criticized about my forms. I had won medals at competitions and I had the highest sidekicks out of everyone I knew. I wasn’t used to criticism at all. The competitive atmosphere around me, in this studio, in this city, in this area, I wasn’t used to it. I was used to my quaint city of Port Coquitlam with its comforting rain. I had encouraging peers and a friendlier environment, one where I felt comfortable. I felt comfortable with the instructor, with the people, with the routine of each class. But here everything was intimidating and agonizing.

He left swiftly by saying he would be back later, leaving me standing in the center of the room on the verge of tears.

I cried for a while.

I just wanted to leave I just wanted to go back to Canada.

I didn’t want to be here I didn’t want to come back. I didn’t want to continue this sport that I loved if this is what it meant to continue it.

I just wanted to go back home

Not my new “home” here on San Antonio Road

But home back in Canada on Amazon Drive

Where everything I knew and grew up with was.

The home that was definitely not here.