A brief history of Alissa's collection of bamf park district skills.

Teaching English has put me in touch with an interesting cross section of Middle Eastern society. In addition to dozens of gum chewing, giggly university students (whom I adore), I've had students who were diplomats at the Arab League, translators for the U.S. army in Afghanistan and Iraq, the head of Sony Ericsson in Egypt, the head of AT&T Egypt's marketing department, an Algerian documentary film director and her filmmaker daughter. I've had Italians, Kurds, Djiboutians, Sudanese, Korean, Algerian, and Lebanese students. 

Last night, though, I met a real gem: the female Karate champion of Africa and the Middle East, who also works as a news editor for Nile News on the side. In a country known for its ample helpings of falafel and baklava and plump waistlines, I rarely meet anyone who exercises, much less wins regional championships--or veiled women who could break me with their karate chop. 

Meeting this student unearthed a memory buried deep within my pre-adolescent psyche, and I thought it would be a good time to share it with all of you, my dear readers.

We were a park district family. Like many good, active, suburban families, we signed up for after-school clubs and activities with gusto. Over the course of my elementary school years, I learned to line dance, fold origami, fold napkins (I can still make a mean Bishop's Hat design). I took a course in yoga, played softball, tried volleyball and--for six years--rocked out an advanced beginner's gymnastics class. I never moved past advanced beginners, despite the fact that I was a foot taller and five years older than most the other students, because I wasn't flexible enough to do a proper backbend. Rather, my friend Christine and I would wobble on the balance beam and giggle uproariously. I don't regret a minute of my stagnated gymnastics career, nor do I regret any of my purple/teal spandex gymnastics outfits. It's never a bad time to wear an 80's inspired flower print leotard.

But until I met my Karate diva student, I had nearly forgotten that I had also once taken a self-defense class at our local rec center sometime in junior high. True rec center style, this was some kind of bizarre conglomeration of martial arts styles taught by an overweight, balding man with two bad knees and a bad hip. His hip was so creaky that he actually had to kick backwards, behind him, rather than out to the side, because his leg just didn't move that way anymore. 

In the class? A six year old Indian boy named Mickey, a middle aged couple trying to save their marriage by pummeling each other in a controlled environment with padded floors, and me. This left me trying to flip poor Mickey on to the mat without breaking him. As much as I can recall, we spent three weeks learning how to break our fall (useful for a clumsy person, I suppose) and learning how to break out of a hold. I tried this last maneuver with my guy friends several times, never successfully. 

Needless to say, with this beginning in martial arts, there was no way I was going to become the next Budoaikijutso champion of Africa and the Middle East, much less of Palatine, Illinois. Instead, I'll simply wish the best of luck to my new student.