Speaking Softly

Tomorrow I get am getting down with my culture. No, it’s not Pistahan 2005 at the Yerba Buena Gardens. No, I’m not taking a conversational Tagalog class at the local adult school (though it is one of my life’s Must Do list). A Filipino “guru” teaches a kali class by the bird estuary at Lake Merritt. He charges $20 a class and M and I have been looking forward to it all week. Kali is a Filipino, pre-colonial martial art in which you wield a 28-in heat-treated bamboo stick as a weapon. Supposedly, a blind princess invented it and you learn to read a person’s energy to detect their next move before making your own.

It’s quite beautiful to watch, not as violent-looking as you might think. Twirling the stick once, twice, three times, then striking! Wow. If the only thing I learn to do is that, I’d be happy. M’s only taken one class but she already moves through the twelve basic strikes like a pro. She came back from her first kali class, her eyes wide and her head slowly nodding up and down, “It’s fun, May…” As if to say, Uh-oh, I feel a new obsession coming on…After our regular kickboxing class, we duck into the service hall of the gym where they store equipment, hoping we don’t trip the alarm when we bust through the door. I make M stand in front of me so I can ape her movements as she strikes her imaginary enemy’s left shoulder and slices diagonally through his torso. That’s the “one” strike. There are twelve basic strikes, the last ending with a strike that looks similar to a matador’s strike to a bull, stick in one hand, knife in the other, lunging forward with clean stabs to temple and eyes.

Practicing these moves, my body’s tempo slows down and I feel as though I’m moving through molasses. Kali requires me to call upon a different energy. It’s calmer, more controlled, rationed out slowly, like the steady drip of an IV. When I kickbox, my head bobs and weaves, I’m shifting constantly on the balls of my feet; my body’s locomotion fueled by frenetic energy and adrenalin. Four years of practicing muay thai kickboxing and my natural defensive position is to stand left foot in front of right, feet slightly shoulder width apart, shoulders hunched forward. In kali, I’m upright and my shoulders are squared up. My feet inch closer together, for better pivoting. I strike my imaginary opponent’s ankle, then knee (strike nine), pivot, then their other ankle and knee (strike ten), pivot again, then across both knees (strike eleven). The guru says the stick should become an extension of your body and suddenly, miraculously, I feel my arm’s reach become four feet long.

During class, I watch the guru as he and a student perfrom a drill where he follows the student from behind, checks his strike then counterstrikes with a series of blows to the shoulders, knees, and ankles. Muay Thai movements, in comparison, can be so flashy, so over-the-top, with face-crushing knees to the head, flying roundhouses, and bony elbows intent on breaking noses. The guru’s strikes are small, barely perceptible and lightning fast; faster than any jab-cross-hook combination one could ever throw. I am struck by the fluidity and grace of his movements; his body best expressing the art of kali. I observe in silent anticipation, and wonder when I will be become fluent in the same language.