A few years ago a man starting coming to a Monday morning practice I attend. He was a little older than me, and I sensed we could play Jewish Geography. He introduced himself as Kenny. I remember this because I grew up with a Kenny. A Kenny whose mother could stretch his name into four or five syllables when calling him in for supper. Keeeennnnyyy! It is a good name that serves little boys, and I thought it odd a grown man would still answer to his childhood nickname. So Kenny it was, until one day - months later - this guy told me his name is Ken.
Now I pride myself on having the ability to remember people by name. When I was an event planner it served me well. I could recall the name of just about anybody I'd previously met and when I saw them again, in a different context, I'd impress the hell out of them by calling them by name. So when Kenny told me he was Ken my first thought was this. He's fucking with me. Why is he fucking with me? If he told me his name was Ken I'd never have gone through the mental gymnastics of thinking about my childhood friend.
Whenever I saw Kenny or Ken after that I'd use his preferred name, but there was always an uneasy niggling in me about his authenticity and motives. I honor my intuition and decided that being cordial was in order, but maybe not too chatty. I subsequently overheard him complimenting the instructor on how she looked in certain poses, and observed other behavior that I didn't care for. But hey! Yoga is judgement free, so I kept my negative thoughts to a minimum - more in context to my own boundaries - for my safety and sanity. And so it was.
Until yesterday. As usual I arrived to yoga early. I unrolled my mat and set myself up for a few peaceful moments before movement. I needed a bit of destressing and was grateful to settle in this space at this time. I'm sitting very quietly, eyes closed. My mind had been racing about babies and daughters and bank accounts and politics and traffic and finding a new place to live... and somehow this just being in the studio allowed all of that to fall away. I was focused on my breath.
My reverie was rattled when a felt a bump on my right hip. I opened my eyes and turned my head enough to see Ken about a mat and a half away from mine smiling. Kenny had thrown a yoga block directly at me, and landed this brick of spongy foam at my right thigh. I turned to this man/boy and said "That wasn't nice" to which he replied "It was a love tap" .
When I was a little girl my mom used to excuse my classmates, the schoolboys, behavior by telling me things like a boy teases me because he likes me. Or he wasn't really pushing me, it was a love tap. Fortunately these myths hold no sway with me anymore. When my husband constantly berated me, it wasn't because he loved me. It was because he was verbally abusive and one day I decided I'd had enough. So the term love tap rankled me. Lucky for me I was in yoga, so in the most Zen way possible I simply turned my gaze back to the front of the room and decided ignoring Ken would be the most mature response.
"Can you throw the block back to me?" Seriously? I'm not really into tossing yoga equipment around the room. Plus I don't want to engage or acknowledge the infantile interaction I am being goaded into. I reply "If you want your block, you can come and get it" I return to my easy pose and then it begins. A monkey is running around in my mind. Why did this happen? Is Ken going to confront me after yoga and ask why I wouldn't toss his block back? My gut tells me he won't apologize. Is it white male privilege in action? Does Mr. Kenny think he can say and do whatever he wants and brush it up to playful language? Shit! I am in yoga. I was minding my own business and now I am all spun up. A few deep breaths with my eyes closed brings me back to a semblance of sanity.
I can hear people snapping their mats close to me and setting up for their practices. I can hear female voices around me and I know when I open my eyes at Gwen's cue there will be others in my vicinity. "Can one of you girls hand me that block" Ken is chattering again about that damn block. In unison I hear two women reply "That's her block. It's on her mat" Kenny chortles "No, it's my block I threw it at her". Am I invisible? I am being spoken about as if I can't hear the conversation. This is surreal. All I did was come to class early, set up my space and sit quietly. Now I am the center of discussion regarding foam appurtenances.
"Why would you throw a block at her?" asks one of my fellow female yogis. No reply. Kenny the discus champion is finally silenced - just when I am anxious to hear his reasoning. The wheel is my head resumes spinning. Yes, Kenny - WHY? And do you three people realize I am sitting within inches of all of you. And yes, my eyes are closed and a bemused smile wants to erupt, but my ears are still quite functional and I am hearing every word uttered...
Somehow I manage to have a good, if not mentally quiet practice. Gwen is a challenging teacher who always recites a sage quote to inspire. She repeats it twice at the beginning and again a time or two during the practice. The day's quote is surprisingly credited to Bruce Lee:
This is my mantra for the practice. I am not a stiff tree, a mighty oak or stately elm. I am willowy, soft. Flexible. Able to withstand the wind or a bloviate. A Chinook or a schoolboy parading in a man's physique. Like the bamboo I am strongest at my base, my root chakra. This won't shake me or shape my day. My limbs are airy and my head is light. I will withstand the challenges like a tree. With grace and gratitude.
Time to Write,
Jane
*Studio Wraps
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