wrestling with myself

I’ve grown accustomed to oddities and surprises at sci-fi conventions, but there was something about walking toward my signing table and seeing a full-on wrestling ring that caught me off guard. On the carpet of the hotel’s chandeliered grand ballroom, about 4 feet off the ground, sat a square, roped off stage—a scene usually contained in the televisions and imaginations of teenaged boys. Its emptiness only made the context seem stranger, yet somehow the costumed men at the tables surrounding it made the spectacle more digestible. Did I say men? There were women too. Tattooed, pierced, and mohawked, some with shiny, bulging muscles, others were small and unassuming, surely revered for their acrobatic skills. I couldn’t help but flash to scenes from The Wrestler. And not just scenes, but all the emotions that went with it—a nauseating cocktail of excitement, sadness, curiosity and pity. Still, like the wrestling ring, part of me knew those feelings didn’t belong there. I spent the first half of the day in observation mode. In my breaks from signing autographs and making small talk with fans, I studied the wrestlers and their wares, their handwritten signs and championship belts, their intense and controlled energy, and their undeniable boredom. As I do with most things, I romanticized the situation to make it more palatable, but once my arrogance became too bitter, I resolved to introduce myself and see them as normal human beings. I petted SnakeMaster Jeff’s albino boa constrictor. He told me about his nineteen pets and I imagined him alone in his house, feeling misunderstood except for the animals who loved him unconditionally. Then I learned he’s been happily married for years. Once again my arrogance wafted heavily in my face. Thankfully, the ice was quickly elbow smashed as all the wrestlers were super fun and friendly, and some were even BSG fans. They invited me to the show later—not that an invitation was necessary, but it was more a matter of, “So, are you coming to the show tonight?” To which I replied with slight hesitation, “Yeah, sure!”

As the hours wore on and I relished in the quiet of my hotel room, the thought of going back downstairs into a massive crowd to watch grown men (and women) beat each other in the name of entertainment was not exactly the most appealing direction I saw my night heading. But I thought about my new pals, and I imagined greeting them the next morning with a contorted smile after missing the show, and that didn’t feel good either. I also thought about the fact that I was in Miami with the opportunity to witness something I’d never seen before, and whatever discomfort I was experiencing was even more reason to go and face it. So I made the trek, through hallways of wizards and Boba Fett wannabes, and I continued to feel uncomfortable. The hall where I had earlier spent my day casually signing autographs was now filled with excited wrestling fans. Faces in the crowd pointing and whispering, I imagined things like, “Is that Cally from Battlestar Galactica standing over there? Why is she all by herself? She looks lost.” Oh yes, even I am not immune to making shit up to feel more in control of the situation, but I tried to move around and look like I was engaged in the evening’s entertainment. Though I have to admit, what I saw was met with emotional resistance. My attention was continuously drawn to the crowds, studying their faces, trying to understand what they feel and why they’re drawn to such displays of violence.

I didn’t get it. I was trying to, but I just couldn’t grasp grown men pacing around a ring, exchanging powerful blows, and demanding the audience’s complicity through cheering over another’s demise. Still, I’m stubborn enough that not being able to figure out the appeal only motivated me to keep watching. If I had left then, I would have felt as if I’d given up. By that point I’d moseyed on over to a table where a few men were seated. I leaned on the table and did my best to look casual and interested in the match, but not too affected. Lucky for me, I started chatting with the guy next to me, who happened to be friends with the referee. He started telling me what was really going on, the messages passed covertly to signal the next move, the politics of winning, and even some background information on the major players. Suddenly it was like I was watching it through a new lens: a lens that exposed the humanity where before there was none, a lens that allowed the skill and care of each move to come into focus, and a lens that crumbled my judgments and inspired me to just get over myself and see it for what it was: a game of strategy and skill, a performance requiring precision and self-awareness, and a metaphor for our power and celebrity obsessed culture.

The next day I was over-flowing with questions for the wrestlers. How did they get interested in wrestling? What did it mean to them? How did they train? Who were their heroes? What else did they do? How has it affected their personal lives? Did they date other wrestlers? I was especially interested in hearing from the female wrestlers, because the tendency for gratuitous violence seems less natural for women. One woman was kind enough to share quite a bit with me—the joys, the struggles, the successes, the romances, the politics—and I genuinely felt myself becoming some iteration of a fan. But because when I get interested in something, I don’t just like to read about it in a book, I half-jokingly asked if I could be part of the show that night. Which was pretty much all it took—once they realized I was serious—and the next thing I knew I was practicing roundhouse kicks backstage before my big debut!

Well, okay, it didn’t all happen quite so fast. There were several hours where I was stressing out, wanting to come up with a plan, a routine, a character, something! I felt so out of my element and I really didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of thousands of screaming fans. I really wanted to do a good job and justice for them allowing me to participate. But every time I tried to make a suggestion or ask what we were going to do, they were like, don’t worry about it, we’ll figure it out. Even though I intellectually understood that this is what they do every weekend and it’s really no big deal and I’m sure it’ll be fine, I was still freaking out inside—but in a fun, excited way. As we approached the start of the event, I finally got together with the other two girls to figure out what we were going to do. The energy backstage reminded me of putting on plays in high school, everyone with their costumes, props, rehearsing and hanging out. Which, again, brought a whole other level of humanity and feeling of community to my understanding of wrestling.

I don’t want to give away too much, but let’s just say we did what we did to prepare, and then I was left to wait for my big moment. It must seem funny that an actor would be so nervous about something like this, but I really had no idea what it was going to be like, or what I was going to do, or how I was going to feel, once I got in the ring. The level of uncertainty felt exponentially linked to the screaming crowds too, not to mention the men doing backflips into the ring in front of me—very different than the confines of a soundstage or a theater. In any case, I patiently waited for my cue as a ran through the routine in my head. I was to present a gigantic trophy to the winner, Chun Lee, at which point mohawked punk rock girl (the loser) would grab it from Chun Lee’s hands. What happened next exists as a series of stills in my mind, where we clotheslined punk rocker, I climbed the ropes, kicked her in the face (she really ran into my foot!), then I pounced on her for a final count. It was surreal. I was so stunned by the kick, I almost forgot to go pin her down. And once it was all over, I had no clue what to do. The crowd was cheering and suddenly (clearly inspired by my sheer bad-ass-ed-ness) they started yelling “Frak! Frak! Frak!” So I did what I thought any self-respecting wrestler would do and I climbed the ropes and pumped my fist in the air yelling, “Frak! Frak! Frak!” That’s when I had a real out of body moment, watching it all happen happen, almost as if in slow motion, seeing the absurdity, hearing my own disembodied voice, and yet being fully committed to the role and the experience.

I left that evening feeling fuller. Not because I had found my calling as a professional wrestler, or because I got people to cheer in my favor, but because I broke a barrier for myself. I challenged myself in an area I felt resistance, and not only developed an understanding of it, but embraced it. I felt closer to every wrestler and every wrestling fan in that room, and beyond. I felt my curiosity for other things kindled in the realization that avoidance only fuels the discomfort. If we really want to free ourselves from our fears and limited perspectives, if we really want to live in a world where people honor one another, instead of judging and criticizing, then we need to go where we don’t want to go. I can’t say if I’ll ever wrestle again, or if I even think it’s a particularly value-building form of entertainment, but I will say that I feel less afraid of it, less judgmental of the people who do it and adore it, and I feel more human as a result.

FSCW Women's Championship match at Supercon

live from new york, it's comic-con!

As you may have heard, I was at New York Comic-con this past weekend, but cosplaying and causing trouble wasn’t the only thing I got up to that day. I was also playing my new role as host of the Syfy web-series BlastrTV. My childhood dream of becoming an Mtv VJ mixed with my love of sci-fi fandom have collided into a super colossal awesome bomb, and the first episode is now live. It was so difficult to pack all the cool stuff into a 5 minute episode, but we tried. And of course there is a hefty dose of dorkiness injected on my behalf. Going forward our episodes will cover different facets and themes of the sci-fi and fantasy universe. I hope you tune in, and feel free to leave your comments, suggestions, likes, dislikes and all that fun stuff that will help us make the show better and better!

 

adam yauch + a humble reminder

Hearing the news of Adam Yauch’s death hit me in an unexpected way today. Seeing a facebook post that read “RIP MCA” led me to investigate and sure enough the twitter and tumblr-sphere were alive with RIP’s and condolences. I would say my fan cred lies in that grey area between die-hard and clueless, probably just like most people within my age demographic. I know all their hits and most serve as anthems for one life phase or other. The Beasties were a staple of suburban teenage-dom and discovering them was a rite of passage for any white kid trying to make amends with their rebellious streak. I remember thinking the music video for “Sabotage” was brilliant because it was a music video but it also pretended to look like a movie (how clever!), and it was campy, self-aware and bad-ass. I think that was the first video my friends and I recreated once we got our grubby little hands on a video camera, donning hipster moustaches before they were a thing. Anyway, having one of your adolescent idols pass away is inevitable and not all that uncommon. I remember the day Kurt Cobain died. I cried, and for months was scribbling “K.C.R.I.P.” on all my notebooks. The sadness and disillusionment with life came with the teenaged territory and we wallowed in our esteemed rockstars’ woes. Meanwhile we saved our lunch money for concert tickets and used our creative energy to make fashion statements out of safety pins and try not to care too much when our purple hair dye washed out and made it look grey.

So what does this have to do with the Beastie Boys and Adam Yauch’s death? The Beasties were different. They were positive and empowered. They were smart and worldly. Admittedly they had their misguided attempts in the world of role-model-dom, but they weren’t famous for their struggles. They were famous for being fucking rad, knowing how to party and having sick rhymes. And just like they didn’t live for their struggles, Adam didn’t die by his. He died from something that can happen to any of us. He died from something that happens to distant relatives and friends from high school’s parents. Or our heroes.

Obviously I’m not the same age as Adam, but sometimes sharing an imagined identity forms a much stronger connection than how long you’ve been alive. I can relate way more with the Beasties and their frame of mind than I can with a lot of people who share my graduation date or who watched the same after-school specials. I feel deeply saddened by his death. I feel humbled by the reality that no amount of external anything - fame, fortune, friendship or fly beats - can keep us from the inevitable. Adam’s death is a reminder of that; that thing we all know, but conveniently avoid as we put things off or fail to tell our fellow humans we love them. I hope he was able to be with the people he loved during his final days, and reflected on his life believing he’d done alright. I truly believe we all do our best, but allowing ourselves to embrace that truth can be the hardest of all. In the end, we all just gotta fight… for our right… well, you know. Peace and love in the next world Adam.

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