Don't Fence Me In

by Laura W. Haywood

 

Though I stopped taking Phys. Ed. (as gym was called then) in the sixth grade, I still remember an elation on graduating from college that had nothing to do with earning a degree. No long was the threat of Phys. Ed. held over my head. I knew that, henceforth, dealing a hand of bridge was the most grueling exercise I'd have to undertake.

I was wrong. I had a sister, Joan, who was eight years younger than I. She took gym and was able to do incredible things such as climbing a rope to the ceiling and climbing back down without falling. Nothing could have induced me to even try such a thing. When I'd been applying to colleges, I'd had an interview at Radcliffe– till then the school I really wanted to attend – and during the course of the interview it came out that the fire escape system at Radcliffe was a rope dangling out the window and, during the first semester, all students had to prove the ability to climb a rope three stories and get back down. I deliberately sabotaged the rest of the interview and was relieved when I didn't get it.

Joan and I were of totally different physical types: I felt lucky when I fit into a size sixteen; she wore a size five petite. I was elated when I walked across a room without tripping over my own feet; she could run the bases in softball and score an inside-the-park home run without being winded. I got my exercise walking from the subway station to the cab stand around the corner; she consistently walked home.

While she was in high school, she decided she would like to take fencing lessons. I did some checking and found a fencing teacher who was affordable. She then announced that she didn't want to taking the lessons alone. I decided that, with a little belt tightening, I could cover lessons for Joan and a friend she'd found who wanted to take the lessons with her.

I signed them up for something like ten lessons. On the day of the first lesson, her friend decided she didn't want to learning fencing after all. So there I was: committed to paying for ten lessons for two people, with one backing out completely and the other, my sister, insisting she didn't want to do it alone. There was only one thing I could do: take the lessons with her.

We got to the New York Fencers' Club at the appointed time and it was only then I learned that the teacher I'd selected on the basis of cost was the coach of the US Olympic Fencing Team and reputed to be the best in the city if not the country. Worse still, the Olympic team was there and Monsieur Aloux thought it would be a terrific idea if Joan and I worked out with the team before the lesson. So there I was, trying to do calisthenics I'm sure were invented by the Marquis de Sade. My only comfort was that most of the Olympic team couldn't do the exercises either.

When that little horror was over, it was time for the first lesson. I was, of course, completely exhausted, but I did my best to learn the strange position one uses in fencing – standing, knees bent, sideways, the left foot lined up with the body in a normal position, the right foot at right angles to the left and about a foot in front of the left. You held the foil in the right hand and it lined up with the right foot.

I knew immediately that I was in big trouble. I had taken Spanish in school, and Monsieur Aloux taught in French. Oh, he kindly gave me a glossary of terms, but I was still having to translate what he was saying into English, visualize the act, and then try to perform it. But the time I accomplished that, I was backed into the wall again. Retreating was definitely my best move.

My sister was taking French in school and was not having the same problem. Since the lessons were for her benefit, I decided to resign myself to spending most of the hour backed into the wall while she learned to parry and lunge and thrust and all the other stuff involved in fencing. After each lesson, we took the subway home. I can only say that if you've never tried walking down stairs after an hour hunched into the fencer's basic position, you can count yourself lucky. Fencing uses muscles that are rarely used otherwise, but they all seem to come into play walking down stairs and they are all good at screaming in protest.

After a number of lessons, Monsieur Aloux told me that Joan had a definite gift for the sport and that, if she continued her lessons, he might even be able to get her a fencing scholarship to college. I was elated and was ready to sign up for another series of lessons when it happened. Joan did have a talent for fencing and during the final lesson, she had Monsieur Aloux in full retreat. She went for the point and scored – but the tip of her foil slipped between the chest protector and the mask Monsieur Aloux was wearing and, when he pulled off the mask, it turned out he was bleeding.

It was literally only a scratch, but my sister was horrified. Drawing blood had not been in her game plan. Though Monsieur Aloux and I both tried to persuade her to continue, she refused. She had no killer instinct and didn't want to acquire one.

Needless to say, Monsieur Aloux made no effort to persuade me to continue without her. He might be willing to try to teach Americans to fence, but he knew where to draw the line.

Share: