Torturous minutes in horse stance, legs quivering in a converted Castro garage, quads burning like a welder’s torch, feet pounding a wooden floor. Kiai! I yelled, then advanced, Kiai! I yelled again as I kicked, crisp snap of my white cotton gi as I struck an imaginary opponent, sweat dripping down newly my acquired pecs, unfamiliar bulges I feared were breast cancers not breastplate. Systematic aggression disguised as graceful katas drilled again and again to hone a sharp blade of anger— a defense against perceived threats to my liberated womanhood. Belted triumphs: yellow, orange, green, blue, purple—increasingly dark hues, a progression towards lethality until the day I actually struck a woman, her defensive gloves failing to rise in our choreographed spar. My fist smacked hard into her face. Her body spun like a paint wheel, blood-spattered walls, a Jackson Pollack canvas. I froze, the tails ...