Arnis Fighter

© 1998 by Edessa Ramos

As a child you were happier

climbing trees

and wrestling friends

to the ground, while

other girls kept busy

parading mini-skirts in the park

and as you grew older

you were marching

through angry streets, choking

on tear-gas, challenging

dictators,

and at other times descending

undersea walls

or scaling

the peaks of volcanoes

and you knew, 

you somehow knew,

you didn't want to climb corporate ladders -

rather trails leading to the tops of mountains,

nor wrestle with relationships in emotional jousts -

rather yourself in the battle called life.

One day

someone put a pair of sticks

in your hands. 

Yantok 

They were as long as your arms

your fingers encircled them well 

you swung them

this way, that way 

and suddenly

the sky slid down like a cloak around your shoulders 

the wind started singing in your ears 

as your sticks sliced their paths through empty space

in infinite patterns of figure-eights,

the heat of your breath searing the air,

as the ground rose up to meet your embrace

when you wrestled opponents to the floor

and held them down in locks and grips.

The endless music of sticks

clicking and clacking

swinging and slapping

was the only system in your head 

and with every graceful turn, 

with every advance and retreat, 

with every strike and counter-strike, 

you wove the pattern of your dreams.

The yantok's* smooth surface reminded you

of bamboo groves and sturdy vines

like the ancient trees you used to climb

and you knew, 

you certainly knew, 

how much you’ve always wanted 

to be free, 

to be wild  

and bursting with power, 

to be everything you could imagine, 

to go where only you decide, 

to make contact with wind

and muscle and rain and mud,

and you knew 

that your mind was strong enough,

you knew 

that your instinct was sharp enough 

and your face as beautiful and bright

as the gift your body is to the art, 

you knew  

you were truly  

meant to be  

a warrior.