I was still uncivilized. Among the Starbucks Wednesday morning commuters who awaited lattes while wearing ties, pencil skirts, and blowouts, I stood out. Air-dried hair frizzed from my head, baggy ... [+]
When Wally asks me to punch him in the stomach, I try not to hold back. I let it rip. I set my feet like he taught me to, draw back my fist, and deliver a blow to the spot he's pointing at—right above his belly button. "Harder!" he yells. "You can punch harder than that!" I remember what he taught me about footwork. I do a little hop and replant my feet at a 45 degree angle. I shift my weight as I throw a punch from my cheek to his stomach. "Do it again!" he says. "Harder!" Again I hop up. Again I shift, except this time I think about my fist going through his stomach; traveling beyond his abd
