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Stereotypes-Personal Narrative

Decent Essays

There was an old “CRT” TV, like the type that had littered the shelves of my brother’s pawn shop, hitched up against the corner of the convenience store I had just walked into. Although the image was blurry, I recognized immediately what was showing. I placed the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and walked in, my hands stuffed in the two pockets on either side of the sweatshirt. I cursed the fact that the sweatshirt had the words “Donovan’s Fight Club” in big, decorative cursive letters on the back, embroidered by the lady down the street from the club. I grabbed the milk I had come in for and scooped up a bag of Skittles for Margie. Then I walked up to the counter, pulling out a wad of bills from my back pocket. The attendant, much to my …show more content…

That poor girl went flying down the ground, hard. And then I pinned her. The clerk let out a low whistle, his head shaking in awe. “You’d expect that girl to be a little happier that she won, don’t you think?” the store clerk asked. He had finished off the last of the potato chips and tossed the bag into the garbage. “I mean, she just won her first title, but there’s no smile, no elation—no nothing. If you ask me, I think that’s the sign of a champion. She knew she was going to win from the moment she stepped into the ring.” I felt myself take a shallow breath. I wanted to tell him that that girl didn’t know she was going to win from the moment she stepped into the ring. I wanted to tell him that the lack of elation at winning wasn’t because she was being stoic; on the contrary, she hadn’t felt there was anything to be elated about. But it had been a compliment, hadn’t it? This man watching me even though he apparently had never seen a woman’s MMA match before. Still, even if he hadn’t realized it was me who had just savagely thrown my fist into that girl’s right cheek, knocking out one of her teeth and giving her a concussion that I heard she was still suffering symptoms from, it didn't feel like a …show more content…

I wanted to go up to the counter and tell him to keep trying—that size didn’t matter—but at that time, it seemed to me as though maybe size did matter. And why would some poor man listen to some little punk-ass girl anyway? But as soon as the man was gone, my brother turned around with a smile and threw the gloves to me, which I caught with some difficulty, because they were heavier than I was expecting. “Here you go, Annie,” he said, the grin he and I both shared plastered on his broad face. “Just what you wanted.” I didn’t wear these gloves when I competed, of course. Stereotypical red boxing gloves weren’t fit for the MMA ring. I didn’t even wear them when I was training with Donny. I only wore them when I was training all by myself, hidden away in my corner, a reminder that size doesn’t matter. Today was like any one of those solo sessions at the gym. I was at my punching bag away from everyone and everything, listening to my brother’s angry music, feeling angry, even though, like usual, I wasn’t sure why I felt angry. We don’t need to justify anger, Anna-Maria. That’s what Mom always said. We don’t have to justify anything we

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