(PART III)
Near the end of Beautfiful Boxer we are treated to a gorgeous, dreamlike scene which we might think of as The Last Temptation of Nong Toom. The setting is an annual Muay Thai festival in our heroine’s home province, and she is making her first public appearance since her operation. A ceremonial procession, with banners, drums, and sonorous metal horns, bears a transfigured Nong Toom out of the evening darkness. Lotus like, ethereal, she rides a palanquin on the shoulders of strong men, delicately inhabiting a traditional gown, a flower in her lustrous hair. The men set her down, she greets some local potentates, and the crowd (transfigured with her out of its earlier, uglier incarnations) cheers.
In the middle of it all is a boxing ring, where a small boy in gloves, lipstick and rouge, dances the wai khru ram muay, the traditional prayer-dance of Thai fighters. With a quizzical expression Nong Toom approaches the boy. “Are you a transvestite?” she asks him. He shakes his head, no. “Then why are you wearing the makeup?” He points—her promoter is hectoring some photographers to get a picture of them together. Nong Toom takes a tissue and wipes the lipstick from the boy’s lips. “From now on,” she says “whether you fight in here or out there,[5] you fight from here, okay?” She places her hand on the boy’s heart, and he smiles.
She has impacted her culture to the point where something once reviled is now celebrated, and her victory will have important implications for other transgender Thais as they aspire to non-traditional roles. But in telling the boy to live from his own center, she refuses the tribute that would seem her due. Instead of just a transgender icon she becomes a model for all who struggle for authenticity.
In considering the full scope of her life—from the ascetic stage of her physical training, to her initiation in the ring, to her escalating trials by combat between gauntlets of jeering crowds, to her symbolic death and rebirth upon the operating table, remade at last in her own image—one is tempted to overstate the case for Nong Toom’s beatification. She is (she has repeatedly claimed to be) just a normal person following her dreams. At the same time she is a living reminder that the stories about gods and heroes are really about us, normal people following their dreams, that each of us has his and/or her familiar demons, vulnerable heels, tragic flaws and moments of doubt, as well as the power of personal and world transformation.
It is in this sense that she has become, for me, a guide to meditation in my training and in my marriage to another marvelous lady (marriage is itself a consecration of sacred androgyny).[6] A compassionate, feminine bodhisattva of combat, she reminds me not to identify my power, my success or failure, with the jealous masculine ego. This is probably the most common pitfall of male fighters, and it can be ruinous, especially in the twilight years when the ego is no longer supported by the health of the body. Even in its full vigor and ascendency, the battle for male pride is always a false, staged tauromaquia, one which obscures the real stakes. The greatest masters, the Bruce Lees and Miyamoto Muzashis, always arrive at this: that the fight is really about one’s encounter with death.
Deathalone is real. Death is the discerningscout of authenticity, the ruthless friend, scornful of pretense and badfaith. Death is our trainer, our coach,our spotter and cut man. Death is amuscular, dancing ladyboy, and none of us stand even a sliver of a chance. But if we learn from our good teachers, if weare wise, if we are equal to the challenge of discovering who we really are, Ibelieve Death will kiss us on the cheek when it is over, and say “I was roughon you. Sorry.”
(End of the Essay)
(Meet Mago Contributor) Matthew Chabin.
[1] The emergent spectrum of nonbinary categories is admittedly too complex and varied for this model.
[2] Interestingly, both men and women who are victims of rape become candidates for such double-negation.
[3] This category runs the gamut from the delightful to the terrifying, from Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire to the Norman Bates/Buffalo Bill-type “gender-monster” whose identity is warped by extreme self-hatred and complimentary hatred of the other. But remember, “Billy’s not a real transsexual.”
[4] This ban is fast becoming obsolete, as many gyms now allow and sponsor female fighters.
[5] We may infer a double meaning, the enclosure of the boxing ring as mind/soul.
[6] You see dear, it was a love letter after all.