Pow!

“Come on! Harder!” Mayra Alexandra clapped her punch mitts together and squatted to accommodate her tiny opponent.

Alicia lifted a fist enclosed in a boxing glove almost as big as her head and tapped the older girl’s mitt.

Mayra Alexandra sighed as only a 13-year-old could and stood up. 

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat,” she told Alicia. “Stand back. Watch me.”

The bag shuddered as Mayra Alexandra unleashed a flurry of jabs and crosses on it, long braids whipping around her face, hot pink gloves flashing. Alicia dutifully watched, mimicking Mayra Alexandra’s movements.

“Pow!” she whispered, punching the air, each time Mayra Alexandra pounded the bag. “Pow pow pow. Pow!”

She wondered if the bag, patched with splotches of duct tape, could hold together under the assault. 

Panting slightly, Mayra Alexandra knelt down again and held up her mitts. 

“Ok, let’s go! Focus!.”

Alicia bit her lip and zoned in on her target. She took a deep breath and threw every ounce of her 44 pounds into the punch, knocking Mayra Alexandra back on her heels.

“Pow!” she shouted.

“Yes!” Mayra Alexandra sprang to her feet and lifted the six-year-old’s hand in victory. Alicia beamed and the other students applauded.

“Way to go, Alicia!” said Senhor da Silva. He took her by the hand and touched Mayra Alexandra on the shoulder. “You two. Come with me,” he said.

He led them over to a short woman wearing heavy-framed glasses, wavy hair gathered in a ponytail, scribbling furiously in a notebook.

“This is Senhora Ferreira. She’s a reporter from O Globo newspaper and is doing a story on our little program. She’s going to ask you a few questions.”

Alicia liked the merry way Sra. Ferreira’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. The reporter turned her attention on Mayra Alexandra.

“I was so impressed when I heard about Do Morro Para O Ringue. This program is so unique in Rio de Janeiro,” she said. “It’s the first in the favelas to train at-risk children. Sr. da Silva tells me you’re the star student.”

Mayra Alexandra smiled and looked Sra. Ferreira straight in the eye.

“We are very proud of our boxing school. We work hard to excel in our training, study and teach the younger students,” she said.

Mr. da Silva interrupted.

“Mayra Alexandra came to us after a police raid on her home last year. Her brothers were arrested for drug trafficking and one of the officers brought her here,” he explained.

“What do you hope to accomplish with boxing, Mayra Alexandra?” asked Sra. Ferreira.

“I am going to study a lot and I am going to focus – on boxing and on my schoolwork. I am going to get to the top and win! I am going to show the world that I am not just another girl called Mayra.”

Sra. Ferreira smiled and patted her on the arm. 

“That is a good goal. And how about you, little one?” she asked Alicia.

“Alicia is one of our newest students and our youngest – six years old,” Sr. da Silva said.

Alicia put her hands behind her back and said solemnly, “Struggle and discipline. I promise to use what I learned today only for good, only for defense and only in a positive manner and to never do wrong. Amen.”

Sr. da Silva chuckled and patted her on the head. “That is our closing mantra,” he told the Sra. Ferreira. “Mayra Alexandra, do you want to do the honors today?”

The star student clapped her hands sharply and the children fell into rows, Alicia standing in front. Mayra Alexandra began the mantra and 24 voices quickly joined her:

“Struggle and discipline. I promise to use what I learned today only for good, only for defense and only in a positive manner and to never do wrong. Amen.”

Alicia never missed a day of training. She raced to the boxing school the moment her classes ended, often the first to dig into the pile of donated gloves and grab the red ones, her favorites despite the cracks in the vinyl and ragged stitching. Sr. da Silva’s wife would carefully wrap her tiny hands  and send her scampering over to mirrors where she would study herself earnestly as she punched and kicked the air. Her cheeks flushed and brown eyes brightened as she worked her way through the drills, and she always stayed well after the other students had left, until Sr. and Sra. da Silva locked up for the night.

“Why don’t you want to go home, Alicia?” Sra. da Silva asked her one night.

Alicia shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, looking down at her feet.

Sra. da Silva looked over her head at Sr. da Silva.

“Is your home safe?” Sra. da Silva asked.

Alicia nodded. 

“Are your parents at home?”

“My mama.”

“Does she wonder where you are so late each day?”

“No. She’s busy with the other kids.”

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

Alicia counted on her fingers.

“Eight. But Julio is in jail. He shot someone.”

Sra. da Silva patted her on the shoulder and glanced at her husband, who look sadly back at her.

“Ok, go on home, meu amor. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Alicia struggled to fit her backpack over her shoulders and trudged out the door.  The late afternoon sun was already casting shadows over the steep streets and haphazard shacks. She cut through an alley and then up road, stepping around sleeping dogs and murky puddles, past cars and doorways leaking tinny samba music.

A block from her home, an explosion of shrieks and laughter caught her attention. She looked up to see a group of teenage girls giggling and dancing near the frango no bafo stand. Mayra Alexandra was in the middle, taller than the others. She moved gracefully, tossing her braids, short denim shorts showing off her long, dark legs.

Alicia watched the girls, longing to join them. She was shuffling her feet to the music when she heard shouting and a slew of curses. A group of teenage boys neared the girls, hooting and jeering. It took Alicia a moment to realize they were aiming their insults at Mayra Alexandra. The pounding beat of the music seemed louder as the girls shrank back. All except Mayra Alexandra, who stood imperiously before the boys, glaring.

“Oy, menina!  Look - it’s the boxing champion,” said one, sarcasm sneering from his curled lip.

“I’m not ‘just another girl called Mayra,’” mimicked another in a whiny falsetto.

“What are you, Mayra Alexandra?  A dude?”

Alicia noticed Mayra Alexandra’s clenched fists and the almost-imperceptible movement of her feet into a subtle fighting stance. She saw the familiar set of her jaw and tension almost pulsing through her body.

“Whore,” said another boy. “They just put her in Globo to get more money. I bet she couldn’t throw a punch if she tried.” He pantomimed a weak jab and faked a high whine, “Ow! My nails!” The boys laughed.

And that’s when Mayra Alexandra unleashed, like a tiger pouncing on a mouse.

She pummeled the boy with a viciousness Alicia had never seen and had him on the ground in an instant. The other boys tried to grab her, but she struck and kicked ferociously, knocking them aside like feathers. She was on top of the other boy pounding his face with a blur of punches until his head was bathed in blood. 

“Oh no, oh no,” whispered Alicia, alarmed.

The little girl sprinted to the fight, ignoring the backpack banging the backs of her knees.

“Mayra Alexandra! Mayra Alexandra!” she shouted.

But Mayra Alexandra heard nothing as she hammered at the boy. Alicia lunged at her arm and held on with all her might as the older girl’s power flung her to the street. 

“Go away!” Mayra Alexandra screamed at her.

“Mayra Alexandra! Struggle and discipline,” Alicia panted. “I promise to use what I learned today only for good, only for defense and only in a positive manner and to never do wrong. Amen.”

The words seemed to have a magical effect on Mayra Alexandra. She paused mid-punch and stared at Alicia. Alicia repeated the statement.

“Struggle and discipline. I promise to use what I learned today only for good, only for defense and only in a positive manner and to never do wrong. Amen.”

Mayra Alexandra pulled herself off the boy and sat on the ground, head in her hands. Alicia crawled to her and put an arm around her while a crowd gathered around the boy and helped him to his feet. The frango  vendor turned down the music and a rare stillness descended on the street corner.

“I can’t go back to the boxing school,” Mayra Alexandra whispered, voice low and raspy.

“You can!” Alicia said. “Sr. da Silva will help you.”

Mayra Alexandra shook her head.

The vendor held some ice to the boy’s head and the bystanders began to disperse. Someone turned the music up again. Three men, unaware of the drama that had preceded them, walked by, laughing loudly at dirty jokes. The sun set over the favela. The smell of grilled chicken filled the air. In the distance, came the rat-tat-tat of gunfire. And still the girls sat, huddled together in the shadows of the frango stall until well into the night.