My Kung fu brothers have called me a lot of things. Crazy, angry, fierce, dangerous… the one that stuck was Tigress. First because Sifu liked the name. But also because it encompasses all the other names they tried before. So much that the name became me.
Yinyin was how mother wanted me to be called. A double yin to balance the extra yang everyone in the family comes with. A curse, some say. I even chose Claudia as the westerner name, from clouds, so soft, to honor her choice. But Tigress is what I see in the mirror. The beast.
That is important to understand my choices, for I have no hate, despite the appearance, just anger. I like causing pain on fighters that underestimate me. Enjoy putting my skills to the test to see if kung fu traditions can still stand against the perils of the modern world. To finesse my ways of hurting and, if needed, kill. But hate, the never ending feeling aimed at something, regardless of regardlessness, I have none. Can’t stand it either.
So it became a channel. Hate, I mean. It’s where my anger escapes, before I explode because of the flashes of my fights and training. Of Sifu hitting me with a stick because I lost balance. Of mother’s theoretical disappointment with the fights she might have seen me losing (she died giving birth to me but always wanted me to be tough). Those strobe-memories burn and make me want to hurt someone.
So when I find them, I let nature be.
White supremacists, racists, sexists, abusers. There is something positive about how emboldened those slimy critters have been. In power, they are easier to sniff and attack. Yes, I confess I love seeing them turn into punch dough by the small hands of an Asian girl. I’m a Tigress, after all. The Queen of the cónglin. Pouncing is my nature and they are my diet.
Humiliation doesn’t get more delicious than that.