Swish, Swish... Off With Their Heads

When I was a young lass, I was a fencer.

No, not the farming type that wandered around the farm putting up wire and posts to keep stock in a paddock. I mean a swish swish, off with their heads type of fencer.

It's been over fifty-five years since I last stepped onto a piste, mask in hand and heart pounding. Back then, I learned quickly that no amount of reach or muscle could level the playing field against a male opponent.

But fencing taught me something even more valuable -  grace under pressure, discipline, and the quiet power of standing your ground.

My love affair with fencing began back in 1969 or thereabouts, when I started high school. I came from a tiny country primary school in rural New Zealand where there had been barely a hundred pupils. Overnight I found myself in a high school of almost two thousand students.

It was a culture shock. And that is an understatement.

On arrival, the first thing we were asked to do was sign up for a sport. I'd played netball at primary school but never really enjoyed team sports.

My two brothers were already champion fencers for the school, so, with all the confidence that only a teenager can possess, I decided I would follow in their footsteps.

Every Saturday morning the three of us would pile into our little Mini with bags full of fencing gear and head off to tournaments around the district. Foils, masks, gloves and uniforms were crammed into every available space as we set off to vanquish the opposition.

I loved every minute of it.

The noble art of fencing is both a martial art and a combat sport. It has centuries of tradition behind it and combines elegance, speed, discipline and tactics.

The word "fencing" itself comes from the Old French defens, meaning defence or protection.

There are three fencing weapons: foil, épée and sabre.

In my day girls were only allowed to compete with foil.

The foil is light, flexible and rewards precision. Hits count only on the torso. It was considered the purest expression of fencing.

The heavier épée, where the whole body is target, and the fast, sweeping sabre were reserved for the boys.

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Today, of course, women compete in all three.

Redhead, my Mum, became just as enthusiastic as we were. In fact, she once wrote a wonderful story about acting as chaperone when a group of us travelled overnight by train to Christchurch for the National Championships.

Looking back, I often wonder whether she was incredibly brave or simply blissfully unaware of what a carriage full of teenagers might get up to.

Then again... anyone who knew Redhead also knew that nobody would have dared misbehave with the sheriff on board.

I loved fencing because it wasn't a team sport.

If I won, it was my victory.

If I lost, it was my defeat.

I loved the tactics. The strategy. The constant battle of trying to think one move ahead. It was like playing chess at full speed while standing on your feet.

And I did rather well.

One day I asked my fencing teacher, Miss M, whether I could have a bout against one of my brothers.

She immediately said no. My brothers also said no.

Being a rather snippety little upstart in those days, I demanded to know why.

Miss M explained that my brothers had advantages I could never overcome.

They were taller. They had longer arms. Greater reach. Larger frames. More strength.

I protested.

Surely fencing was about brains as much as brawn? Surely I could beat them with superior tactics?

Miss M simply shook her head.

"No."

She wasn't trying to discourage me.

She was trying to save me from disappointment.

Eventually I accepted that she was right. I enjoyed winning, and deliberately setting myself up to lose wasn't part of my nature.

I went on to become a regional girls' champion.

My brothers both became national boys' champions.

Then, only a few years ago, I read that a biological male had won the women's veterans fencing championship in Florida.

I felt genuinely saddened.

More than fifty-five years earlier, my fencing teacher had patiently explained something that, at the time, wasn't controversial at all.

Boys and girls could both become excellent fencers.

But they were not physically the same.

No amount of determination could change differences in height, reach, bone structure and strength.

Those differences mattered.

They mattered then.

They still matter now.

USA Fencing described its policy as "an important first step toward expanding access to the sport of fencing and creating inclusive and safe spaces that promote equality and fairness for all."

Fairness for all, perhaps...

Unless you happened to be born female.

Until women themselves decide enough is enough -  by refusing to compete under such rules or creating their own competitions -  I struggle to see how anything will change.