Something strikes me about a young woman standing next to me on the C train. She’s ‘butch’ in appearance – short hair, t-shirt and sweat pants, sneakers, hat turned backwards – but more than anything it’s her nose, which looks like it’s been broken (the way a boxer’s nose does) that gives her a tough appearance. Then I notice that her t-shirt is advertising a boxing gym, as is her hat, and I see that there are a pair of boxing gloves poking out of her bag. For the rest of the ride I’m lost in a series of reflections about boxing, toughness and masculinity. I recall the time my father tried to teach me to box, and how stunned I was when he hit me in the face with what seemed to me like unnecessary force. The young woman, I think to myself, projects combativeness. A few days later I’m on the C train again going the opposite direction and I recognize the young boxer again, only this time she’s with a female companion. They chat and joke, a relaxed demeanor that contradicts my earlier impression of hardened aloofness. During the train ride a man sitting nearby notices her boxing regalia and starts asking her pointed questions about the gym. It turns out he’s a kickboxer looking for somewhere to train. She’s friendly and helpful to a fault, answering each of the man’s questions with as much information and enthusiasm as she can muster. I’m confused, relieved and slightly chagrined at my previous assumptions…