Crazy Is My Superpower: How I Triumphed by Breaking Bones, Breaking Hearts, and Breaking the Rules

by A. J. Mendez Brooks

  As we get older, simply beating people up to prove our worth isn’t going to achieve the same results. But, boy, have I wanted to try. Believe it or not, being told the majority of America did not want to penetrate me wasn’t the meanest thing a guy has ever told me. But having it happen not only in the workplace, but also in the job of my dreams, held a different kind of weight. Suddenly, sexiness was not an option, it was a prerequisite. And as I continued to work with large groups of women, I realized I wasn’t alone.

  For women in every field and facet of life, there is some expectation of physical beauty. It is as if simply having a vagina has signed us to a lifetime contract with Sephora cosmetics. A period is a literal blood oath to join the never-ending quest for physical perfection. But why? Part of the answer is that for generations upon generations men have been preconditioned to put this pressure on women. Not all men, but enough for it to be a problem in this modern age.

  If you are one of the good ones to whom this does not apply, high five, brother. May your manners and respectful treatment of women get you laid like a bandit. But there are a great deal of other men who just believe it is a woman’s duty to look good. That is what society has raised them to believe. That we are here for their viewing pleasure. And to deny them of this means we have failed at being a woman. And, they think, if you’re not going to put the effort in to look attractive, at least don’t make the cardinal sin of being unappealing.

  If a woman is not a giggling, lilting flower, a lot of guys will just assume she’s having her period or is a cold shrew—instead of considering that maybe he’s just not that funny. Just because you are a man does not mean I have to giggle at your jokes. I don’t owe you anything just because I have a vagina.

  And I owe no one a goddamn smile. If a woman makes eye contact with a man and doesn’t grin, chances are that guy is going to call her a bitch in his head, or sometimes he will just yell it at her loudly for displeasing him. Men, this is a real thing that happens to your mothers, sisters, and girlfriends when you are not around. Then there are the obnoxious bunch that will just go ahead and make a demand of her face, while using a voice that would imply he is gifting her with attention. “Smile,” guys will tell complete strangers, when they really mean, Why are you not trying to get me to sleep with you? You are a woman, which means I have the right to be pleased by looking at you. Ask yourself how you would feel about a man approaching your daughter this way.

  I once read an interview with Megan Fox in which the interviewer felt the need to mention that he had been greeted by Fox with a handshake and not a warm smile. He said it put him off and made her seem cold and withholding. Would any interviewer complain about the same thing if a male actor greeted him with a handshake? He would probably applaud the man’s manners.

  Society expects their women to respond to men with warmth and immediate intimacy. To do anything but must mean the woman is an icy bitch, not simply professional and expecting to be treated as an equal.

  Asking a woman to smile is either a creepy invasion of personal space or a rude assumption that a woman needs rescuing. We are not damsels in distress. I’m a self-rescuing princess, thank you very much. And even if I were actually in a foul mood, your tiny penis would do nothing but only further bum me out.

  I assume the only men who can truly understand how annoying this is are the dancers in Las Vegas’s Thunder Down Under. Because while every single female on the planet is born with a list of physical expectations stapled to her forehead, only a male stripper can truly understand what it feels like to be marginalized on his looks alone.

  Men, on average, do not have to worry about this crap. They don’t get pulled into an office and told to work on their sexiness for the sake of their job. They can be perfectly respected for their talent without any mention of their looks. And most of them certainly don’t have to feel unsafe walking down a street. They don’t get accosted by female drivers who think honking a horn is a polite compliment.

  I once tweeted that I was offering free to low-cost castrations to any man who enjoyed honking his horn at a chick as a form of mating call. I was blown away by how many guys went on the offensive, reprimanding me for being so ungrateful for the attention. I don’t want these men to reproduce, so my offer still stands.

  “He just wanted to let you know you are beautiful, you bitch.” So he wanted to compliment me through the use of a startlingly loud noise and then speed off? Using this logic, the next time my guy does the dishes I will quietly lurk behind him, scream directly into his eardrum, and then run away into the night.

  No woman likes this, guys. In fact, the second a driver slows to catcall us or honk his horn, we reach for our pepper spray, understandably assuming you are a sexual predator and you intend to stuff us in your trunk.

  And sure, there might be men reading this who think, Hey, trying to compliment a lady does not make us sexual harassers! Except that it kind of does. Because the actual definition of sexual harassment is this: unwelcome sexual advances, a request for sexual favors, and other verbal or physical harassment of a sexual nature. So, yes, seeing an attractive woman and requesting she open her mouth for you in an ass-backward attempt at being flirty and making a woman feel even the slightest bit like she might be in danger can be a form of sexual harassment.

  It’s important to realize the severity of these actions because it’s a slippery slope from unwanted advances to becoming a red dot on your local sex offender registry. Bitch, why are you taking this shit so seriously? you might ask while telling your wife to stop staring at you for yelling at a book and to get back in the kitchen. Well, sir, because I have seen the worst of these kinds of situations. And it all comes down to assumptions and expectations.

  It is assumed that as women, we want men to find us attractive. And when we do not appreciate a “compliment,” some men feel like this is a slap in the face. They assume a “compliment” was what we wanted. Please note the difference between my guy telling me I look beautiful and a stranger telling me, “You got a nice fat ass on you.” They assume being extremely forward is flattering and not intrusive. And some men give a bad name to all when they expect the access and opportunity to approach a woman however they see fit.

  A typical workweek in wrestling included five days of traveling. It started with two flights into a town, a show in that town, three to four hours of driving to the next town when that show ended around 10 p.m., and repeating this five days in a row until taking two flights back home. As a woman, occasionally traveling alone, it was important to be aware of my surroundings. When I stopped at a gas station one morning before a show, a man filling up next to me refused to peel his eyes from my ass.

  I watched as he overflowed his tank with gas and cursed as his shoes got covered in the foul-smelling liquid. That’s how inappropriately long and intense he locked onto what my momma gave me. While I finished paying, I noticed him watching me in his car. He had no further business at the gas station but was not driving away. While I drove to a restaurant to grab some food to take to the arena, I noticed he followed close behind the entire way and simply parked outside, just waiting for me to come out.

  As I entered the store, I let an employee know I thought I was being followed and a kind girl and guy walked me back out to my car. When we walked out and I saw him roll his window down, despite my having company, I thought the worst of his intentions. He shouted at me, “Hey! Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?” Ignoring him, I got back into my car and drove to the arena, noticing he was still on my tail. As I drove through a security checkpoint I watched his car bust a U-turn in defeat.

  What exactly was this guy’s game plan? Was he going to follow me in his car all day showering me with compliments, hoping that one day we would laugh to our children about how Daddy stalked Mommy until she loved him? Or was his plan something more sinister? Luckily, I didn’t have to find out.

  On a scale of 1 through Mayor of Creep Town, this incident barely registered against the type
of experiences I’ve had and the women I’ve worked with have had. I can guarantee you they all have anywhere from five to twenty stories just like that. So I’ve learned to keep my guard up. If a guy gives me any reason to worry, as a well-traveled and street-smart woman, I’m going to assume the worst. Because sometimes a guy may start by staring at your ass at the gas station, but then that situation may escalate.

  As a woman in a sport that can sometimes have small outfits and salacious story lines, there was an odd expectation of access. Sort of like how guys want to take pictures with their arms wrapped around a group of Hooters waitresses. These are women who are meant to be looked at, they think, so naturally that must mean I have an all-access pass to them.

  I have had men follow me in dark airport parking lots to try and get a picture. I don’t assume the picture part and reach for pepper spray or my keys to defend myself from the guy FOLLOWING ME IN A DARK PARKING LOT. Then they act like I’m the weird one. I’ve had a father bring his son up to me for a picture and held his small child in one arm as we posed for the photo. He then wrapped his other arm around my waist and squeezed my ass as his friend, jumping to my other side, wrapped his arm around my shoulders and tried to slide his hand down my shirt. These two grown men planned a sexual assault on a woman using a child.

  Instinctively I elbowed back at both men and watched as our badass security woman, Muriel Howell, took both men by the back of the neck to airport security.

  I have had two men follow my car from one state to another, check into my same hotel, and request the room next door to me. And they were actually given it! When I opened my door in the morning, they popped out and asked for autographs. They could’ve easily just pushed me into my room and attacked me. But that kind of carelessness from a hotel’s staff doesn’t surprise me; I had one man call my room five times asking if I could meet him for drinks in the hotel bar. When I called the front desk to speak to a manager, turns out it was the manager who had been calling in the first place.

  And sometimes these hotel interactions aren’t so innocent. One female wrestler actually had a maintenance worker use a master key to open her room door while she was asleep at 3 a.m. Luckily she had the door bolted, but for a terrifying second she locked eyes with a man who cracked a door open with the cruelest of intentions.

  So understandably, I feel a little on the offense. How far separated is a guy who can objectify a woman online or while in a moving car because he can anonymously get away with it from a guy who would break into a woman’s hotel room because no one would find out? For women who have to endure all levels of sexual harassment every day, the lines begin to blur.

  But I believe there are plenty of guys who are smart and polite enough to act appropriately with a woman; it’s just really hard to hear them over these obnoxious car horns. So, nice guys, speak up. Get louder. Whether you see it or not, there are women all around you who would really appreciate being able to pump their gas without feeling in danger.

  And misogynists, please shut the fuck up. Treat women the way you would want someone to treat your daughter, sister, mother, or wife—or scratch that—treat women how you want to be treated. Step up. Be kinder. Be smarter. Be better. Or just smile real pretty for me, so I can punch you in the teeth.

  I don’t believe in anything but myself. I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in destiny, soul mates, or really anything that suggests that I am not the final word in the path I take. It’s one of the many reasons I avoid drugs and alcohol. Not only do I respect the power of my brain at full capacity, I relish being in complete control. But there have been moments so coincidental, so fortuitously miraculous, they have made me wonder.

  When wrestlers had spent a certain amount of time in FCW and could not gain anything more out of the system, the company executives would bring them on the road and choose from one of two options. Either they would let them advance to the main roster in case an extra body was needed, or they would determine their investment was going nowhere and fire them. When after six more months in FCW had passed and I was invited on the road, I was sure this was my swan song.

  But as luck would have it, the wrestlers I would be working with that weekend on house shows were a group of collaborative, talented women: Celeste; the current champion, Beth Phoenix; and Layla, whom I already knew I could depend on in the ring. Celeste (known as Kaitlyn in the ring) and I had become fast friends when I handled her tryout match and she was thrust onto NXT season 3, two weeks after getting hired. She had proven herself to be a hard worker and was full of personality and potential. When we realized we were the only women on the roster with the same asinine, deeply inappropriate sense of humor, and strikingly similar upbringings that had made us hardened sarcastic monsters, we quickly became heterosexual life partners.

  The four of us worked together seamlessly. I let them all know this may be my last chance at being employed and so we pulled no punches. At the time, women were not known for taking risks in the ring, so when we put on a tag match that was full of dangerous acrobatic “high spots” for myself and Layla, and feats of strength for Kaitlyn and Beth, the producers took notice. I even got an e-mail from the Talent Relations department congratulating me on the positive reports. I truly believe that match saved my job.

  Not only that, in May 2011, about two weeks later, I finally debuted on WWE television. To make the moment even more cry-worthy, I got to debut in a tag team with Celeste. When the announcers approached us before the show and asked if we had a team name, we jokingly told them it was the Chickbusters. Taking us seriously, they actually called us that on television. The match was on the company’s B show, SmackDown. We each got one move of offense in, subsequently lost the match, and were warned it might be cut from the taped show’s airing because the event had run overtime—but none of that stopped my heart from soaring. I had finally wrestled in a WWE ring. I had finally debuted on the main roster.

  For a few months I continued my role as a utility man. NXT had become its own noncompetition show, and alongside two other shows, called Main Event and Superstars, the three programs were taped before Raw and SmackDown. For many weeks I would serve double or triple duty, wrestling on NXT, Superstars, and SmackDown, usually getting my butt handed to me and playing the role that suited me best: the underdog. After this went on for some time, I had what is called a “squash match” against Beth on one of the main shows. In a squash, one person (me) gets relentlessly pummeled for the entirety of the match. It is meant to demonstrate how imposing and unbeatable a wrestler (not me) is. Without realizing I could hear their conversation, Beth, who was the champion at the time, pulled aside the new head of Talent Relations and put in a good word for me. “That was just her third match in one night, and they were all great matches. I hope I’m not the only one that noticed that.”

  Maybe this was just a passing moment in her day. Maybe she was the type of person who was just unabashedly kind, but I would never forget it. She didn’t have to stick her neck out for me. She could’ve insecurely seen another woman as competition. Instead Beth was open-minded and self-assured. Herself, Layla, and other former champions Michelle McCool and Eve Torres would go out of their way to make me feel welcome in the locker room. It was a comforting change from resigning myself to the maintenance closet. These women saw the big picture. We were in this challenging, grueling, nerve-racking world together. And the way to survive that would be to create a supportive environment. Supporting a fellow female doesn’t detract from a woman’s strength, it only makes the pack stronger. It makes us all better. I promised myself I would pay their acts of kindness forward.

  In every match I tried to do just that. I knew I had to make myself stand out and perform well, but that didn’t have to be at my opponent’s expense. We could have better matches when we worked as a unit. I had learned that firsthand. And it wasn’t going unnoticed.

  Because I had put on a solid collection of matches, I was thrown a proverbial bone in the form of a small undercard st
ory line. The “main event” story line was reserved for the top guys; following that was the “midcard,” and beneath that the “undercard.” These were the more disposable matches and stories that were the first to get trimmed for time constraints, and they almost always included the women’s matches. But getting even the tiniest of opportunities to participate in backstage skits and segments and showcase my personality was mind-blowing.

  I was paired with Daniel Bryan, a wrestler who was also undersized, atypical for the sport, kind of geeky, but a champion for the fans who saw themselves in him. We were two underdogs who weren’t expected to amount to much in the world of giants. One writer, the creator of our pairing, Kevin Eck, lovingly referred to us as his “revenge of the nerds” story line. Though not much was expected of either of us, due to our inability to fit a mold, we started to fall into opportunities.

  Several roster injuries and contract negotiations led our little duo into picking up the slack. Though we started as an “undercard” story, we would end up thrust into the spotlight.

  THIS IS NOT A LOVE STORY

  Now, I know that being a person who has unironically worn pigtails in her mid- to late twenties might lead people to believe I am someone who is comfortable sharing her orifices. But in actuality, I am a notorious prude and proud of it. Having been trained to avoid embracing my sexuality by an overbearing, often unhinged mother, my puritanical nature began as more of an assigned duty than a choice.

  But if there was a healthy message to forcibly extract from my mother’s extreme method of parenting, it was to not take my value for granted. It was to treat my mind and body with the respect they deserved and demand the world follow suit. Or maybe she just didn’t want a slutty kid making her a grandma at thirty. Nevertheless, I spent my young adult life treading lightly toward intimacy. A kiss was not a throwaway moment to me. It was to be respected, appreciated. It had to mean something. I loathed the idea of sharing my body trivially.