Octagon: The fight, the belief, and the myth

This year, I have been using an Intuitive Writing deck that my friend, Three, gifted me. Each card has a word or shape on it, and you use that word or shape to prompt a piece of creative writing. I'm going to post a series of entries from my Intuitive Writing practice here, just for fun. 

[OCTAGON]

This reminds me of the UFC, which reminds me of MMA, which reminds me of competing at jiujitsu competitions. 

Fighting in the cage. Your mind goes blank. It doesn’t matter who it is or what time it is. Just go. Turn off your brain. Your mind is no longer helpful. Your body already knows what to do. 

Your body already knows from the hours of training. From practice. The information is already there. Every thought you’ve ever had? It can be manifested in that moment. Just be present. Everything you need to be or have is already inside of you.

The important thing is to not think. Never think. Just go. Turn off your brain. Just go. Believe. 

Believe in yourself. Believe that you can fly. That’s all you can do. Just believe in yourself. It doesn’t matter what the outcome is, but in that moment, you need that belief. Believe in the myth that you can do it, that you can succeed, that you can win, that you can fly, that you can fight. 

You’re exhausted and just fighting to stay alive. You consider giving up. THAT IS YOUR EDGE. You consider saying, "I can’t do this." 

Why would you say that? Of course, you can. You got this. You just go. There is no alternative. You just have faith in yourself that you can do it. And you do. You keep going and you’re really not that tired in the end. 

Same with writing. Just believe that you can do it. I have hit my edge. I really questioned giving up. I’m not going to though. Even if it means writing a new book, finding a new publisher, whatever it takes. This book is going to get written. I believe that my book will somehow find its way into the world and one day it will move and touch at least one reader. That’s all I want. 

Life isn't a never-ending fight. Or, at least, it's not supposed to be. Life is about practicing for the fight. Most of the time, you are drilling and training. It's boring sometimes and tiring other times. It's not always exciting. But you show up anyway. You show up to practice unless you're sick. If you're sick, you have to rest. But otherwise, you show up and do the moves. Even if you don't want to. So the next time there's a fight, and you want to give up, you turn your brain off and you let your body take over. And you already know what to do because you've done it so many times before. 

Because it’s so easy to fall out of practice and just coast on auto-pilot, not really paying attention, doing the bare minimum. But showing up to practice, and then doing the practice is what matters. Not getting the gold medal. Not winning the competition. But drilling. Going through the motions, but with attention to mistakes so that you can learn, rinse, repeat, iterate, grow, and evolve. 

Evolution and the nature of evolution is a kind of higher power. We’re always changing. We are free to evolve into the highest version of ourselves. 

Thoughts on Creativity, Evolution, and Jiu-Jitsu

How does creativity and evolution tie together? 

What really sets apart good and great, black belt and brown belt is creativity. Once you reach the higher levels, your jiujitsu starts to evolve not by studying moves and replicating what you see other people do. Progress comes at the higher levels when you start inventing your own jiujitsu. And a big part of that creativity is wholeness: when the pieces of the puzzle start to come together, you start to see more and more of the whole picture. Seeing the wholeness and being creative is what unlocks the secret of beautiful and fun jiujitsu. 

The ingredients to evolution being creativity and wholeness is something you can see both on and off the mat. 

You start taking one move from a position and see how you can use it in a different position and bring a bunch of different pieces together in a creative way that is unique to you and your own jiujitsu journey. 

Whole + creative = evolution. 

Jiujitsu is an example of where going to the next belt signifies that you are evolving in your own game by integrating different moves together: linking sequences, translating concepts in multiple scenarios, setting up chains of offense and defense. But the way you ultimately progress to higher levels is by taking risks, being willing to fail, and in responding to those risks and integrating multiple sequences and theories, you are creative. 

Being Transgender in Jiu-Jitsu

Introduction

“For your next competition, are you going to sign up for the male or female division?,” my girlfriend at the time (now my wife) asked me when I was talking about competing. 

The question of which category--male or female--to choose at a competition is not a concern for most people. But for transgender people who have just started transitioning, like me, this question could be at the forefront of their minds because they might not fit into either category. 

The transgender spectrum is wide. Some folks don’t identify on either side of the male/female gender binary. They may identify as “non-binary,” “agender,” “genderqueer,” or “gender expansive.” These folks are a fluid mix of genders, or otherwise transgressing binary gender norms. They may or may not be on hormone therapy. 

When you exist somewhere in the middle of the gender binary, picking a name and pronouns--much less the male or female category at a jiujitsu tournament--is not as straightforward as it might seem. 

Trans and non-binary people are an important and often invisible part of the jiujitsu community. Furthermore, they remain untapped talent that could benefit the grappling world if they knew that they would be welcomed. Creating inclusive environments for gender non-conforming people at jiujitsu gyms and competitions means growing the sport and the community.

Why does gender matter in a sport like jiujitsu where all genders train together?

With a sport like jiujitsu where players wear an androgynous kimono and people of all genders train together, it can be easy to say that gender “doesn’t really matter” or that “gender is a personal thing.” Why is gender identity in jiujitsu spaces important to talk about? 

Indeed, the other day I was rolling when I saw someone I didn’t know who was sitting on the side of the mat looking directly at me. The person pointed at me and Sam overheard them ask their friend, “Wait, is that a boy or a girl?” 

I just kept rolling and didn’t really care what the answer was or what the conversation was about. But I asked in my head, “Does it really matter what my gender is?” The truth is that, on the jiujitsu mat, whether someone was born male or female--and indeed, what their genitals are presently--certainly doesn’t matter. And that is one of the beautiful things about jiujitsu: equality. The way we all roll the same is what brings the jiujitsu community together. People from all walks of life--disability status, race, gender, and sexual orientation--can come together and roll. These labels don’t matter when we’re focused on our technique. 

The main thing that matters in that moment--that suspended time warp of sparring--is just the time spent on the mat and the sweat and blood you spent to get to where you are. The thing that matters is the connection that you share with the other person. At the end of the day, jiujitsu is not even about the color of the belt nor the medal at competitions, it’s about a shared community coming together to make the world a more kind and connected place through the beauty of martial arts. 

Nevertheless, our identities and the experiences that have been shaped by our identities contribute to who we are as a fully integrated human. 

The people on the mat are more than just a bag of limbs and techniques, but whole people with experiences which affect who they are, the life they face and how they're treated by others. Ignoring gender is analogous to being “colorblind” to race, which ignores the experiences that People of Color face in their lives and overlooks the privilege that white people the world over enjoy. 

Trans people have a different experience than cis gender people. Full stop. Therefore, creating environments that treat trans and non-binary people as equals is essential to incorporating a richer and fuller jiujitsu community. 

Why inclusivity matters in the jiujitsu community

I am trans masculine and use they/them pronouns. He/Him are okay too. 

With this in mind, I come to you as the humble author of an article set out to share some of my experiences as a genderqueer person who trains jiujitsu. In the end, my goal is to assert that transgender inclusion is within reach of the standard practice of jiujitsu, including competition settings. I will conclude with a few policy suggestions that will help the community as a whole attract and retain more people in jiujitsu for the betterment of the sport and its practitioners. 

People who are trans, questioning, or genderqueer will be more likely to start and less likely to quit if jiujitsu communities start with a baseline of inclusivity. This baseline can include a few basic practices that help people who are different from the mainstream feel more comfortable, such as asking for and using correct pronouns and celebrating mixed gender competition divisions. Inclusive practices help diversify the training environment and competition scene, ultimately helping everybody improve and elevate their own jiujitsu game. 

GENDER, COMPETING, AND TESTOSTERONE

Here are a few facts about myself to help situate my background and where I’m coming from in writing this article:

● I was Assigned Female At Birth. 

● I primarily use they/them pronouns. 

● I am transmasculine and genderqueer.

● I’ve been on testosterone for several months. 

● I am from the United States and I live in Central Europe. 

● I’m a purple belt in jiujitsu. 

As I socially transition into life as a male, I have gone from being perceived as a relatively strong woman to a weak and skinny guy. Thomas McBee also writes in his book Amateur about boxing as a trans athlete and his experience of masculinity in a fighting sport, where aggression and vulnerability coincide. Relating to what McBee writes about, I regularly get my ass kicked on the mat and I love it. 

“Competition is ‘força’ (power) and then some technique,” my jiujitsu professor wrote to me when I told him my intention to compete in the male division. “Realistic goals are the key to success.” My heart sank. He didn’t think I was capable. 

When I tell close friends that I want to compete in the male division, they often protest. Several months of testosterone doesn’t compare to a lifetime of it, they insist. I will be at a significant disadvantage and I should just sign up for the female division, others say. Men and women are on steroids to improve performance, and my hormone replacement therapy is no different, they argue. I shouldn’t compete in the men’s division until I change my name on my official identification documents, some suggest. 

As the advice poured in, my thoughts went round and round. In the end, I decided competing in the male division is a better choice for me...if I’m allowed. I emailed Jiu Jitsu World League to ask if I could compete at one of their upcoming competitions as a female-to-male (FtM) transgender athlete. After following up a few times, I finally received a kind response that concluded with “we currently don't have any rules regarding this situation in place.” 

As an FtM, I also couldn’t help thinking: Why is this even a question? Are they really that scared about what would happen to their fragile male egos if I *gasp* possibly won? Still, I’m determined. I regularly train against men who are much bigger than me. Why is it such a big issue for me to compete against men who are the same size as me? 

The thing I love about this sport is not the competitions. The jiujitsu journey is not about the outcome, the gold medal, or the podium stand. It’s about the community and connection that this art provides. Still, nobody should be barred from competing--this makes our already small community even more limited. 

And this is just my experience as a female-to-male transgender athlete, where I seemingly do not represent much threat to my competitor. I am also in a relatively privileged position because I present as male in a patriarchal society. Transfeminine and non-binary athletes have a whole different set of challenges, where they face more exclusion, discrimination and hate crimes due to their gender identity. 

Locker Rooms

These were the thoughts I was considering in the last several months as my body--my voice, the shape of my face, and my facial hair--has started to change with hormones. When I came out to my jiujitsu professor a few months ago, he was affirming of my gender, supportive and respectful. He agreed to use my new pronouns and name. And yet. 

“You can’t use the men’s room at the gym. First of all, it’s not safe. The guys will eat you alive in there. You will be bullied and harassed, so it’s better if you continue to use the women’s room,” he told me. 

I agreed, but there should be some rules or basic standards of human dignity in place so that I wouldn’t be bullied if I used the locker room of my choice.

In the months that have followed that conversation with my coach, I have continued to use the women’s room as I was told. Because the entrance to the mat space requires passing through a locker room first, I must enter the locker room before each class. Our jiujitsu club shares the locker room with a big sports complex and I often encounter people who don’t know me. 

When I first walk in, I am often met with stares, giggles, or shocked faces and embarrassed looks. Then, a well-intentioned person informs me that I’m in the wrong locker room, telling me that the men’s room is down the hall. The only thing I can usually muster in response is, “I was born female.” Their eyes get big, they nod and turn away, usually not saying anything in response.

Every day I dread going into the women’s locker room. Not because I’m going to be misgendered, but quite the opposite: people see me as a guy, because I look like a guy. And I am a guy; I’m a trans guy. And women react quite strongly to the presence of a guy in the locker room for social and historical reasons. But I still must use the women’s room according to the gym’s policy--and a policy that lacks any kind of enforcement against bullying. I have considered quitting multiple times because of the locker room policy.    

While women react to my presence in the women’s locker room with confusion at best and horror at worst, I have no doubt that the men’s room would not be any better, as my coach himself said, they would “eat me alive.” 

It is striking to me that jiujitsu is the one place in my life where people are not fully accepting of me yet: some of the men bully me on the mat, people don’t necessarily respect my name or my pronouns. When I tell people I’ve changed my name because I’m trans, they look away in embarrassment or confusion. Competing is still only a maybe for me, and the locker room situation is awkward to say the least. Being trans is uncomfortable and I know that. However, in my experience, the jiujitsu communities in every place I have lived--even in open, liberal, urban areas--are behind most other people and communities in terms of thinking and inclusive policies, from sexual harassment to race relations to gender identity.

However, in recent days my heart has lifted with some optimism. When I returned to my former gym, they had a transgender person on staff as well as more gender inclusive language during classes. Jiu Jitsu World League finally responded to my email. They not only agreed that I could compete in the male division at one of their upcoming tournaments, but also offered to sponsor me and waived my admission fees. My professor responded to my news with “I’ll be there in your corner to support you.”

I’m pleased to see these changes and excited to compete in the male division soon. Still, there is more work to be done. My fiancée and a number of friends are male-to-female transgender athletes in jiujitsu and other sports, and their experiences are not so positive--especially when they are white belts. The jiujitsu community’s imperative to break down hierarchies and gender norms, and enforce anti-bullying and inclusivity policies for transgender people, go beyond simple solutions, and must include interrogation of racism and sexism as well. 

We can do better

Let us not continue to be a backward community that continues to tout outdated definitions of toxic masculinity and gender binaries. Let us continue to progress and broaden our horizons, keeping our hearts and minds open to what is possible, so that we may expand our community and not limit it. 

Ask people their name and pronouns. Trust that the adults in the locker room have chosen the room that is best for them, and if they look different, they are probably more uncomfortable than you are. Allow trans people to use the locker room of their choice and compete in competitions. Be respectful and treat all people with dignity. Have a zero tolerance policy for bullying, harassment, and assault. It sounds simple, but these practices are not something I’ve consistently witnessed in the jiujitsu community. 

Creating a more inclusive community starts with small things. Show people that they matter to the community and that they belong just like everyone else: a smile, a hello, an invitation to roll. Inclusivity continues with the big things like locker room and competition policies that are inclusive of trans people. Ultimately, we are striving for a cultural shift towards open-mindedness and away from prejudiced thinking in the jiujitsu community. 

When you get on the mat, whether born male or female, whether cis or trans, straight or queer, it all doesn’t matter. What matters is your jiujitsu. At the same time, gender matters and is a fundamental part of people’s experiences, especially in sports, and the jiujitsu community as a whole can do more to include people from the entire spectrum of identities. 

CONCLUSION

I have a few suggestions for gyms and competition guidelines that could help keep evolving the community to be more inclusive to people from the entire gender spectrum, with our ultimate goal being to recruit and retain more people into the sport. The aim of Roll the Same and this article is to encourage people to adopt behavior and policies that will ultimately elevate the sport and improve everyone’s jiujitsu by expanding the diversity of our recruiting pool and retention numbers. 

Gym policies

● Jiujitsu gyms would benefit from a policy that encourages coaches and teammates to ask for and use the players’ correct pronouns. 

○ Most genderqueer people are unfortunately accustomed to being accidentally misgendered on a daily basis. Cis gender people would likely be displeased with ill-intended descriptions of themselves as a different gender, such as describing a woman as “looking like a man” or describing a man as “girly” as an intended insult. In the same fashion, a culture of respecting others’ pronouns ensures that genderqueer people are not misgendered in a way that could be hurtful or insulting. 

○ One way to help gym staff to fulfil this is to include a text box on membership forms which asks people’s pronouns, and include text at the top of the form which advises the student on who to contact to provide updates if any of their personal information changes. Roll call or attendance lists will include each players’ pronouns. 

○ Such a policy wouldn't criminalize mistakes, but would set a precedent to endeavor to address people appropriately. 

● A policy that allows people to use the locker room of the gender in which they identify signals an inclusive environment to all. 

○ There is no evidence of increased assault in places with inclusive bathroom policies and allowing people to use the bathroom of their gender identity (e.g., allowing trans men to use the men’s bathroom) is a crucial part of making genderqueer people feel safe. 

○ Inappropriate behavior should be handled by management. If someone makes another at the gym feel unsafe, such as through harassment or assault, that person would be removed from gym participation. 

○ Gender neutral bathroom or locker room options will be provided if space and resources allow. 

● Gender inclusive environments means grouping and pairing people together during technique, drilling, and rolling sessions based on size or weight instead of biological sex.

○ Unless, of course, someone has expressed an intention to learn to defend themselves against a particular gender or body type which they struggle against. All policies should have flexibility to real world application, but the idea is to have the focus on training be about body size and technique rather than gender.

● Harassment, abusive behavior, lechery and assault is not tolerated. If someone is doing things which made someone else feel unsafe, then this would be acted upon and that person would be asked to leave the gym. 

Competition policies

 

● Competition guidelines can outline language and policies inclusive to trans, gender expansive, non-binary or not fully transitioned trans people. Big shout out to Chloe Moore who pioneered gender inclusive guidelines in her competitions. Chloe has already established guidelines based on the International Olympic Committee Guidelines for transwomen to compete. While fully transitioned trans men can usually compete in the male divisions “undercover,” it is best if a policy explicitly welcomes all trans and non-binary people to sign up for the division of their choice. 

● Guidelines can also include policies for non-binary people. For example, language in the competition rules can include policies such as the following:

○ “Gender expansive and non-binary individuals are also welcome to compete, however, they will be accepted on a case by case basis depending on current exposure to testosterone.” 

● Competitions, as an extension of the universal training approach that mixes male and female training partners, can offer mixed and/or absolute divisions that do not separate the divisions biological sex. 

○ Again, shout out to Chloe Moore who already had this idea and is currently planning an absolute division where all genders will be included in the divisions. She wrote on the Fight Like a Girl social media channels that for the next competition she would like to “create a mixed competition division for Blue - Black belt. This division would be open to both male and female competitors, and separated [only] by weight category.”

I love this sport. I love the people in this sport. We can all evolve in our thinking and behavior to become more inclusive in order to grow our community. 

Additional Resources:

Many organizations, like “Roll the Same,” are already championing equality in jiujitsu, especially when it comes to gender and the LGBT umbrella, as well as sexual harassment issues. We encourage you to check out the following groups for more information:

• Triangles Everywhere
• Fight Like A Girl
• Safe Guard
• Women Who Fight
• Guard Whats Yours

Letter to Jiu-Jitsu, Dated April 2020

 Last week I was foam rolling, and I asked my body: “What hurts?” 

“My heart,” it replied. 

“Why does my heart hurt?” I asked. 

“My heart is grieving the loss of jiujitsu,” it answered. 

“What do you need? What can I do to heal this pain?” I inquired. 

“Write a letter. Express your grief over this loss,” came the answer. 

So I present to you my letter to jiujitsu as one way to heal my hurting heart. 

I intentionally wrote the letter in the past tense as a way to express my grieving. I know that in the future we will be able to start training again, but for now I write in the past tense to illustrate the loss. 

This is dedicated to the people I used to see at training every single day that I don’t get to see anymore. 

Dear Jiujitsu, 

I miss you so much. You were my sanctuary, my church, my home, my breath of fresh air. You were my life blood, my muse, my source of inspiration, my anti-drug, my anti-depressant, my energy, my reason for getting up in the morning. 

One thing I’m glad we shared is… 

Smiles and hugs. Handshakes and pats on the back. Ass-kicking. Being the nail one day and the hammer the next. Chatter. Shared fears and common struggles. Stepping onto your mat, I never knew what other people might be going through. They could have just had the worst day of their life. But they showed up. And as long we kept the electricity that courses between us alive, then we had a reason to keep going. 

The electricity that buzzed between me and my teammates: Whether rolling with my face pressed against their sweaty gi, or talking and laughing on the mat, or greeting someone with a smile when they came in, a current of energy pulsed within and between us. A touch, a giggle, an inside joke, an eyebrow wiggle, a wink. We shared sweat and blood and tears and pain. Those people and that place was my home and refuge. Why? Because it fostered community and connection, which we are all starved for. Who else can say they have the closeness of gifting your sweat in their eyeball? 

We shared our gis soaked through in sweat. I had hair that looked like I just showered at pretty much all times. Our faces shined with moisture. Our rashguards looked like they just came out of the washer. Nope, it was wasn't water. It was sweat. 

Now our world has changed. Sharing sweat is no longer okay. Now sharing skin contact is dangerous and forbidden. Now my love has become taboo. 

A special memory I have of you is…

The laughter after my head hits the mat hard on a good sweep. The fist bump, the messy hair, the shared smirk, the face plant on the mat, the extra credit rolls “just because,” the freezing showers when the hot water runs out, the “have a good day” from the front desk, the drilling and bullsitting on Saturday mornings, the sharing of knowledge, the mish-mash of creativity, getting up for 6 am Friday training when it’s still dark outside, the knee on belly right after drinking too much water, the foot in the face, the cross-face pressure that made my jaw hurt, the hook of my left leg behind my partners knee on De-La Riva. 

The pho lunches afterwards. The Indian buffet after War. The shared sense that we’re all a little crazy.

Prof. Alex telling me, “When you don’t believe in yourself, think of me. Because I believe in you.” Drilling with Kevin, especially when he tries to hide his annoyed tone when I don’t get something. Him believing in me when I do get something. Random goofy faces and jokes, “Oh, REALLY?” in a cartoon voice. Marika choking me out with the bow and arrow when I least expect it. Mike almost breaking my arm and trying to stifle his laughter about it. 

The thing I remember the most is laughing. I don’t really remember the tears that much. I don’t really remember the frustration. I know I had it at times. I know I was tired at times. But when I think about jiujitsu the first thing I remember is all the people I laughed with while I was rolling with them. 

I don’t think I can ever take jiujitsu seriously again. Because now with separation I realize that it’s all just a fucking game. And guess what? That game can be taken from you in an instant when everything you knew is suddenly ripped from you, everything you had and everything you did actually means nothing and is worthless. 

So when I do have jiujitsu again, I won’t take it so seriously. Because in the end, what you’re going to remember are the smiles and the laughter, the jokes and the goofiness. It’s not the technique that matters. It’s the playing of the game, the back and forth, the gives and the takes, the ups and the downs, the failures and the triumphs, not when you’re taking it seriously. Yes, going hard is one of my favorite things, my lungs burning and my muscles fatiguing. I remember that. But I don’t remember the submissions. I remember the laughter afterward. 

“OK OK OK” (breathing hard)

“OK we got this.” 

“Have you got this?”

“OK we can do this.”

“Can you though?”

SNUGGLES. 

Sorry. I farted.

One thing I admire about jiujitsu is… 

The way jiujitsu makes me forget about my fatigue; it allows me to ignore the burn in my chest. With jiujitsu, I don’t even notice the fire creeping up my throat. I don’t even care about the punch in my stomach, the knee to the jaw, the elbow to the eye. 

Jiujitsu shuts down the voice that tells me, “You can’t do this. You can’t keep going. You’re going to stop or you’re going to die.” When I’m doing jiujitsu, I turn off that voice in my head, and I can keep going through the pain and impossibility. It’s magical. 

The voice--the one that tells me “you can’t do this”--is powerful. Yet also weak because when we shut it down? PIGS FLY. We transcend physical limitations.

With that voice silenced, our focus totally on the technique at hand, our mind blank and silent, we keep going. And even in our struggle, it is peaceful in those moments. There is no fear, there is no anxiety. You just are, in that moment, present. Just rolling. There is nothing else. Doing the thing you thought was impossible two seconds ago. You are in the moment, drowning and yet at peace. Because there is nothing to worry about. Just this moment, here and now. 

In the meantime, breath gasping, heart pounding, legs burning, gums aching, lungs on fire, sweat dripping, I feel powerful. I feel strong and at peace. 

From jiujitsu, I learned the importance of…

When it gets hard, that’s when I keep going. I don’t give up. When I want to stop, that’s the moment when I say, “No, I can do this.” At the moment when we want to give up, that’s when we keep going because it’s not supposed to be easy. If it was easy, it would be boring. 

With jiujitsu, I shared tears that mixed with sweat. What’s the difference really? Both are a release of the pain and stress of the day. 

Jiujitsu introduced me to people that don’t run from pain and challenge and fear, but turn toward it. With jiujitsu, we embraced pain. We said, EVERY SINGLE DAY: “This sucks but I’m going to do it anyway. Not for the gold medal, but for the journey and for the process because it makes us better people. Because becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable is what it’s all about, is what life is about.” Because nothing is ever comfortable. Even sitting and doing nothing is uncomfortable. Emotions are uncomfortable. Criticism and being in the unknown is uncomfortable. But those moments of discomfort are when joy is planted and sprouts. 

Jiujitsu taught me pain. Frustration. Anger, sadness, and confusion. Those uncomfortable emotions allowed me to empathize with others’ suffering. That pain showed me how to hold others’ suffering. And perseverance through it all showed me how to keep moving through challenges--my dissertation, learning foreign languages, writing articles, human rights advocacy, my job. Right when I wanted to give up on all of those things, I kept going and in the process I learned that life begins with suffering. 

From you I learned that I’m nothing by myself. I am everything with community. 

I learned that if you feel like you’re getting attacked all the time, then you will always be frustrated because that’s not the point. The point is to play a game. That’s all it is: just playing, a back and forth challenge, a dance. It’s not about right or wrong, it’s about playing and dancing. The play isn’t fun if you just do the same thing all the time. So it’s more fun if you bring it to the next level by challenging the other person. In jiujitsu, that is brought about through trying new submissions or offensive and aggressive moves. Not to make you suffer, but just to explore, to play, to converse with each other in exploring those edges of physical and mental abilities. 

Jiujitsu taught me to question: Who is the person I want to be in this world? What is the kind of world that I want to live in? 

I’m still thinking about the answers. But a few things I know are:

Life is about play.

You can be the rock that creates the ripples that rocks the boat that changes the world. 

Love yourself. We can change the world with our love.

I’ve always wanted to tell you [jiujitsu]… 

Sometimes I used to hate you. Sometimes I used to dread you. Your cold air, hard floors, loud environment, chaotic and crowded mats, and annoying people. Sometimes I didn’t want to go see you. 

Sometimes I complained about the sweaty group photos we took after class. Now there is nothing I cherish more as I scroll through my photos on Facebook.

I was wrong. I was wrong to not appreciate every single part you. I was wrong to take you for granted.

Now I wish I had appreciated what I had more when I had it. I didn’t realize how much I cared until it was gone. 

You only know your lover when you let her go…  

Thank you for… 

Thank you for showing me how to be myself.

Anyone that hides behind ego won’t survive in this sport.

I learned pretty quick that the only thing I could do was be myself on the mat.

The people that I do jiujitsu with have seen me at my worst: crying and bloody and bruised, immature and emotional. You can’t hide it. You can't hide behind ego in jiujitsu.

My teammates have also seen me at my best: the moments where I accept defeat, the moments where I accept failure and confusion with grace. Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to fail.

They are also there to witness the moments when I get the move for the first time in drilling; when I get the move for the first time when flow rolling; for the first time with a white belt; for the first time with a colored belt. And they share my joy in that moment.

Thank you for showing me that I am athletic; that I am coordinated; that I am strong. Thank you for showing me that I persevere through challenges. 

Thank you for showing me community, love, and family. For teaching me what the cliche “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts” means; that as a whole we are greater together than we are as individuals. Through this, I learned a source of power greater than myself.

Thank you for everything.

A Day in the Life of Coaching Jiu-Jitsu in China

 I strap on my helmet and carry my bright blue fixed gear road bike across the overpass that connects my building with my neighbors’. The sight of the mountains on the horizon and the bright blue sky takes my breath away with their beauty as I stare out across the landscape before I take the elevator 15 floors down to street level. It’s 5:15 pm and it’s the height of rush hour. I plunge into the flow of cars passing the entrance to my building and I’m on my way, weaving in and out of traffic. I pedal past cart vendors and busses and stop at the bicycle shop for air in my tires. I’m on my way again, the crisp late afternoon air is warm and breezy against my skin and the sun warms my face. The traffic is backed up to a near crawl, and I zoom past the bumper to bumper traffic, delighted that I am faster than the BMWs and Mercedes and other fancy SUVs that I don’t know the name of that glint and shine with polish in the sun. 

I can’t go too fast because I am constantly weaving in and out of cars. The construction for the city’s first subway line is well underway and has wreaked havoc with the traffic—my street is now one way, and the once open and lively bazaar is enclosed on all sides by tall blue tin walls that “protect yours, mine, and their safety” during the construction. I make it to the center of the city and I stop at a red light, marveling at the near silence that envelopes me in the middle of a long line of cars heading home after a tiring day’s work. I can hardly believe my ears and I wonder if the government has instigated a no-honking campaign. We sit together quietly underneath towering skyscrapers interrupted by the dome of a mosque as we wait for the light to turn green. 

I make it to the gym and the ladies at the front desk greet me with smiles and hellos (“back so soon!” they exclaim).

I walked into the jiujitsu dojo and immediately noticed that Coach Wang had lost a ton of weight. His potbelly was gone and his face was slim. Compared to last fall, he was extremely youthful looking. He looked very small and almost skinny! 

“26 pounds,” he told me when I exclaimed about it. He said he was cutting weight for an upcoming competition in Shanghai and he was still one kilo overweight.

We caught up. Then we rolled. He was slow and calculating in his movements, and eventually he submitted me. I was happy and impressed by his improvement.

He said I had gotten stronger, and my technique had improved. He reported that the power and skill of my legs in particular had gotten better.

I said that I'd participated in three competitions in the States since I'd been gone.

Coach Zhi asked me to give him some advice: What do you do against a stronger opponent? What about an opponent who has better technique than you?

I didn't really know how to answer. I told him that in competition and on the street, you don't have time to stop and think, you just have to think to yourself, “I gotta kill this person.”

"But don't actually kill them, right?" he joked, laughing.

I also rolled with Lin, a white belt, and submitted him. I told him he'd improved.

“You're only 19!” I said, “You have so much time. You see I'm 26 and I'm still a blue belt!”

“And I'm 35 and I'm a white belt!” Yin Jiaolian said, laughing. “If only I'd met you when I was 26!” he said. 

Age and progress is a funny thing. When you start something new means a lot and also doesn't mean anything at all at the same time.

I did a few more rolls with Lin, who submitted me at one point. Everyone said, “hasn't he improved so much so quickly?” I agreed. 

I helped Coach Wang a little bit more. He wanted tips on guard passing, mount escapes and the front collar choke. 

When we rolled, I passed his guard several times, and we worked on side control, and we worked on some escapes and I rolled with each of them once more. 

The adorable, skinny girl with braces came up to me. I gave her a hug, and she said, "Oh! You're back!" She put both hands on her face and jumped up and down with her mouth open. 

She asked me some more questions: "Did you enjoy Christmas with your family? How long will you stay? When and how did you get here?" She looked shocked when I told her I'd come on the train from Nanjing: "That's so far and such a long ride!" 42 hours exactly.

Before I left, I gave Coach Wang two hugs. Lin hugged me a couple times too, saying he was so glad to have me back. I wished them safety on their road home. 

It was so nice to see them and have a little community, a little jiujitsu family, people I can feel comfortable hugging, and people I'm genuinely excited to see and who are genuinely excited to see me. People who want to see me. 

One of my coaches warns me to change out of my rash guard lest I get cold, and to wear my helmet on the ride home. 

When I leave the gym, it’s already completely dark. A man outside is selling strawberries for 10 kuai a kilo. I buy half a kilo and put them in my backpack. The bus stop attendant recognizes me and we exchange pleasantries before I hop on my bike and head home. The ride home is uphill and it takes me almost twice as long to get home. 

It’s dinner time and I can taste the spicy peppers the restaurants are cooking with. I ride past the business district ablaze with massive jumbo trons blazing blinding light full of never-ending commercials for tea that helps you fall asleep and lose weight, and the new home you’ve always dreamed of. The road is lined with towering concrete office buildings covered in flashing neon lights with Chinese restaurants on the street level. I can see through the large windows of the tables full of male suited businessmen negotiating over drinks and apparently very spicy food.

When I get home, I’m too exhausted to cook. I wash and eat the strawberries but I can taste the pesticide. I eat them anyway, hoping the vitamins from the fruit will cancel out any bad effects. I take a cold shower and collapse into bed too tired to even get dressed or brush my hair. I know it’s going to be a good year. Tiring as hell, lonely like nothing else, challenging, but good. The insomnia I struggled with since last summer seems to have abated with the powerful tug of jet lag and soon I’m lost in sleep, dreaming of the friends I left behind in the States. 

Language and Jiu-Jitsu in Xinjiang, China

 Xosh! Zaijian! Poka! Bye!

When training jiujitsu in Urumchi, my teammates and I used these four words to say “goodbye.”

When we walked out of the gym each night and stood outside the front door, we delayed for a few moments before we went our separate ways for the night. With small talk and with assurances of “I’ll see you on Tuesday at 6!” (or whenever the next training session was), we idled a bit longer than necessary, each of us reluctant to disconnect. A small part of me acknowledged the anxiety rising in my chest as I thought about the return to the loneliness of my empty home. As we started walking our separate directions, we would call out to each other, waving the entire time, in these four different languages as we parted ways: Uyghur, Chinese, Russian, and English.

We consistently conversed in these four languages. The only language I didn’t know was Russian. I always felt a bit pouty being left out of those conversations.

I guess it made sense why the Chinese people got jealous of my conversations in Uyghur, and those who didn’t speak English looked upon enviously when I chatted fluently with the Filipinos.

Training jiujitsu in a melting pot

Urumchi sits at one of the farthest points on earth from an ocean (1500 miles). But that does not mean that the city is isolated by any means. Situated along the ancient Silk Road, Urumchi sits at the intersection of many different trade routes and cultures as it has for millennia: Chinese, Turkish, Russian, and Indian, just to name a few. With globalization and modernity—the city was a hub for trade, transportation, oil, natural gas, and other industries—many had flocked to the region for school, work, or business, and I trained with Kazakhs, Tajiks, Kyrgyz, Uzbeks, Filipinos, Belarusians, Russians, Ukrainians, Americans, Ausssies, and Brits.

The question people always ask me is: What was it like to train with different cultures? As I’ve written about before in another article, the answer is: Jiujitsu really wasn’t that different across cultures. Jiujitsu is a universal language. It is a language of chess, of give and take, of submission and of defense. It is a language of vulnerability and trust. It is a language of community and support. It is a gentle art that embraces flow. We are not so different as human beings when it comes down to it. And we are all one.

The biggest difference was that being a woman in China meant that some people thought I was weird, some people flirted with me, some people ignored me, some people avoided me. But otherwise, we were there to train jiujitsu and focused on that goal.

Coaching jiujitsu in Chinese

When I coached jiujitsu, I taught in Chinese. By the time I moved to Urumchi, I had lived in China for 3 years. I was almost fluent in Chinese and very comfortable speaking and coaching in that language. I didn’t have to think about it—I thought in Chinese and therefore speaking it came very easy to me.

Most of the expats that lived in Xinjiang spoke Chinese, so this was not a problem. Their Chinese was better than their English. Many of them did not speak English at all, so it was more convenient for me to teach in Chinese than any other language. If there was someone in the class that didn’t speak Chinese but did speak English, I would teach the lesson in both languages. With jiujitsu, you have to show the technique at least three times, so I would show it in Chinese twice and English once if need be.

Training and coaching jiujitsu definitely helped me learn to speak better Chinese. From the vocabulary to the verbs, I thoroughly enjoyed challenging myself in this way. I basked in the thrill of putting myself on the spotlight in front of a group of people to teach jiujitsu four times a week. In addition to jiujitsu class, simply the everyday talk in the locker room, dinners after training, and parties on the weekend helped with my fluency as well.

Learning jiujitsu moves and positions in Chinese put a smile on my face the first time I heard them translated. For example, with the armbar in jiujitsu, the key part of the move is to position your body perpendicular to your partner, creating a cross shape with your body and your partners body. In Chinese, the character for the number 10 is a cross [十]. So, the name of that lock in Chinese is not armbar, it’s “10 character lock,” or “十字固 shi zi gu.”

Learning Uyghur

When I moved to Xinjiang, I started learning Uyghur as my third language and this added an extra dimension to my jiujitsu training.

It took about three months of full language immersion before I could start having full conversations in Uyghur, and after that, my roommate, Guzelnur, who also trained jiujitsu, and I conversed exclusively in Uyghur.

When I say full language immersion, I mean that I spent about 6 hours a day studying the language.

I took professional Uyghur language classes at the local college 4 hours a day, 4 days a week. It was there that I learned the alphabet, as well as went over key grammar concepts and vocab, forming a foundation for my language ability.

I also had four textbooks I had brought over from the United States. Using those, I self-taught and drilled the grammar concepts—conjugations, suffixes, and directional words—over and over again. I had a private tutor I met with for two hours once a week, and we came up with everyday useful phrases for me to memorize (At first, “I’m sorry, excuse me, Sorry, I don’t speak Uyghur” and later, directions for taxi drivers and conversations with cashiers), and went over the grammar for them.

I used Anki, a flashcard software for language learning, and drilled 50 new vocab words each week. I also bought some children’s books, listened to Uyghur music and audiobooks and Uyghur radio, and practiced with my roommate, Guzelnur. I also had a language partner I met with once a week for several hours. We would spend about 4 hours speaking in Uyghur and 4 hours speaking in English. He was so patient with me and never broke out of speaking in Uyghur the entire time.

I was completely obsessed with and devoted all of my time to learning Uyghur—there was virtually no other job or goal I had until I obtained proficiency enough to conduct interviews.

Learning foreign languages: A return to humanity and childhood

It was SO fun. I loved learning a new language. First of all, I felt like a child again, and that was freeing. Life became very simple. When speaking in Uyghur, I was in flow state, completely present. Frustrated at times, of course, when someone didn’t understand me, but for the most part, completely attentive. You have to be totally in the moment because you are focusing on the pronunciation, grammar and new vocab all at once. It also made me feel fun and funny, as I would say funny things that would make people collapse into laughter on a frequent basis, whether from a mispronunciation or a grammar mistake that just sounded ridiculous. For example, in Chinese and Uyghur they say, “I drink soup.” So, when I said “eat soup” as we would in English, they would crack up.

You go back to the roots of being human this way. I was young again, curious and constantly learning new things. I felt like my brain was expanding, ready to absorb everything around me like a sponge and this also made me feel young and energized again. Of course, it was exhausting too, and I needed copious amounts of alone time to re-charge. At the end of every day, I collapsed into my mat on the floor and fell asleep instantly.

Once I learned Uyghur, Uyghur people loved me. They giggled and smiled and were sometimes shocked that a foreigner could speak their language. They were fascinated by me and eager to speak to me in their mother tongues. It gave us a sense of privacy too, since if we were around Chinese people, they knew that if the Chinese people overheard us saying something politically incorrect, they wouldn’t be able to understand us.

When I was doing my language pledges (once in 2015 and again in 2016), I only spoke, listened, wrote, or read in Uyghur for six weeks. During that time, during jiujitsu class I only spoke Uyghur to the Uyghurs there.

Conclusion

In the end, I loved training jiujitsu in Urumchi because it brought out the diversity of the city, a cosmopolitan melting pot of many different cultures and languages. It was a privilege to be able to teach jiujitsu in Chinese while I was there, and have the opportunity to completely immerse myself in the Uyghur language during the rest of my life as well.

Most importantly, I met a diverse group of people from all around the world, young people who had moved away from home in search of adventure and a livelihood. They were all seeking work and a better future for themselves and their families and were willing to do anything to improve themselves and their lives. There was a constant feeling of energy and aliveness in the air, a presence that invoked a sense of humanity and embraced the uncertainty of our future.

I wonder what they are doing now, and if they still think of our jiujitsu club. I wonder if they remember those days as a time we were connected and celebrated our humanity and presence.

What is Brazilian Jiujitsu?

When I told people I was practicing jiujitsu in China, they sometimes mistakenly think that jiujitsu is a traditional or popular Chinese martial art. They are wrong. 

First, jiujitsu as we know it in the US today was originally Japanese and later adapted by Brazilians. Second, traditional Chinese martial arts are not fought on the ground. Generally, in traditional martial arts, once your opponent is forced to the ground, the fight is over. However Mixed Martial Arts (MMA), a full contact combat sport that includes ground-fighting, is becoming increasingly popular in China. MMA usually takes place in a cage and consists of a combination of striking and grappling. MMA is one of the most popular fighting styles practiced in the United States. MMA can be any combination of boxing, wrestling, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, muay Thai, kickboxing, taekwondo, karate, judo, or other styles.

The grappling component of MMA is mainly based on Brazilian Jiujitsu, or BJJ, which is known as a game of "human chess" and is a Brazilian ground-fighting version of traditional Japanese Jiujitsu. Perhaps not quite as cool as the Brazilian influenced martial art capoeira, Brazilian Jiujitsu is a ground-fighting combat sport like wrestling. You must take down your opponent to the ground, gain dominant positions for points, and then submit them (meaning that they give up by tapping the mat or the opponent). The main difference between BJJ and wrestling is that in wrestling you must pin your opponent's shoulders to the mat, but in BJJ, you must manipulate their body until they give up by tapping out. This can be done through a number of different submissions, including joint locks, which cause enough pain to force the opponent to give up (like bending the arm or ankle), or choke holds, which cut off blood or air circulation to the brain.

When I was living in China, I started looking for something different to engage with the Chinese community. When I found jiujitsu, I finally found my community engagement and cultural exchange activity, which was a requirement for the foreign study abroad program I was in. The club was a mix of both foreigners and Chinese training jiujitsu, and many for the first time.

The first thing that attracted me to BJJ was that it originally kind of, sort of, in a way reminded me of rugby, which I had played in college, and there is a significant amount of pain involved. There's really nothing else like an open tackle at full-speed or the intensity of a scrum or ruck, and it was a thrill that I missed. I also needed an outlet for my stress and my frustration. I found that release at the BJJ dojo, a community of like-minded people looking for a challenge and a good work-out. BJJ is nothing like rugby at all (besides the fact that both sports allow me to consistently maintain a minimum quota of bruises on my limbs), but it was the initial aspect of pushing outside of my comfort zone and releasing frustration that first encouraged me to try it out. 

The best part about BJJ, besides a great strength workout and learning a new martial art, is Team Malevolent China, the community of people I have come to regard as good friends. There's nothing else quite like being part of a team, and a team that rolls around together trying to put the other in pain is a bond that can't be replaced with anything else (kind of like the bond of living in China together). 

Training for Brazilian Jiujitsu in China is quite interesting because the new BJJ and MMA trends in China embody the tension between the old and the new that Chinese society is experiencing. As China rapidly develops its economy, it finds itself struggling to maintain the traditional ways of life that date back thousands of years while simultaneously embracing Western traditions (like Christmas) and ideas (like consumerism and individualism). The pressure to preserve culture while embracing innovation and new ways of life is a phenomenon that can be seen in many different aspects of Chinese culture, from the food to the language, as well as my own research on urban landscape transformation. The development of traditional martial arts in China is no exception. There are some people that want to maintain strictly traditional Chinese martial arts, but the reality is that the martial arts scene is changing around the world, and MMA and ground-fighting is a new movement. Although I don't think that traditional martial arts will ever disappear completely, it's only a matter of time before ground-fighting and MMA takes hold in China. At the same time, martial artists are using their training in traditional martial arts and adapting them to be used in the cage during MMA fights. Some say MMA will be the next Chinese martial arts revolution.

As important as it is to hold on to the past and maintain traditional values, everything is influenced by new developments from the outside, and such outside influence and new innovations can hold great benefits. In terms of Chinese martial arts, outside influences from Brazil are changing the traditional style of fighting that's been in place for a long, long time. Many would argue that China has a lot to learn from those ground-fighting Brazilians. After all, a fight doesn't necessarily end when someone is taken to the ground. It serves as a reminder that innovation, evolution, change, and outside influence isn't necessarily a bad thing, and incorporating the new doesn't mean that the old must be destroyed. It's about finding a balance between the two and blending the benefits of tradition and innovation. Easier said than done.

It's an exciting time in the martial arts community in China and it's exciting to be a part of these rapid cultural changes. It's fascinating to witness great changes not only in urban socio-spatial patterns, but also the transformations in something as deeply embedded in the culture as traditional Chinese martial arts. 

Chinese word of the day:

柔术- rou2 shu4- literally, "gentle art," aka jiujitsu (a translation from the Japanese word). 

Jiujitsu: A Universal Language?

The most popular martial art practiced in the United States, and one of the most effective self-defense systems in the world, BJJ is a submission grappling ground-fighting martial art— somewhat like wrestling. Even though the establishment and development of BJJ in China is arguably 20-25 years behind that of the United States (there are only about 50 black belts in BJJ from mainland China), the sport is growing in popularity in China and around the world.

Determined to learn the principles of this elusive and innovative “gentle art,” in 2011 I became a loyal and determined member of the first Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu academy in Nanjing, now known as Frontier Asia BJJ. With participants from all around the world, the club fostered an international environment. When we got on the mat to fight, it did not matter if we were male or female, Chinese or foreign; all that mattered was using the fundamental principles and techniques of jiu-jitsu—using the least amount of strength with the greatest level of efficiency—to overcome our opponents.

The question people always ask me is: How was jiujitsu different in China? The answer is: It really wasn’t that different. Jiujitsu is a universal language. It is a language of chess, of give and take, of submission and of defense. It is a language of vulnerability and trust. It is a language of community and support. It is a gentle art that embraces flow. Like any other gym, we had to teach the white belts how to calm the spaz and embrace the gentle art of flow. (In Chinese, “jiujitsu” translates directly from the Japanese to mean “gentle art” and I had to remind the white belts of this frequently.) We are not so different as human beings when it comes down to it. Racial differences aside, we are all one.

At the same time, the culture around us felt different in a lot of striking ways, mostly when it came to gender and ethnicity. I believe that the universal language of jiujitsu teaches us that we are, at the end of the day, all the same. And at the same time, as much as we are “all the same,” cultural differences around gender and ethnicity do exist. Such differences are important to understand, especially as we keep working towards equality and human rights at home and abroad. In doing so, what is most important is keeping alive the love that will prevent violence and harm. Little by little, through every interaction we have, we can make a difference. The more we connect with our communities, and the less we drown ourselves in our phones and screens, the more we can help make people feel loved and included and cared for. Jiujitsu is one conduit for achieving these essential connections. Then the less discrimination will happen. We can change the world, one piece at a time, one day at a time, one person at a time, one smile at a time.

Your presence makes a difference. You can invoke change in the world through ripples. You touch lives every day and it’s the little things that matter. Whether it’s a smile or a nod at the gym, or a hard roll at the end of a long day, we can and will make a difference by recognizing we are all one in the universe.

I’m thankful for my jiujitsu family for teaching me the most important lesson of my life: community through sustained daily struggle and support can transcend all other divides. 

My Jiujitsu Journey, Part 3: Xinjiang

 “Do you by any chance know of any jiujitsu gyms in the area?” I messaged an American woman I knew on my first day in Xinjiang. 

“Let me send you Jay’s contact information,” she replied. “He does some martial arts. He’s from England and teaches English here.”

I contacted Jay immediately.

“I’m a blue belt in BJJ and looking for somewhere to train,” I inquired hopefully.

“Yes! Let’s train tomorrow,” he suggested.

I was thrilled.

The next day, I met up with Jay on the public bus. We headed to the martial arts studio, where he trained Chinese boxing, called “sanda.” Sanda is like Muay Thai but with takedowns and no elbows. They also trained some grappling, he had explained.

After taking a crowded elevator up to the seventh floor of an OB/GYN hospital, we made our way into a room covered in blue and pink puzzle mats. Every surface was covered with a gray tinge from soot. We were in one of the most polluted cities in China. Many people there still used coal to heat homes and cook food.

One wall was lined with mirrors and a punching bag hung from the ceiling in one corner. Careful not to be late, I quickly ran into the women’s changing room, which was a small closet in the back of the room.

When I entered the small enclosure, a shy but wide grin stared back at me. The girl sitting on the floor in a white gi with dark hair down to her waist stared at me but didn’t say anything.

“I can speak Chinese,” I said in Chinese, smiling. Her demeanor immediately relaxed.

“I’m Guzelnur,” the girl said in Chinese, embracing me in a hug and kisses on each cheek, a common greeting for Uyghur people. After changing into my gi, I entered the mat room to find the whole class already lined up.

“Please, coach, can you teach class today?” the head sanda instructor implored in Chinese, his hand outstretched for a handshake. Taken aback, I reluctantly agreed. I was only a blue belt after all. Besides, I hadn’t had time to prepare a lesson.

I taught the fan sweep that day. From then on, I was referred to as “coach” (jiaolian) or “teacher” (laoshi) at the gym, despite my insistence that they call me by my name (Tian Ran in Chinese).

After that first class, I stayed after to drill with Guzelnur. After an hour of fan sweeps, we exchanged the usual small talk and introductions. When she said her age, I couldn’t help but ask her, “Are your parents pressuring you to get married?” She nodded and we chuckled knowingly together. Uyghur girls start being pressured to get married around 25 years old.

“Yes, but I want to go abroad first. I just keep telling my parents that I need to finish my studies before I get married,” she said. This was a common dream among young women.   

We took selfies with kissy faces in the studio mirrors for her social media, frequently collapsing into fits of giggles over our own ridiculousness. At the time, I did not speak Uyghur yet, but we conversed well in our mutually accented Chinese.

“Let’s get dinner together, please, please!” she begged.

I soon found myself in a Uyghur restaurant eating polu, a rice pilaf dish with lamb and carrots, topped with fresh, homemade yogurt. She refused to let me pay for anything.

“Come over and hang out at my house,” she insisted. I agreed, curious to learn more about my new friend.

Her “house” was a room in a shared dorm. I had assumed we would shower there, since we hadn’t done so yet. But her place didn’t have a shower, nor a washing machine. Turns out that hygiene standards are different when you live in the middle of the desert in an impoverished region with few water resources.

“We should live together in the fall!” Guzelnur squealed in excitement at one point, jumping up and down while holding both of my hands.

“Really?” I breathed. I could hardly believe my luck. Full immersion with a Uyghur roommate was exactly what I needed to learn a new language.

“Of course!” she said, pinching my cheeks and giving me a big hug.

I nodded as butterflies filled my stomach. I was half scared, half excited.

“This is the happiest day of my life!” she exclaimed.

A couple weeks later, I moved in to Guzelnur’s apartment across the street from the local college where I took Uyghur classes. And that is how I spent several months training sanda and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu while living without a shower or a washing machine. We took sponge baths and hand washed our clothes. 

They rearranged the kickboxing schedule by changing two lessons a week to grappling instead of striking. I traded my jiujitsu lessons for a free membership and trained sanda with them twice a week. Later, we went up to four nights a week of grappling. The students loved the challenge of learning a new martial art. The students were a mix of both Chinese and Uyghur.

That first year was an adventure and I grew close to my jiujitsu teammates. They were like family. And considering that I was far away from home, this was the comfort that enabled me to survive in a land so different from my own. 

My Jiujitsu Journey, Part 2: Colorado

        In February 2011, I found out that I had been accepted with full funding (tuition waiver plus a living stipend) into the Master’s program at CU-Boulder, ranked second in the nation for its geography department. It wasn’t even a question that I was going there. The first thing I did was Google “Brazilian Jiujitsu gyms in Boulder, Colorado.” 

“Colorado has some of the best jiujitsu programs in the country,” my training partner Sean, a Coloradoan, informed me. I was stoked. 

In July 2012, I moved to Boulder and stayed with my friend’s Dad for 10 days while I looked for affordable housing (not an easy task). Besides him, I didn’t know a soul in the entire state of Colorado. The next day, I took my first “trial” class at Easton. 

“What did you think?” asked James after the class. “I loved it! Sign me up!” 

“Ok, that’ll be $179 a month,” he said. I nearly choked. “I’m going to have to think about that,” I thought. 

Walking around in the too-bright sun, I pondered what I was going to do. My living stipend barely covered rent and food. But I knew it was worth it. What else was I supposed to do? I knew I would spend way more on that with psychiatry and meds if I didn’t sign up. I called James back and signed up. I considered it an investment in my mental and physical health. From then on, I started training twice a day—once in the morning and again in the evening. I competed for the third time in February 2013 and received my blue belt from Elliot Marshall the next day. I moved to Xinjiang, China in 2014 to start my PhD research. 

They had a small gym there and they invited me to be a coach. I trained there until 2017 while traveling around Asia. During those years, I trained in Thailand, Kyrgyzstan, Russia, Guam, and Spain.

My Jiujitsu Journey: Part 1, China

On a cold October night in 2011, I climbed five flights of stairs in an apartment building in the middle of Nanjing, a large urban metropolis in China. The walls of the stairwell were covered with photos of blonde swimsuit models holding up a run-down building undergoing major renovations. The stairs were dusty and I heard the loud but familiar noise of construction in the background. When I got to the top of the stairs, I saw a group of unfamiliar foreigners sitting on a couch while the manager of the gym tried in vain to communicate in English. Just inside the front door, twenty Chinese women danced in sync to cheesy K-pop music.

At the start of jiujitsu training that fateful night, the coach, a muscular British man of over 6 feet tall, greeted me. Fred had started the club just three months prior with a few puzzle mats, one other member, and a very temporary and tenuous space in a dingy, smelly weightlifting gym on a fifth floor walk-up. By the time I joined in October, word of a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (BJJ) club had spread in the Nanjing ex-pat and foreign student population. The club had a group of about fifteen members, mostly foreigners, and was growing.

Fred told me that he was thrilled to have me try it out and encouraged me to attend the advanced class that night, even though I didn't yet have a full conception of what jiujitsu was at that point. After the first class, where I fumbled around attempting a kimura sit-up, I was addicted from there on out. Those first few weeks of classes were a blur. Teammates tied me up like a pretzel, choked me out like it was their job, and manipulated my limbs like a rag doll. I was hooked and never looked back.

We trained on a small square of blue, thin puzzle mats in a dusty corner. I was mostly confused and very intrigued by what was described as “human chess,” sweaty people grunting and scrambling around on the ground. Despite the smelly rash guards that seemed to linger on my skin until I had a thorough shower, I was soon obsessed. I religiously went to class four times a week despite a two-hour commute on the subway. I trained in a basic t-shirt and shorts for the first few months. On my 23rd birthday, I put on a gi and a shiny new white belt for the first time. 

I couldn’t get enough. My teammates quickly became my new family. We bonded over the fact that we were doing something unacceptable in Chinese martial art culture: ground fighting. Traditional Chinese martial arts are not fought on the ground. Generally, once your opponent is forced to the ground, the fight is over. As a self-defense system, however, BJJ teaches that the fight is far from over when you are brought to the ground.

Outside of the gym, I did not tell many other people that I participated in jiu-jitsu training. The cultural barriers were just too great. I told most of my Chinese friends that I was doing yoga. The Chinese people in the class were not so different. “We don’t usually tell people what we do either. They’d call us a ‘banana,’” one confessed, referring to a derogatory term used frequently in China to refer to someone “yellow on the outside but white on the inside” who imitated Western culture. 

The Chinese students eventually embraced the Western-style teaching that Coach Greenall employed. Coach Greenall, who also teaches English in Nanjing, saw teaching jiu-jitsu to Chinese students as a way to expose them to different ways of learning: “I think it’s going to take a longer time for the Chinese students [than their Western counterparts] to realize that they can compete and lose without losing face. In the UK there’s no stigma attached to losing, people just see losing as a learning process…that’s what makes it so different for the Chinese, and that’s what gives it the potential to really take hold and go somewhere amazing.” Despite cultural differences, the personal growth I witnessed in my teammates was phenomenal—we were all being exposed to different cultures and ways of thinking that opened our eyes to the possibilities of innovation and creativity.

As many barriers to training BJJ in China as there were, from assumptions about nationality to the overbearing pollution, doing so was one of the most rewarding experiences I had during my time in Nanjing. It also showed me the diversity of China: I met many Chinese—both men and women—who were willing to break out of the mold to try jiu-jitsu and risk their reputation to participate in a fight sport. This inspired me to continue despite my own self-doubt.

By the time I left China, the club had almost just as many Chinese students as foreigners, and used Chinese interpreters when the classes comprised a majority of Chinese students. Fred’s success in Nanjing was remarkable. He introduced a new sport not only to dozens of foreigners for the first time, but introduced the sport to the city of Nanjing. He helped spread passion for the sport throughout the Chinese community as a whole.

In May 2012, I competed for the first time at the Shanghai Open. “You can easily cut 3 kilos” my coach had assured me. I spent 2 miserable hours in a sauna the night before the comp, spit in a cup the entire subway ride there, and then had to work out in a sweatshirt and sweatpants in front of the weighing station for an hour. I think they felt bad for me because eventually they rolled their eyes and said, “you’re fine” and checked me in. My first match was over in less than 30 seconds. I don’t even know what happened, but suddenly I was flat on my back and in the middle of a front collar choke. I found out later that my opponent was a black belt in judo. I won my second match by triangle, and I thought I was going to explode with pride. 

More than anything, it was inspiring to witness the growth that the academy experienced while I was there. My teammates and I went from being barely able to do a sit-up or a push-up, let alone some of the fundamental techniques of BJJ, to winning the national China Open tournament in Shanghai in May 2012, officially becoming the best BJJ academy in China.

Jiujitsu

 Jiujitsu is kind of like a cult. We’ve got our own language, culture, and rituals. Once you start, it becomes a way of life. Jiujitsu can have almost religious qualities. Jiujitsu practitioners are part of something greater than themselves. They are more than simply members of their gym. As jiujitsu practitioners, they are part of a greater movement. This entity is not just a sport but a way to better individuals, their communities, and, dare I say, the world. Jiujitsu betters people and the world around them through the discipline, artistic expression, and mutual bonding that jiujitsu allows. It’s not unlike the military or 12-step programs, where the group forms a culture and an identity. 

People who do jiujitsu, including myself, often say things like, “Jiujitsu saved my life.” Jiujitsu offers an adrenaline rush that can help people quit other substances. Jiujitsu provides a consistent and regular routine that helps people get back on track after losing their way to other toxic habits. It extends confidence for people who otherwise might be small or weak (or at least seen by the world as such). And it presents community in a world that is more fractured and isolated than ever. People like myself who do jiujitsu truly believe they are making themselves better people by doing the sport (after all, it teaches the importance of humility, grace, patience, and persistence in the very nature of the art). And they make the world a better place by extension. 

Jiujitsu coaches often give speeches at the end of class encouraging their students to take what they’re learning on the mat out into their workplace, families, and interactions: stepping beyond ego; using failures as opportunities; and persisting through adversity and hardship. Jiujitsu teaches that a calm mindset can get you through anything. These are all important lessons that are helpful off the mat, too. Coaches explicitly send the message that we are not practicing the art just to practice a sport or get in shape, we are doing it to bring those lessons into other parts of their lives. And they’re absolutely right. I do think that jiujitsu is one small thing in the world that is helping people and by extension our communities and our world, a better place. 

I love jiujitsu like I love God. Ok, Ok, I know that’s bit extreme but hear me out here. Jiujitsu is a source of powerful energy because going to jiujitsu practice isn’t all about me. It’s about us, the community. It’s about the dance. It’s about playing with others. I don’t always go just to exercise or learn new techniques. I go to add something new, to be creative, to be a good training partner, to make someone’s night or at least make their day a little better. I go because my presence adds something. My playful creativity helps everyone around me improve on and off the mat. It took me a long time to realize and appreciate that, and it’s something I still have to remind myself about. And it’s true for each person that steps onto the mat. Their presence adds one more spice to the soup. The more flavorful and creative the soup, the more enjoyable it is. And so, jiujitsu is almost like a religion because it creates a unique community that cannot function well without the devotion of all of its members to making the world a better and more creative and playful place.

Brie: Love Queer Quest Poem

 My love

My light

My star.

Would it be co-dependent to also say,

My soul

?

You are my world.

My better half. 

My 100/100 person. 

You're the home I return to each day

And the sunshine I wake up to each morning. 

From Colorado to Europe to Arizon

and back again, 

here we are waiting for the next adventure.

Here we are

Our dream coming true

A dog, chickens, a garden, and a poly family. 

We are two fire signs

Snippy, snappy like turtles

Snarky and sarcastic

I promise to bring humor into those moments. 

The boat gets rocky sometimes,

but I need you at the captain's seat with me

sailing through the vast and yet unknown 

ocean of life. 

Life is hard. 

Really hard. 

Especially as two trans queer people. 

I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Allow me, 

if you please, 

to support you until the day I die. 

Two adults.

Independent

Sassy

Fiery

Free-willed

Walking hand-in-hand

Until we reach the other side. 

I am

 From Queer Quest 2023, Day 4

Intention Poem

I was BIG

I was LOUD

I was angry

I was sad

I was innocent

I was ME. 

But who am I?

I am Baby Sam. 

curious

scared

observant

quiet.

I am Daddy Sam. 

big

protective

nurturing

controlling

safe

structured. 

I am a dog. 

eager

excited

social

loving.

I am a horse. 

wild

independent

big

energetic.

No, but really. Who AM I?

I am fertile, abundant, giving, helper. 

I am writer, artist, creator, visionary. 

I am listener, holder, caring, nurturer. 

I am friend, lover, companion, partner, student, teacher. 

No, but really. Who am I?

I am Samuel,

son of James, 

nephew of Judy, 

student of Cindy, 

husband of Brianna, 

daughter of Marnie, 

brother of Ruth, 

grandson of Jack and Harriet. 

No, but really. Who am I?

I am soul. 

I am ego. 

I am lost. 

I am found. 

My soul is jumping for joy, 

dancing for love, 

playing for you, 

running for life, 

bursting at the seams,

bursting for life, 

bursting for a vision of a better world. 

My ego is here too. 

Eager to please,

begging for acceptance,

starving for approval, 

thirsty for validation. 

I am strong and weak. 

Man and woman. 

Tired and energetic. 

Calm and anxious. 

Alive and dead. 

I have seen the darkness?

What does the world need?

Love. 

Connection. 

Compassion.

Empathy. 

A splash in the lake?

A cannonball. 

I am big. I am expansive. 

I cannot be contained. 

I am Love, Play, and Freedom

 From Queer Quest, 2023, Day 4

Intention Poem, continued

I have stood face to face

with the devil

with bullies. 

"Goggles!" they screamed. 

"That undershirt!" they teased. 

Or worse. 

Silence. 

Erasure. 

Being forgotten. 

Being left behind. 

Being lost.

Chaos. 

"You don't belong here," they say. 

You're right. Maybe I don't belong here. 

So I'm going to create a place where I do belong. 

A world where I do. 

So I can be both wild and free. 

I am a person with gifts

that manifest the glory of God. 

I am a lover. 

I am a friend. 

I am a liberator. 

I am here to help others find liberation from normative society. 

I am afraid. 

What am I afraid of?

Fatness. 

Laziness.

Forgetfulness. 

Chaos. 

Disorganization. 

Maybe because those things manifest the freedom and pleasure that I desire for myself. 

I am longing for freedom.

There is a part of me that is longing

to come to the surface. 

Crazy. 

Eccentric. 

Curious. 

Playful.

Silly. 

Funny.

I am expansive.

Fluid. 

Random. 

I am a child and an adult at the same time. 

Your Life as Movie

What is the key to unlocking your fullest potential and your true integrity so that you can evolve into your Highest Self? Recognizing and allowing. Recognizing your practice and your efforts, your knowledge and your training, your abilities and your talents. Recognizing your discipline and your addictions. Recognizing your Self and your ego, your Highest Self and your future evolved Self. 

The key to your evolution is being able to see yourself and your value from a third person perspective–at the same time both the most valuable, precious, special, cherished being, so unique and adding value and adding energy to Spirit with every breath and every thought, AND just one more parasite, one more termite, one more being on this pale blue dot who will be forgotten and decompose back to stardust. 

You are so small compared to the mighty Universe. You are only just an atom in a Universe of molecules. And yet, you are as beautiful and as special and unique as a snowflake or an ant or a drop of water or a grain of sand. BOTH CAN EXIST AS TRUTHS AT THE SAME TIME. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. It’s just BOTH. You can have value and mean nothing at all. True, maybe a conversation doesn’t really matter to anyone and will be forgotten. I certainly don't remember every conversation I have in any given day. But it does matter in that moment. 

In that moment of the universe unfolding, it matters. Everything has a ripple, a butterfly effect. And maybe it doesn’t matter to YOU, but it does matter to the people around you. Or maybe it doesn't matter to the people around you, but it does matter to you. This is part of what the collective consciousness is. As Lisa Feldman Barrett says, a human mind is only built from other human minds, it cannot and does not exist in isolation. 

Maybe you don’t mean anything to yourself. But you do mean something to other people. In this way, HOW YOU MOVE MATTERS. Maybe you can drive like an asshole. You're a grumpy person on the road, bitter and resentful and ungrateful and rude. And none of it matters to you because it just comes out of your mouth and goes into the universe and you don’t have to sit with that energy anymore. In fact, you might even feel better because you have expelled that negative energy. But it does matter to other people, the other people who are driving on the road and have to interact with you and your road rage. It’s karma. How you move matters, what you do and what you say matters to the other people you interact with. So pay it forward, if nothing else. But it’s more than that. It’s more than just paying it forward. It’s about zooming out to see yourself from that third person perspective and being able to see more than just other people around you, like a dream or a movie screen, but actually see yourself as an actor in the movie that you are directing and producing. 

And you aren't just any actor, you are the main character. In that way, the show must go on! Because without the main character, the movie doesn’t exist. And this is one hell of a special and interesting and important movie. Do you want to be bored being in your own movie? Or do you want to create a beautiful movie that is enjoyable to play in? The best movies and plays and sports games are the ones where the actors are clearly having fun, like SNL where you can see them start to laugh. That’s the kind of movie I want to be in--the one where I'm having fun. The one that is fun to put on, not work. Life shouldn't feel like work all the time. It's like the soccer game where the athletes are having fun and enjoying themselves and celebrating their victories; not just playing like robots, but humans who are truly grateful to be there, that’s the soccer player I want to be. That’s the actor I want to be. The one that’s having fun. It’s my movie. What do I want it to look like? It’s my story. What do I want it to say? 

I want to look at myself--that little non-binary person--with compassion and love and tell them: "You got this. We want you, the good and the bad, the confident and the insecure, the confused and the intelligent, the creative and the fatigued, the helper and the selfish, the talker and the listener, the engaged and the checked out, the distracted and the focused. We want it all. The female and the male, the strong and the weak, the writer and the researcher, the teacher and the social worker, the mentor and the mentee. The explosion of love, play and freedom. The geographer, the writer. We want it all. Not just half. Not just 95%. 100%." 

I want to be the soccer player–sweaty and tired, joyous and celebratory, proud and humble, HAVING FUN, in flow, connecting, and playful–in the game of life. Sports are a practice for the game of life. Because it’s all just a game. The more you can play in practice–jiujitsu, writing–then the more you can play in life. And the more practice you put into playing your music, the music that only you were meant to play, the unique music of your soul and your life, then when it comes time for the concert, you will be able to be fully present and the music will just flow. 

Some people will care, some people won’t. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are showing up to both practice and games with your whole heart, and with energy, joy and gratitude, NOT as a commodity for sports teams to buy and sell your body and your soul, but as an athlete who plays for the love of the game and nothing and nobody else.

The Art of Wu Wei

Did you ever notice that when you’re pushing, everything takes effort and nothing happens? So what about sitting back and just letting things happen instead of pushing so hard?

There is a Chinese proverb that says, "When nothing is done, nothing is left undone" (无为而无不为). The latin transcription of the proverb goes like this: wuwei er wubuwei.

It is from this proverb that the Chinese practice of "the art of wuwei", or literally "the art of doing nothing," was born. 

What is the art of wuwei? The art of wuwei is the art of non-doing. Wuwei is the art of letting things happen at their own pace; the art of letting go of control; the art of surrender. It is letting Source take over and letting things happen as they are meant to happen. 

Have you ever been in a game or a competition or performance? Or maybe just a wonderful flow state? That feeling where your mind turns off and you just go? You hover above yourself and watch yourself in a third person perspective. And you know in your heart and in your soul that you trained for the moment with blood and sweat and tears but in that moment, something else is moving your body and telling you what to do. It’s not your ego. It’s not even you. It’s a force, a power greater than yourself that is moving through you and for you. It's Source. 

It’s not you. Your ego wants you to think it’s you, but it’s not. It’s Source. So the more you push, the more you push Source away. That's why when you're pushing and forcing, everything takes so much effort and still nothing happens. You have to sit back and let Source move through you in a flow state of effortlessness. And that is the art of wuwei. 

Let's talk about that moment a little more. That moment where Source moves through you, moving your body for you. Some people call it flow state. If you're an athlete, it often happens during a game or a competition. If you're an artist, it happens during a performance or showcase or concert. It can also happen in smaller moments throughout the day--a conversation, a smile, a nap, sex, playing with your dog or taking a walk. It’s moving my fingers to type on the keyboard right now. It’s pure Love and Soul. There is no mind. The Spirit or Gaia is speaking through you, moving you and helping you come up with great ideas. It's anytime you're fully present in the moment. Time slips away. You are just being. Not doing, being. 

But life is not about always being present. You can't always be present. Constant flow-state is not even humanly possible. Life is not a constant game. Life is not a constant competition. Life is not a performance. Most of life is practicing for the big game. 

Let's pause for a moment to focus on one metaphor at a time. (LOL.) Let's focus in on the performance metaphor, comparing the Universe to an orchestra. If the Universe is an orchestra, you have one instrument to play in that orchestra. That instrument is your body, and you have multiple practice sessions and multiple concerts throughout your life. Are you going to show up and play your music or are you going to check out because you have better things to do? 

You play in harmony, beauty and truth when you play fully present with and for and through Source and Love. 

You have some options as far as your role in this orchestra. You can just watch the concert happen. You can check out by sleeping. You can insist on playing your own music. Or you can freaking show up as yourself, on both the good and the bad days. Yes, sometimes you are sick and have to rest. But otherwise, you can show up as yourself. For the concerts, whether that be a jiujitsu competition, or publishing your book, or just time when you want to be present with Brie or your friends, then you just let muscle memory take over, and you let the beauty and creativity of source work through you. 

So you can ask yourself: Am I contributing to the orchestra? Am I watching the conductor, or am I distracted? Am I being pulled away by illusions, sleeping, or doing my own thing? Or just adamantly ignoring what the other instruments are doing? Am I creating music? Am I contributing or am I creating my own music?

Because it’s when playing with others in harmony, with Love, with Universe, that you can be most alive and fully present. But only if you’ve been practicing can the anxiety can slip away because you’ve been preparing for this moment. 

In-between those flow-states, you have practice sessions. Because life isn’t a never-ending concert. Life is about practicing for the concert, both on our own and together, so that when the time comes for the concert, you’re fully present. 

So what does practice look like? It’s a process. Of writing, meditating, doing yoga, drilling, talking, check-ins, reading, praying, listening to intuition, listening to all the different parts of your body, and listening to your community. 

But most of all? It’s about showing up to practice. That’s the hardest part. You can skip practice if you’re sick. But otherwise, you gotta show up. Then you can be present with the practice. Yoga, creative writing, free writing, reading, or just having conversations with people. Listening. Learning from your mistakes. Doing it over again. 

A practice is something you do on a regular basis as a way to continually learn and listen and grow. Meditation is a practice because it’s never easy and it always requires attention, learning, listening and growing. And life is a practice in and of itself. Napping is a practice. Yoga is a practice. Writing is a practice. Jiujitsu drilling is a practice. Strumming chords is a practice. 

Because it’s so easy to fall out of practice and just coast on auto-pilot, not really paying attention, doing the bare minimum. But showing up to practice, and then doing the practice is what matters. Not getting the gold medal. Not winning the competition. That's not what matters. Practicing and drilling is what matters. Practicing with attention to mistakes so that you can learn, rinse, repeat, iterate, grow, and evolve. 

Evolution and the nature of evolution is a kind of higher power. We’re always changing. We are free to evolve into the highest version of ourselves. But only through practice can we learn and grow and change and evolve. 

So, how can I evolve? So, how can I mature? I can start to see myself from a third person perspective, just a trans person--a trans, genderqueer, non-binary EXPLOSION of love, play, and freedom--trying to make their way in the world, wanting a simple life, playing around and dancing with other spirits. That’s all this is. Participating in the game--the concert--of the unfolding of the universe. 

There is no end goal, except for death. There is no outcome, except for death. It’s just here and now. That’s all there is. There is nothing to check off the list. The sooner you check off your life, the sooner you die. Why rush it? 

So, wu wei. The art of not doing. The art of surrendering to the universe, so that nothing is left undone. You don’t have to force it. Just be yourself. What does that mean? Just be Sam. Just enjoy it. People enjoy it when you’re being yourself. Not suffocating and therefore trying to breathe so all you can talk about is breathing. AKA, not without self and therefore all you can talk or think about is yourself. 

But living with a quiet confidence of knowing yourself, that includes knowing your value in this word, which is nothing more and nothing less than participating in the unfolding of the universe with as much positive vibrations and playfulness, connection, flow and fun as possible. Because ultimately, there is nothing to check off. You only have one life. Once you check that off, it’s over.