Lesbian Culture in China: How My Definition of Freedom Changed, Part 3

I walked around campus that Thursday with an extra spring in my step. For the first time in a long time, I had something to look forward to. I was excited and nervous. Throughout the day, I could feel my face starting to flush. I tried to calm down by taking deep breaths.

I decided to go early to find the place while it was still light out.

While I was on the bus, my stomach filled with butterflies and my chest was tight. I kept looking at the directions I had copied down in my best handwriting, the Chinese characters scrawled on a piece of lined paper like a grade-schooler. I was a little confused by the directions, however. I feared that I was on the bus going in the wrong direction. But when I got off the bus, I saw that I was right across from the mall that the directions had mentioned.

The main street stretched out in front of me, crowded and bustling with activity. Narrow alleys winded off the main drag.

I walked down the main street, hoping I would see a sign or an alley that was like the one described in the directions. All the directions said was, “After you get to the mall, it’s down an alley next to a small store,” but there were six alleys and all of them had stores. They purposefully made it hard to find. 

“How was I supposed to find it? This is crazy,” I thought. But I was too scared to ask for directions.

I turned down one of the alleys. I passed shops’ advertisements for “adult health preservation products,”^[1] which is a euphemism in Chinese for sex toys. I passed massage parlors and hair salons. I passed hotels advertising one- or two-hour stays.

I walked to one end of the alley. It was getting dark.

Finally, I noticed the English word JOY spray-painted on a wall with a sign on the door saying, “Only adults can enter.” I knew then that I was in the right place.

---

[1] 成人保健品

Lesbian Culture in China: How My Definition of Freedom Changed, Part 2

Despite having the new vocabulary, I still hadn’t taken the necessary steps to seek out the relatively hidden queer community in China yet. I kept procrastinating, justifying my reluctance with excuses: I was too tired. I was too busy.

I finally searched for “female homosexual bars near me” on Baidu, the Chinese version of Google.

The results immediately revealed that, besides T and P which are gendered slang terms for lesbians, the general non-gendered slang for “female homosexual” in Chinese is most commonly “LaLa”^[1] or simply “Les.” While clicking around the results, I found an online group for Les in my region. I discovered addresses for four different Les Ba^[2]—what queer women in China call a “Lesbian Bar”—around the city in online forums. I picked one called “Joy”^[3] with the most detailed directions—they intentionally kept the directions ambiguous and address hidden to keep the locations secret—and decided to go on the upcoming Thursday.

[1] 拉拉

[2] Les吧

[3] All people and places are pseudonyms, and identifying information including locations has been changed to protect the identity of the individuals at risk. To protect the people and places in this article, I do not use photos.

Lesbian Culture in China: How My Definition of Freedom Changed, Part 1

Note: The stories contained here happened over the course of a year in 2017.
“My parents think I’m weird.”

My petite Chinese friend in her thirties sat across from me, her arms and legs like sticks poking out from her baggy black t-shirt and long cargo shorts. Her hair, long and straight, was pulled back into a tight ponytail on the back of her head.

“They think I’m a T,” she rolled her eyes and shrugged.

“What’s a T?” I asked.

“A female homosexual,” she said with a small smile the way people often do when they teach me Chinese slang. “Nvde tongxinglian.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding. I faced my soup bowl and slurped on my noodles.

I was in China conducting field research for my doctoral dissertation. I had been living in China on and off for almost four years already. I am proficient in the language, but at the time of this conversation was not familiar with “T” as a slang term yet.  

“Yeah,” she continued. “Whenever I’m with a female friend who wants to hold my hand, I always slap it away and tell her to stop because people are going to think I’m a T.” She indicated a slapping motion and mimed pulling her hand away quickly as she frowned.

In China, it’s common for straight girls to hold hands when walking together. But for a tomboy like my friend, people probably would assume she was a lesbian. And that concerned her.

My friend’s fear that someone might think she was a lesbian indicated that she had experienced and/or witnessed homophobia and discrimination against queer people in China, just like in the United States.

Based on conversations like this one, I had for many years assumed that Chinese culture was significantly more “backward” than the United States when it came to accepting LGBTQ+ culture.

On that day slurping noodles, however, my friend gave me that simple vocabulary word, “T.” This word allowed me a feeling of possibility: If there was slang for it, there was a culture for it.

I soon found my assumptions about queer culture specifically and freedom more generally were challenged while living in China. I assumed that LGBTQ+ people in China lived lives of secrecy and oppression. I found something much more complex. Culture was not so black-and-white as that limited knowledge of a "freedom" and "oppression" dichotomy. I had put backward and progressive into neat boxes, but it was more complicated than that.

I later learned that Ts are masculine-presenting lesbians (T for Tomboy) and Ps are feminine-presenting lesbians (P for Pretty). Me? I’m an H because, being bi and androgynous, I’m “Half.” (Chinese often incorporates slang from English using the first letter of the English word.)

Letter to Jiujitsu: Part 4

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.

Me with three of my female teammates at a jiujitsu tournament in February 2020.

A compilation of photos with my team from the tournament in February 2020.

Group photo from Rox and my Adventure Jiu-Jitsu Camp in June 2019. The camp was cancelled this year due to COVID-19.

Letter to Jiujitsu: Part 3

This is a continuation of the letter of grief I write to one of my main sources of connection in my life: jiujitsu. You can read the beginning of the letter in Part 1 and Part 2.

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. I just am, 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, and 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 learned that 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. 

Jiujitsu introduced me to people that don’t run from pain and challenge and fear, but turn toward it. With jiujitsu, we embraced pain.

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. 

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, just to name a few. 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 jiujitsu I learned that I’m nothing by myself. But 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 attacking is 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, and 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've learned are:

• Life is about play
• Love yourself.
• You can be the rock that creates the ripples that rocks the boat that changes the world. 
• Suffering is part of the human condition. 
• Becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable allows for joy later down the road.  

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.

God, I miss you guys so much. 

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.

Letter to Jiujitsu: Part 2

This is a continuation of the letter of grief I write to one of my main sources of connection in my life: jiujitsu. You can read the beginning of the letter in Part 1.

A special memory I have of jiujitsu 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 with Beth and bullshitting 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. Ben making me laugh until I cried with pretending to fart in my face.

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.

Letter to Jiujitsu: Part 1

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? 

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