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.