That's How We Roll

Feeling my feet leave the mat, I know I’m going down.  It’s part relief, to be on the ground where I feel more comfortable, part disappointment because my partner has succeeded where I have not.  But I don’t have time to think about that, because I’m already scrambling, searching to improve my position, with my heart pounding in my ears and sweat pouring in my eyes.  I move, but he counters fluidly, and I find myself moving without thought, listening to the conversation our bodies are having, but not stopping to think about what they are saying.  He overreaches, looking for an armbar, and I take my moment to explode, reversing our positions, and coming out on top.  I can’t rest or hesitate, because hesitating means being submitted.  Controlling my breathing, I stay tight to his body, feeling perfectly at ease.  For the first time as an adult, I don’t  feel slow, or awkward.  I feel like I’ve come home.

A few days ago, when I mentioned needing to get back into the rhythm of writing in this blog again, a friend asked me, quite earnestly, why I never write about martial arts, our gym, or training jiu jitsu.   It’s not like I haven’t thought about it, as goodness knows bjj has become the place where my brain drifts when it’s not otherwise occupied.  “I don’t feel qualified to talk about jiu jitsu,” I replied.  “I’m just a white belt, not an authority on the art.”  My friend surprised me by nodding, and then saying, “but you’re an authority on your own experience with it, and with what’s like to be a woman your age who trains.”

We were sitting on the mat, talking while we cooled down a bit, catching our breath before starting another match.  Open mat is different from class.  No less serious, but paced differently, allowing for time to talk, to drill, to try out techniques and make mistakes.  I look out across the sweat wet mats, seeing pairs of bodies locked together in silent combat, some weird primordial movement that looks part death roll, part alien foreplay, watching them roll.   My friends, my training partners, who trust me with their bodies, so that I might learn an art I’d never even heard of until after my 40^th birthday.

I stepped into Urban Jungle Self Defense a little over two years ago, a 40 year old woman with no athleticism, no background in any type of martial arts, and more than a little out of shape, wanting to try out Kardio Kickboxing classes, in hopes of losing some weight and finding some self-confidence.  Walking onto the mat that first time was one of the scariest things I had ever done.  So many people, all more fit than I was, and they all seemed to know what they were doing.  I flailed around with arms and legs for an hour, occasionally lying on the mat panting and fleetingly hoping to die.  But I left feeling…exhilarated?  Sore?  Absolutely.  Accomplished, for some odd reason.  And I went back two days later, though the instructor seemed surprised that I had returned.  And that I kept returning, more determined to make it all the way through a class, to move more gracefully, to prove something to myself that I couldn’t even define.  Spring turned to summer, and I sweated my way through the heat and felt myself grow stronger than I had been a long, long time.  It was waiting for Friday evening Thai pads class to begin when I first saw people rolling.  I had a moment of confusion, thinking one of the men had just attacked his own son, as they rolled across the mats, each battling to be on top, legs wrapping, arms twisting, muscles straining.  “What are they doing?” I asked.  The man’s wife replied, “jiu jitsu,” with a sigh.  I was both intrigued and appalled by what I was seeing, like some kind of wrestling gone mad.  I’d never heard of this art before, although I knew that Urban Jungle taught other classes.  I simply had not been curious about what any of them were, or, perhaps, thought they were for those far more fit and, well, younger.

Watching from a distance, I started to appreciate the way the men moved, the thought and strategy behind the movement.  I thought to myself, “maybe, someday, I’ll try that out.” I didn’t believe it, though, thinking I was too uncoordinated, too old, too out of shape to move my body through rolls and too heavy to climb on anyone without hurting them.

Six months after joining Urban Jungle, I signed up for a women’s self defense course, and talked my best friend into attending with me.  She doesn’t like physical contact with strangers, hates sweat, and considers a walk around the block physical exertion – I told her as little as possible about the class ahead of time.  She wasn’t thrilled that the class involved people sitting on her, grabbing her arms, trying to pick her up, and choking her – to say the least.  I, however, was entranced.  “This is part of jiu jitsu?”  I asked the instructor.  He explained to me that jiu jitsu was a sport, but also how it was an art of self-defense.  Somehow, I got the courage to ask if I could try a class.

That next Thursday, I put on my ill fitting, borrowed gi and climbed the stairs to the room I associated with Kardio class.  Instead of chatting women relaxing before a workout, there were a dozen men stretching, rolling, and talking.  I sat down in a corner and tried really hard to be invisible until class started.  One of the  men I knew from Kardio classes said hello, smiled, made me feel less like I needed to run away.  Warm ups started, and I was instantly lost and regretting my decision.  The men traveled as one unit, from one end of the long room to the other – bear walks, crab crawls, cartwheels, and things I didn’t even recognize.  I couldn’t do any of it.  One of the instructors took me aside and tried to teach me how to forward roll, a skill I had mastered when I was five, but could no longer perform.  By the time warm-ups ended, I was drenched in sweat, frustrated and really, really hated my oversized gi.  Class, however, returned us to the self-defense moves I had liked so much, and my confidence was bolstered by recognizing some of the instructions and being able to perform some of the basic movements.  A nice young man in a brown belt promised, “you can throw me as many times as you like.”  I took him up on it and left feeling impossibly happy, considering every part of my body hurt.

I went back the next week, and the week after that.  Everything hurt, some nights so much I couldn’t sleep, because I was using muscles I hadn’t previously known existed.  I still couldn’t do many of the movements, but every week it got a little bit easier.  I started to roll, having no idea what I was doing, and I learned how to tap out.  To tap out is to acknowledge your partner as a winner, to submit, but also to acknowledge you have something to learn.  I tapped often, sometimes mere seconds into a bout of rolling, often in frustration or even in anger.  Early on, my emotions beat me as often as my partner.  I’d get overeager in gaining a position and find myself on my back, or make a mistake because I was tired and frustrated, only to find myself being choked.  Within five minutes of rolling, I would be out of breath, having pressed as hard as I could, using strength rather than skill, and losing to someone who was calm and patient.  Often, as much as I loved what I was learning, I wanted to quit.

Urban Jungle truly began to feel like a second family.  More experienced students took the time, gave of themselves, to let me practice, to teach me, piece by piece, what I needed to survive and to advance.  Some days I feel as though I am learning and growing, and other days I wonder if I know anything at all.  Frustration is a part of the process, as is patience.  It’s not something to be learned in a week, or a year, or maybe even a lifetime. 

Over time, I’ve grown more comfortable, gained a little skill, but really just enough to see how far I still have to go.  Jiu jitsu has become a part of my life every day, whether I roll or not.  I find myself thinking about it, wake up dreaming about rolling – and sometimes choking my pillow.  My family and friends roll their eyes sometimes, because I probably talk about it a little too much.  I get out of bed every morning feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck.  A big, freakin’ truck going way over the speed limit.  Slowly, it’s changed who I am; I no longer overreact to small things.  I have more patience for a long process.  Being a person who has learned most things in life fairly quickly, it’s been a big deal to accept such a long learning curve, to settle in for a lifetime of learning and growing, knowing there really is no end goal to reach – just milestones along the way.  And the only ones that really count are the ones that answer the question, “am I better today than I was yesterday?  Last week?  Last year?”  Hopefully, the answer is yes.

 

I don’t hold top position very long.  My friend has years of experience on me, and he gives me chances to grow, and learn, but he’s not going to just let me win.  As my knee skims over his ribs to mount, I find myself being unbalanced and turned, landing back on the bottom, this time under tighter side control.  My arms scramble to find a safe position, my knee rising automatically to hold off his own mounting.  I fight down a fleeting moment of panic as his wet rash guard gets stuck to my face, making breathing impossible, before I turn my head and get a quick gasp of the humid air. I’m waiting for him to move, to hopefully make just a tiny mistake, but he’s quick and sure as he secures my arm and steps over my head.  With nowhere to go, I tap, noting to myself just how he made me give up that arm.  I won’t make that mistake again.  But, for that moment, I just stand back up, and start circling, looking for a chance to take us both to the mat, hoping I’ll be the one getting the take down this time.