As we sat on the mat last night, flanked on every side by our training partners, still wearing the sweat we'd earned during class upstairs just a few minutes before, we listened to the higher ranking belts talk about their own journeys in jiu jitsu and how Tony had influenced their training and their lives in every possible way. Some of them have known him and his family for nearly two decades, have trained under him, raised their children along side him, been a part of his extended family. Every one of them had a story about how he had changed their lives for the better, not just through training, but through teaching them how to be better people. Sometimes he does it by kicking your butt, but mostly through leading by example. We see on a daily basis how he handles family, business, conflict, physical challenges, winning, losing, and a million other things. It makes those around him want to emulate his calm approach and careful observations.
One student after another, many of them now incredibly talented teachers of the art, in their own right, gave their memories of what made Tony special, what made our school a special place to be. Some of these men I have trained with every week, and some I had never met before. They all had experiences in common, and I count them part of my family no matter which category they fit, just as I do my regular training partners. We're all a part of some weird, sometimes dysfunctional, family - we do what families do: we support one another, listen to each other's problems and cheer for their victories, we hug a lot. Because of the way I grew up, hugging had never been comfortable for me, unless it involved small children, but that's changed since stepping onto the mats. It's hard to be at Urban Jungle and not hug a lot. I'd also not cried much since I was a kid, and that's changed recently too. There is no inherent weakness in tears, and we were all reminded of that last night, watching grown men wipe away tears, and then Jesse, Tony's newest black belt and a young man who is much loved by us all, brought everyone to tears with just a few words.
When it was his turn to speak, Tony talked about his history and how he came to train in Brazilian jiu jitsu. Meeting the Gracie family in California, he loved the art they taught, but he said he desired the life they led. The family, the closeness, the teaching, and sense of community. He met his wife, Michelle, here in Houston, and they started a family at home. When he bought his property to open our gym, they started another kind of family. I've been lucky enough to be adopted into that family.
Day after day, we see this family grow. We train along side our mentor's family. All three of his children are skilled martial artists, but more importantly, we are watching them grow into good people. They workout along side the adults, training with respect, and teaching the children with patience and laughter. All you ever need to know about Tony and Michelle you can learn by watching two things - their children, and their students...both their families.
As I've traveled and done things in my life, I've thought a lot about the ways in which people try to leave a mark. Once, I blogged about the graffiti on the cars at Cadillac Ranch and the ancient graffiti of the Anasazi on some rocks in the petrified forest, and how I saw the similarities between them. Both are just someone saying to the world that comes after, "I was here." There are monuments that have been built, buildings that stand, pyramids erected, and art work crafted, all as a way of leaving a legacy that says "I existed. I matter." It's inherent in human beings to have a desire to leave something behind. Some legacies aren't something you can touch, or hold or pin down.
The word legacy itself has several meanings; a gift, something handed down through predecessors, ancient knowledge, legal definitions, and a person who is applying to a school their parents attended. I think, in this case, something handed down is the closest definition, but "a gift" could also be appropriate. Everyone wants to think they have a legacy - something they pass on. For a teacher, all of their students are their legacy - living proof of a life well served and purpose found. For a parent, their children are their legacy - a way to pass on traditions, ideals, values, and skills. Last night, we witnessed every meaning of that word, and I'm so glad that pastor Jim Stern spoke, because he was so right in pointing out that all too often we wait until after someone has died to say how much they mean to us, how much value they have added to our lives. We got a chance to show someone we care very deeply about how much they have brought into our lives, and how much that person has changed who we are.
I got lucky the day I googled "kickboxing in Houston" and chose to walk onto the mats at Urban Jungle. The kardio kickboxing classes kicked my butt in every way, but the people there kept me coming back. I met Tony for the first time during a Saturday circuit class, while I was slamming a sledgehammer into a huge tire, with absolutely no idea what I was doing. I met him when he took the sledgehammer away from me and handed me a baseball bat - so I didn't hurt myself. I looked at Jesse, who was teaching the class, and asked who this man was. "That's Tony," he replied, like that should explain it all. Over time, I saw him working with children, and saw the respect he had for all his students, and the warm way he greeted every single person who walks through their door. When I wanted to try out jiu jitsu for the first time, and was scared to even voice that out loud, he never laughed or tried to discourage me, but said, "just show up." When I felt like I couldn't learn this art, that I was too old, too out of shape, too uncoordinated, he never validated those concerns, he told me to "just keep coming back on the mats." Sometimes he had to physically come reposition my legs or arms, because I couldn't understand how I was supposed to move, and over the years has spent as much time getting me to unlearn wrong movements as he has teaching me the right ones. From the moment he took the sledgehammer out of my hands, to the times he coached me in tournament matches I lost, to watching me try for the millionth time to successfully stand on my head, I have never heard one negative thought, never heard a raised voice, and never been told to give up. I've heard other coaches screaming at their students in competitions, berating them, breaking students down on the mats. If I'd walked into one of their gyms three years ago, I'd be at home now in the evenings, watching television, and not training at all. Tony and Michelle are fabulous at what they do, but it's how they do it that keeps their students coming back, and the culture they have created within their four walls.
Standing in a room filled with as much love and respect as was evidenced last night reconfirmed that I made the right choice by training where I do. Having walked in late to class, because it's what happens every Thursday, because of work, I saw faces I hadn't seen in months. I was greeted with hugs, fist bumps, and an occasional attempt at being choked - because it's how we show love. Being with those people makes it a weird sort of party. And when I was asked by Tony, "how are you?" (because he never says "and why are you late?"), I replied the exact same way I always do, "good - better now that I'm here." It's his legacy - helping us all want to be better than we were yesterday.
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