Flowing with the Go (6 page)

Of note, Coach is a self-proclaimed comic-book geek. And thus, the following quote applies: “Just because a guy reads comics, doesn't mean he can't start some shit” (
Mallrats
, 1995).

11
Earning My Stripes

T
here are five ranks in BJJ, and you never know when you will be promoted. Everyone starts off as a white belt or novice. The second rank is a blue belt, followed by purple, brown, and black. In between, you can earn as many as four stripes to signify your progress toward the next belt. A stripe is like getting a gold star by your name. It signifies your commitment and improvement, like little kudos along the way to keep you motivated. How long you stay at any one rank depends entirely on subjective assessment from your instructor. I have seen “naturals” advance from white to purple in less than two years. Likewise, I have seen folks remain a white belt for over three years. There is no set timeline, no scripted agenda—just you, doing your thing to the best of your ability at that time.

On January 27, 2009, I received my first stripe. I had seen other people get stripes, but quite honestly, I did not think I would ever get one. I did not hold my life in high esteem, let alone my rudimentary Jiu-Jitsu. The gym was somewhere I went, not what I was. In my heart, I wasn't committed because my heart was still numb with grief. I liked the challenge of the sport and its novelty, but I thought I was an oddball and that everyone knew I was a phony—a walking lie, pretending I was happy and carefree when inside I always felt as if I was hanging on by a thin thread.

The unpredictability of advancement in Jiu-Jitsu affects people differently. Some people prefer to see the brass ring, have a to-do list to reinforce their competency, and have an actual schedule for paying fees, testing, and getting promoted. These people don't want to be judged; they want to be rewarded. Other people prefer the element of surprise, the ideology that you are expected to work hard and do your best at all times because Coach is always watching. I personally believe Coach was awarded a set of eyes for the back of his head when he earned his black belt.

I don't remember exactly what I felt when Coach called my name, but it was a combination of surprise and “are you sure?” and “someone noticed me?” and then pride—pride that I had stuck with something for three months. I hadn't quit, and someone recognized that. I was so giddy with joy that I took a picture of my stripe with my camera and sent it off to my parents and my brothers and all the people who worried about me. I still use that picture as my icon for the gym's phone number. It remains one of the most significant moments of my life.

That night, I emailed Coach and told him about Carly. I couldn't be a phony anymore if I wasn't invisible. Now Coach would know I was struggling in my personal life. As vulnerable as that made me feel, I also felt a sense of relief. No one at the gym knew me when Carly was alive. They didn't know me as “Carly's mom.” I met them when I didn't know who I was anymore. I was still trying to figure it all out. How interesting that the evolution of my progress in Jiu-Jitsu, like my journey through grief, would be, for the most part, a self-directed endeavor, but not a road I would have to walk alone.

12
Cookie Love

I
admit to being a food fantasizer.

Today I was thinking that life is a little like having a delightful snack of cookies and milk. Picture a smallish plate loaded (sometimes overloaded) with warm bundles of joy. The milk is the cool, silent partner that waits patiently and predictably within a solid, confident vessel. Life is sweet and conveniently shaped; the anticipation of indulging is like giving yourself a hug. Then, you take that first bite.

Your pearly whites find, perhaps, a little surprise: some cookies are semi-sweet, some you have to chew on for a bit, and some are just plain nutty. Just like life's surprises—that handwritten missive in the mailbox, the chores that get done without asking, the polka-dot panties you find under the Christmas tree.

A smile sneaks onto your face, starting slowly from the corners of your mouth, and you feel a little mischievous, a little celebrated, a little deserving. And you think you have a snug, secure grasp on that piece of life. Not too tight to allow some room for movement, and not too loose to allow for a sense of control. The future looks fantastic; it's a treat.

And then you go for the dunk. It's part of the plan. You knew it was coming—you've been there before, been thinking about it. The dunk enhances the experience, alters the texture, smoothes some edges.

But this time, the plan doesn't go right. During the dunk that cookie falls apart, it falls to a mushy, wet mess at the bottom of your vessel, weighing it down, impossible to put back together. And in your hand, you have the remains of delight, surprise, and joy. There's some there, but it is not the same.

And you stare at what's left and know you are at a crossroads. Are you going to throw the remaining chunk all in, let it all sink to the bottom to sit and clump and stick, soggy fragments, crumbs of life left to pile up at the lowest point?

Just throw it all away, forget it, make it quick. What was once your sweet reward is now a punishment. What did I do to deserve this?

You take another look at what's left. It's not the same. It's smaller, changed, not whole, not as beautiful, and does not provide the same level of joyful anticipation. But it's there, and you hang on to it. You see that parts of it are still sweet, parts still hold surprises. Are you willing to concede that you may find some satisfaction in what's left, even though it's not what you originally had anticipated?

You take a bite of that new life to find out.

13
The Big Easy Roll

T
he story of my first year of Jiu-Jitsu would not be complete without my story about New Orleans. I had traveled to New Orleans with my family to vacation over spring break. By no coincidence, I had been there a month prior at a conference and my family was supposed to have joined me, but there was confusion at flight check-in, and it was too late to board by the time they figured things out. So I was on my own in New Orleans for the first trip, and I looked around for and found a Jiu-Jitsu gym in the area, but didn't have time to check it out. During this second trip to New Orleans, I would be able to visit the gym, so it all worked out, right?

My husband and I took the trolley outside the city center and found the Jiu-Jitsu gym. It was a small gym with very friendly staff. I bought a couple of T-shirts, and they invited me back to take a class that evening. I figured we would have family plans, so I didn't really think I would go back. Surprisingly, though, when I asked Chuck what we were doing that night, he said, “Aren't you going to the gym?”
Wow
, I thought,
encouragement?
Chuck and I didn't really talk about my new interest in Jiu-Jitsu; he was just satisfied that it made me happy. “Sure,” I said with a smile. So I took a cab and went to roll.

Everyone at the gym was welcoming. They lent me a gi, and I joined right in. The training progression was similar to ours back home: warmup drills, a new technique, and then sparring. Let me mention here that I had told them I was fairly raw: a five-month white belt. I was partnered with a biggish guy, a blue belt, and we began to roll. It was apparent right away that he wasn't going to cut me any slack, so I just tried to ride it out. White belts just survive, right? Well, maybe the philosophy is different down south, because Dude went for the mount and submit. He first tried to armbar me, but my ounce of prevention turned into a pound of wrist-locking, with me on the receiving end. Or maybe it was a pound—or five—of Dude's ego. All I know is that wrists aren't made to bend that far, and we all stopped when we heard the pop. The black belt was sure it was “just a strain,” and as a concession, offered to roll with me. Not wanting to be disrespectful or ungrateful, I said yes. But even my high pain threshold has a limit. The second time I rolled over onto my wrist, I had to stop from the pain. The black belt called it a night at the same time—but it wasn't my fault class ended early, right? Don't take it personally—and Dude offered to give me a ride back to my hotel. Sure, we all parted friends.

Back at the hotel room, Chuck wasn't there, and the boys were watching television.

“I think my wrist is broken. I'm gonna get some ice.”

“Cool. Hey, Mom, can you bring me a Sprite?”

I walked my pity-party to the hotel bar downstairs and told the bartender my story. He must have felt sorry for me because he put the glass of wine I ordered into a milkshake glass and filled it to the top. He also comped me the Sprite. Back in the room, I sat in the front room of the suite by myself, elevating my arm and staring at the wall. I texted Coach that his goodwill ambassador had her arm broken as a guest roller. He was sympathetic, but I could tell he didn't fully believe me. Later he said that was because I said “arm,” not “wrist,” and in his infinite BJJ wisdom, he could not fathom how I had gotten a broken arm from a wrist lock. Semantics clouded by pain and cabernet, whatever!

Chuck came back late that night. He seemed surprised to see me still awake and in the front room.

“I think my arm is broken,” I said.

Silence, furrowed brow of contemplation. A minute later, “You know, I heard some of the best bands!”

That story of Chuck's reaction still makes me laugh, although I wasn't laughing at the time. We were flying out the next morning, and I wasn't about to go to some suspect Doc-in-the-Box on the fringe of the French Quarter at one a.m. So the next day while we ate beignets and did last minute shopping, I held my arm protectively to my chest and carried on. I even heard, “I'm so glad I married someone who doesn't cry and complain.” That's me: warrior wife. I did lose it when the flight attendant bumped into me while handing out cheesy pretzel sticks, but she made up for it with an extra ice bag. Add another page to my Jiu-Jitsu memory book.

“I am a warrior. But I'm a girl too.”

— Suki to Sokka, “The Warriors of Kyoshi,”
The Last Airbender

Wait! One more anecdote about the broken wrist. I had to wear a cast, and I chose pink to match my pink gi. At some point, I had decided there was way too much masculinity in the gym and some girl power was necessary, so I'd bought a pink gi. That's also when I got the nickname “Pink.” Not very original, but I liked it more than “Cupcake” and “Powder Puff.” It's not about who you are; it's what you wear, right? I mean, who really cares who you are? The warrior must always move forward.

When I questioned whether or not I could participate with a cast I heard: “Now your jab will get really good” and “Just don't whack anyone in the head.” So I didn't miss a beat. My cast got really nasty-smelling, and I had to have it changed three times. I didn't tell the doctor that I was striking and rolling all the while.

You have to roll creatively when you can only use one hand. One time I was rolling with a BJJ veteran ToDD (a.k.a. Double D, T-Money, Todd-a-licious, Todd the Bod), and I suggested that to make it fair, he should roll with only one hand too. ToDD, not lacking in one bit of confidence, said, “Tell you what, Pink, I won't use any hands.” He tucked both of his hands under his belt. Remember I was still a rookie when I tell you that ToDD went on to sweep
and
submit me. ToDD got his black belt a year later.

14
One Numb Duck

O
ne thing I got tired of was everybody telling me how strong I was being, like I was so remarkable. They would say things like: “I could never have gotten through it.” “I don't know how you do it.”

Do what? Keep living? I didn't feel remarkable. I felt numb. I didn't know what I was doing. I was just trying to survive and make some sense of the world again. Maybe if I were on the outside looking in, I might have said the same things. But I was the one on the inside. Sometimes what I read between the lines was, “Thank God that didn't happen to me.”

Did people even comprehend the effort it took for me to get up every day? The effort it took to pretend that I didn't want to curl up and die? The effort it took not to scream: “This is horrible! I'm in pain in my soul. I feel like crap. My life is over. You have no idea what I'm going through.” But I never did scream those things, partly because I didn't have the energy and partly because it just isn't my nature. It may have been healthier to vent, to release the intensity of my grief and anger that pushed on my mental and physical boundaries.

One of my coping strategies was my “Be Like A Duck” routine. Ever notice how ducks look so chill on top of the water as they motor around? Yet underneath their stress-free illusion are webbed feet paddling for all they are worth, furiously pushing against the weight of the water. Because I didn't have webbed feet, my furious paddling was hidden inside my mouth, where I had chewed holes in the sides of my cheeks, and in the palms of my hands, where I would dig my nails in until the skin broke.

15
This Only Happens to
Other People

E
xperiencing a sudden tragedy feels like being a strange place and having the lights go out before you've gotten the lay of the land. For a while you just stand still. Your senses are heightened to the limit of their perception. You see no guidance. Your eyes are useless, and survival is dependent upon deeper senses. You hear no guidance. Your ears strain to go beyond the deep backbeat of your heart pounding. You feel no guidance. Your arms are extended for protection. Tentative steps forward carry anxious precaution. You reach, hoping that you will touch something you recognize, something that will orient you, give you a landmark of your surroundings that feels safe before you feel what you fear most—not knowing. Not knowing if you will trip and fall. Not knowing if you will wander over and over in the same place. The extension of your arms is not only for protection. It also carries with it a sense of longing. Will my reaching out find me the comfort of someone else who shares this same scary place?