The Kung Fu that Sifu Jones teaches fills the hole inside me. Wow, what a statement. Let me clarify. I believe that most of us at some point feel incomplete. That we’re missing something in life. But we continue on doing the same old thing. Work, sleep, eat, entertain ourselves, go to church, spend time with family, etc.: all the things that we have found that we need. But what if you still feel that something is missing? Then you read a book, watch a movie or meet someone. And then you think, “What about martial arts?”. Then you start looking at different schools in your area. You go to some classes, maybe you participate or just sit and watch. You have searched online, looking for advice about how to choose a martial art. You have read hundreds of articles about which one is the best. But the problem is that everyone says that theirs is the best. Karate is the best; no, Tae Kwon Do is the best; no, Kung Fu is the best; no Aikido is the best; no, Boxing is the best. You get so confused about which is the best that you think that you’ll just pick the cheapest school because they’re all the same. Then you go to one more school to try it out. You walk up expecting the same old thing. But during you time there, you start to feel good, excited to be learning, and part of the group. At the end of class you go to the instructor and ask about how to join. You don’t wait for anyone to ask you if you are interested, you just know that this is what you want to do. You have found what you were missing.

I think that choosing the right martial art for you is a combination of the right instructor and the right style. It’s not about which style everybody says is the best. It’s not about which school has the nicest instructor and staff. It’s about finding the right place for you.

In my short 24 years on this Earth, I’ve done some pretty amazing things. I moved to Guatemala right after high school, I went to college and learned a second language, and I lived in Spain for a year. People often ask me how I was able to do so much and still do kung fu. I ask them, “How do you think I was able to do all those things?” Because of kung fu.

Now, when I say I moved to Guatemala after high school, I mean to say, I intended to move to Guatemala after high school. It didn’t actually turn out that way. You know how you know everything when you get out of high school? Yea, turns out, I didn’t. Anyone who’s travelled or even seriously thought about travelling in a big way can tell you it’s not only the fun and excitement it seems. For every ounce of fun and excitement, it’s every bit as much terrifying and nerve-wracking. That was one of those things it turned out I didn’t know, but I found out in a hurry.

I was supposed to stay in Guatemala for six months, living with a family and volunteering with a small local eco-farming organization. They weren’t so organized though. When I arrived in the small town of San Lucas Toleman, I was already deep in the throes of the panic of being on my own for the first time, in a foreign country for the first time, and not speaking the language very well. Hoping- desperately needing to be put to work so I could meet new people and give my mind something to do other than race in the chaos of my panic, I went to the coffee plantation. I was then given a menial, uninteresting job and I was put to work alone. I needed to do something to escape the unbearable conditions inside my head. Even going back to the States wasn’t a quick enough solution. The constant noise and anxiety eroded my reason. I learned what it was like to feel like you’re being driven out of your mind by a foreign invader. How do you fight back? How do you take back your mind from fear, anxiety, confusion and panic? Kung Fu. You go to that place of discipline, that well rehearsed sanctuary that has become an unavoidable creation of the forms. It is a habit so deeply engrained in your mind and body the panic cannot overcome it. Was it enough to get me through six months? No. I needed more training, but it was enough to get me through three weeks, enough to keep me sane long enough to realize I was in over my head. So more training I got. I came home with no idea what I was going to do for the rest of my life. I worked and I trained and I learned. I learned about myself and found my calling. I used the greater discipline and focus I developed over that year between Guatemala and college to complete a four year degree in three years and I continued to train. When I was done with my degree, I was ready to try again. I left for Spain for a year. This time I was ready for the fear, confusion and panic. After two more black tests and countless hours in horse stance, I had become more than familiar with them. I had learned to sit with them without letting them unbalance me and then to work through them. They no longer control me. I have learned to embrace the unknown, the difficult and the painful as opportunities for growth. I’m not fearless or invincible, but when I’m afraid, I jump anyway because the rewards if I do are much more enticing. Because I jump, I’ve seen Spain, Rome, the Alps, Berlin, Paris, London and Ireland. Where will kung fu take you?

In Kung Fu we train with repetition, performing sequences over and over in order to place the sequence into our muscle memory. As with other traditions passed down to us from our Kung Fu fathers there is a physiological and scientific basis to muscle memory.

When an active person repeatedly trains movement, often of the same activity, in an effort to stimulate the mind’s adaptation process, the outcome is to induce physiological changes which attain increased levels of accuracy through repetition. Muscle memory is fashioned over time through repetition of a given suite of motor skills and the ability through brain activity to inculcate and instill it such that they become automatic. To the beginner, activities such as brushing the teeth, combing the hair, or even driving a vehicle are not as easy as they look. As one reinforces those movements through repetition, the neural system learns those fine and gross motor skills to the degree that one no longer needs to think about them, but merely to react and perform appropriately. In this sense the muscle memory process is an example of automating an OODA Loop insofar as one learns to Observe, Orient, Decide, and Act.

In this physiological description it is demonstrated why we train in the way that the Masters have handed down to us. Repetition is key in training our brain to work in conjunction with our muscle groups so that when the need arises we are ready to defend ourselves without conscious thought. Additionally, this is the reason that we train for good technique and form. In other words if we train with poor technique and poor form this is the information that our brain stores as the muscle memory resulting in unskilled and inadequate Kung Fu.

A common mistake is to perform the actions with too much speed that sacrifices attention to the exact mechanism of the technique and good form. Speed comes with training and is not a necessary component to obtain muscle memory. Again repetition of a movement and good form with focus placed on stances, plucks blocks and strikes is essential to building muscle memory. Speed and skill comes with time, training and patience.

***

I actually tried to hunch down and hide, but everyone was staring at us. I finally stood, and with shaky knees, followed John down the rickety bleachers. Our steps echoed through the gym.

We had told a few friends what we did and they were nice enough to encourage us by whispering, “You’re dead,” as we went by.

“Stand there.” Coach Martino pointed to the center of the gym.

We did. The three other coaches stood behind us with their arms folded behind their backs, legs wide, military style.

Martino addressed the class. “What you see here, gentlemen, is two quitters.”

Whoa, talk about a knee to the stomach. Coach ambushed us!

“They’re not only quitting the team . . .” Martino paused, letting the words hover over the players’ heads like a chunk of bacon dangling over a pack of pit bulls. “They’re quitting YOU.”

I couldn’t believe this. He was painting a bulls-eye on our chests.

I scanned the bleachers now in front, and above me. My soon-to-be former teammates scowled as if coach had just told them John and I had kissed every one of their girlfriends.

I glanced at John to the left of me.

Oh crap!

He was easing his right foot forward and twitching his fingers—the way he always does before he spars.

I was about to vomit. John’s preparing to fight the entire football team who has—now that we’re gone—a minimum weight class of 195 pounds, and I have to back him up.

“So,” Coach continued, “after this class, they’re no longer a member of this family.” Coach sneered at us then blew his whistle. “Fall in for laps.”

The gym floor vibrated from the sixty-plus players trudging down the bleachers.

No one talked to us as we filed from the gym onto the field.

None of this I could figure out. We were not good football players. What is the deal?

John and I ran the five laps in silence, constantly checking over our shoulders. Some of the guys were cool, most indifferent, but a few were jerks.

My kung fu Spidey-sense told me that we were going to have some trouble in the locker room.

We finished the run, played catch, then jogged back inside.

I didn’t even make it to my locker before the fight began.

Two dudes behind me grabbed my arms and ran me into the wall of lockers. I managed to twist my head so my nose wouldn’t take the blow. I couldn’t see John. His locker was around the corner from mine. But I did hear lots of shouting and locker-banging.

Two big hands dug into my shoulders and spun me around. I locked eyes with my two assailants. They were two guys I’d never liked. This had nothing to do with quitting. They just wanted an excuse to fight.

I lifted my hands and shifted into a fighting stance.

The two morons had their shirts off and their fists circling in front of them. Two more idiots stood behind them, shouting, “Get him.”

“Take this karate boy,” the closest one said as he punched.

How many times do I have to tell these imbeciles, I do kung fu, not karate?

I ducked. His fist plowed into the lockers. I came up with a snap kick to his groin then blocked a punch from bozo number two. As he pulled back for a second blow, I nailed him in the jaw with a right hook. I was able to kick him in the stomach before the other two tackled me.

We rolled on the filthy floor, fists flying everywhere. My head hit the concrete floor as fists pounded my face. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth.

The locker room was a bloodthirsty frenzy with everyone shouting and clapping.

We kept rolling until we hit a bench. I looked up. A forest of legs surrounded me. I caught a glimpse of someone’s backpack sitting on the bench. Somehow, I was able to tuck in my legs and kick the guys off me.

With blood dripping from my swollen lips, I sprang to my feet, grabbed the backpack, and went to swinging. I clobbered two more before someone shouted, “Coach is coming!” Everyone scattered.

I whirled around to face the two dudes that had first pushed me. They had their fists cocked but neither looked too eager to move first. The one I’d kicked in the stomach had my Nike shoe print on his gut.

I stepped forward. I still held the backpack, ready to pile drive their fatheads into the lockers.

Coach came in and broke it up. The two guys left, talking trash. I waited until they were out of sight before I dropped the backpack.

I still didn’t know where John was until he walked around the corner. Aside from some bloodstains on his gray gym shirt, he looked normal, like another day at the office. Behind him, three boys came limping out, holding their stomachs. Their faces were swollen and bruised.

“Hope you girls enjoyed your last day of athletics.” Martino shook his head and walked off.

I washed up and we headed to the office to change our schedule.

Football or kung fu?

Looking back now, I think John and I made the right choice.

A poem that I found very interesting:

I am a martial artist. I see through different eyes.
I see a bigger picture when others see gray skies.
Though many can’t conceive it, I stand…facing the wind.
My bravery, not from fighting, but from my strength within.

I am a martial artist. I’ll walk the extra mile.
Not because I have to, but because it’s worth my while.
I know that I am different, when I stand on a crowded street.
I know the fullness of winning, I’ve tasted the cup of defeat.

I am a martial artist. They say I walk with ease.
Though trained for bodily harm, my intentions are for peace.
The world may come and go, but a different path I’ll choose.
A path I will not stray from, no matter, win or lose.

-Karen Eden