One step forward, two steps back

When you experience that session when you're tapping your partners out more than they're tapping you out, that's a damn good night. And if you're lucky, you'll get a couple nights in a row like that. Your game is hot and it means you've improved. It's a BFD in your mind and you celebrate on the drive home by turning that dial to 11 and wailing along to Rage Against the Machine.

But the next class, you don't tap anyone. Not even the newer white belts. In fact, one of them was really fucking close to choking you out. It was a fist in the neck and he was heavy as all hell, but a tap is a tap. And what's worse? The next three nights of class when your performance sucks as bad or worse.

WTF? How is it that you're moving so well one day, connecting the dots, executing and maintaining healthy breath? And the other, you're a grappling dummy or spend the entire round trapped under his or her side control.

But you keep going. Cause you can't improve your game from the couch or the bar stool. It can only be done on the mats. So I guess while I suck, I should call out those peeps I know kick my ass. That way, I'm working harder. Don't get comfortable. Stay on top.

Are You Any Good?

A new co-worker started in my office this week and saw a couple photos of Anthony Bourdain training jiu jitsu on my wall. Curious, he inquired and I quickly explained that my crush on Bourdain began with food, but that it deepened when he and I simultaneously got bit by the jiu jitsu bug. After politely expressing interest in the fact that I trained in martial arts, my colleague inquired, “are you good?”

I had no answer. It’s weird because it’s not something that is often asked of me (if ever). It’s definitely not something jiu jiteiros ask one another on the mats. But it got me thinking – how does one assess that? How does one begin to answer that question?

If it was someone who was in the know, someone who practiced jiu jitsu or another martial arts, they probably wouldn’t have asked this question. Instead, they would probably inquire as to how many years I had been training or what belt/rank I was. But if a BJJ brother or sister asked if I was any good, I’d tell them flat-out, “nah, I suck.”

Most practitioners would accept and understand this answer and not feel like I just brushed them off. It’s true. I’m certainly not comparing myself to the prodigy white belts who come in with a wrestling background and know where each limb of their body is at all times and use their strength, leverage, agility and technique to dominate you. They are anomalies. I’m looking at how I stack up against your typical, slow and steady student that attends 2-3x a week. In that regard, I’m ok. Most nights, I can survive a half hour of rolling without getting tapped out by people who have been training as long as I have. On average, I get tapped out half a dozen times or so and maybe tap my partners out with the same frequency. But is that how one measures one’s ability or performance? Cause if so, I totally suck big donkey balls if you factor in competitions. My first competition saw two losses, I barely survived the clock on the first match, holding out while my opponent applied an expert collar choke on me, and survived the second one but allowed my opponent to rack up points on me. My second competition was even harsher with me losing twice to two different opponents to the same submission. Big suck.

But if you measured your prowess by looking at where you came from, it’s a very different assessment. When I started jiu jitsu, I was borderline obese. Warm-ups had me gassing out and I couldn’t shift my hips to save my life. When a training partner rolled with me and inevitably got me on my back, I’d lie flat, neck exposed to chokes and hips glued to the ground with no cardio or strength to opa. My submission vocabulary consisted of whatever we drilled that night, but more often than not, I smashed and smothered my partners when I could. Gain side control and drive all my weight onto them and keep him or her from moving me. This is not who I am today. Not only can I power through warm-ups, but I can usually endure a krav maga or crossfit class in addition to the 75 minutes of BJJ. While I haven’t mastered anything, I have a working vocabulary of passes, escapes, positions and submissions. I might not have my go-to game, but I land a fair share of armbars and collar chokes each week (and not just on the newbies). I have lost 25 pounds since starting jiu jitsu and always keep my breathing under control. One of the things I am most proud of is that I don't rush in for submissions. I can anticipate my opponent’s movements, respond accordingly, gain a better position and weigh my options. This does not mean that I avoid getting smashed and trapped under someone’s mount. Often (always, if I’m rolling with Coach), I realize my mistakes as I lie underneath someone’s sweaty body, cursing myself as oxygen and strength slowly escapes me. And that’s it – I realize my mistakes. Not only do I know what I did wrong, but I also know what the correct move is (or more accurately, moves – plural – cause there is always another option). The other success is that I look forward to class. My gym offers BJJ class three times a week and on the regular, that’s where you’ll find me. And on nights where there is no class? I’m home moping that there isn’t class. No matter how rundown I get during the day, no matter what mess is happening in my life, I trust in the fact that the healthiest thing I can do is get to the mats. There are times when I’ve made it and during warm-ups, my head will fill up with whatever drama is happening in the world outside and I start thinking I’ll check out early. But I don’t. I force myself to push through and by the time I’m rolling, I’m lost in it. In a seminar with Sensei Saulo Ribeiro, I was told by him that we should never give up in our training because that will teach your body that it’s okay to give up. Sounded like macho stuff to me at the time, but it makes complete sense to me now. Challenge yourself to overcome those walls and you will achieve so much more than you set out to. 

So given this, am I good? I stand by my original answer. “Nah, I suck.” But I didn’t tell my co-worker that. Because truth is I’m pretty confident that I can defend myself against everyone in my office building. Everyone. And if you’re really crazy and want to tackle me, I will most likely end up on your back with both hooks in, slowly squeezing the life out of you. But I won’t tell him that either. That’d be too much to explain to HR.

Dishing on the Exes (Martial Arts-wise)

I wish I could say that I came from a long line of martial artists, but I suck way too much for that to be true. It was definitely part of my upbringing (yes there's some truth to the stereotype) but none of my relatives had any formal training to give to me. Nope, I was taught by outsiders. 

Like many kids, I was bullied. And if I was being really honest, the actual incident that occurred on the school playground didn't really scare me that much but it definitely scared my mom enough for her to seek the help of a family friend and sifu of Tay Son Kung Fu. So at ten, I was enrolled in my first martial art which was damn cool. Karate Kid had come out only a few years prior and I was devouring Bruce Lee, Sho Kosugi and Hong Kong TVB so I was loving the idea of kicking some serious ass. Classes were held in a YMCA on Sundays. Sifu had quite a large class of students, all age ranges with several non-Asian students. The room was one of those multipurpose rooms used for everything from dance to gymnastics. But we worked it out on bare floors. My memory is that classes were two hours long, which looking back at it - damn that's a long time. Warm ups, stretches, tumbling, punches, kicks, forms and sparring. And there was always some form of exhibition. For example, we would spend the last fifteen minutes of class watching a section of people perform their forms. The upper belts got to perform forms with weapons. Badass. Swords, staff, spears - those giant swords with rings on the back of them. I was in heaven. Except that it hurt a lot. No pads on the ground took its toll of a fat boy's body. No pads in sparring meant a lot of black and blue marks. Practicing  horse stances while flexing my outstretched forearms for ten minutes at a time was ridiculously painful. And I admit I could do the full splits and throw some beautiful kicks. But I never felt afterwards that I could defend myself any better than I did before I went to class. I went up two belts before quitting it altogether. I don't remember the exact reason but I suspect it had more to do with my mom having a falling out with sifu than any disatisfaction I might have had with my training. We were tight. We regularly attended dinner at his house and went as a team to a public beach that was infested with jellyfish (oh my god, that's a blog entry on its own). But I remember one dinner party when sifu asked me to come over so he could show me something. He asked me to roll up my sleeve and then he raised his hand above my hand and with a fast peck, he pierced me with the tips of his fingers, so hard that he pierced a hole in my skin. I told my mom and she said that wasn't right. I don't know if that's what did it, but that definitely ended my trust in him.

It was a couple of years later when my dad decided to enroll me in tae kwon do. It was very odd cause there was no real discussion about it. He had passed a new Jhoon Rhee Karate school in a strip mall and took me in. We sat down with the teacher, whom I'll call Mr. B. He was Peruvian which struck me as odd (yes, I, too was guilty of stereotyping). After hashing out the financials, I started the following week. I was surprised that there was more formality than my kung fu classes. We had to bow before getting on and off the mats. We had to always address the teacher as Mr. B or sir. You had to face the back if you needed to fix your gi. All classes started with reciting a pledge about honor and stuff. And we always counted in Korean. It was a lot to take in, especially as a middle schooler who was taking a liking to punk rock. But the instruction was top notch. I thought kung fu hurt. Mr. B had my body twisting joints and muscles I hadn't realized I even had. Jumping round kicks along the perimeter of the gym (thank god it wa a small gym), wheel barrel races, side kicks against a teammate leaning their entire body weight against your foot and knuckle push ups. Mr. B perfected my sidekick and to this day, it's instilled in me (the pivot, the full torquing of the hip, the striking with the heel). Somewhere around the first year, Mr. B said he was leaving to start a new school to teach traditional Chun Do Kwan, under the banner of his own teacher, Master Lee. With the move, he was inviting me to go with him. Why not? My dad liked him and so did I. We moved to a Sport and Health  a block away. While adults and seniors were lifting weights, me and a small group of new students were learning traditional forms. We sparred more (not that I got any better at fighting). But I broke my first boards. It was quite surprising when it first happened. He brought a stack in one day like it was nothing and I was terrified. Mr. B held one up and told me it was all about focus and determination - that if I wanted to break it, I was going to break it. When my fist went through it and I heard the crack of the wood, I felt like a freaking superhero. I had never scored a touchdown, never hit a home run. So this was my moment. My baby brother joined me as well. Mr. B noticed that my dad would just leave him with me when I was dropped off and while I was getting my instruction, my brother would be off to the side doing the same moves. So Mr. B just had him join in with no fee assessed. It was under Mr. B that I competed for the first time. I didn't spar but I competed in forms and was note perfect until the final move. It required a jump kick coming out of a forward roll. I couldn't find enough room so I kept adjusting and starting over. The judges scored me low and I ended up with an honorable mention ribbon which I quickly tossed in a dark corner of my house. One of the biggest lessons I learned from Mr. B had nothing to do with technique. We were sparring and I walked into one of his back kicks that took me off my feet. I got the wind knocked out of me and I let out a quite audible, "oh fuck." People in the gym must have stopped to look at this sight of a grown man over a fallen kid whom he had just kicked cause his face was bright red. But he wasn't embarrassed; he was furious. He got down real close to me and asked, What's the big idea? Are you injured? Did I break you? Do you want people to think I hurt you?" And then we went on to something else. Something changed that day. I had violated his trust. I had sold him out. I wasn't honest. And because I was a punk teenager, I couldn't own up to it. So soon after I quit. I had studied with him for two years, attained three belts and I walked away. A few years later, I was with my brother Cheistmas shopping in a mall and I saw him. Mr. B was walking alone and I had the impulse to go over to him and say something. But I froze. I was still so embarrassed - not only by what I did all those years ago but also for abandoning my teacher. I knew that his school was no longer at Sport and Health. It would be years later that I'd reconnect with him on Facebook. He now studies Muay Thai in Florida and still throws mean sidekicks.

When the wife and I first moved back to the DC area, we tried out a Kim's Karate for a month. One of the biggest scams ever. The teacher even studied under the same teacher as Mr. B but his instruction and rigor was far inferior. He allowed sloppy kicks and sad excuses for punches. The coaches he would set us up with were lazy and split-focused. They had black belts around their waist but the passion of assembly line workers. Dissatisfied, we left before we ever really started.

Which brings us to the present. It would be years later before I found Krav Maga and jiu jitsu and a coach and team that could change my life. For the first eight months or so, I had a whole slew of rotating instructors, each with their own styles and preferences. There were some that stressed perfect technique, some that stressed the fitness aspect of it and some who stressed aggressiveness. Following my level one classes, I would see the jiu jitsu students gear up and start their laps. On Saturdays, it preceded my class which allowed me to see them grapple. Intrigued, I decided to try out a nogi day. I remember nervously sitting in a ridiculously tight sausage casing known as a rash guard and talking myself into staying. I had spent my entire life learning how to strike, but the idea of fighting on one's back, smothered below a 200 pound ball of sweat... That seemed crazy. But if the majority of fights ended on the ground, I was shit out of luck. I'll be honest, that first lesson sucked. I was doing everything wrong and I was gassed out in the first ten minutes of warm-ups. The instructor was a big military guy with an officious tone and demeanor. I got the sense that if I wasn't picking it up, I had no chance of catching up. And I was definitely drowning. Why I decided to come back, I don't know. I'm not a glutton for punishment, but I suppose krav had instilled in me a shame of giving up. Like all newbies, I spazzed and smashed. I still got tapped pretty regularly but every so often I would be able to take side control and keep it by driving all my 195 pounds onto that person's chest. But I'd be spent and the second that I got swept, my ass would be handed to me. A couple months in, the instructor left and our highest rank student and krav instructor took over. I'll call him Coach. Full disclosure, I totally thought he was your average douche. When he taught krav, it seemed like he just thought the whole lot of us sucked (which might be true). There was one day when he asked all of us to ground and pound on kick shields. We all complied and after ten seconds or so of watching us, he told us to stop. "This isn't LA Boxing! When I say ground and pound, I want you to smash and drop hammer fists." He straddled the shield and proceeded to rain hell on it. Typical MMA douche, I thought. Then in my first week of gi class with him at the helm, I hurt someone. Again working the few things I knew, I smashed my training partner in side control and held her there, trying to work an arm triangle. After 30 seconds or so, I heard her cry for me to get off. I quickly obliged and found her in tears. "You were suffocating me." I asked why she didn't tap and she told me it wasn't a submission but that I was just smashing her. Now in retrospect, she should have just tapped, real submission or not. There's no crying in BJJ! But I felt terrible. So I found Coach on Facebook messenger and told him that I had hurt someone and asked advice on how to make it right. I admit I didn't expect him to reply. I just wanted to make sure that I told someone and didn't want to hide it. Imagine my surprise when I got a reply within the hour. Coach: "Take it easy on yourself. We have a lot of white belts and we all train at different levels. We spar every class and it's a combat sport. We will all get hurt at some point." And with that, he won my trust and whole-hearted commitment to the discipline. Coach got what I was going through, addressed it and provided support and encouragement. As I continued in my journey, I took note of how he never gave up - on me or any of my peers who sucked. "We have all been there," he'd say time and time again. Because of this (and his relentless, un-PC, bro humor), the team grew significantly in size. When I first started BJJ, a large turnout would be maybe a dozen people. Nowadays, we are regularly double that. And every student gets the same support and attention. No matter what we were fucking up, he'd stay with us and patiently give notes to improve our game. And over time, it did. I lost twice in my first tournament with him coaching me in the corner. Both times I stepped off the mats, he made me feel like an action hero. In class, he'd make sure to check in with me and address my game - always direct, always honest and always supportive. Never dismissive, Coach would say things like, "we'll get there." And I felt that in spades when he rewarded me with a blue belt last summer. He had set that goal for me but I was still surprised that it had happened. I still suck big time but looking back, all I see is growth. Where I once gave up, I persevere. Where I once gassed out, I have stamina. Where I once tapped, I now survive. I'm down 25 pounds from when I started Krav Maga and can regularly choke people out. And as I continue on this journey of growth and self-realization, I have no doubt who will be in my corner. 

And that's ultimately it - if your life is not changing, if you're the same person you were before you underwent training, then why bother. The road is not at all easy, regardless of discipline. You will get hurt, you will get frustrated, you will lose more than you win. But that journey is made better when you have someone you trust at the wheel (and infinitely more enjoyable when he tells stripper jokes and blasts '90's hip hop along the way).

Oss to all my former and present teachers, my Coach and my teammates.

Across that bloody river...

A friend once told me that as a teacher, you make thousands of decisions in one day. And not all of them can be right. This comforts me a great deal, but there are some mistakes that I have forever regretted -- fearing that somehow I negatively impacted a child's ambition, perception or trajectory.
In my first year as a teaching artist, in a Brooklyn intermediate school, I met a young man named Freddie. When he introduced himself to me, he declared that he would be "the first black President of the United States." I remember internally scoffing at him. Freddie was obviously delusional, I thought. Did he not understand that America had long ago figured out a fool-proof system to keep non-whites out of the kingdom? Study and work as hard as you want, but America is not an equal opportunity employer. Mind you, I was 22 at the time, fresh out of college, fueled by punk rock, Spike Lee films and black literature from the likes of Richard Wright and The Autobiography of Malcolm X. So the notion that the entire game was fixed, that the American Dream was a bait and switch sales pitch, that whatever progress made by minorities was really just a calculated risk on white America's part -- all of that was ingrained in me. So much so that when I left Brooklyn, I penned a letter to one of my students, Melissa, encouraging her to fight the man because he was counting on her to fail, that she needed to do all she could to avoid the booby-traps laid out for her and millions like her. So imagine the size of the foot I shoved in my mouth when Barack Obama happened. I was the first in my neighborhood to slap that Obama 08 sticker on my car. When friends and family laughed at me for supporting a lost cause, I dug my heels in and donated another $10 to the campaign. Because I was wrong. Because Freddie was right. Because this was the turning point in American history. This was when our country would make good on its sales pitch -- that it was, indeed, the land of opportunity -- that if you worked hard enough, you could achieve greatness.

But with the recent trials and tribulations of Black America, I am spending a lot of time meditating on Freddie and Melissa. Even this cynic could not foresee the amount of violence inflicted on black citizens in such a short span of time in 2015.  A young man shot dead because he looked suspicious in a hoodie, an unarmed teenager shot dead in broad daylight and church-goers gunned down in prayer.  This isn't a problem with guns (I do think we have a gun problem, but if America wasn't fixing it after two dozen white kids are shot in Sandy Hook, what makes you think they'll do something because nine black people were shot in a historically black church), it's not about mental health (which seems like the new excuse for all horrific events; guys, the dude was insane - 'nuff said), but it is a great deal about race and that's incredibly depressing. How has so much changed and nothing's changed? Now, to be clear, I had no illusions that by electing our first Black president that we were somehow in post-racial America. That whole idea in itself is racist - albeit in a somewhat apologetic way; we got your man in the top post, so let's move on and forget the fact that we have fucked you for hundreds of years. Nope, people seemed to be content with kumbaya in Millennium Park. Checked that box so we're good now, right? Equality in education? Nah. Equality in income? Nah. Voter rights? Shut up, already -- you have a Black president!

Freddie and Melissa, I want to be wrong, but I don't know anymore. In the years since I scoffed at you and wrote you that letter, I have found hope in change. That regardless of faith, creed and color, all things would evolve. That people die and with them, antiquated, small-minded thinking. That the America my kids were born into would be a little better than the one I grew up in. But it's become clear that not everyone lives in the same America.

Jon Stewart sums up my frustrations pretty accurately:

“I honestly have nothing other than sadness that once again we have to peer into the abyss of the depraved violence that we do to each other and the nexus of a just gaping racial wound that will not heal yet we pretend doesn’t exist. I’m confident though that by acknowledging it—by staring into it—we still won’t do jack shit.”

You Can't Teach Heart

When my wife volunteer coached a girls' soccer team at her elementary school, I tagged along to one of the games. Her little girls sucked. They couldn't dribble and didn't pass to one another. The opposing team quickly stacked up some points. At half-time, the principal called them to the bench and said to them, "Don't worry, girls. It's not about winning or losing. It's about having fun."

I remember thinking, "well, actually no - the point is to win. The point of competing is to win. Otherwise, why do it?"

And there's the rub. I am guilty of doing something with no point to it.

Don't get me wrong. I love jiu jitsu and there's certainly a point to it that has nothing to do with winning or losing. I do it for a myriad of reasons. Physically, I'm stronger than I have been my entire life. I move more efficiently and my cardiovascular system shows no proof of the eight-year nicotine habit that ruled my teens and 20s. From a self-defense angle, partnered with my foundation in krav maga, jiu jitsu has empowered me to walk down a street and not fear for my life. I know that if someone were to attack me, I could defend myself -- at least long enough until the cops come.

But I just competed in my second jiu jitsu tournament and was defeated twice (like the first time, but this time, both were via submission). These latest defeats hurt a lot more than the first time around because at no point in my training and preparation for Copa Nova did I anticipate winning. Even when I stepped on the mats and looked at my opponent, I had no intention of winning. And thus, I had been defeated long before either of my opponents submitted me that day. For weeks leading up to the fight, I attended every class I could. I drilled diligently and reviewed video footage of each night's exercise repeatedly before dozing off to bed. I ate right and cut weight safely and effectively. I practiced all of the tools I had in my wheelhouse:  open guard, arm bars, takedowns and collar chokes. And in my heart, I remained open to whatever outcome awaited me and would use the matches to point out areas I needed to improve upon. Competition is the best way to improve your game, I thought. But I was lying to myself. I wasn't open to whatever outcome. I had closed the door to winning. I welcomed victory, but I made a bed for defeat. All of this training I put in so that I could accept losing. "Win or learn," I kept telling myself. And because of this mindset, I never pushed myself harder than I had to. I grew comfortable responding to my opponent rather than imposing my own game. I grew comfortable on the bottom, slipping someone in my half-guard and stalling until the clock ran out. I grew comfortable on my ass, challenging them with my open guard. And because of this comfort, I left the door wide open for more aggressive challengers with better skill, with more agility, with more heart to dominate. Sure, Bruce Lee advised us to never anticipate the outcome of a fight, to stay in the moment, but that didn't mean he wasn't determined to kick the shit out his opponent.

This heart can't be taught, as the saying goes. It's not the responsiblity of my coach. I thank my lucky stars everyday that I fell into a group in which the culture is not built around championship medals and gearing up for world competition all the time. No one is yelling at me and no one is shaming me for sucking. I got off the mats and he assured me he was proud of me for showing up. And there was a lot to be proud of. Unlike my first performance at Copa Nova, I actually applied my game (fleeting moments, but present, nonetheless). I managed a few escapes and was able to play open-guard. I dropped nearly 20 pounds since my last competition, sliding into a new weight class. I felt lighter and healthier. But if there's something I learned after this weekend's losses, it's that heart that is the big game-changer. It will maximize every drill, every new technique, every in-class roll. I might not aspire to be a champion, but I don't have any business competing if I don't aim to win. And I can't get to that place where I think I can win until I up my game. And that means putting in the work. Drill like I mean to use it. Roll like the stakes are sky-high. Escape like my life depends on it. Aim for top position. Seek and submit. Never stay comfortable. 

Ronda Rousey talks about everything from the perspective of a winner. It's a foregone conclusion for her before the fans even say it. She doesn't entertain defeat. She thinks in terms of "when I beat her..." And when asked, "why," she doesn't point at the flaws of her opponent, but instead, she reminds people that she prepared to win, that she trains harder than her opponents do. And she says this with all the confidence in the world.

It's quite possible that I just suck at jiu jitsu. Or that my opponents had superior skill. But I know for a fact that I did not work as hard as they did and I did not believe in myself the way they did. And until I strengthen my heart, until I know I've put in the effort and roll with conviction, until I can say outloud, "I'm going to win this," I'm not stepping foot on that competition mat. 

Life in Exile - 40 years after the fall of Saigon

Over the last ten years, as my dad got progressively sicker, I wondered when he came to terms with the fact that he would die in America. Up until the age of 10, I had always heard him speak of Vietnam as a place he would return to one day. It was with all certainty that this life in exile was only temporary.

He and his friends, political expats and journalists, would stay up to wee hours of the morning talking about returning home as liberators. No way would they ever go back with it still under Communist rule. On top of humiliation, they did not wish to risk imprisonment. My mom came close once when her mother, whom she had not seen since she left Vietnam, was dying. She booked a flight and made all the preparations only to have her pass away the week before. The trip was canceled. In junior high, I remember wearing a "Democracy for Vietnam" shirt, likely inspired by China's Tianenmen Square movement. But at some point, after his first set of strokes, my mom and dad bought neighboring plots at the nearby cemetery. At some point, those conversations of returning home must have ended. He had watched President Clinton re establish diplomatic and trade relations with Vietnam and I remember him saying that it was a short term win for the people of Vietnam but a long term win for the Communist government. Why fight for freedom when capitalism has come to town?

While I grew up surrounded by these conversations, this fight could not have been more foreign to me. Their story of how they lost the country and made their way to the States usually starts and ends with their successful push past the embassy gates (captured in a famous photograph and film that eventually made the cover of Newsweek). They had arrived and were pressed up against them by the hordes of panic-stricken Vietnamese, trying to get out using every connection they could. And thanks to the generosity and love of embassy staff and Marines, many had gained access within the walls and some had already been airlifted out. But my parents were late to the party. They had waited for a phone call from an official that never came so on their own, they headed to the embassy with my dad's mom and his younger sister. My dad's childhood best friend and his wife rounded out the group. No one at that point was gaining access to the embassy. But by chance (Viet Catholics attribute many things to fortune and divine intervention), a South Vietnamese General and CIA liaison arrived and was escorted through. At this point, the hordes surged forward and suddenly my dad, aunt, mom and grandma were inside the embassy gates. When they looked back, they saw that my dad's best friend and wife were on the wrong side (later imprisoned in "re-education camps" for years before finally emigrating to Canada). Here's where they usually end it. "We were lucky to get through those gates," they'd say. But it was at this point that my dad was approached by a soldier with a bullhorn who inquired if he spoke English. He said, "yes," and was thrust the bullhorn, asked to translate instructions and gather a group of sixty. My dad did as he was told, craftily counting his own entourage as the first people in the group. As he approached sixty, he handed the bullhorn back to the soldier and joined the group. They were led to a bus, which then took a most circuitous route through Saigon to the harbor where they disembarked. There they waited for what seemed like an eternity, certain that they had been abandoned to die by the hands of the incoming Viet Cong. But then at night fall, a barge approached them and instructed them to board. That group of sixty was joined by hundreds more. And on that barge they floated down the river and into the Pacific for days. No food. No water. No certainties. It was on the fourth day that an American ship pulled up alongside them and hoisted the refugees aboard. They were fed and sprayed down and cleaned. They were taken to Guam and then shortly after to a church-sponsored refugee camp in Arkansas where they stayed for a week. Then they relocated to Virginia where my aunt and her GI husband resided. The rest is history, as they say.

What is left out of this story is that thousands of Vietnamese gained refuge that day. There were really no solid evacuation plans, especially ones that involved the rescuing of thousands of South Vietnamese. And yet, somehow they made their way into the U.S. Embassy without any formal communication, gained access, boarded helicopters meant for embassy personnel and the ambassador and taken to safe havens in places like the Philippines and Guam before restarting in America. They were amongst angels that day -- military and diplomats -- who risked their lives, going against protocol to grant as many Vietnamese asylum as possible. The soldiers at the gate that turned the other way or waved people through without necessary paperwork. The Navy personnel on the war ships that allowed South Vietnamese Huey helicopters to land and unload hundreds of frightened refugees (giving them blankets and clothes as they huddled aboard). The special ops and Marines who guided caravans down rivers, skies and streets to get people to safety. The Marines who stayed behind atop the embassy, awaiting that last helicopter, hearts heavy that they could not take the remaining 400 Vietnamese inside the embassy.

The choices they made in these last hours. The fear they must have had throughout this ordeal. The courage they had to risk their lives with no certain outcomes. When they were waiting for this barge for hours, only to get on and float for days in the Pacific - What did they do to steel themselves, to remain sane in the face of insanity? Did they ever doubt themselves and want to run home? What conversations did they have to comfort one another when they gathered in foreign places like Guam and Arkansas?

Forty years after the fall of Saigon, I realize how much of my very American life came at the sacrifice of my parents' Vietnamese life. He maintained that we were Vietnamese. Us children were to speak Vietnamese in the house, use chopsticks, eat rice every night, take our shoes off and never be lazy like the Americans around us. And of course, all us children wanted to do was be more American. I wanted to change my name to something like Rick or Peter, become a cop and eat meatloaf. I had no Vietnamese accent, having been born in D.C. I never learned how to read Vietnamese, much to my parents' chagrin. I listened to Nirvana and Bob Dylan, majored in film instead of medicine or law and lived far from home in cities like Boston and Philadelphia. My wife is a girl from the mountains of Pennsylvania, of German and French-Canadian descent, and we eloped to Vegas, royally pissing off my traditionalist dad who threw a reception anyways because he was not to be cheated out of an opportunity to be celebrated. I work in one of the most important classical theatres in the country, in our nation's capital -- instead of practicing accounting or something more respectable. Imagine the disappointment. I can't fathom what it is like to live your life, dreaming a future the way young, passionate people do, training and going to school, investing --- only to have that entire future vanish overnight. One year, you're getting married and you're the talk of the town - driving a company car and having lavish Mad Men-like nights on the town. The next, you're scrambling through the crowded streets of Saigon with no plan but to survive - ending up in America, something that they never aspired to.

And here my dad died, after living in exile for 39 years. I hope that when he accepted the fact that he was going to spend the rest of his life here, never being able to revisit his homeland, that he embraced  America for all that it had given us. But I also hope that he took pride in his and my mom's sacrifice. I hope that he acknowledged the immense courage it took to start anew in a strange land with customs and traditions so foreign to him. I hope he understands how proud and humbled I am by the fact that this philosophy major, a revered student leader in Vietnam with a bright future in government ahead, pumped gas while my mom made sandwiches to raise their newborn boy. I hope he realized how amazing it was that he eventually re-established himself as a Vietnamese journalist in the nation's capital, broadcasting un-censored news back to his homeland. I hope that he came to celebrate that his very American children with their poor Vietnamese, their love of bacon cheeseburgers, their bohemian careers, their WASP significant others and adorable American-named grandchildren were his greatest legacy. And I hope that tonight, he knows that his son is thinking of him and how much he appreciates him for the fortunate life he now leads.

Rolling with the Homies

Well before I had kids, I made peace with the fact that I didn't need anymore friends. Now before my friends start blowing up my inbox and hating on me, let me clarify. All throughout my adolescence, I struggled with serious insecurities. Every day of my life, I was reminded of how I different I was. I was not white in a school full of affluent white kids. I was too smart to be a badass and too stupid to be a nerd. I had no athletic abilities and I was too short and fat to be considered attractive to any of the girls I was attracted to. To my parents, I didn't garner enough high marks, awards or honors that their friends' kids. To my dad, I wasn't man enough - too soft spoken, too cowardly. I did drama for Christ's sake. Given all this, having friends meant the world to me. It provided me with a sense of worth and validation that I wasn't getting from life. In high school, I found theatre which not only championed my talent and potential but gave me a bevy of friends. But then life happens. You make that long, arduous transition from an invulnerable 18 year old to a real grown up with responsibilities and consequences. Friendships have come and gone and they're no longer the center of your world the way they once were. Your spouse and kids take that place and the gravity of being responsible to and for them is now your mission and calling. And where you once lamented this fact, you now accept it (if you even acknowledge it at all).

My wife used to say to me, "I wish you had some guy friends." That hole that I once filled with friends - that aching sense of loneliness and desire for acceptance was now satisfied by the immense responsibility to my family. And oddly enough I'm incredibly content with that. Their love is more than enough and I am often surprised how much they love me.

Don't get me wrong. I still keep in touch with some old friends from high school and college. But they're not the same friendships we once enjoyed. None of them are knocking on my window at night to sneak in a case of beer anymore. And I have some great friends I've made through work. But they're also not the same as friends whom you trust with secrets, fears and dreams. Doing so makes for very awkward balancing acts of work/life. Not everyone is mature enough to navigate it. And inevitably, when one of your friends leaves your place of work, that friendship will change drastically, if not disappearing altogether.

So this is where I find myself when I got involved with jiu jitsu. You read any blog about the benefits of jiu jitsu and amongst the health and fitness points, you'll always see mention of the newfound community of lifelong friends. Let me tell you something - that almost unsold me on the sport. I didn't want any part of it. I have come to value and protect the privacy I have for me and my family and the idea that I would be paying for martial arts lessons with a special add-on benefit of friends that I'd be obliged to care about seemed disingenuous and annoying. But seeing as I was an adult, I decided that you don't have to make friends if you didn't want to. No-brainer, right?

There's that saying amongst BJJ practitioners that if you don't roll, you don't know. Something about the journey connects everyone in a way that other arts don't. In my line of work, and I assume in many lines of work, there's a tendency to wave your achievements like a flag and remind newcomers of how much you know and how much you've done in your life. Pick up any program from a community theatre and read the actor bios. You would think that community theatres secretly host the world's most revered thespians. Jiu jitsu works differently. Because everyone has started from zero and remembers how steep that climb is in that first year of training, higher ranks have a tendency to reach out to newbies. There's a sense of recognition - a "been there and you can do this" type of connection. It doesn't always manifest itself as friendliness, though. It can be somewhat standoff-ish. Not because they think they're better than you (because they don't think that, they KNOW that). It's because they know that out of the few that start the journey, few have the stamina to continue it past blue belt. Some won't make it past a month. Why? Cause you suck. We all do. Like infants learning to crawl and then eventually walk. We all start from zero. And for some, that's just too frustrating a defeat to swallow. They've done their schooling and earned good grades and bought that car, that home, nailed that post or whatever. Why the hell should I subject myself to this and start from the bottom? And that's just it - those that drink the Kool-Aid, those that undergo the journey, they tear their ego down to the ground. When we hit the mats and put on the gi, you are not putting on a costume. You are actually taking it off. In a gi, you have stripped away all of the title, pretense and decoration that you don to make it outside in society. On the mats, however, none of that helps you. You cannot fake it. You cannot bullshit your skill level, your technique, your ability. And when you roll with the same group of people over the course of a month, a year, you know them in a way that is unlike other friendships you've had. If you asked me two years ago if I'd ever be friends with a Republican, a pro-gun, cop or a soldier, I'd laugh at you. But here I am. I have a Coach that gives so much of himself to his students, imparting knowledge and guidance that is transferable outside of jiu jitsu. His generosity of spirit and belief in his students' potential is inspiring. And my teammates - they take and dispense support and feedback without guile or judgement, without ambition or motive. It's like we are all scaling a wall that we'd never thought we could get over before - but because Coach told us we could and because everyone else will help us get there, we are doing it and with gusto.

No one joins jiu jitsu for the friends, but on any given night, once I get my daughter to bed and know that I've done my duty as a husband and dad, there's no other group of people I want to hang with than the crew I roll with.