A Typical Tuesday

A typical Tuesday for me starts off with my alarm going off at 4:30 in the morning. This initially felt like a terrible time to get up, but by now I’ve been doing it for so long that I’m used to it. I get up, get ready for work, spend a little time with the dogs, and am out the door by 5:30 to get to work. It’s around now that I relish the fact that I got up early; Seattle traffic is often terrible, and my commute can easily be over an hour if I leave too late in the morning. As it is, I’m typically at the office by around 6:30am.

Somewhere around 3:30 or 4:00pm, I shut down the computer for the day and leave the office and head straight to the dojo. The first class of the evening is a kids class run by one of my soon-to-be-first-kyu students, so I typically spend that hour talking with parents, doing paperwork, or helping him out with explaining a technique or an idea. This student in particular has really come into his own over the last several months, due in part to his responsibilities as an assistant instructor. Because he is a recent high school graduate, it would be understandable if teaching a mat full of kids was low on his “to do” list, but this is not the case. He genuinely enjoys leading the class, and the kids look up to him and respect him tremendously.  During this class, my daughter is usually on the mat training, and my wife is at the dojo correctly my previously-mentioned attempts to do paperwork. So we get to spend a little time together as a family.

After kids class, I either start warm-ups myself or have a senior student do it if my family needs me for an extra few minutes before they go home. Then we start in on techniques. On Tuesdays the mat is often very crowded–especially the first adult class–so I often spend a lot of time moving from person to person, observing their techniques, and offering advice when I think it might help. (I don’t know about others who teach, but sometimes I think advice is the last thing a student needs; instead, they need to just keep practicing the technique without interruption. But this is another topic.) Usually I end class a few minutes before the bottom of the hour to ensure enough time for folks who are sticking around for the next class to get some water or whatever.

The next class begins at 7:30, and is often a bit smaller than the first. This often works out well–we get to really dive into some of the details of whatever we were working on the first hour. I often joke that if you want to train with a really diverse group of students, you should train at 6:30pm; if you want a real workout, stick around for the 7:30 class.  I try to keep a theme going through both classes–either a technique, or a ki exercise, or a particular strategy.

At the end of the night we have a 30 minute advance class that is strictly for 4th kyu and higher. Anyone is welcome to stay and watch, but this class is where we get really vigorous, so I’m strict about who steps on the mat because their ukemi skills have to be really good. We used to debate about having a longer advance class; however, by the end of the class (since most of the folks who stick around have been at the dojo since 6:30), everyone is completely wiped out. But the advance class is great–it really gives some of the senior folks a chance to move. I also get the opportunity to mix it up with them quite often, which is great for me!

By 9:30, the classes are done and everyone has changed and has gone home. I spend a few minutes in quiet meditation, then shut up the dojo for the night. I get to spend a little time once I’m home with my wife, and then try to be asleep by 10:30. Because tomorrow is another day!

Money

There are two myths related to martial arts and money:

• It is a good idea to make a living teaching a martial art
• A dojo is above worldly concerns like money

Let’s dispel these myths as best we can.

It’s NOT a good idea to make a living teaching a martial art

We all have driven by myriad of retail stores that sell martial arts classes. Usually parked out front is some fancy car that is owned by the instructor, creating the impression that the instructor is raking in the money. And, in many cases, that may be true. But that does not make it a good idea to make a living teaching a martial art. Doing so is a very slippery slope. There are simply too many situations in which monetary matters can interfere with the quality and integrity of the art itself. For example, consider this: it’s the first of the month and rent is due. For whatever reason, you’re short on revenue. What do you do? Too often, a common solution is to promote some of your existing students, which results in increased revenue by way of test fees. As anyone can see, this has a detrimental affect, because you are promoting students not because they have earned the rank, but because you need money. This dilutes the meaning of the rank and reduces the overall quality of the dojo.

A second solution is to host a seminar, and gain additional revenue through seminar fees. The advantage of this solution is that you aren’t promoting anyone; you’re simply encouraging further training. The downside of this is that students only have so much disposable income. If you keep offering seminars over and over again, the odds are that you will have fewer and fewer attendees. Most students know that, when their instructor is teaching a seminar, there is a certain obligation to attend. When they can no longer meet that obligation, or when students feel that their loyalty is getting abused, then that generates a negative feeling, which also reduces the overall quality of the dojo.

A third option is that you could raise the dues, but that’s difficult to do on the fly and seriously risks alienating your students. Consider that you have 20 students, each paying $100 a month to train. You need more money, so you decide to raise dues by $10 to $110. In theory, that should move your revenue from $2000 to $2200. However, what is more likely to happen is that a couple of students, who may have already been on the edge of their comfort zone with dues payments, quit. Now, instead of having 20 students paying $100, you have 18 students paying $110.  The net result? Instead of $2000 a month, you are now receiving $1980. You have actually lost $20 a month.

This is not to say that testing is bad, or that seminars are bad, or that raising dues is bad. What I am saying is that doing these things simply to shore up a shaky financial situation is not a long-term solution, and in fact can have some serious consequences down the road.

A dojo needs money

Another common myth regarding a dojo is that, because it is a martial art and, hopefully, works at some sort of assumed higher moral level, the dojo itself is above concerns such as money. Instructors who make this mistake regularly find themselves without a dojo before too long. A dojo has expenses, and these expenses go beyond simply paying rent. I think of it as buying a house or a car. When I first bought a car, I thought the only payments I would have to make would be my loan payment and gas. Of course I was wrong in this assumption. There were windshield wipers to replace, headlights to buy, oil changes–not to mention repairs when something broke. The same is true with a dojo; beyond simply rent and utilities, there are always unexpected expenses or things that need to get purchased. One piece advice that I received when I first started my dojo was: “Be sure that you are compensated.” I’ve interpreted this advice to mean: “Be sure the dojo is fiscally viable.” If you shoot for break-even with a dojo, or “free,” then you are always putting yourself in the position of personally making up any shortfalls in the budget. Note here that I am referring to the dojo, not to the instructor or owner, as I was earlier. The differences in needs between a dojo and the corresponding instructor are vast.

There are students, also, who seem to think that, because a dojo focuses on big, philosophical, zen-like ideas, they might be able to train on a scholarship or free basis. I, personally, have rarely seen such situations work in a modern dojo. Even in dojos in which an uchi-deshi (live-in student) program is supportable, those deshis are still responsible for paying rent and other expenses. In the past, I have seen many students attempt to trade in work for training, but this never seems viable either. The failure of this situation is not necessarily because the student has any ill-intent; what typically happens is that the student in question is already working long hours just to make ends meet. As a result, they have a choice: either do the work they need to do in order to train, in which case they very likely don’t have time to actually train themselves, or train, but fall short on their assigned chores that are mitigating their dues commitment. To be blunt, we live in America, and we put a high value on things that cost money. I rarely meet people for whom this isn’t true. As a result, when someone gets something, like training, without paying money for it, it is very likely that the student will discount the value of the training, or take advantage of the offer. This is why most dojos try not to offer any sort of scholarship program–it avoids the whole mess to begin with.

(I’d like to pause here and say there is one great exception to this no-scholarship rule: existing students. At our dojo, I am happy to help students who have been training and then have hit upon a financially difficult time. These are people who have already become a part of our community, and I feel that, as a community, it is our responsibility to help each other out when there is a need.)

With all this said, it can be hard as an instructor, or as a dojo, to have to hold firm to the financial rules of the dojo. This is why many instructors wisely step aside from running the business-side of the school and let someone else handle it. I, personally, never want to see someone walk away because they can’t afford our membership dues; it is one of the reasons why I try to keep our dues as reasonable as possible. But when someone does require aid, I put their need against the need of the dojo as a whole, and it doesn’t take long for me to realize that if I let everyone train for free, then suddenly no one would be able to train at all.

Fiscal Viability

The advice I received long ago is probably one of the best guidelines for students and instructors alike. A dojo must be fiscally viable if it is going to survive. From the instructor’s standpoint, I interpret this to mean that the dojo must be profitable if it is to grow, and that I should ensure that my own needs (and the needs of my family) are supported by something else, such as my day job, to ensure that the dojo is only burdened with supporting itself. As a student, it means that I need to understand that the dojo has financial needs, and that my contribution helps ensure that those needs are met with the least amount of discomfort for the community as a whole. If both instructors and students approach the financial needs of a dojo correctly, then the result is a thriving community in which everyone can focus on training–which is what we should be doing anyway.

Sensei Toe

A while back, I was working with some of the senior students on multiple person freestyle. Even though we have a pretty large training area, we were working only on two attackers against one, just so we could have some room to move. It was the end of the night, and we were all getting a little tired. I was demonstrating the importance of turning, when one of my ukes lost their balance more than they thought and landed.

On my toe.

I knew from the impact that this was not something I was going to shrug off. Looking down, my eyes confirmed what my nerves had already told me: my toenail had been split, and it was starting to bleed. A lot. So, with as much dignity as I could muster, I hobbled off the mat and taped up my foot. Overall, the injury was minor, if a bit messy. And I knew I was going to need it bandaged up for a while.

Cut to kids class two days later. As I’m leading class, one of my younger students raised her hand. “What happened to your toe?” she asked. “I was training, and someone fell on it by accident,” I replied. “Oh,” she answered, and back we went to working on katate-tori kokyunage.

Not ten minutes later, the same student lets out a yelp. She had asked for permission to get a drink of water and, on the way back, had stubbed her toe. It was just a little bruised, but a bandaid was called for to soothe her feelings. (As many parents already know, bandaids can do wonders even if there isn’t a physical need for one.) Leaving my class under the watchful eye of one of my senior students, I bandaged her up and got her back on the mat, commenting: “Looks like you injured the same toe that I did!” to make her feel better.

She got into a group of students practicing without a problem. As I was watching, one of them asked: “What happened to your toe?”

My student got a huge grin on her face, stuck out her foot, and said proudly: “This… THIS is my SENSEI toe.”

The other instructors and I just about died laughing.

Update: Just so you know, from that day on, any time someone injuries their foot, it’s referred to as “sensei toe.”

On Reading Forums

Here’s an experiment: visit a selection of web sites dedicated to discussion a particular martial art—any martial art. Once there, check out the forums to see what visitors are talking about. Odds are, within a few seconds, you will see discussions on topics such as:

<Martial Art> versus…

Or

<Martial Art> in a real fight…

And, as you might expect, if you actually bothered to read these topics, you would find pages upon pages of posts saying how martial art X does or does not work against another martial art or in a real-world scenario. Often, these discussions degenerate quickly into personal attacks, or endless rehashes of previously-made points. If you’re lucky, very lucky, you might get a good war story every now and again. But mostly, these conversations have very little merit in and of themselves. However, what drives these posts to come into existence in the first place does have some merit, as it can force you to define for yourself what types of physical conflicts exist, and what your stance is on those conflicts.

Physical conflicts essentially fall into one of two categories: competitions and fights for survival. In the competition category, we have a seemingly limitless number of variations: from two people testing each other out at a YMCA, to Olympic competitions, to the ever popular UFC-style fights. These competitions often do show the physical prowess of the individuals involved. They can be a good representation of how hard they have trained and how much they have studied. And I think it is a disservice not to respect those individuals who do participate and excel at these competitions—just as we would respect those who participate in other sports, such as baseball or basketball. The fact that it is a competition, and as a result has rules that govern what is acceptable and what is not, does not diminish the accomplishments of the participants. Yet, we must also remember that it these are, in fact, competitions. They do have rules, they do have guidelines, they do have limitations. As a result, we should try to remember that what we see when we watch these events (or, for that matter, when we participate in them,) that we are only seeing one facet of a particular martial art or a specific martial artist. We are not seeing, nor can we expect to see, the full story.

In the other category we have fights for survival. These are situations that are not televised (at least not often). These are the situations in which your life, or the life of someone you care about, is in mortal danger, and you have no other recourse other than to physically defend yourself. There are no trophies for surviving these encounters, no bragging rights, only the grateful realization that you have survived. Rare is the person who seeks these situations out—and for good reason. A real fight does not have rules, nor judges, nor points. There is no one who will critique you afterwards, saying: “You did well, but your finishing pin lacked proper zanshin.” You do what you need to do in order to get out of the situation as safely as possible.

If these are the only real categories of physical confrontation, then it renders these constantly-recurring threads discussing this art versus another, or how this art would not work in a fight, absolutely useless. This art is better than another? In what context? In a ring? In a competition? If so, it is very true that there are some arts that are better suited to these environments than others. Judo, Tae Kwon Do, to pick two easily-recognizable examples, are well-suited to the ring, whereas other arts, such as Aikido, are not. This art does not work in a fight? In what kind of fight? A fight out on the street? That situation calls to mind a Karate instructor that I knew when I was growing up. He taught both Karate and Tae Kwon Do, and, when giving a student his or her first test, would ask the question: “If a Karate student and a Tae Kwon Do student got into a fight, who would win?” The answer: the better martial artist. Out on the street, you are not going to have clean technique; you are going to do whatever it takes to survive the encounter. If that means running away, then do it. If that means using a stepladder Jackie Chan-style, then, well, good luck. The point is, as many before me have pointed out, real fights are not won by martial arts, they are won by martial artists.

And, in the end, I think that is what these posts are getting at. The question that is really being asked is: “Does this martial art train you to be a good martial artist?” Does it provide you with the physical ability, the repertoire of technique, and the mental discipline to serve you when you need it most? The answer is, in fact, highly dependent on the individual. If the movements make sense to you, if you can prove on the mat that the techniques work to your ever-increasing critical satisfaction, and if the fundamental strategies of the art are sound, then you have found your answer, whatever art you might be studying.