Coaches: 13 Ways to Get (and Keep) More Women in Your BJJ Classes

 Most of the time I am the only woman at my gym. Every now and then, a pair of women will come in, stay for a bit, move on. Sometimes a singleton will brave a class or two. Most do not stay. Let’s face it, most guys do not stay, either, am I right? You have to be a special kind of person to enjoy being smushed repeatedly, miserably punished, striving bleakly to overcome the gargantuan dude crushing your thorax.

     But, some guys do stay. Almost all girls leave. Perhaps it is their acculturation--it’s not

nice to beat people up. I know I had to “unlearn” that. But if jiu jitsu is about the smaller person overcoming the bigger and stronger person, who needs it more than the ovaried sex? So, coaches, what can we do to keep the ladies? 

Fucking Up the Blow Out

On a normal day, I'm not much to look at.

My eyes are too small, my nose is too prominent, my face too splotchy. 

Some days I make it to cute. The head-turning--that's for my sister. She can stop a fire truck with her good looks, even after age 50.

But there is one time, and one time only, that I turn heads. That is when I've just had a blow out. 

Ladies, you know what I'm talking about. But you dudes might be scratching your MMA-shaved heads right now. 

A blow out is when a stylist blows your hair dry. 

Usually Shark Girl ain't got time to worry about hair. I let it air dry. It frizzes and follows strange and circuitous cowlicks. But when I go to the hair salon and my stylist gives me a blow out, watch out, world. 

After my stylist has blown my hair into gloriously smooth silkiness, a transformation happens. Gentlemen vigorously wave to me from the next car over while we are waiting at lights. Old men hit on me in liquor store parking lots. Middle-aged men with dad bods approach me in therapist waiting rooms, right in front of my teenaged son. 

Yesterday, after my blow out, a handsome, much younger man eating Chipotle looked up at me from his cafe seat. His eyes followed me all the way to my car. And you know what? I knew they would. It was so predictable. It's the magic of the blow out. Shark Girl ain't much to look at, but give her a professional blow dry and watch out. It's like that old Salon Selectives commercial from the '90s. If you're too young to remember, here it is for educational purposes. Brace yourself. Commercials haven't been made like this since #metoo.

I'm telling you a lot about my hair and you may be wondering why. Here it is: A good blow out can last three or four days. I can't replicate it at home. I don't have the tools, the talent, or the time. So I schedule hair appointments for when I won't have wash my hair for a while, to maximize blow out longevity. That means I schedule them as far away from jiu jitsu as possible. 

I'm not alone in this, right? 

This week, the only available appointment was the day before I was doing jiu jitsu with my quarantine buddy. Oh no! I had a choice to make: Roll and wash my hair, or don't roll and keep my sexy blow out. 

I'm guessing you know which one I chose. I chose to fuck up my blow out.

After my roll with my quarantine buddy, my ponytail was a mess. Just to be clear, if you google "messy ponytail," you will get images of ponytails that are not messy, and have been teased and over-producted to look like Chrissy Teigen just had sex and then put her hair up. (See below) 

Not messy

This is not the kind of messy ponytail I am talking about. 

In fact my google searching could not find a picture worthy of my frizzy, disaster of a post-grappling scare-do Perhaps that is better for you all; no one needs to see that. The closest I came was when I looked for "hair" and "van de graaff generator."

As I left the gym, ready to wash the sweat and filth out of my hair and to destroy my sexy blow out forever, my quarantine training partner turned to me. 

"I like this hairstyle better," he said. 

That's why we're friends. 

So, ave atque vale, blow out. Until next haircut.

Jiu Jitsu in the Time of Coronavirus

"We won't shake hands anymore," my coach instructed. "And we won't tap hands before rolling."
     "But then we're going to roll, right?" someone asked.
     "Yes."

This exchange happened after reminders to wash our gis after every class. This is jiu jitsu in the time of coronavirus.

But they look so cute! Like Frankenberries!

I was not sure whether to go to class on Thursday night. All around me are recommendations of social distancing. Jiu jitsu is the opposite of that. You get in close, you hug your partner, your gi soaks up the sweat beading off your partner's forehead. . . . I know. When I put it like that, it's a wonder everyone doesn't want to do jiu jitsu!

If I don't go tonight, I thought, then I really shouldn't go until all of this blows over. That could be weeks. Months. Am I prepared to go without jiu jitsu for that long? 

The answer was no. I am focusing on new grips. I want to try them out. I have been working hard lately, acclimatizing to a new gym, trying to legitimize myself and my brown belt. I feel like I can't spare a minute, never mind a quarantine.

So, with Husband looking at me sidewise, Shark Girl went off to class and heard words like, "As always, if you have any cold symptoms, stay off the mats."

I mean let's face it, I've been rolling around in these guys' sweat for months now. If one of us has it, we've surely passed it on. We know that carriers can be asymptomatic, I justified to myself.

Middle School Son wears shorts to school every day. In the middle of winter. Unless Husband forces him to wear "sweatpants at least." We've given up on the winter coat that he insists he does not have but has been hanging in our coat closet gathering dust and growing too small for about a year. Middle School Son has seen this coat. He knows it exists. Yet he refuses to acknowledge it.

One day I asked High School Son (who always wore pants but lived through this strange shorts fad a few years ago) why middle school boys did this. "Its a game of chicken," he said. "No one wants to be the first to wear pants and admit that they're too cold."

If I'm being honest with myself, part of my decision to go to jiu jitsu was like that. I don't want to be the first one to cave in to the virus. Especially as the token female. They are going to have to make me not go, in spite of the fact that I have a son who is at high risk if he develops the virus. (Yes, Shark Girl is crazy. But you knew that already.)

I also wondered if I was contemplating skipping jiu jitsu to wimp out on my feelings of inadequacy. Who knew that deciding whether or not to go to class was going to tap into all of my psychological issues?

When I got home Thursday night, I washed my belt along with my gi. I know that's sacrilege. But the belt was sweaty, too. What good is it to wash the coronavirus off your gi only to have it fester unchallenged on your belt?

Just today another gym I am connected with announced they would be closing for a period of two weeks, like our local schools. What a relief it would be if mine did that, too. Then I would not have to make the decision. Then I would not have to search my psyche to figure out why I should or should not go to class. Won't someone else please wear their pants first? You would make it a hell of a lot easier for me.

*****
I really like Stephan Kesting's resource on COVID-19 and BJJ. I haven't read it all yet, but it looks pretty comprehensive. If I find anymore resources I find helpful, I will update this post. Please feel free to comment with any resources that have helped you, too.

Stay Healthy,
Shark Girl

Oops, I Mansplained Again!

I got mansplained by a white belt.

I get it. I suck. But at least have the decency to feign respect.

Literally, he tried to tell me why top pressure is important. Thanks, pal. I'm fucking 100 pounds. I think I know a bit about top pressure.

Then he went on to say that, when I have someone in good pressure, I should wait for them to try to escape and then think ahead and catch them in a sub. Again, thanks.

I nodded politely and smiled.

There's more: He said that when he rolled with someone significantly bigger and stronger than him, he took that opportunity to work on his escapes.

I don't know where to even begin unpacking this, but I can tell you that it gave me a stress espresso dream last night.

What is a stress espresso dream, you may ask? Well, Shark Girl takes her espresso seriously, and has spent more time than is rational on coffeegeek.com. I'm not the best barista, but I am the best barista I know.

Here is what a stress espresso dream looks like:

I was using a new espresso machine in public. I was excited to see what I could do with it. But this dude, like, watched me stumble a bit as I was getting used to the new equipment, and then he mansplained how to pull a shot of espresso. Like I don't fucking do that multiple times a day, fuckwad? How do you think I get this goddamned cheery? It's called caffeine.

This morning, I was grinding beans for my morning cappuccino and thinking that 2% milk foamed up much more delicately that fat-free, when I realized: Wait! That dream wasn't about me having a fear of pulling shots in public. It was about that White Belt mansplaining jiu jitsu to me!

Here is the last thing last thing White Belt said during that conversation.

After extolling the virtues of crushing your opponent, he said how much he loved rolling with me because I helped him learn.

You are fucking welcome.

So, here is the hidden meaning behind what he said:

"I can crush anyone I want and that's the way to do it. But, when I roll with you and you don't crush me, I actually learn something."

That's genius, dude. Try connecting the dots backward. When you crush your training partner, you hinder their growth. (Unless, of course, you are expressly working on escaping crushing control.)

So the next time you are on my chest and I can't breathe, maybe you just should ease up. You can make a mental tick mark counting that you beat the 50-year old who weighs half of what you do. But then give us both a chance to learn.

Can We Talk? Jiu Jitsu is a Conversation.

Lately, Shark Girl has been thinking a lot about what jiu jitsu means to her.

As I face a terrifying start at a new gym , I wonder whether it’s time to give up jiu jitsu forever in favor of less injurious pursuits. Therefore, I keep coming back to this: why do I do jiu jitsu?

A few reasons bubble up.

The first is that I am a control freak. Undisputed. Capital C. But that’s not what I want to talk about today. I’ll save that for another post.

Today I want to talk about how for me, jiu jitsu is a conversation. My partner says something to me and I respond.

"How you doin', pal?" "Not bad, how 'bout you?"

I grew up in a family where verbal sparring was the main form of recreation. The person who was the loudest or could overtalk the other person was usually the victor. To even enter these arguments as the smallest, youngest person there, I had to stealthily choose when to assert my point of view. I had to be quick and concise, and I had to understand that most likely, no matter what I said, I was going to be brushed off, overpowered, ignored. Or worse, someone would use twisted logic to turn my thoughts into something I didn’t even recognize anymore. 

These days, I have found that it is not really worthwhile getting into one of these family-style arguments. Last night on the phone Shark Dad tried to goad me into a lame shouting match over whether I had a lot of stuff left at his house from thirty years ago. (Spoiler: I don’t.) He complained that it was causing him and my elderly mother stress because they had to clean out all my shit and figure out what to do with it. 

I tried to deflect with a joke: “Oh, those rolls of quarters from when I was a waitress? Please save those for me. It’s my escape money if things go south with me and Husband.”

Watch out, Husband! Shark Girl could be movin' on out with this bank!

I tried to rationalize: "Those empty photo albums (that aren't mine)? No one uses those anymore, Dad."

But Shark Dad wanted contention. Stymied by my stonewalling, he pushed it forward: “Now your mother is getting mad at me because I’m upsetting you,” he said.

“You’re not upsetting me, but I’m not going to argue over this. If I have a lot of stuff left there, feel free to throw it away or leave it for me to sort through when I come home. I really don’t care.” 

And then he passed the phone to my mother. 

I think we were both sadder for that conversation. My 84-year old Dad was trying to connect the only way he knew how, but he only succeeded in causing tension. I saw a lonely, old man cleaning out his house so his kids don’t have to. But instead of having a meaningful conversation about that, Shark Dad made me feel guilty. I had disappointed him because I did not take his bait (chum?). And I disappointed myself because, in the heat of the exchange, I failed to realize what it was really about: (I’m not going to be here much longer. You better come see me and) Get your stuff. 

Just take the bait, Shark Girl! Doesn't it look tasty??!

That made me feel guiltier. 

I get frustrated rolling with people for whom it’s a fight. I’ve had enough fights in my lifetime. I don’t want to fight. I want a conversation. A communication. Something that when we are both finished, we do not have to agree, but we can respect each other and we know each other a little better.

I don’t play closed guard, but I respect yours. I don’t have long legs, but I enjoy learning how to get around yours. 

I do jiu jitsu to connect with the person I am rolling with. When that person smashes me or uses disproportionate strength, then I have nothing to say. I feel like, Why am I in this conversation, anyway? I have nothing to contribute and you wouldn’t listen if I did.

I recognize that not everyone is on the mats for the same reason. People have different demons to exorcise. But I need to understand what I want and need from this sport/art.

Check out this jiu jitsu demon by tattoo artist Fabien!

For me, when my partner does something clever, I laugh out loud. When they frustrate me, I try to find a different way to answer their moves. I walk away from those rolls feeling like I know my partner, and myself, better. 

When someone uses their full muscle and crushes my little person so that I can’t move, I usually walk away disappointed, defeated. I feel brushed off, overpowered, and ignored. Inconsequential and unheard. I’ve experienced that a lot in my life and it’s not fulfilling for me to experience that on the mat. Sure, I could learn to “speak louder,” but then, wouldn’t I just be doing the same thing to someone else? 

Maybe I need to give my Old Shark Dad a call. Perhaps we both didn’t have the best conversation skills last night. Maybe I was passing his guard (avoiding his sadness) while he was trying to choke me (with crushing guilt). Sometimes a conversation is not about what it seems on the surface.

Sometimes jiu jitsu is not about who wins the match. It’s about how much we listen to each other.

You Can't Fight City Hall

In the mid-90s, while alt-rock raged across the airwaves, twenty-something Shark Girl used to visit two elderly Italian sisters who lived in the North End of Boston. They would make me lunch. We would talk about Italy and life as an immigrant in Boston. We told stories of our families and discussed the problems of the world. These conversations usually ended with the older sister, Filomena, saying, “Well, you can’t fight City Hall.” It was one of the few English expressions she could say clearly, understandable even to those not well-versed in Italian-tinted English. Almost once a visit, Filomena would declare to me that City Hall could not be fought.

The other day I was leaving the kids jiu jitsu class that I started assisting. (I know. We have a lot to catch up on.) In my head, I heard Filomena say those words: You can’t fight City Hall. 

My blog has documented well the outsider feelings I have as a woman on the male-dominated mats of jiu jitsu. I guess I thought the kids class would be different. It’s not. It’s more of the same. When it comes time to work with me, I see the boys avert their eyes to the other male coaches or another member of the class, hoping that lack of eye contact will “save” them. At first I thought, Maybe it’s just the pre-teen weirdness of rolling with a female. That could be it. 

But the other day one of them got stuck working with me and said, “This time can you go full force?”as if he was insulted that in the past I had not. “Do you want me to?” I asked. “I don’t know . . .” he said. This summed up his whole dilemma for me. He was anxious that I wasn't going full force and it would look like a “girl” was taking it easy on him, but he was also afraid that if I didn't go easy on him a “girl” would crush him. He didn't have these same concerns with the male coaches.

(I use the word girl here, because I think in those moments that's what I was to him, even though I am I’m a 48-year-old purple-belted woman who clearly should have some skill over a white-belted 11-year-old boy, if there is any truth to jiu jitsu.) 

I'm not sure why I thought maybe kids would be different. This youngster is simply reflecting his culture.  Filomena’s words came back to me: You can’t fight City Hall. As women in jiu jitsu, we can’t fight City Hall. After eight years of jiu jitsu, it still stings. I bet it always will.

*After reading this post, many of you jiu jitsu playahs, well-versed in fighting, are saying, "Wait a minute Shark Girl! You may not be able to fight City Hall . . . directly. After all, isn't that what jiu jitsu is about? Figuring out how to fight the bigger, stronger opponent?" To you, I say, "Well played." You are absolutely right! No self-respecting jiu jitsuer would try to break down the locked front door. No, we look for the key under the mat at back door. Now, I'm going to stop before you all take this in some, tawdry, NSFW metaphorical way. But know this: I have a companion piece percolating about how we actually can fight City Hall, but we have to do it jiu jitsu style. Stay tuned!

Shark Girl Faces a Change

It is a turning point for Shark Girl.

I haven’t written in a while. When I was a white belt, everything was new and curious. And being a woman on the mat was challenging. I needed help and support, and you, faithful Internet readers, were there for me. You helped and guided me.

Now, as a purple belt and then some, I have drifted into stasis. My game doesn’t change so rapidly anymore. The huge strides I used to make in a month are now incremental improvements over months and months. I used to practice how to escape; now I work on shifting moves slightly to the left to see if that will help, or moving my center of gravity *here* and seeing what that will do.

Likewise, in being the lone woman at my gym (still), I have fallen into a pattern, a habit if you will. Some of the same problems remain, but after this many years, you either put up or get out, and I have chosen the former. I believe I made the right decision.

So at this point in my jiu jitsu career, change is slow. Glacially slow. And to write about that on a regular basis seemed, well, boring.

Now its global warming time, my friends. My gym just announced that it is closing. I don’t have many options. But one thing is certain: Change is coming, and it is coming fast.

The Berimbolo Kid

I recently visited another school’s Open Mat. I had a fine time training with some women, something I don’t get to do very often. It is always easier to approach the women at a new school, so I do that first, if I can. After a few rounds with the ladies, it was approach someone new or sit it out. I looked around for someone who might be willing to train with my petite ass. I spied a guy, not too much bigger than me, but muscular and compact. He was sweating from a previous roll and wearing a white belt, one stripe.

     Perfect. I thought. Not too big—if he goes nuts I can handle him. A little tired, so he may have gotten some aggression out. I went up and asked him to dance.

     “Sure,” he said. We tapped hands and jockeyed for position.

     As always, when I roll with someone new, I try to respond to what they give me to get a sense of whether they are skilled and restrained or some crazy knee twister. With guys, I am always aware of the ego. In some men, ego can trigger EIIB—erratic, injury-inducing behavior . . . aka spazzing out. I’ve had my share of spazzing–out injuries and I really don’t need another. 

     This guy seemed to know a few things and was not too wacky. Between the initial grip fighting, I started small talk. I find small talk helps disarm tension that could lead to, you know, EIIB. I learned that this guy was about a year into Jiu jitsu.

We grip fought for a while, and then swept me. I countered, reguarding. He opened my guard, passed it, and pushed forward, hard. I hip escaped and reguarded, pulling him down. We went like that for while, and then he went for something . . . hard. When he didn’t get it, he shook his head.

     “Are you working on something?” I asked, figuring he was practicing some move on me. 

“Ahh, yeah. The berimbolo. I just can’t seem to get it.”

     “Oh, I see.” I reguarded . . . both physically and mentally. My mental reguard was something like: Hmmm . . . one-stripe white belt can’t seem to get the berimbolo down. I better watch out for this one or I’m the next YouTube video casualty.

    He lunged at me and arm–dragged me, looking for a Kimura. I wriggled out and snuck to his back. 

     “Kimura, ey?”

“Yep.”

“You want to try it again?”

“Nah.” 

“Kay.”

I moved toward a sweep myself, spidering my right foot on the crook of his left arm. My foot fell through and he clamped down. He’s going for a footlock. I play so much open guard I can see that a mile away. I punched my foot through to the other side of his armpit. He grabbed at my ankle but it was too late, I was already through.

I noticed his hand was swollen. It looked like a latex glove after someone blows air into it.

“What’s that?” I asked. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, my hand is screwed up.”

“Too much grip fighting?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll stay away from it.”

“Nah, you don’t have to. It’s all right.”

“Maybe, but I’ll stay away. Injuries suck. Both my knees have had ‘em.”

“Oh, your knees?”

“Yep.”

“So I’ll stay away from the heel hooks then.”

“Hahaha!” I laughed, but he wasn’t laughing with me. Was he serious? “Wait . . .  were you trying to heel hook me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, NO heel hooks, please.”

“OK. Glad you said something.”

“Me, too.” 

I finished up the roll as soon politely possible (there were no timers) and moved on.

Goal Setting: Not Shark Girl's Forte

Well it is back to school and full confession: Once again I did not meet my summer jiu jitsu goal.

My summer goal is always the same: more jiu jitsu. And I always start off thinking I can accomplish this goal, plus run more and finally organize my house and get my finances in order and finish up all those half-started home projects. Wait! Come to think of it, I didn't meet my other summer goals, either!

It happens all the time . . . grand expectations meet with the constraints of time and the reality of running a household with two children. This summer, I think I did the least amount of jiu jitsu than I have at any point in my jiu jitsu career. 

     

Now it is fall, and all my hopes of meeting any of those goals are out the window. I have switched to my fall goal, which is also always the same:

Make work A PART of my life, not my whole life.

This is a difficult goal when you are a teacher. There are always lessons to plan, papers to grade, curriculum to develop, colleagues to collaborate with, special projects to work on, meetings to attend, personal interactions to reflect and improve upon. I've had this same fall goal for 20 years and I've never met it, either. I am foolish to think this will be the year. But, I am always a fool. Every year. Every September, I am full of hope—more a wish and prayer—that I can keep this year under control, in perspective. It is usually November before I give it up for a lost cause and plunge myself into a darkness I do not recover from until sometime in April, when the sun starts to warm my part of the earth again.

Or an ear bitten off?

And then I stare summer in the face, and break out my other recurring goal: more jiu jitsu! This is the year I will make it all fit together. Because of all the crazy time I will put on the mat, I will see the connections and become the air around my opponent! 

But then the children call. And the house calls. And the family calls. And the unbalanced check book calls. And the sun calls, too, and says, "Shark Girl, if you go to jiu jitsu you will not see me. Why not run instead?" And then it turns 90 degrees and humid and I do not want to do anything except sprawl on a couch and moan while sweat inches down my limbs.

This is the cycle of life, my friends. Moving from unrealized goal to unrealized goal. The turn of the seasons never changes but always promises change. Maybe this is Shark Girl’s year! Maybe this is the year I will do it all! I will be the bad-ass, super-mom jiu jitsu mastering, life-changing educator with a solid financial future that I always dream I can be!

As we say in Latin: dum spiro spero: while I am breathing, I hope.

Wow! With a quick Google Search, I found out just how many people have this saying tattooed all over their body. Not for the faint of heart!

Sometimes You Eat the Bear . . .

. . . and sometimes the bear eats you."

     I heard this quote on our new favorite family TV show, Granite Flats. Husband, me, and The Two Boys have revolving favorite family shows that we watch together. For a while it was Merlin, then Gortimer Gibbons; you get the idea. Granite Flats is our new favorite. It's about three detectivey pre-teens who mix it up with Cold-War espionage. Perfect family viewing. It's done by the Mormon Brigham Young University and there are references to God and being saved, but there has been nothing (so far) that has been too preachy for us liberal, New-England types. Except the pastor. Pastor Todd, is a little creepy. Mother of Shark Girl thinks he is "nice." It must be her '50s sensibilities; I think he's got a stalker smile and looks predacious. Vive la difference.

"Pastor Todd"
Okay, here he looks kind of cute, but on the show there is a huge creep factor. I'm sorry, Actor Who Plays Pastor Todd; I am sure you are a very nice guy! I bet the director makes you smile that way!

On my way home from jiu jitsu recently, I thought of Granite Flats and that quote, said by one of the pre-teens after a particularly fruitless day of detectiving. That's what I felt like after that jiu jitsu class--that the bear had eaten me. And the bear was a newbie, white-belt young girl, fighting for her dear life, and (almost) winning. She was strong as a bear, actually.

Ummmm, not sure why she had to go here. . .  .

     Now I can think of lots of excuses why the bear ate me that night, some relating to me and others the environment I train in. But I'm not here to make excuses (tonight). Back in May, I ate the bear. That night, the bear ate me. I should have crushed her. I should have been a wrecking ball (with my clothes on and not licking dumbbells, Miley Cyrus!). And I was making mistakes. I was ready to turn in my belt. Seriously, who AM I? Who do I think I am playing with this jiu jitsu shit? I've either got to step up my game or get off the matt. 

     And so, Gentle Readers, tonight I leave you with a lighter for me and my ego. . .

. . . and more metaphors about the volatility of learning jiu jitsu with this great, old, song "The Bug":

You may prefer the Dire Straits version; it was written by Mark Knopfler and covered by Mary Chapin Carpenter in 1992. Tonight I'm feeling a bit Mary Chapin Carpenter. And very much like "The Bug."

This (Shark) Girl Is on Fire

I went to a workshop where I pretty much sat for four days. Before dinner, I got a kick-ass run in at the hotel gym. But for four days it was an intense, cerebral experience. The night I returned was a jiu jitsu night. I kissed Husband and Kids lovingly, promised to catch up with them later, and then hurried off to class. I had already missed one class for this workshop, I didn’t want to miss another. And my family could wait a couple more hours to connect with me. They know my life priorities: 1) coffee 2) jiu jitsu 3) family 4) work. It was time for priority #2.

I love you, jiu jitsu, but coffee will always come first!

Sometimes, when I have been off the mat for a while, I gingerly step back on, worried I’ve lost all my accumulated knowledge. I tentatively tap hands, make excuses with an injury or how tired I am, and move my limbs like dead tree branches attached to my trunk.

Sorry, I didn't mean to scratch you with my legs!

Then there are other times, like that night. My head was a fog. I couldn’t retain two instructions that my Prof said. “Were we supposed to start in side?” “Did he wasn’t us to go twice?” But when it came time to spar, I was a hound unleashed, unstoppable. I moved around all obstacles, quick quick. My opponents had no idea where I was going next. My muscles had their own mind and moved without instructions from my head. Where was this coming from?

                It was a magical night. My favorite partner was a rag doll, moving the way I wanted him to, and when he didn’t, I just switched my position and complicated things again. I was having so much fun in my own little reverie that I almost felt guilty. I wanted to roll with Favorite Partner again, but was that fair? Was it fair to ask for a reroll because I was kicking his ass? I went easy on him the second time so as not to hurt his ego, but it wasn’t as satisfying.

Then, when I went with Prof, I could sense he was easing into the roll, trying to get a feel for where I was at that night. I didn’t give him a chance. I caught him in a choke before he even realized we had started.

I rolled with a few more guys and it was the same thing. I was water on a hot frying pan, dancing around and frustrating my opponents. It felt so good, but so bad at the same time. I was powerful, strong, accomplished and winning. And every time I flushed with pride, I thought, “I can’t do this to so-and-so. How does this make him feel?”

After Prof’s roll, he said, “Wow, Shark Girl’s on fire tonight.” I was. And when the class was done, I wanted more. But I packed my bag and went home, knowing that next time I wouldn’t have this same experience, and hoping it would come again soon.

Saving the Male Ego, or We Both Know I Had It

When on vacation, Shark Girl likes to train at other gyms. It keeps me sharp. Plus, the foreign warm-ups make me feel like a white belt again. I also have many interesting experiences when I roll on strange mats. Like this recent one:

*****

My partner was the same belt as me, but lower in stripes. He was a young buck: spry and muscley, on the smaller side. We had a good go around for while.

He got me in open guard; I passed.

He went for a footlock; I escaped.

Finally, I got on top; he escaped. He was tiring out, though, because I quickly wound up back on top.

He escaped again, and we went back and forth a few more times until he could no longer find his way out of my top control.

I went for a choke.

I could see in his eyes he was defeated. They were the eyes of a scared animal, darting back and forth, unsure of what path leads to safety, but sure that staying still is death (by suffocation).

I tightened my choke. He started breathing more deeply, trying to get more air with each breath.

I tightened my choke a little more. His face was getting red.

At this point, I realized this man was not tapping. At all. He was going to do something really stupid, like pass out.

            So, what did Shark Girl do? I saved his ego. “Do I have this?” I asked demurely.

            He sputtered.

“What? Was that a ‘no’?”

            He sputtered some more and shook his head.

           “Okay. Darn. I thought I had it.” I let go and the buzzer rang. “Thanks for a great roll,” I smiled. 

Where Have All the Small Dudes Gone?

My gym has had an influx of new people coming in to try out BJJ. This is always an exciting time—new people to test our skills!

It’s not that I don’t like the old, regulars, but as my skills improve, so do theirs and sometimes it feels like I am standing still. You know, like when you are driving alongside another car that is going the same speed and if you look out quickly and don’t see the trees whizzing by, it looks like no one is moving at all. It’s like that.

So when the fresh meat comes in, I get excited. ‘Cept for one thing. I swear, every person to walk through my gym’s doors in the past month or two has been HUGE. I mean MONSTROUS. GARGANTUAN. Like, picture that skyscraper in Dubai:

now add some girth, maybe to equal the width of , oh, I don’t know, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man? 

Strap a gi on him and he looks just like our new guys!

                                 

Shark Girl is petite. Think of the smallest person you know. Now shrink that person down about half size, and add extra-large calf muscles and some child-bearing hips, and, if I’ve been neglectful in my waxing, a little Mediterranean fuzz on my upper lip. Now, close your eyes and put the two images of me and The New Guy side by side. *sigh* Here we go again.

I love new people. I just wish some of them were smaller, so I could actually practice a damn sweep. Or roll with them and not worry about cracking a rib or breaking something important. Big Dudes take so goddamned long to train, and it’s not a given that I will ever be able to train safely with them, to trust myself to them as a training partner. And if I do train them well (‘cause it’s usually my responsibility) then I always wonder, What am I really capable of? Am I getting an unfair advantage? I know it is silly, but if you read my last post about being a zealot, you understand that it is not enough for Shark Girl to be a bad-ass jitser (which I am definitely not, but I can dream, can’t I?), but I have to be bad-ass against the biggest, toughest, most fearsome foes that walk the mat, and not get hurt. See? I may not have the typical female issues, but mine are almost as impossible as looking like those girls in the magazines with their airbrushed facial lines and their plumped up, oiled body parts and their digitally-whittled waists. 

Wait 'til Paper Magazine gets a load of my sick Jiu Jitsu moves! Imagine the centerfold they will do of Shark Girl!

I was sparring with a man on the larger side the other day. Someone who has been working hard to train well with me and I am grateful for that. He had a worrisome look on his face.

     “Hey, what’s up?” I said.

     “Not much,” he replied.

      (Tap of Friendship)

      He sighed, looking me up and down, not sure where to start.

     “You know,” he said, “you are the hardest person here.”

For those big guys who really try to spar well with us little people, I understand it is difficult to suppress their God-given muscle and strength. And I want all you big guys who try to know that I, Shark Girl, appreciate your efforts immensely. Thank you, Big Dudes who really try to roll well with the wee folk, thank you.

However, I still hope when I see a new car in the parking lot, it’s owner will be under 175 pounds. And I am looking forward to the return of some good (small) friends who left the gym a few months ago for financial reasons and have promised to return in the new year.

Modern Zealot of Exercise?

Back in October, I read Why Are Americans So Fascinated with Extreme Fitness? It wonders why people do extreme sports and calls those involved in them “modern zealots of exercise,” claiming they feel that

 It’s not enough to look good and feel good if you’re not prepared to lift a Mini Cooper off an injured stranger.

It got me thinking: Am I a modern zealot of exercise? What the fuck am I doing, doing Brazilian jiu jitsu? Does a middle-aged Mom really need to know how to break someone’s arm and choke the breath out of them? Really? I mean, I understand it is a useful tool in case I were physically threatened. And it does give me confidence. But sometimes I wonder if this confidence is misplaced: What could I really do if a huge dude attacked me? Not much. 

Tauriel may rock as a fictional fighter, but in real life, her arms would have been broken so many times in this scene. Trust me.

Now, if Mr. Furley from Three’s Company tried something, I’m pretty sure I could do some damage.

Let’s face it, besides exercise, I basically use jiu jitsu to intimidate Husband when he tries to get frisky. Oh, really, are you sure you want to put one arm in, one out, Love? You know what that leads to, and it is NOT a smile on your face!

So, why the hell do I do it? Let’s see, when I did aerobics, I worked out two hours a day (back in the 80s, pre-kids, pre-job, and nothing else to do). As a runner, I started doing marathons and half marathons. Yep. That pretty much sounds like extremism. Of course I would be drawn to the martial art that pits me mano a mano against everyone in the world, no matter what their size, shape, or sex.

  The article goes on to imply that sated and safe humans are looking for ways to recreate the thrill of the wild. That’s kind of my take on amusement parks—why would anyone want to pretend they are free falling from a 20-story building? How is that fun?

It's not fun. She's terrified!

For Shark Girl, I am not recreating primal urges or satisfying an ancient calling for the exhilaration of the hunt. Dear Readers, it is about power. As someone who stands under 5 feet tall, who has always been the smallest everywhere, whom people, in their “charming” way, patronizingly measure their children against to check growth: “Oh, Six-Year Old, stand next to Shark Girl. Wow! You are almost as tall as she is!” (Yes, I, an adult woman, am constantly asked to measure myself against very young children to show that they have surpassed my stature. *sigh*)

For SG, running marathons and training jiu jitsu are about having the power that in the larger society I feel I lack because I am a small female. I may be tiny but I can run a marathon. I may be a full-grown adult who is smaller than your elementary school child but don’t mistake that for weakness.

And of course, the person I am trying to convince most is myself.

Everyone gets on the mat for different reasons. When I realized what mine were, it helped me lighten up about my training, become less hard on myself, and enjoy it more. It gave me the power I was looking for--power over myself and my choices.

Happy New Year, and Happy Training. May you all find what you are looking for in your extreme practice!

Why Saulo is My Jiu Jitsu Boyfriend

Someone sent me this video of Saulo Ribeiro and it reminded me of why Saulo and I are secretly dating in my head. 

You can watch it for yourself, but I will give you Shark Girl’s highlights below, because, hey, isn’t that why you are reading my blog?

Saulo makes these points in the first few minutes:

Champions are those who get up and try to be better everyday.

It doesn’t matter how good you are; it matters what you are trying to do to get better. I believe this not only physically, but also for our mental and spiritual selves, in our jobs and in our relationships.

When we all put the gi on, what makes us different is our personalities.

My Secret Boyfriend goes on to say [around 2:02],

“ Today you can hide yourself behind money, you can hide yourself behind clothes, behind cars . . . but who you really are I’m gonna see as soon as I start to choke you, you know.”

It's talk like that that makes my heart skip a beat!!

 

I’ll be honest, Shark Girl’s mind starts to wander about half way through the interview. But that’s okay. Then I just concentrate on Saulo’s soothing voice. No need for yoga today!

Finally, I love the way Saulo talks about his competition. [6:30] He displays such profound respect. None of this low-brow trash-talking.

Given Saulo’s philosophy, it’s no wonder I see lots of women on his mat. Saulo is not pushing ego-trippin’ bro-culture. He is pushing discipline and respect. Those are things the ladies can get behind.