Why We Teach, Why We Learn

I was discussing "why we teach" with a couple of my friends who also happen to be full-time taiji and martial art instructors. These are serious practitioners who have reached 5th and 6th degree black belts in styles such as Isshin-Ryu Karate and Shorinji-Ryu Karate and are also taijiquan, yiquan and xingyiquan practitioners. We have a small group of four or five of us, each having a minimum of 20 years consistent training in. We train together, share information and look for common links in our styles, for the purpose of becoming better practitioners and teachers. Time, schedules, families and committments often make it tough to train together regularly but we try to make the time. Anyway, that's just some background information before going on with this blog.

I guess this topic came up as a result of my blog stories about some of my teachers, specifically Mr. Chen Junhao. My martial arts buddies love reading the stories of my teacher, and even felt emotionally moved by them. Why? Because when we think back on our lives, it is usually memories of our teachers that seem to ring loudest in our psyche, being or even (dare I say) our souls. Not speaking from any kind of religious standpoint here--for me "soul" refers to a deep place where we resonate with certain other people, and no words or explanations are necessary. For the moment, I am referring to martial arts teachers I have had, and my friends have had; however, one could probably point out high school, middle school or college teachers that could have influenced us deeply. I have had some of them too. But since I am a martial artist first, and a "wannabe" intellectual second, my deeper feelings have come from memories of my coaches. My fencing coach, Mr. A. John Geraci, all the way down the line to my current teacher Dr. James Kan.

A friend of mine who teaches a free meditation class used to say: "The purpose of life is to learn as much as you can, and then teach it to others"--a credo that would be difficult to argue. Of course one could point out other things to explain life's purpose, e.g., love, etc., but learning and teaching must be right up there too. My best teachers have had great passion for what they taught--something that was never lost on me when I was learning from them. My martial arts buddies have also told me the same things, and we've all decided that it was our teachers who inspired us to teach. As a matter of fact, it was the same guy who I quoted above (about the purpose of life) who got me into teaching. I was not really ready to teach, but I was placed in that position. Over time, I started to become the teacher I wanted to be, but that has taken quite a few years. Mr. Chen often told me that to be a good martial artist, a person had to be intelligent--maybe he used another word, like "smart" or "common sense", but you get the point. I have noticed that my martial art teacher friends are very intelligent people, even if they don't have a higher education. And I have noticed that my best students are usually very intelligent or well-educated, or successful people. Lawyers, PHD's, professors, artists, or successful bussinessmen. Not that any of that matters to me that much, but interesting to point out; but having said that, some are just ordinary blue collar type folk, much like me!

So what's the common denominator when people with such varied lifestyles can find arts like taijiquan, qigong or martial arts so interesting? Anybody reading this blog would by now know how frustrating it can be to learn these arts, so why bother going through the trouble? I would love your comments after this blog--why go through the effort? Do any of us ever have to fight to defend our lives with this stuff? One could say that we are learning archaic forms that have no relation to life in the 21st Century? I guess I am looking for answers to this question, as much as my friends and students (who are usually also friends) are.

So, here's my question: For my martial art teacher friends--why did you choose this career path? We could have chosen many different careers, why the uncertain and rocky trail of the martial art teacher? And to the students of these arts: What draws you to learn? Most of you are fairly serious about it, so why don't you play golf or bingo instead? What does it mean to you? You take time out to take classes, so please take time to complete my survey. You can of course remain anonymous in your responses.

"He Caught Himself"

A few posts ago, I wrote a blog called: "A Strong Man Falls". In that blog I told the story of my last meeting with my teacher Mr. Chen Junhao, and my sadness at seeing him stumble and fall while trying to show me a movement. I was very happy that quite a few people read my blog about Mr. Chen, and to share my link with a true Chinese martial arts (CMA) master from a bygone era. I'm honored that people would take time out of their days to read this blog; and I firmly believe that it is Mr. Chen's great passion for CMA and his willingness to share it that has continued to inspire people. However, when I wrote the "A Strong Man Falls" blog, my memory of the event was not as clear as I had thought.

A friend who also trained with Mr. Chen emailed me after I had written that blog. She remembered that day very well, and after hearing her story, it came back to me. She said: "He caught himself", and my memory came back. Mr. Chen was in a great deal of pain at that time, and probably quite weak--and although others saw him taking pain pills, he somehow kept that secret from me (or maybe I did not want to see?).

Mr. Chen never did fall down, just stumbled forward and within a few steps, regained his balance. Like slow-motion. In retrospect I believe that if he had actually fallen, he would have been too weak to get back up right away. Remembering that Mr. Chen caught himself, the story is now complete for me. Of course he would catch himself; of course his decades of training learned from some of the best masters in China would kick in. Reminds me of a line from the movie "Raging Bull" in which Robert Diniro plays the prize fighter Jake LaMotta. After taking a brutal beating at the hands of Sugar Ray Robinson, he stumbles across the ring on rubbery legs, over to Robinson's corner.
"You couldn't put me down, Ray....I never went down" he says, a final point of pride.

Where Do I Go From Here?

In 2002 I no longer had Mr. Chen to help me with my kung fu training. In our three years together I had learned a lot of kung fu and taijiquan, here's a list:

-Shanxi Xingyiquan
-Taiji 42
-Ba Fan Shou (8 Overturning Hands)
-Mian Zhang Quan (Cotton Palm Continuous Fist)
-Wudong Taiji Sword
-Shaolin Quan ( Wu Jia Bu, etc.)
-Shaolin Pole and Spear

I spent a lot of time practicing what Mr. Chen had taught me, but really missed the man. I decided to go back to China for part of the summer, in hopes of capturing more of the essence of xingyiquan. For some reason, I did not want to return to Taiyuan--the thought of it was too painful, and it would remind me of Mr. Chen too much. I could not contact Yu Chang Lin or any of the Nanjing Xingyiquan Association; they were not listed on any Internet sites and it was not possible to communicate over the telephone. Instead I opted to contact David, a contestant at the competition who spoke perfect English. He was a Chinese minority, his father being Mongolian and his mother Manchurian and he looked like an ancient warrior in modern clothing. David worked in a hospital in Nanning, Guanxi Province and worked as a translator/guide part time. Being a martial artist also, he made the perfect guide for me. So I called him on the phone and said I was coming back to China, could he arrange for me to train with a xingyiquan master?

After a 16-hour plane ride, I landed in Hong Kong. I believe I caught another small airplane and landed in Nanning where David was waiting. He had arranged for an "affordable" hotel for me in a busy part of Nanning. That hotel had an opulent lobby with marble floors and shiny bellhops, but the rooms were well below any USA standards. Every morning I would find dead roaches in my half-filled water glasses, and my room phone would ring several times during the early evening hours. It was always a woman's voice, speaking in sultry tones. It took me a couple of days to figure out what was going on--there were prostitutes all over Nanning. Walking down certain streets, they would be sitting outside massage parlors calling out to me, talking to me, trying to entice me to enter their rooms. Occasionally one of them would grab a piece of my shirt and try to drag me inside. I would smile tell them no thanks, and keep moving. I had discovered a tea shop in the neighborhood, and I would go there every afternoon. The manager of the tea shop was a young man who called himself Steven, a big NBA fan. I learned a lot about Chinese tea from him, and purchased tea utensils and bags of good tea there. The downside was that I had to walk past the hookers to get to his shop, but it was worth it--the tea, that is.

David told me that before I met the xingyiquan master, I had to meet a friend of his who knew the master; David's friend's was simply called Mr. Chui. We went to Mr. Chui's apartment and he greeted us at the door and offered us a seat in his small apartment. I had been around quite a few serious martial artists at the tournament in Pingyao--trained with them, ate with them and lived with them. There were always a few in the crowd that had a special air about them--Yu Chang Lin and his teacher, for instance. Everything about Mr. Chui's appearance, surroundings and demeanor made it obvious that he was a martial arts fanatic. While many of the xingyi boxers I had met appeared strong and robust, Mr. Chui had the body of a Greek god. Any movement he made seemed to contain a little extra energy behind it--it was really impressive. As we sipped flower tea, his wife came into the room, was introduced and then disappeared somewhere in the customary fashion of a Chinese wife. We talked martial arts, but I could not keep from looking into a corner of the room where a very large and obviously hand-made martial arts training dummy was set up. It looked roughly like a Wing Chun wooden dummy, with a broad "torso" area and extended "arms and legs", except that this dummy was not made of wood. It appeared to be cast iron, a detail that was not lost on me. This piece of training equipment took up about a third of their small apartment, but I had a feeling Mrs. Chui did not complain.

Mr. Chui saw me looking at it, and spoke to me in Chinese, with David translating.
"Do you know what that is?"
"It looks like a wooden dummy, made of iron?"
"Yes," said Mr. Chui, "iron is much better than wood"
"Isn't that a little dangerous, can you get hurt using it?"
"You can," Mr. Chui replied, "but you have to also practice qigong to avoid problems--Tibetan qigong is the best."

David then began to relate Mr. Chui's story to me. During the Cultural Revolution, Mr. Chui was a young man and had joined up with Mao's fanatical Red Guard. I remembered that my teacher Mr. Chen had had a few run-ins with Red Guard, and had once fought a band of five or six Red Guard in the street. I imagined the Red Guard as a bunch of gangsters, beating people and fighting at every chance, and Mr. Chui's story confirmed this. David said that as a member of the Red Guard, Mr. Chui had hundreds of fights on the streets. When the Cultural Revolution ended (and the Red Guard were no longer) Mr. Chui continued fighting--he enjoyed it too much. He estimates that he may have had close to 1,000 street fights. Mr. Chui later worked for a "boss", as a bodyguard, traveling all over China and Burma with the boss. When I met him, he was working security for a Nanning night club, and since his job still called for him to fight, he was a training maniac. Along with the Iron Dummy in his living room, Mr. Chui said he wore "Iron shoes" when training outside during his three to four hour workouts. His specialty was xingyi spear, and he wore his iron shoes while practicing spear. I commented that I had worn ankle weights for xingyi training in the past, but it really hurt my knees, so I stopped.
"But the iron shoes I use are not too heavy", replied Mr. Chui, "would you like to see them?"

The iron shoes were extremely heavy; I picked one of them up and estimate it at between fifteen and twenty pounds. The thought of someone wearing those to train--but I had no doubts about Mr. Chui (see photo above). Mr. Chui (white shirt and glasses in photo, holding a pole) had massive calloused knuckles on his hands, and one rainy day he demonstrated their power to me. The rain had driven us under a canopy during training, and there was a brick building there. Mr. Chui casually began pounding the brick building with his fists, each relaxed blow landing with a sonic BOOM against the wall. My eyes widened, and David laughed: "Mr. Chui is over 50 years old but he still loves fighting." During our daily training, Mr. Chui showed me some interesting skills. He was an expert at throwing small knives and darts, and could launch five at a time into a target.
Conversely, the xingiquan master (no name given) was a tall, thin, bespectacled man. Whether he dressed in white or black, he always had a black sash tied around his waist, reminiscent of a karate belt (see picture above). He was good friends with Mr. Chui, and they had trained together for years. Yin and Yang. The xingyi master was very soft spoken and polite to me. "Do you want to learn the xingyi fist or weapon?" he asked.
I requested weapon and he taught me xingyiquan 6 Harmony pole (xingyi liu he guan). Every morning we met in the park and trained for a few hours. The rest of my days were free time, which I spent in the tea shop or sight-seeing. But I couldn't stay forever, about a month was my limit. It was time to go back to America to teach what I had learned. As Mr. Chui rode off on his bicycle, he waved and called out to me:
"Keep training hard every day."--the same advice Mr. Chen had given me.

A Strong Man Falls

I did not know that Mr. Chen was taking pain pills, and as far as I knew, he was recuperating well from his surgery. We continued training through the end of the summer, and Mr. Chen had relocated to Plainsboro, NJ. His condominium bordered a big park, and the condos had a huge Chinese population living in them. Finally Mr. Chen and his wife were surrounded by people who they could communicate with, and the park was a bustling with people on the weekends. I showed Mr. Chen my photo album, and he happily looked at pictures of Jindao and his family, his old kung fu brothers, and home province. A bunch of new people had found Mr. Chen and begun to study kung fu with him, but only a couple of them were serious about it. For several others, it seemed to be an excuse to get out of the house, and although they treated Mr. Chen with respect, they did not respect the art. Mr. Chen finished teaching me much of the Shanxi Xingyiquan system in a very short time--the 12 Animals and Za Xia Chui. Mr. Chen would no longer accept any kind of payment from me, so I started bringing him a big bag of bagels and muffins. He stopped me from doing that as well, saying: "That costs money, don't ...."
I continued to see Mr. Chen a couple times a week, and would walk into the shady area in the park, calling "Sifu, sifu", and Mr. Chen would smilingly greet me for private training before the others arrived.

One day after training for a couple of hours, Mr. Chen left to go home, saying he was tired. I watched him walk off with his wife, and then he turned around. His wife waited behind while Mr. Chen strode back to me. A couple of other students were standing there, and one of them translated his words. "When you teach kung fu in the future, be careful who you show this to. You can teach the basics to everyone, but don't teach the real martial art to just anyone. They will have to have a good heart to learn this. Even those who seem to have a good heart should be tested over time. Don't teach them everything you know."
Then he turned and walked away. One of the other students said to me: "Why do I feel like I'll never see him again?" I took a deep breath, speechless. But see him again we did. The others knew that he was taking pills for his pain, but he hid it from me somehow. When I was told, I watched him more closely, looking for a sign. His shoulder was still bothering him, but I assumed that he was still recovering from the invasive surgery.

On the last day that I trained with him, Mr. Chen lost his balance while demonstrating a move. As his body pitched forward, his legs fought to hold him up. I was 20 feet away, and rushed to try to catch him, but could not get to him in time. Another student was standing next to him, and grabbed him before he fell. Even in a weakened state, Mr. Chen had such dignity--that same calm and reserved look on his face, and steel eyes that knew the martial secrets of the ages. About three days later, a day or two before Christmas, I got a phone call from Jinling. Mr. Chen had boarded a flight for Beijing two days after I last saw him; he was going to a special hospital of traditional Chinese Medicine. He had arrived in Beijing and spent a great evening with one of his daughters, son, and some grandchildren. He was happy and everyone had a great time. Mr. Chen went to sleep, and early the next morning, his wife found him cold. He had passed away quietly, without any fanfare--much the same way I had seen him live the last three years of his life.
Mr. Chen had given me a special book that listed the prominent martial artists of Shanxi Province--including Mr. Chen, Zhang Xigui, and their teachers. He carried that book wrapped in cloth and inside another bag. It was a special gift to me, but when Jinling asked if she could have it, so that her children would know about their Grandfather I gladly agreed. Jinling said that at the airport before leaving for China, her father had told her to tell me to keep training, and that he was sorry that he had to leave in the middle of my training. "Kung fu duo lian."

Next: Where Do I Go From Here?

"Doctor Says You Must Go To Hospital"

The frenzied pace continued for another week of competition, and my training with Teacher Shu intensified. Teacher Shu had decided that I should learn the complete Seven Star Praying Mantis set, and so we worked harder on that. My xingyi boxer friends also wanted me to train with them, and I was glad to switch gears and practice the very grounded, simple xingyi boxing after the hours of complex mantis movements. I had saved money for this trip, and it was burning a hole in my pocket, so I set out for the streets of Pingyao, the ancient city. I bought swords, cane swords (an ornately carved bronze walking stick with a rusty ice-pick hidden in the handle), kung fu shoes, gifts for Teacher Shu, Jindao and his wife, and a basketball for Jindao's nephew. I walked into a small shop where two men and a woman were bent over their work, making hand-made shoes. They spoke happily when I walked in: "They've seen you performing at the competition" Pei Pei told me. I promised to buy a pair of shoes later, and went about my shopping tour.

But my energy level was diminishing, and at some point that day I wasn't sure if I would be able to walk back to the hotel. Having not eaten much solid food, I was getting weaker. I went back to the hotel and took a nap. Later, Alicia and Pei Pei knocked on the door to see how I was feeling. Not very well, I told them, and a doctor was summoned to my room. The doctor checked me out and then spoke in Chinese. "Doctor says you must go to hospital". And, unpleasant as that thought was, I did not argue; I was exhausted. With much effort and a little help from Jindao, I walked downstairs, got into a cab and was ushered into the hospital. Jindao looked a little scared and that concerned me, because Jindao was usually as impassive as his dad, until provoked (once by a cab driver), and now he was looking a little nervous. Inside the hospital, a line of local people were waiting to get in to see the doctor, and I was quickly ushered past all of them to the front of the line. A family stood over their father who was on a stretcher moaning, and because I was a foreigner, I was put in front of them to see the doctors. I wanted to protest, but didn't have the strength. After a thorough exam, I was put into a hospital bed in a private room. A woman (doctor, nurse?) came up to me and put a small acupuncture needle into my ear and left the room. Then a group of young nurses came in, scrutinizing my tattooed arms and speaking in excited tones. One of them was instructed to put a needle into a vein in the top of my hand. Three other nurses watched her do this. After a couple of painful mishaps, she began to look very nervous before making one more attempt. I couldn't look at what she was doing, so happened to be glancing at another nurse, when I felt an electric sharp pinch on top of my hand. The nurse I had been glancing toward looked as if she'd seen a ghost, and I wondered what was happening to my hand. The first nurse had made three attempts to insert the needle into top of my hand, and now stepped back. I glanced at her and she looked completely ashamed, holding her head down. The other nurse stepped up and said something quietly to me in Chinese, before painlessly setting the needle. They attached a drip bottle to the needle, and I spent the next four hours in that bed, and went through two or three drip bottles. I was being rehydrated.

I was released from the hospital but the following morning, for the first time, I felt unable to go train with Teacher Shu. Jindao came back and said that they were taking me to a more modern hospital, and off we went. The more modern hospital did basically the same treatment to me, for a couple of hours, along with forcing me to drink a couple of big glasses of sugary water. The doctor spoke English and told me that I was still running a fever , and he wanted to give me an antibiotic injection, a recommendation I immediately refused. "I respect you doctor, but I'm not getting any injection. Can you please give me oral antibiotic?" He said yes, but the injection worked more quickly. I politely declined, and was given some pills to take.

By the next day, I was back training with Teacher Shu, Sun Jin Quan and Yu Chang Lin. One of my last days in Pingyao, one of the Pei Pei told me: "you won 2nd place in your group." It was as simple as that--no award ceremonies, no fanfare; Jindao handed me a red silk- bound folder containing a very large medal and a calligraphy scroll. "What does it say?" I asked Pei Pei. "It says your name, and that you won second place, and the name of the competition, and the date. You won second place, in the foreigner's division."
"What name did they put on it?" I asked.
"Ga-ray" replied Pei Pei, smiling.
Master Zhang came to congratulate me, and I had my picture taken with him, ten pounds lighter, but still proud of my accomplishment (see above photo). I said goodbye to the xingyi boxers and friends that I had made, and went back to Taiyuan for a few more days. In Taiyuan, I continued training with Teacher Shu, and we finished the mantis form.

Sitting in an aisle seat, I glanced back toward China as the plane reached cruising altitude. I had captured, on film and digital videotape, the events of the last month. This trip to China had taken a toll on me, physically, but I was recovered now and returning to America with my 2nd place medal from the international competition--a tribute to my teacher. As my attention turned West, I had no idea that time was not on Mr. Chen's side; that he would begin to teach me even more quickly; that in the next four months, my teacher would begin to accelerate the pace.

Next: A Strong Man Falls

The Opening Ceremony

I hadn't been eating well in Shanxi, for some reason the food did not agree with me; and I didn't realize how dehydrated I was becoming, as a result of the hot cups of water I was given when thirsty and the questionable bottled water I was drinking. Along with the training regimen I had undertaken, and the constant activity, I felt a bug coming on. When I tried to eat the strange food, my stomach would expand like a balloon, after eating a few mouthfuls of rice. When the head chef of the hotel kitchen found out I was not eating, he offered to cook me some "Western Food." He said he had been head chef of a restaraunt in Beijing, and had cooked for many westerners. He asked me to make a list of what kind of food I wanted. I requested macaroni and cheese, grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, french fries, and a few other simple things. The chef returned the list to me, saying he could not make any of those things. Next, I told him that any kind of Western food would be welcomed and appreciated. At lunch time, he was smiling broadly as he hand-delivered me the Western-style food. It was a plate of iceburg lettuce, sliced tomato, pineapple and some kind of soggy potato thing. I ate a few bites of the wilted lettuce, determined to finish the meal but my stomach would not allow it. Immediately I felt full, bloated and uncomfortable and had to stop eating.

As I walked into the stadium for the opening ceremony, the enormity of the event began to register. Hundreds and hundreds of "teams" similar to the Nanjing Xingyiquan Association were filing in, each dressed in the colors of their group or team. I have a video of most of this, which I will post in the future, but I will try to describe the spectacle. Loud patriotic-sounding music was blaring through speakers that filled the stadium, as the athletes, xingyi boxers, taiji performers, and san shou fighters somehow found their spots in the middle of the stadium grass. Jindao was pulling me by the arm and barking questions to officials, before grouping me with a young Chinese girl who was holding a sign with Chinese characters, translated below: USA. After a lot of confusion, yelling, milling around, socializing and announcements of the loud speaker, the music stopped. Then another announcement, followed by a kind of marching music. The girl carrying the USA sign began walking and I was told to follow her as other nation's contingents fell in behind me: Poland, Brazil, Korea, Japan, Macao, etc. We were marching through the stadium, and USA was first in line--and USA consisted of me. As I followed behind the girl, dressed in my black silk brand new kung fu uniform, crowds of people were smiling and waving at me from the sidelines and from the bleachers. About halfway through the circumvention, a distant roar of applause began, and I looked high up into the stands to see the official contingent of tournament officials, government official, and other important dignitaries. They were applauding for me and I raised my right hand up and began to wave back at them, just like I'd seen Olympic athletes do. This gesture seemed to induce a more intensified applause and shouting from them, and I felt my formerly tightened face break into a big smile. Might as well enjoy the moment.

When I reached the place where I had started the parade, I was instructed to stand there. I took out my video camera and filmed the rest of the athletes, kids, teachers and whoever else felt like marching, apparently. Some very serious-looking martial artists walked past, some carrying shoulder bags, swords, spears, knives, poles, chains, guan daos, hooks and almost every kind of Chinese tradional weapon. The Nanjing Xingyiquan Association stepped past, led by Yu Chang Lin with his ever-present teacher by his side. Yu waved to the dias and then turned and saw me there. In a deep booming voice he yelled: "Hey!", smiling as his team filed past me. When all the athletes had paraded past the officials area and been formerly announced, a voice came over the speakers in Chinese. When it was finished, the voice began speaking in English, the speech that Alicia and Pei Pei had written and asked me to fix the grammar. This was followed by fan dancing performances, a huge taiji performance with a couple hundred people doing taiji in unison, then push hands.

I walked around and had my picture taken with Jindao, Teacher Shu, various judges and officials, and my xingyi boxer buddy Sun Jin Quan (see above photo). That night I would step out and demonstrate traditional Shanxi xingyiquan in front of a huge crowd. I kept the image of Mr. Chen in my mind, struggling out of bed to correct my movements; and his daughter Jinling's voice: "Of course you can't win a prize at the competition, because those people have been learning xingyiquan all of their lives." And Mr. Chen's voice: "People will know that you are my student, so if you perform poorly, it will make me look very bad."

Jindao and I returned to the hotel, where I passed out on the bed. When I woke up a couple hours later, Jindao told me to get ready, it was time to go to the competition. The streets were filled with people selling tickets for the competition; vendors hawked kung fu shoes, satin uniforms, t-shirts, soft drinks, snacks. It was about 8 p.m., and probably eighty degrees. We arrived at the gymnasium, I signed a few more papers and showed my credentials and then went inside. I sat up in the stands with Jindao, watching the competiton events unfold. Young children would come up to me and say "haloo", and I would say "hello", then they would say "haloo" followed by my "hello" until Jindao would speak gruffly to them and wave them away. It seemed that there were thousands of people in the gym, and most of them were smoking cigarettes. I almost couldn't breathe, but my time to perform finally came about 2 hours later. Alicia and Pei Pei found me and told me to go stand in line with the others. About twenty of us lined up in front of the judges, and then walked to the side. One-by-one they stepped out and performed, and soon it was my turn. Alicia and Pei Pei told me to go.

I walked to the center of the floor, saluted to the judges and did my xingyiquan. Once I began the form, my mind went somewhere else but I just kept going. Saluted the judges and walked off the floor, taking in the noise, applause and heat. I waited on the side as the judges made their calculations and then held up their signs: 8.6, 8.7, 9,....I couldn't really see the numbers too clearly. After the judges put their signs down, I saluted again and took my place in the stands with Jindao, feeling a great sense of relief.

Next: "The Doctor Says You Must Go To Hospital"

Praying Mantis Master

Alicia and Pei Pei led me to a run-down dormitory building, and we climbed the stairs. Except for the new hotels, none of the buildings in Taiyuan or Pingyao had elevators--Jindao (Mr. Chen's son) lived in an apartment that was six or seven stories up, and the Praying Mantis Kung Fu Master was staying in a room about three or four flights of stairs high. On the way to the teacher's room, I noticed the difference between the hotel where me and the other athletes were staying, and this dormitory. All of the people who were staying in this building were the judges for the competition, all martial arts experts and local Shanxi boxers. They were the forgotten generation, the unwanted, it seemed. Their arts and knowledge would be on display for a couple of weeks in this ancient city, and then it would be forgotten. Shanxi Province would go back to the business at hand, and the young men would not train in the martial arts of antiquity. Everywhere I looked in those cities, groups of boys would be playing basketball using the most beat-up balls, and crates lashed to trees and poles as baskets. Many of the younger kids I met only wanted to talk basketball with me:

"I like the NBA, I like Shaq"
"Do you know Jordan?"
I wanted to talk Chinese traditional martial arts, and they wanted to find out more about the NBA from me.
The Praying Mantis master was called Teacher Shu, and like all the others I met, his cigarette smoke-filled room was crowded with several other men. Teacher Shu was a compact man with a short haircut, probably in his early 30's. He had a friend (another mantis master) whose name I never got, he of the ever-present cigarette and watchful eye when I began learning tanglang quan (the Praying Mantis fist). Teacher Shu told me he had practiced a lot of tanglang quan and placed in national championships, but in the last three years hadn't trained very much. He felt that his mantis fist had slipped considerably but he would try to teach me what he could in the few weeks we had.
"But if you will practice tanglang quan every day for three years, the spirit of the praying mantis will come into you," he said, matter-of-factly. "So, when would you like to begin learning?"
"Any time" I responded, unprepared for his riposte.
"Okay, how about now?" Teacher Shu awaited my response, which I gave him while thinking about my air-conditioned hotel room and new bed.
"Yes, now would be great."

We went outside to the back of the dormitory, searching for a spot where a crowd would not gather to watch what I was doing. Of course this was impossible, and within minutes we had a very sizeable crowd of people who were standing, squatting or leaning to watch the spectacle. I had been a fast learner with Mr. Chen but tanglang quan was unlike anything I had seen. First Teacher Shu helped me into the basic stance (see photo above), easily the most grueling and painful position I've ever adopted in my training. With my front leg at a ninety-degree angle, the burning pain coursed through me like a nasty old friend. I had no energy left, but there was no way I was going to quit or complain--not after the xingyi boxers had complimented my biceps and physical appearance; I was ready for all of this, my chance to learn more. But I could not get the knack of the first and second movements of the mantis form, I kept doing it incorrecty. Each time I would screw it up, several of the onlookers would burst out laughing and commenting to each other in lively tones. I imagined their conversations to go something like this:

"Oh this is too funny! The gwailo (foreign devil) can never learn this--he's too old and clumsy to learn Chinese gung fu..."

About an hour into my first mantis training, I realized it was the most complicated and physically demanding thing I'd ever done. For the next two weeks I would get up at 6 a.m., walk to Teacher Shu's dormitory room (not many taxis at that hour), bang on his door to wake him up, go down into the alley and practice mantis until around 8. Then we would go to breakfast (my appetite was gradually diminishing), then the media interviews, competition events and evening mantis training again, before bed. Teacher Shu moved like no one I had ever seen in my life. The spirit of the mantis had seemingly transformed him, and his forms expressed and alternated between the lightness of a praying mantis perched on a thin branch and a burst of arms and legs that struck out violently from any and all directions before going inward while he crouched and rocked, head tilted and eyes wide open.

It was the coolest thing I'd ever seen, and somehow (deep in my unconscious mind, perhaps?) I knew I'd have to visit death's door to even get a glimpse for myself. This was not ordinary kung fu, and a yeoman effort would be necessary on my part. Dehydration and insufficient nutrition would not get in my way--I was learning Northern Mantis Kung Fu!

Next: Opening Ceremony