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I’m in the Citizen’s Gymnasium behind the baseball stadium quietly looking up from the epicenter. The matted floor hosts about 400 people in the five sections of competitions. There are about 1500 people walking in and out of the front doors, through the narrow hallways of noisy anticipation. I couldn’t sleep that night. The wakeup call was at five, to leave at seven and arrive at eight. To my right, the honorary section holds about 50 founders and professors along with police academy personnel and military. Underneath, the special five foot wreaths adorn the 15 foot-long trophy section. The elements and light are filtered through cloth and banners. I’m in love with the room full of different colors, variations and expressions of both conformity and individuality in a uniform. That corner belongs to the white stripes, this one is the only uniform in red, and of the four gyms that chose white, one etches the students name on the back, the other has red lettering and the rest are black. My mouth is dry but I resist, knowing anticipation can overwhelm any stomach.

I step away from the competitive vibe to observe. How did I get here in front of hundreds of years of tradition and interpretation? How was I so lucky to see high leaps past a barricade of 15 people, kicks 12 feet high softly landing into kneeling position that bow for grace and humility? How was I so blessed, an immigrant from la Alameda where my grandma and I crossed the city’s black water canals to reach the market every day, to witnessing/participating in a tradition and power hundreds of years old living and breathing? How did I get here on the blue tatami floor looking up, breathing in, screaming out, following my dreams at 30, exploring life?

My ears listen desperately for my name, filtering words because I don’t want to let my master down, get lost or attract attention…as if the only foreign, brown female in a bright orange gi could be overlooked. So, I try to remain anonymous: always quiet, while communication comes to me in the most efficient way possible and the past speaks to me. Every country I’ve been to, I have a teacher and a community of friends. Though it was not easy to find a martial arts teacher that would invest their time in me or work outside their language, I have found many. Yes, they all share a love of the arts, for the skill, endurance and peace it brings into their life, but from my perspective they share many more qualities. They share a nobility and faith in the arts and themselves to want to see everyone excel. My sensei in Houston is a cancer survivor, adamant to keeping the dojo in the community and one of his students is blind. They have great poise and goofy smiles that never brag or boast but welcome everyone open hearted. My sensei in Colombia has traveled the world with his art and is the sole traditional jujitsu dojo in a city of 2 million people. But most of all, they share a great sense of justice and accountability to their physical world and community of the martial arts. My kwanjamin in Korea named his gym bright light to let everyone know it was a place of honesty and principles. Nobility, faith, poise, honesty, justice and accountability, are traits that I have earned and refined from years in the arts because of my teachers. They are people who talk to me and help me see my self worth by making me better. People who go past the monetary rewards to give me self-confidence, challenges, and pride in my accomplishments. People who don’t misjudge character going beyond a five foot brown female but an individual that can. I’m aware of them, myself, and who and what I represent every where I go.

The competitions begin. I sit in line asking my breath to relax all the muscles in my body and release any competitive hesitations or fears. I won fourth place. Its a great start to next year’s gold medal.

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