An Uchideshi Experience: Chapter Twelve
The English Patient
Sensei was out of town again, so Sheila was in charge. After teaching a long string of classes, she was too tired to talk in an indirect manner. Instead, she cut right to the chase.
“Roy, you see that woman sitting in the chair?” We both looked over to the visitors viewing area, where an attractive, dark-haired woman in her early thirties was waiting. “Well, she’s going to have to stay here tonight, because if she doesn’t, she’s going to end up in a park or sleeping outside somewhere. And…” she hesitated for second, weighing the conflict between additional information and confidentiality, “and that’s all I can tell you right now,” she shrugged, with a hint of exasperation in her voice.
“No problem. I totally understand,” I replied, before reassuring her that I would do everything I could to offer assistance. Obviously, the first thought to enter my mind was that this woman was the victim of domestic violence. It seemed logical that she would seek the sanctuary of a martial arts school, especially one with such a warm, family atmosphere, where she knew she’d be protected. I’d have probably done the same thing had I been in her position.
She seemed nice enough, this pretty woman with an English accent, so whether it was sharing food or lending her clothes, I did whatever I could to offer aid and support. She stayed in the tatami room, which in comparison to the loft, is the crème de la crème of dojo life.
It’s not really surprising, but one night turned into a couple of days, and a couple of days turned into a few weeks. She couldn’t go back to England because there was threat of bodily harm revolving around a mysterious lawsuit, and she couldn’t work, because she didn’t have a green card. It should go without saying that she didn’t have any money, so she was just hanging out at the dojo, trying to extend her holiday in America, or whatever it was she was up to.
It only took few days to get wise to her, and I was forthright in expressing my distrust to Sheila. Sheila felt obligated to give her the benefit of the doubt, which I understood, but continued to keep her eyes and ears open as well.
Francesca was a true dichotomy. She had a face that made you want to believe, and a mouth that spewed lies you just couldn’t. Having seen for myself her utter lack of athletic ability and coordination, I had a hard time buying her tale of surviving an assault by two men in an alley, much less catching the weapon one was wielding in mid-strike with her hands. To be fair, this was back when she was “working undercover in a Belgian strip club,” so I assume her femme fatale skills were current at that time.
Her covert–op training was paying heavy dividends in her current situation, as she displayed her mastery of psychological warfare. Francesca was heading up a disturbing disinformation campaign; tarring my name with the wickedest deeds.
Francesca would pull students aside at the dojo and described the unspeakable: I would rise in the dead of night, go out on the deck, and with malicious conviction, I would crush snails under my feet. Yes, under cover of blackness, I would lord my dominance over the lesser beings, stomping my weight on their thin shells. Apparently I enjoyed it, too.
Several students approached me about this and similar assertions, and I loathed her more and more. Nevertheless, I was told to give her private lessons in order to get her up to speed, so she could join the uchideshi program. If she was going to be living in the dojo, she had to train, and given her current level of skill and coordination, she’d never make it through the regular classes.
I was less than thrilled about this forced interaction. Despite doing my best to remain cordial and offer concise, efficient instruction, I can’t deny that the thought of snapping her little wrists like the shell of a snail seemed appealing. She was putting an earnest effort out there to learn what I was offering, though, and by the end of my tutorial, she could approximate the strikes, but still never really got the hang of the rolls. Close enough for me.
Sensei came back into town and was briefed on the situation. Instructing class that night, he had us running through our usual warm-up sequence, including extended rolls. Francesca usually sat out for this portion of the warm-up, but on that particular night, she ran toward the pad everyone had been jumping over, halted just before hitting it, and looked directly at Sensei. Sensei immediately told her to do it, to roll over the pad, and she launched herself into the air, actually completing a partial rotation, before landing squarely on her head. Everyone’s heart skipped a beat as we watched her literally bounce off her skull and then stumble to her feet.
That could have been it right there. Not only was that the kind of fall that could have left her paralyzed, but had she been injured, she could have sued the dojo and that could have been the end of Seibukan Jujutsu. I’m certain she hadn’t signed any kind of liability release, and I know for a fact that she never paid a dime for her uniform, lessons, or accommodations. Maybe she could have added another lawsuit to her collection and gone international.
Luckily she was unharmed, and before long, as the vibe in the dojo turned against her, she found her next meal ticket and moved on. She preyed upon one of the nicest students at the dojo, probably worked her undercover Belgian strip club charms, and accepted his invitation to move in. What happened after that, I don’t know, but it was well over a year before I ever saw him again. I never talked to him about Francesca. I’m sure his memories of her are even more painful than mine.
There’s something about a dojo, especially Seibukan, which makes it easy to spot scammers, egos, and the like. I think it’s the white mat, clear open spaces, and minimalist approach of Japanese design that serves as an easy base for contrast, because unlike the outside world, there aren’t a million distractions diminishing your sensitivity. Dirt’s hard to see on a sidewalk, but easily spotted in a clean room. Without obstruction in an open dojo, energy is allowed to reverberate freely, so on a nonverbal, intuitive level, you can subtly feel when someone has a hidden agenda, massive ego, or is just a little bit off. You know something’s wrong. It’s definitely there, even if you can’t put your finger on it.
Even though the dojo may make it easier to discern the wicked and the weird, that doesn’t mean they aren’t welcomed or given an opportunity. A dojo will never be a perfect place because it’s constantly giving students the benefit of the doubt, allowing all to try and improve themselves through the discipline of martial arts. If you’re there for the wrong reason, just know that it’s readily apparent. If you start with the wrong reason for joining a dojo, but stay with it long enough, you may be surprised how your original focus will have shifted to something more substantial, and ultimately, more beneficial. Maybe all Francesca needed to do was stick with it and continue training. I’m sure it would have ironed out a few issues on some level, but if she doesn’t want to train, then that’s fine too. I have no qualms about that. Whatever she wants, man… just keep her away from me.