Dukkha Unloaded. Loren W. Christensen
see. Well, I’m glad you’re here in my school. As they probably told you, I’ve been away in Vietnam taking a vacation.”
He nods, his eyes watching me, studying me, not blinking. I can’t tell if there is a reason for it or it’s just the way he is. He’s got the stoic Indian stereotype down, but there’s something brewing behind his eyes.
“I know of your …” His eyes are searching mine now, moving from my left one, to my right one, and back to my left one.
“What?” I urge.
Still without looking away, he takes a deep breath, exhales it.
“Your situation,” he says tightly. Then in one exhalation, he rattles, “I know about your situation. I followed it on the news and in the paper. I wanted to study with you because of what happened to you, and because so many said you’re a good teacher.”
His eyes narrow a little, as if trying to read my reaction. Well, I’m not going to reveal anything. He wants to train at my school because of what happened to me? What the hell?
“You’re going to have to explain, Nate. Why would my unfortunate actions be cause for you to want to study with me?”
For the first time he looks off to the side, blinking rapidly. He looks back, his eyelashes wet. He doesn’t seem to care if I see.
His voice is tight again, as if he’s holding his breath as he speaks. “Because something similar, but different, happened to me.”
Nate’s prominent cheekbones have taken on sharper lines and the skin across his broad forehead seems tighter than a few moments ago. His deep-set eyes reflect confusion, sorrow, and … I’m not sure what the other thing is. It’s similar to how my grandfather looked at me as he was nearing death from congestive heart failure. He wasn’t the sort of man to beg for anything, not even for his life. But there was something in his eyes, a beseeching, a need he had no control over.
“Did something happen in Afghanistan,” I ask. “Or Iraq? Something you think is similar to what happened to me?”
Nate looks at me for a long moment before nodding ever so slightly. “Similar.”
I wait for him to elaborate but he only looks at me. I can’t tell if he wants me to ask him questions or drop the subject.
“Do you have Indian blood in your family?” he asks.
I smile, partly because of the abruptness of his question and partly out of relief he changed the subject.
“Funny you should mention it, Nate. I haven’t thought about it in a long time, but my mother told me we have some Hopi blood on her side of the family. A great-great-grandfather or something.”
I wish I hadn’t said “or something.” Makes it sound as if my Indian heritage, however small it is, isn’t important to me. Maybe it isn’t; I never think about it. But now because I’m sitting with someone who appears to have a lot of Indian blood, I’m feeling uncomfortable.
“Hopi means peaceful ones, peaceful people. It’s from Hopituh Shi-nu-mu. Did you know?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t.” Why do I feel I need to apologize? Oh, I know why, because I’m ignorant about the blood pumping through my own veins.
“I am one hundred percent Apache. The word is a collective for six tribes from the Southwest. I am Chiricahua Apache. And no, I’m not related to Geronimo or Cochise. But I possess their warrior nature.”
I bet he does. He has an aura in constant flux. One moment it emanates a sense of peace and in the next, it radiates … sorrow? And there is some agitation. Right now, I see something else, something I’ve seen in our veteran SWAT guys, in my father, and in the old Vietnamese soldiers I met in Saigon. The aura communicates I don’t want to fight, but if I have to, someone’s going to be in a world of hurt. It’s an attitude I know well.
“What do you do now?” I ask.
“I’ve taken all the tests for the Portland Fire Department and I’m waiting to get hired. I’m told it could be anytime.”
“Really? Very good career choice.” I smile at him. “Didn’t want to take the police test, huh?”
He shakes his head. “Had enough of guns.”
I hear that.
* * *
“Everyone feeling good? Everyone feeling loose?”
“Yes, Sensei!”
“All right. Pair up and do a little light sparring. Don’t try to kill your partner but be mindful of moving in and out of range, working your combinations, using body movement to avoid your partner’s blows, and using efficient counters. Got it!”
“Yes, Sensei.”
“Glad you’re back, Sensei,” comes from the back of the group. Laughter follows.
“Thank you. Glad to be back. Now get busy.”
These are my brown belts, two dozen of them and four soon-to-be browns. I’ve always said the most dangerous martial arts students are hungry brown belts. They’ve been at it for over three years and because they’re closing in on their promotion, they train like they’re possessed; eager to prove to each other and to me, they are black belt worthy to each other and to me. Because I’ve been away for a while, these guys are extra eager to show me they haven’t been slacking off.
Nate asked if he could train with the brown-belt class tonight because he had an appointment and couldn’t stay for the following black-belt class. I said sure, plus it would give me a chance to see him move and see how he treats lower belts. I’ve had black belts from different systems ask to train with my students. There have been a few who possessed excellent skills but treated my lower ranks with disdain. Those I’ve asked not to come back. The ones who are always welcome are those black belts who are kind to my lower ranks, act humble around my black belts, and listen to my suggestions. Nate appears to be one of these.
As a kenpo stylist, he wears black pants as we do, and he’s purchased a black T-shirt from Adam, my senior black belt in charge of supplies. Nate’s belt isn’t old and tattered but it isn’t brand new, either. The ends display two stripes depicting he’s a second degree. He didn’t mention it when we were chatting earlier. That’s a big plus for Nate.
He and Steve have partnered up and are moving about swapping techniques at a nice, controlled pace. Steve is in his late twenties, a little over six foot and skinny as a bo staff. However, it would be a mistake to think skinny equates to weak because Steve is deceptively strong. He’s tried everything to put on size but instead he gets stronger and stronger, which isn’t the worst thing to happen. He’s been training off and on for about four years, mostly on for the last year.
Nate is doing a nice job of controlling his speed and aggression but I can tell he’s itching to release it. His expressionless face is in direct contrast with Steve’s constant smile that spreads even wider whenever he launches a cool move and likewise when Nate throws something nice. Steve likes a good move no matter who does it.
I can see Nate’s hand skills are his forte with his kicks coming in a distant second. His front, round, side, and hook kicks aren’t bad, they just don’t shine as brightly as his precisely delivered hand combinations and his near flawless body mechanics. He’s had good training from a teacher who stressed hands over legs.
“Stop!” I call out. “Okay, everyone looks great. You’ve been practicing hard while I was away, and it shows. I’m proud of you. Any questions?”
Billy Bob raises his hand with phony eagerness to which everyone smiles except Nate who doesn’t know what is going on. Every class has their funny man. Mine is tall, lanky and redheaded William Appleton—“Billy Bob”—born and raised in Mississippi.
“Dare I ask, Billy Bob?”
“My question,