I Was My Teacher's Favorite. I Still Didn't See Her Coming.

What was my first impression of her?

Nothing.

I didn’t even notice she was there.

Not because she lacked presence, but rather because of where I was.

The early years of the dojo were close and intimate, ten students max on an average night of training.

There was nowhere to go to escape the gaze of the teacher, corrections were often done personally, with everybody having a chance to be uke.

Then something happened.

What exactly I can’t say, and out of curiosity I’ve spent a good amount of time trying to figure out what changed in that moment, as it changed the trajectory of the dojo.

All of a sudden people started showing up asking to train.

The dojo didn’t advertise, it was deliberately difficult to find, and one could pass by the building twice without ever knowing it was there.

Maybe it was the movies, or the release of a book?

Something on social media?

They started coming.

The training room filled up fast in the first two months, before spreading to the second room used for visitors, the hallway connecting the two, and even the storage area.

Ten or so became sixty on a slow night.

Training stayed the same, but it also changed.

Senior students were assigned to keep track of each room, groups of two sometimes became groups of three.

The teacher had less time to correct, so one had to be more attentive.

It was at that time that I became the only uke used by the teacher.

Patterns started to develop.

I’d be in the receiving room of the dojo practicing with my partner and the teacher would call out next from the main training room as students would stop and filter back to the main room.

Class time was precious so I’d quickly make my way through the crowd to the center of the dojo, throw an attack and receive the technique from the teacher as everybody watched.

Did everybody understand?

Great, go practice.

I’d often be left trying to figure out what happened.

As the students continued to arrive, I became more selfish.

Not everybody had the same reasons for being there, different levels of commitment and vision, and while the custom was to practice with everybody as much as possible each class, I secretly did the opposite as I didn’t have time to waste with casuals.

I had my core crew of five guys who also agreed with my sentiments of not wasting time on people who won’t even be here in a few weeks once they realized what the dojo actually demanded of them.

We formed a secret pact to make sure that when everybody was called back to the main room to observe the next technique we would position ourselves next to each other so when it was time to partner up we were good to go.

There was an element of risk to it.

It violated one of the rules of the dojo.

As I was the most senior of our little group I would be the one to deal with it if we were discovered.

If.

With so many new students at the dojo the senior students would never know as they had to contend with the logistics of it all.

Next.

I weaved and made my way through the crowd stepping out to the center of the room, pausing for a moment across from my teacher before I attacked him.

Something captured my arm, something slammed into my ribs, and my body worked to turn itself so I wouldn’t land on my face.

I took to the ground as eloquently as I could as my body seized and locked up.

The weight of my teacher pinning my body and taking my breath away.

Each and every time I was genuinely surprised that I didn’t get him.

The pain held steady for a moment as he began to talk to the class, explaining an important point. I tried to listen to pick it up, but my focus was on just steadying my breath to hold out against the pain.

A sudden release, a friendly slap on the back, and students were already pairing up to practice.

Sitting up, one final deep breath to clear things, and a backwards roll to stand up.

My crew was gone, and everybody else around me was already practicing back and forth.

Everyone but her.

She was standing a few feet across from me with no emotion on her face.

It would have been easy to say it was her long hair that framed her face and her olive skin that I noticed first.

Or that it was her uniform perfectly creased and belt perfectly tied flat.

But it was her posture underneath all of it.

Perfect, straight, and carried with an attention that was not martial arts.

No introduction, no slight nod, just a punch aimed at my face entering the space and my body moving out of the way as I asked myself a question.

Who the hell is this woman, and what is she doing here?