The thrill of moving into university was somewhat dampened by how I nearly fell asleep at the wheel while driving there. I think that I had strayed into the breakdown lane three or four times before I arrived at 7AM to shlep my junk into my new abode. Over the last month since then, I have brought a girl to my room, been cheated on by said girl, been locked out of my room at 3am, and been sexiled for all of twenty minutes. I have gone to my first tailgate and hosted several dorm parties. I have taken on too many clubs and flirted with too many women to keep track of either and thus am getting benefits from neither. I’ve acquainted myself with as many people as possible, still can only remember about twenty or forty names. I’ve thus become adept at the art of having conversations without using the anonymous person’s name, also known as “Bullshitting.” Most fantastical of all to me, I’ve found droves of people who know who Josh Groban is and even some who love his music! Forget Chapman University, I think I’ve found the right place.
Here, for me, the social dynamic is somewhat like being in England again, in that I can socialize with most anyone I choose. However, this time it’s not because I’m an American novelty. This time, it’s because these people have, for the most part, grown out of high school and become secure with themselves. They’ve come to terms with addressing their issues, talking to others, and the concept of overlapping social circles. There’s still the occasional petulant child who cannot get over their own magnificence and omniscience or the people who want to be friendly just so that they can drink your booze, but they are easy enough to avoid if they don’t live across the hall or something like that. Otherwise, society has become almost fluid. You want to hang out with the geeks today? Sweet! We’re getting together to watch “Howl’s Moving Castle” tonight! The stoners feel like going stargazing? Come along for a joint that you’ll never smoke! It’s okay! Just hang around with us! If you’re a cool guy, who gives a damn what drugs or drinks you take or abstain from? If you just want to find your niche among people that you feel comfortable with, it’s not too hard. This place is all about clubs, diversity, parties, and individuality, so finding your place doesn’t take long. Oh, and school’s important too.
Just when I thought that I’d found paradise, except for the lack of an explicit film program and real live Pokémon running around campus, I encountered the first flaw of UMass Amherst: They are always doing construction. Note that my roommate and I had taken to keeping our windows open, as the AC was busted and the summer sun was still hammering us with a vengeance. I discovered the glories of the university’s expansion at seven in the morning the first Monday when World War One re-erupted outside of my dorm window. I threw myself out of bed, trying to figure out why tanks were rolling through the university and whether or not that machine gun would start firing at me. Once I realized that I was cowering from the sounds of a backhoe and jackhammer, I noticed that my roommate was looking down at me, still half asleep himself with scrunched eyes and trying to figure out why I was on the ground. “Dude,” he said. “Did you just fall out of bed?”
“Um, nope!” I stuttered. “Just doing my morning pushups!” On the bright side, I now don’t need an alarm clock and I get a good pushup routine first thing every morning. On the other hand, Skyping my friend Hunter Patrick at night makes the next day a bit of a slog.
Over the next few days I realized that much of my “Creative Writing” class revolves around our TA trying to fix the outdated machinery in our classroom, that I’m free to banter with my professor in “Ideas That Change The World,” that I should not take my honors anthropology course too seriously, and that I should take my physics 114 class very seriously (because I just don’t get what he’s teaching us). Then there’s the weekly current events seminar which is mostly run by the students and overseen by the school’s chancellor and a middle-aged professor who we find adorable in an excitable puppy/teddybear sort of way. Oh, and a word to the wise: Even if you’re just shopping around for clubs like I was, don’t even think about experimenting with seven of them at once for any amount of time. I tried them all for about a week before I started having a mental breakdown and something of a conniption fit. Just… don’t do it.
It occurs to me now that, as with my high school Tabor, UMass’s colors are maroon, the campus is larger and more sprawling than usual, there’s freedom to go to town whenever outside of class, and our football team can’t win a game. It’s almost as if destiny had directed me here. I just hope that destiny has something really good waiting for me, because so far I’ve been following the track far too perfectly. Whatever they have in store, the fates seemed determined to keep me from the party scene. As strange as this may seem after my year of debauchery in England, it took an entire month to even start attending “social” events. The first weekend was layered in various club meetings and homework while the second weekend was dominated by auditions. That time, my friends and I tried to get into a frat after my audition ended (which ended much like a burning plane that’s lost its engines might), but it was eleven at night and, despite us being two guys and nine girls, we were denied entry. The frat rat at the door declined us with a sentimental mix of “We’ll only let the hot girls in” and “Tough shit.” Eh. I was in a bad mood anyhow and got to hang out with a cute girl instead. Not a terrible trade!
The next weekend, I needed to attend a gala in Boston celebrating the accomplishments of Sifu Woo, the man who founded the martial arts federation that my dojo is a part of. I don’t care that I didn’t get to go party hardy. Missing that and the hours of driving was totally worth it. I should note now that Sifu Woo’s Hung Gar school is the only one in America recognized by the Chinese government and that he is a member of the Shaolin organization. These guys mean business. Anyhow, they started off the evening with a quick speech and traditional drumming which segued into the Lion Dance. Or at least they tried to segue. Right away, the main drummer’s stick (which is over and inch thick) snapped in half, one end flipping up into the air while the drummer stared in disbelief and dismay at the broken end that he was still grasping. Poor guy. They restarted and I watched the three sinuous, stylized lions weave past each other in a slow stream of colors before moving into the crowd, batting their enormous eyes and standing on their “hind legs,” which involves the student carrying the lion’s head to jump up and stand on the shoulders of his partner.
Afterward, the city counsel recognized Sifu Woo and honored him for his cultural contributions to Boston and Massachusetts. Right after, I watched a man in a tuxedo perform one of the crispest, sharpest, most powerful and deadly looking forms that I have every seen. Go home James Bond, you’ve been outclassed. A representative from California then demonstrated a form. While he was built like a tank, the man moved with enviable fluidity and showed a limberness that I would have associated with men built like scarecrows. Following that, an old man with a fan showed us something much like Tai Chi, every move slow, graceful, and precise. Watching his techniques, however, I began to discern the blocks and strikes in the form and realized that this bit of theory was portraying a kind of brutality that most people would not show in a cinema. The demonstrations continued all night, most more fantastical than the last. Don’t get me started on the woman who had six spears pressed against her chest while another man powdered a cinder block against her back.
Between being awed by the techniques and the phenomenal food, though, my sensei pointed out a man that was shaking the hands of someone across the room.
“You see the old Chinese man in the suit over there?” he asked. I nodded. “He is one of the founding masters of this organization and he’s homeless. He’s been staying in various houses with other masters, but he can’t make enough money with his job or sustain a dojo.”
Horrified, I asked “Have you offered to help him?”
Sensei grimaced and shook his head. “I’ve been trying for years. It just goes to show that there’s not much money to be made from working as a true martial artist. It’s not like those huge chain dojos where you’re advanced every few months for just showing up. That man barely makes enough to keep himself alive and is still one of the best artists in here.”
We continued to laugh and joke the rest of the night, but that conversation made the event much more sombre for me. I looked around and began to wonder how many of these other geniuses and assiduous artists were in such dire straits. I know that my own sensei had struggled for years to balance his life as a nurse with running the dojo before he managed to turn Bridgewater Martial Arts into a non-profit organization due to his work with autistic kids, but that paled in comparison to destitution. Coming back to the laughing, carefree world of university, it was tempting to forget about these starving artists. I returned with unbelievable stories from the demonstrations that my dubious classmates listened to with awe, disbelief, and humor in equal measures. I wonder how they would react if I told them that a man who could show up the head of any American chain dojo was walking the streets of Boston without a penny to his name. They probably wouldn’t believe me.
I do not want to invoke pity for this man. If he is like the other instructors in our organization, then he is proud to be homeless if it means continuing the art that he has dedicated his life to. I’ve heard dozens of jokes about starving artists. I’ve heard the stories of Edgar Allen Poe’s and Van Gogh’s poverty and how they persevered throughout their lives, died without recognition, and became global sensations after their deaths. There is no such hope for a poor martial artist. Unlike writing or painting, there is nothing permanent or tangible that this man can leave behind, especially if he does not have a student or heir to pass his style to. Yet despite knowing how he will not be recognized or appreciated in the way that he deserves, the master continues to practice his art. For that, he is one of the noblest men that I have heard of.
Wow that got heavy. I promise to all of you new readers that I am seldom this gloomy in my blog. If you want more of the typically lighthearted stuff, try looking at when I went to Italy back in late October (“Don’t Trust The Romans”) or when I visited a medieval “fayre” in Wales in January (I think that one was called “Same Old Song And Dance”). I will endeavor to refocus my attention on school happenings and personal observations and try to put a quirky or at least chuckle-worthy spin on things. I will try to make weekly entries (as I promised and failed to do last year), so until then, good night!
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