PBJJ Blog: Lessons from my Teachers
“I did not fight to win. I fought to discover what was real.” – Yuki Nakai
Over my BJJ career, I’ve had the privilege of being exposed to incredible athletes, coaches and teachers. Looking back, I regret being too young and immature at the time to properly express gratitude for their attention. My teachers have been so vital to my growth. Some of them were and still are -– bigger than life. Others were silent partners or trusted guides throughout my journey. My ethos as a practitioner and teacher stem from the many who invested in me. I wanted to take a moment to share what their presence has taught me as I hope we can continue to share these positive values with you at Princeton BJJ.
As a curious and impressionable 19 year old growing up in Vancouver, BC, I stumbled into BJJ in 1999 at the suggestion of my friend Roy Duquette. It was quite underground at the time and there were only a couple places where it was taught in the lower mainland. Roy and I had met years earlier working as camp leaders at a local community center. As a personal trainer and passionate martial artist, he helped me navigate through the different disciplines when I didn’t even know what groundfighting was. Roy took me under his wing and helped me venture into combat sports by introducing me to Boxing, Sambo and BJJ. Once I found my footing in grappling, he invested a lot of his energy into my progress. I was bursting with motivation and hungry to learn as much as I could. I would show up and Roy helped mold my discipline.
Six months into training, I competed at a local tournament at the urging of Roy and my teammates. I was the lightest and most junior competitor in a bracket of three—139 lbs facing a 154 lb blue belt and a 184 lb white belt. I won both matches. I had no idea what I’d accomplished, but Roy pulled me aside, put his hands on my shoulders, and said, “Holy s***. You are going to be a world champion one day.” Never did I ever imagine being world class at anything, but Roy planted a seed that changed my life. He inspired me to believe in the impossible.
In those early days, it was hard to disentangle grappling from Vale Tudo and MMA. Denis Kang (Spirit MC and Pride) was an up and coming MMA fighter and BJJ brownbelt. I was among his first students when he began teaching in the basement of a Muay Thai school called the Golden Lion. Not uncommon for the time, I was the only girl and often one of two students on the mat when he first started his program. Back then, hygiene, interpersonal etiquette and other niceties were pushed aside in favor of a very raw and primal connection to your sport and teammates. The landscape was very tribal and I was terrified of being seen as weak or unwilling. As someone who desperately wanted to get better and be accepted, I suffered a lot to fit in. While chasing after his own dreams as a middleweight fighter, Denis gave me as much attention as anyone. Denis was genuinely funny, kind, and generous. During my years with him I would fight anyone, anywhere, to just have the opportunity to lock up with someone like me. When I couldn’t find females, I was given opportunities to fight men. The courage or stupidity I had in my youth helped me build the tenacity that would serve me in the years to come. Throughout this time, I recall how Denis took me seriously and made me feel like I belonged during a hostile stage of our sport’s development.
I moved to New York to pursue fine arts on a student work visa in the summer of 2000. My BJJ passion led me to the original Renzo Gracie Academy on 38th street. Known for his incredible feats in Pride, UFC, and ADCC, Renzo was widely credited for never forgetting anyone’s name and being one of the most charismatic characters in the scene. His academy was a stable of ambitious, hardcore fighters—local talent mixed with a steady stream of Brazilians. Sean Williams, John Danaher, and Magno Gama were on staff. During those early years when everyone was an animal, you had to be tough and very possibly slightly crazy to survive. In the middle of a sweat ridden warzone, Renzo was like the sun. If he turned his gaze on you, he always remembered your name and made you feel special. Training amongst that early wave of Brazilians, it was kind of an honor to receive a little nickname. It’s uncommon to hear now, but back then it was something so many of us gringos may have hoped for. He called me “Emily – tough as nails”. Anytime I am reminded of him, I hear his voice calling me out. Moving between Vancouver and NY for some years, I was thrilled when he pounded my back with my blue belt one holiday season. It’s a special memory for me to know that one of the legendary pioneers of our sport recognized my first promotion. Over the years, he’s always acknowledged me when we cross paths. He taught me the power of seeing people and being fully present. His attention always felt genuine and he made the sport very human for me.
In 2004 I found myself in Tokyo teaching English, unable to return to NY on a student visa. I was miserable living in Japan. The culture was not what I expected it to be. Being half Japanese and half Chinese, I had hoped to get in touch with my Japanese roots. Instead, I felt ostracized and outcast. Faraway from home and invisible to other foreign teachers because I blended in with the locals, I felt extremely isolated and unwelcome. BJJ saved my sanity as I threw myself deeply into competition. It was the only place I felt I belonged. I took any fight available—gi, no gi, fighting men when no women were available, and MMA. After dominating several local BJJ events, my friend Kinya Hashimoto suggested I try MMA. I’d always told myself to try anything once, so I accepted.
The teacher who helped me through this time was a man by the name of Takashi Ouchi, a brown belt under Yuki Nakai. Ouchi-san devoted himself tirelessly to his students. Since I taught evening English classes, he created a 10:30-11:30pm class during weeknights for me and three foreign teacher friends. We always rushed to catch the last train home at 12:14am. Ouchi-san followed me to every tournament, hit pads with me, and brought experienced MMA fighters to help me train. Fighting amateur in Japan and pro in Korea, I won both matches representing Team Paraestra. It was one of the hardest years of my life. Ouchi modeled a level of selflessness and bushido few can compare to, providing support when I desperately needed it. I don’t think I could have mentally survived that year without his help.
Returning to the tristate in 2006, BJJ had become more than a hobby—it was the only thing that mattered. I threw myself into competition as a purple belt, traveling up and down the east coast winning at NAGA and Grappler’s Quest Tournaments. In 2007, I naively participated in the World Championships (Mundials) the first year it came to the United States. Surprisingly, I won Gold in the Adult Middleweight Brown/Black Division against two long time practitioners and ambassadors of the sport. In 2010, I won the Adult No Gi World Championships. Though women’s divisions were beginning to open up, there were still very few women on the scene. It was during my travels to and from IBJJF competitions in California that I met Tatiana Garcia, who became one of my closest friends and best training partner ever. Part of the earliest generation of competitive females beginning in 1998, Tati was someone my size and level who could push me technically and strategically. It was incredible to have a training partner and friend who understood me so deeply. Training with her were some of the gnarliest yet most delightful times of my athletic career. Tati is also the wife of the legendary Marcelo Garcia, who taught me what commitment really looks like. I thought I loved the sport, but Marcelo showed me he loves it more—loves it best. He loves it so much he’s dedicated his entire life to it. While I’ve certainly dedicated much of myself, I feel that my interests and passions have been broader in action. Marcelo showed me what “all in” really looks like, how much higher my bar could be. He made me respect the sport’s purity of expression.
Today, I continue learning from others and am fortunate to share what I know. As the sport evolves, I reflect on the people and places who made me. As the world turns faster with ever-increasing options, it’s important to pause and remember those who’ve given us pieces of themselves. Where would we be without them? How did they influence our growth?
At Princeton BJJ, we’ve tried to cultivate a community of good humans with perspectives to share. We have diverse representation in age, gender, and pedigree. We value the whole journey, not just one expression of it. I’d like to think we provide a welcoming space for humans to build a practice around self-awareness, discipline, and focus. Without dogma, perhaps we can also provide what my teachers passed down to me: inspiration, belonging, visibility, bushido, friendship, and purity of the art.