They’re Just Tricks

I was disappointed.

I'd worked pretty hard to learn the curriculum for my Shodan and could present it well above what the grade required. And in my mind, I'd played out that I would be receiving at least my Shodan rank (equivalent to 1st degree black belt) before moving away.

I had not expected this.

All the other students received a certificate of rank. Like a black belt certificate of the system of jujutsu he taught, but that was not going to be for me.

"Jun-kun," he said, using my Japanese name as he always did.

We were sitting in one of the side rooms of his home, a small room with tatami mats... a tokonoma (alcove - 床の間) on one side with a kakejiku (hanging scroll - 掛軸) and some flowers arranged by his wife, and a low table on the other.

The room had that scent of dried grass - like hay, that always brought me back to my childhood - emanating from the tatami.

The air was heavy.

Or maybe it was just my mood.

It was the last day with my teacher. I was moving and distance made it impossible to keep training with him.

On the small table he had placed a small box, I recognized it as a kiribako (桐箱), a wooden box to hold scrolls. He presented me the scroll, a makimono (巻物), wrapped in silk and said:

"I am not going to give you rank. But I will give you this scroll. A record of transmission of the techniques you’ve been taught," as he pointed to the list of techniques written on the delicate paper. It was written by hand and his hanko (seal - 判子) on it.

He wasn't being his jovial self.

More serious. More formal.

He could see I was crestfallen. I’d earned it.

I’d played out that moment in my head. So many times. The ceremony. The quiet nod of approval. The certificate. Maybe even something like pride.

Instead, I got a scroll.

Not rank. Not Shodan.

A list.

Yeah, it was handwritten and beautiful. With his hanko stamped in red.

But I hated how disappointed I was.

Not at him.

At myself.

In that moment, I realized I didn’t want “transmission.”

I wanted recognition.

That’s the part that stung.

And losing face in front of my teacher wasn't what I had in mind for the last day in his presence.

He said nothing for a minute, then cleared his throat and explained to me that he did not want me to focus on rank... but rather the knowledge.

And that he had taught me much more curriculum than I was ready for.

He continued, "practice these kata, as much as you can, until they reveal themselves to you."

In his world, the techniques – the waza, were used interchangeably with the word kata.

He used a word I’ve turned over many times since that afternoon.

Chie (智慧). A kind of wisdom.

We had just finished lunch service. It had been a mess.

Waves of people streaming in. One after another. The tickets kept coming.

I could feel the sweat running down my back under the chef coat. My hands shaking. Nerves fraying.

I wasn't ready for this.

She stood just behind me. Watched over my shoulder. Giving instructions in Japanese...

"Too slow."

"Move earlier."

"You need to be more fast."

Reaching for the next ticket before the first one had settled. Hearing her voice in my ear. Getting confused.

It felt endless.

Then it stopped.

She was this small yet fierce Japanese woman – a lady that had won the California's best sushi chef title. That's rare enough, but in Japanese culinary culture it's almost unheard of. Traditional sushi kitchens are strict, male-dominated places… the kind where women aren't even encouraged to start, let alone rise.

She ignored all of it.

She put in the years, the cuts on her fingers, the long days behind the counter. She earned the respect of people who weren't used to giving it. Then started her own restaurant.

The place was small. With a tiny sushi bar.

I was her apprentice, and she had put me at the bar.

She didn’t mention what I’d done wrong.

I began cleaning to get ready to prep for dinner service starting in a few hours.

I was tired.

Sensei had walked away and into the kitchen.

"Jun Kun, come here."

It snapped me out of my brooding.

"Yes, sensei," I replied and shuffled into the kitchen.

It was a tight space, and hot. The line cook, John – a Mexican dude who could cook Japanese food with the best of them – was already sitting in the back resting.

She was cooking something.

Nimono (煮物).

A Japanese stew. With veggies, tofu and usually seafood gently simmered in a savory, slightly sweet broth.

She stood over the pot and began explaining. Assembling the broth first... then the ingredients to allow the "taste to blossom". Her words, not mine.

I stood watching. Taking mental notes.

As I sat and ate the dish, I thought back to what she had said...

The students had just left. We were at the YMCA gym, where we had been teaching for a couple of years, going over details on a Kenpo form we'd been working on with the class.

Sensei had been a lifelong martial artist. Trained with GM Ed Parker at his school in Pasadena, and years later trained with Professor William "Thunderbolt" Chow in Hawaii – the progenitor of modern Kenpo Karate traditions in America after being introduced to him by his Gung Fu teacher in the Bay area.

The form in question was one he had learned directly from the "Professa" and one of his senior students.

This was one of the few forms we taught in the system, and we constantly worked on it, breaking out principles and "tricks" – technical applications – from the form.

I had gone over the first section of the form thoroughly, paired it with partner practice, and Sensei and I were discussing how the various applications we taught came to be.

"Professa had us do the form over and over," he explained.

“And then he would teach the 'tricks'.”

When he'd come back for the following class, he'd ask Professor Chow about one of the applications he had been taught prior.

"Don't rememba'," he'd say…

"no matta' – they're just tricks," he'd continue.

And they'd go back to the form.

When Sensei had pressed him, he told him: "Practice the forms – it will show itself."

It was as simple as that.

I had heard the story before. Many times.

First time was at the Youth Center where I had initially become a student… the place shut down a decade later. It was pretty run down by then… then to the backyard, then to the church rec center and to the YMCA - a place that no longer stands after the wildfires that took so much of Southern California in January 2025.

My student exhaled loudly… the familiar sound of pain when the joint lock finds its home.

Last night, my students and I, worked on some of the techniques my jujutsu sensei listed on the scroll I received decades ago.

I don’t teach it exactly the way he taught them anymore… I used to.

Starting with the suwariwaza, the seated techniques done from seiza – seated on the floor in the traditional way the Japanese sit. With all the formalities - reigi (礼儀), the kiai (気合) – the spirit yell to signify the end of some of the techniques… and all the traditionally prescribed attacks.

The pain when sensei and my sempai – my seniors slammed the joint locks on, was excruciating.

But the context of the class these days is different. The culture is different.

But the essence is still there, I think. The same angles. The same principles. Even the things underneath the technique that he was perhaps pointing towards when he said to practice until it reveals itself.

Decades later. Different mats. Different students. Different context.