Chosen family

One late afternoon before karate class in Florida, I bowed and stepped into the dojo. A usually jovial H. sat in the corner of the room. Tears streamed down his face. Our sensei sat next to him listening.

I went up to one of the Karateka who was stretching.

"What happened?" I whispered.

"His house burned. He lost everything except for the little he had in his car."

During the following weeks, I watched how H. sat, a look of blankness on his face, too traumatized to even move. I watched how Karateka conversed with him before and after training, offering their ears, friendship, and practical support. We all chipped in and raised enough money so that H. could buy clothes, a new karategi, and rent a temporary place to carry him through until the fire insurance money came through. Karateka he had met in international workshops in Europe and Asia donated funds too.

Eventually, H. resumed training with us and life returned to his eyes. And eventually, his wonderful sense of humor came back too.

I don't know the details of H.'s family situation. All I know is that he was a black man living in Florida, practicing an Asian martial art with a bunch of white people.

We were his chosen family.

In that dojo, it didn't matter what skin color you had. You belonged. All that was expected was to obey the Dōjō kun, “training hall rules” or “code of morals.”

Going through hardship together creates a bond, the kind of bond servicemen who have gone through tours of duty together talk about.

They say that if you sweat together, you stay together.