First Contact

After he witnessed a violent, hate-based attack on his partner, my friend started studying karate.  Almost immediately after beginning karate my friend transformed entirely into someone with more confidence, a greater sense of self, even more humble and collected than he already was. 

A couple of years ago my friend invited me to visit and attend a free self-defense seminar where he practices.  The day before the class we had a talk about what the risks were of becoming re-traumatized by memories of past violence, how I would take care of myself if I got stuck in that head-space, and who in the dojo would be able to help me through in case it became too difficult for me to take on by myself.

The biggest complication of the seminar was finding ways to adapt the moves to my disability, so that I didn't injure myself further while trying to defend myself.  I came out of that day with a new sense of self, impressed with what my body could do when it had a little guidance and adaptation.  As someone with a disability, being a clear target is always in the back of my mind when I am noticeably limping in the city, or using my wheelchair.  This course made me feel like my body is worth fighting for.  It was the first physical thing I had done since my diagnosis a few years earlier.

Fast-forward to present day.  It's taken me two years to find a karate dojo that I could feel comfortable joining, with a sensei who would be able to handle teaching a student with multiple disabilities--namely Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS) and unilateral deafness.  The first encounter went like this:

   Scene: Grocery store salad bar. 7pm Friday night.  A man wearing a sweatshirt with a karate logo fixes his    supper.
   Me: Excuse me, I noticed your sweatshirt, are you a teacher?
   Sensei: Yes, I am.
   Me: All my joints dislocate.  Will you teach me anyway?
   Sensei: Come in tomorrow at 8am.

His face was stunned when I showed up, but he had a grin on his face that told me he understood my green enthusiasm.  I stayed at the dojo all morning, evaluating my health, background, goals, challenges, commitments, support.  I watched students practice and scrutinized my own body, wondering if I would really be able to keep my joints from spiraling out of control, and if I would be able to accommodate in case the answer was no.

The paperwork asked if I was willing to commit to six months of my best possible health (paraphrased).  I wrote several sheets of notes down first, to make sure I could honestly check the box marked YES.  The notes said what my challenges and strengths were, and how I would get through the complications of EDS.

If you've ever explained EDS to someone you've seen their eyes glaze over with judgment of some sort, somewhere between you poor thing! and okay, wacko. 

 A made-for-daytime-TV moment:
   Office manager: We need to be sure that you will be able to keep yourself from getting hurt, dislocating joints or passing out.
   Me: If I could do that, we wouldn't be having this conversation.  Those things are all going to happen, and probably often at times.  The question is whether or not you're willing to stick with me, help me through, and continue teaching me when it does.  This is my choice, I'm only getting sicker, so I would like to do this.

Another tear-jerker:
Sensei: Some of us have disabilities that are clearly visible.  For some of us, if what was in our hearts were visible, we would be just as disabled.

Another hour passed by as I helped with Japanese language work and offering to transliterate the students' names.  After one more round of observation and scrutiny I made my way home, eager to share my discoveries with my incredibly supportive wife.  I was thrilled, and she was thrilled.

The most important lesson from this day is that I astonished myself.  As I explained my situation I noticed that I have come a long way.  I can talk about where I come from without collapsing; physiology is everyday language and knowledge for me; my approach to self-advocacy draws courage out from others who are afraid to engage the world of disability.

So ends the first visit.

Be well.