By Liz
I remember when I was an energetic and spastic white belt with a naive heart full of hope and eyes full of wonder for the world of jiujitsu. I was like a recently inducted member of a secret cult; or perhaps a new lover eager to please; or an addict needing a fix. I recall lining up in rank order at the end of the queue, and sometimes I would lean my head forward just an inch and sneak a look out of the corner of my right eye. Outstretched before me was a long row of colorful belts like they were mocking me and saying, “You are literally THE worst.”
I remember when I was an energetic and spastic white belt with a naive heart full of hope and eyes full of wonder for the world of jiujitsu. I was like a recently inducted member of a secret cult; or perhaps a new lover eager to please; or an addict needing a fix. I recall lining up in rank order at the end of the queue, and sometimes I would lean my head forward just an inch and sneak a look out of the corner of my right eye. Outstretched before me was a long row of colorful belts like they were mocking me and saying, “You are literally THE worst.”
I remember when I was a white belt, I idolized the blue belts like they were demigods. The purple belts? They were (are) practically gods. The brown and black belts? I won’t even mention those gods of gods. (I am not worthy! *kowtows* I am not worthy!)
When I rolled with blue belts, their technique dominated mine. They could fold me into a pretzel, armbar me in their sleep, and pass my guard before I even got in guard. They had fancy techniques I’d never seen and could manipulate my limbs like it was their job. They seemed so experienced, so COOL. They were the eighth graders in middle school, the cool kids in the cafeteria, the seniors in high school. They seemed untouchable to me. They were what I wanted so badly to be. They gave me advice, and I hung on to every word. They intimidated me with their skill and experience, and with their jokes, handshakes, nods, and knowing smiles. They were all friends with each other, and I was the awkward and uncoordinated noob.
Being a white belt definitely feels like adolescence sometimes.
After I’d had my white belt for one year and four months, a friend hinted that if I did well at the next tournament, I might be ready for my blue belt. “No way,” I responded, though inside I was doing cartwheels. Maybe, just maybe, it was time for me to enter the rank of the blues.
I did relatively well at that tournament. In no-gi, I lost by points in the finals after barely missing an armbar (and, somewhat regretfully but not really, fucking up the girl’s elbow because she refused to tap). In gi, I lost in the finals by points to a ferocious white belt who was also the wife of a famous black belt. So that one didn’t really even count, right?
My coaches kept telling me how proud they were of me. “How long have you had your white belt?” one coach asked me after my matches were over. “A little over a year,” I responded shyly. Could this be it? Could this be the moment I’m finally promoted?
Indeed, a couple days later during morning training, the two coaches who had helped me the most in my training up to that point promoted me to blue belt. Finally, all my hard work had amounted to something great. I was one step higher on the totem pole. I was bursting with pride.
The thrill of being a blue belt was short-lived.
Whereas yesterday I was a highly skilled white belt, suddenly overnight I became a sucky blue belt.
After a belt promotion there’s elation and ecstasy and then… you crash. It’s gone in the next moment. You fall low and you can practically feel the vertigo as you drop suddenly… now what? You’ve worked so hard to get to this point and now that it’s here… and it’s almost anti-climactic… under-whelming. It’s on to the next stripe, the next belt color.
I lost pretty badly at the next five competitions I participated in. I doubted myself as a blue belt for the next two years. I couldn’t stop that nagging feeling in the back of my head that kept saying, “You only got promoted to blue belt because you’re female.”
I could just imagine the coaches' conversation, as if I had eavesdropped: “Well… she’s pretty good… for a girl. We should just give her a blue belt because she tries really hard.” In other words, not unlike the awful pity fuck, I thought they had given me a pity promotion. After all, how could I deserve my blue belt when I was still getting destroyed by white belts?
Note to self: Try not to make up assumptions and conversations in your head. You’re almost always completely wrong.
Now, coming up on the third anniversary of my blue belt promotion, I feel more confident with my blue belt status.
However, even after three years as a blue belt, I would be horrified if I was promoted to purple belt anytime in the foreseeable future. Sure, it would be nice to be acknowledged by my coaches for the time and effort I’ve spent on the mat. The seduction of external validation is not entirely lost on me.
I’d still prefer to just curl up with my blue belt and hang out in mediocrity. Sometimes I don’t want to have the pressure of having to perform at a higher level.
In one sense, I think that’s why we get promoted: to push us into the ranks of the next level. I would guess there are tons of people in my gym who would love to stay blue belts forever. Because once we get promoted, the pressure mounts and we’re expected to perform at a certain level. It pushes us to keep improving.
Yet… why? Why does it matter what color my belt is? It shouldn’t matter. It simply means that you’ve been doing jiujitsu for a certain period of time. And yet… it carries some undeniable baggage along with it. And I think everyone experiences and interprets that baggage differently.
Maybe it’s an ego thing. It would be nice to remain as a good blue belt for the rest of eternity. I just want to stay in my comfort zone. My blue belt is like a security blanket now, a kind of shield that keeps me from the shame of being dominated by purple belts and keeps me doing relatively well at tournaments.
I feel no shame whatsoever when a purple belt dominates me, like one did the other day so much that my head spun and I started seeing stars, I walked off the mat licking my wounds with the comforting thoughts of, “Well, she was a purple belt. Of course she’s better than me. She’s probably been doing jiujistu for like 15 years.”
As a blue belt, white belts still tap me out occasionally. And when that happens, my ego gets bruised really bad.
In situations when we feel our ego pulling a temper tantrum, I think it’s important to remember jiujitsu is about the process--of learning, of challenging yourself, of trying something new, of being vulnerable.
The thrill of jiujitsu for me comes with trying something new even when I’m scared of losing the position. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten my guard passed by a white belt because I was trying to work butterfly or X-guard, or gotten swept when trying a new submission.
Yet that one in a millionth time when you’re actually successful with a new move? That is thrilling like nothing else, and in a second we’re transported back to our white belt inner-child, high on cloud-nine after finishing a triangle.
And yet the thought of getting my purple belt terrifies me. When I get my purple, I will return to the bottom of the totem pole again, this time as a sucky purple belt.
When we feel we are sucking at life or sucking on the mat, it’s important to remember it’s not the people who are good at stuff who we respect. It’s not just because we have a blue or a black belt that people are going to respect us, or even how well we can close that triangle. It’s the people who make an effort whom we respect. It’s the people who approach the world with adventure, who are okay with failure, and who reach out with compassion--those are the people who we respect.
Liz started jiujitsu in 2011, got her blue belt in 2013, and has competed in 11 competitions.
