The Art of Chessboxing

So far in Colombia...

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 01:01:00 +0000

From the few people that know that I’ve been in Colombia for the past three weeks, I’m always given these recommendations of what I must see, what I must eat, what I must experience while I’m here, or simply told an over-enthusiastic, “You’re so lucky! How is it?!!!” Truth is, the way I feel about my trip thus far is what I told my friend the other day: “I feel like I’m working without getting paid.”

Last time I was here, I spent a good six months in Colombia researching the culture of boxing. What that meant is that I’d spend nearly everyday either training in a boxing gym or waiting around to interview someone from the boxing gym. The trip soon became about finding a story and following it, foregoing nights out with hostelers because I had to shoot a fight the next morning, or avoiding hostels completely because the lifestyle was too distracting. I’d take hanging out in the same dingy gym day-after-day over venturing to the next “must-see” attraction because at some point the story became more important than consuming an experience.

For those unfamiliar with the sport of boxing, it is the sport of the poor. Unlike many other pursuits of athletic competition, almost all boxers come from places of little recourse. They live in poor neighborhoods, they work shitty jobs, they have little-to-no opportunities to break the chains of generational poverty. Boxing, for many of them, is that small window of opportunity to change that cycle, but it is not an easy one to fit through. The sport’s foundation is based on an exchange of punches, many to the body, most to the face. Not many can adhere to the grueling physical demands of the sport, so you’d have to guess that only those with an incredibly strong will and determination can endure the industry of professional fighting, that or they’re just that desperate enough to punch and be punched for a living.

The majority of my time in Colombia has been spent revisiting the old boxing gyms, reconnecting with fighters, trainers, going to their neighborhoods and sharing a meal, which often consists of a simple dish made of potatoes, rice and meat. The updates have been mixed. One fighter, despite accumulating 8 losses since we last spoke, is actually doing better financially and is in position to potentially run his own small business. Other fighters have given up the sport, returned to their hometown, and their old ways, as one teammate indicated to me by squeezing an imaginary trigger with his index finger. The coaches in Cartagena told me about how a boxer named Henry suffered a bad knockout loss, probably the hardest working fighter I knew when I was last here, and has since moved to Bogotá. I’ve yet to visit Henry, but I have found where his gym is located. I’m a bit nervous to hear about his update.

This trip hasn’t been as glamorous as my last vacation to Spain, at least not in the sense of mindless binge drinking, late nights of chasing women at the best local party or a general overindulgence of the vices in life, but it has been more real. It has, to some degree, been more personal in the sense that I am doing my best to stick to something I believe in. I think there is a social expectation to party whenever you go to a new country, to have some mind-blowing experience that fills you with a sense of grandiose invincibility, but on the contrary, Colombia has so far left me feeling very vulnerable.

What people need to understand is that, for me, Colombia doesn’t elicit this sense of happiness or constant excitement; it actually conjures quite a bit of pain, many feelings of inadequacy and a general frustration with how the world works. Don't get me wrong, I love this country, but it wasn't easy for me to come to that conclusion. Sometimes I think about all the other things I could be doing while I’m here. Sometimes I wonder if it’s foolish to spend most of my time being frustrated and ultimately bored, when there are plenty of other things that I should be doing to feel good about myself. But I think about giving up on this project and I think that would be the greater disappointment.

This is not to insinuate a self-righteous sense of altruism, rather I want to establish roots here to have ties to it in the future, and I suppose that requires a certain level of sacrifice and work. I guess I could invest my time bouncing from traveler hostel to traveler hostel, meeting amazing people, and collecting moments of instant gratification, but one of the last things I want to say in my life is, “Oh yeah, I remember I spent two years traveling in Latin America. That was a really good time.” I want this to be more than a nice memory, more than just a good feeling to recall. I want to establish this place in my life, so in some sense, I’m being more self-indulged than most.

So what have I seen? Pretty much places I’ve already seen. Cities very alike to the one I came from. The insides of musty boxing gyms. The homes of neighborhoods I probably shouldn’t be in.

What have I eaten? Usually the cheapest thing available, which is commonly a Styrofoam box filled with a starch, a vegetable and a meat. Once in a while I might treat myself to a chicken salad from McDonalds.

What have I experienced? Nothing too glamorous or exciting, nothing that would hold much value to another person, but it does to me. And that’s what really matters in the end. That’s what I’ve been trying to learn this entire time. Going after what's important in the context of my own life, even if nobody else cares.

Chipping the Rock

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 02:27:00 +0000

I've recently become a member of myyogaonline, a website that streams yoga videos to practice at home. I earned a free month membership for being part of one of their live tapings during one of my classes. I wasn't actually in the video, but hey, I'm not about to pass up something free.

So they offer these programs: Energy Boost, De-stress Your Life, How to Eliminate Anxiety From Work, etc. They're basically a compilation of articles, videos and user insights on coping with the daily stresses that edge their way into our lives. Initially I thought this was the key. This is it. How to solve the problems of everyday life. But in going through all these "programs", I realized that they more or less said the same thing; in fact they were recycling a lot of the same articles and videos in different programs. "Eat well, exercise, and don't take shit so seriously". I kept thinking to myself, "I already know that!!! How do I actually do it???"

Then it dawned on me. I was just looking for something I hadn't heard before. I'm looking for a formula to excuse all the reasons why the past attempts failed. But the truth is the old formulas work. Make a plan and stick to it. Possibly modify it along the way. That's pretty much it. There's nothing external that can really instill discipline. It just has to come from a sincere dedication for change.

Admittedly I'm a bit of a "self-help" junkie. There's something about the way the stuff is written that appeals to troubled souls, something that instills the courage for people to believe outside of what people have told them who they are for their entire lives; probably what they've told themselves their entire lives. It makes people believe in something better. Growth. Change. Whatever will get us away from that shitty feeling of feeling inadequate.

Each New Year is filled with resolutions. We constantly tell ourselves, or perhaps, declare to our Facebook audience, "2012 is going to be MY year!", "Out with the old, in with the new" or some semblance of letting the past go and looking ahead with hope for the future. But somehow those sentiments putter out like our resolutions. Somewhere comfort and compromise creep in. I think the key is not to view these steps towards change as these grandiose monumental reformations of ourselves that happen over the course of a few days, but as small incremental promises we keep daily, maybe even hourly, like chipping away at a large boulder. So here's to gradual change, here's to staying uncomfortable, and to chipping that rock.

Change

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 07:01:00 +0000

I love the introductions to self-help books. They're always so positive, always so promising of a "new" self that will emerge at the end of its reading. I think what's most attractive is that we all have an image of who we want to be in 5 years, a year, a month, maybe even tomorrow. Smarter, thinner, richer, the list is endless, but the only commonality between them is that they are different from who we were when we first picked up the book.

Most of the time, we never reach that ideal reformation that we visualized. Somewhere along the line we give up. Echoes of "loving yourself as you are" begin to grow louder, and soon enough it turns from an affirmation to a justification. That's pretty much how the self-help business stays in business.

"Eh, I don't need to be (fill in the blank)er, I should just be happy with how I am."

If it's a sincere sentiment, I admire the stance of those more confident than I am. But it's important to distinguish whether it's truth, or an excuse. You can usually tell by how you feel 5 days after you've given up.

Change is hard. Change is painful. Sometimes we underestimate the struggle, and overestimate our ambition. And sometimes the fantasy is better than the reality. At the very least, it's easier.

Jumping off a bridge

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 10:28:00 +0000

Jumping off a bridge

Sometimes I daydream
during times that I shouldn’t
about all the people that have wronged me
or took pleasure in wronging others
even in the slightest way.
Times where they probably didn’t notice
but I did.
And made it a whole deal.
I think about them
and create drawn out scenarios
where I ask them,
rhetorically,
what they’ve ever contributed to the world.
I ask them,
to think about all the pain they’ve caused
physically or emotionally,
directly or indirectly,
pause, and tell them
the world needs less people like you.
I fixate
on that look on their face
at that moment they accept responsibility
for all that hurt
and realize
that the world would be better off
without them.
It makes me happy
to think about things like that.
Petty, I know
and probably untrue.
But it still makes me happy.

The Pigeons of Mike Tyson: A Lesson on Loyalty

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 15:01:00 +0000

There is a famed story about Mike Tyson waking up one day to find that his favorite pigeon, Julius, had died. He planned to use the crate as a stickball bat to honor the memory of his lost friend, but when he came back to retrieve it from the corner, the garbage man had already put it into the crusher. Tyson proceeded to knock the poor fellow senseless, describing the image of the man as "convulsing on the floor like an infantile retard." I always thought in another life that Mike Tyson was a poet.

I was telling my friend this story about Mike Tyson and how his favorite animal is the pigeon.

"Because they're scrappy?" she asked.

"No." I replied. "Because they're loyal.

No matter where pigeons go, no matter how far they venture, they always return to their coop. They always return to the one that cares for them. Sure, they come back because they know there is food, but the more important thing is that they return because it is a familiar place and there is always someone there to rely on.

We have a saying in boxing. I saw it once on a small sign when I was visiting the gyms of Costa Rica. It read: "Cuando yo gano, tengo mucho amigos. Cuando yo pierdo, estoy solo. Que lastima. (When I win, I have many friends. When I lose, I am alone. What a shame.) It is quite indicative of life. During the good times, everyone wants to be your friend. It is during those times when you're down that few stand by you. But those few that do, those are your true friends.

Mike Tyson won the WBC Heavyweight championship at 20 years old, making him the youngest heavyweight champion in the history of boxing. At this time, he not only held the infamous reputation of being "the baddest man on the planet", but he had hundreds of millions of dollars to accompany that moniker. Money, power, women, all these came served on a platter for Tyson, and at 20 years old, you don't really know what's going on. You bask in the pleasantries of life as if there are no consequences. Only later do you find what happens when you overindulge.

The story of Mike Tyson is a sad one. His rise to the top was quick, his downfall even quicker. As he slowly began to lose his focus, his timing, his speed, his desire all began to erode with each fight. After a 3yr stint in prison and a dwindled passion to fight, Mike Tyson became a shell of the fighter he once was. Many say he had the shortest prime of any heavyweight champion, but goddamn, what a prime it was.

It is said that in his entire career, he made well over 200 million dollars and now he is reduced to being featured in moderate paying infomercials and cameos in Hollywood flicks. The culprit was clearly a poor management of money, but perhaps the even guiltier party were the many leeches surrounding him during his glory days, those that whispered false words of support and empty promises to his adolescent ears.

The media never left him alone. Even after tragedy struck and he lost his baby girl in a freak treadmill accident, one tabloid reporter would not stop hounding his family while shoving cameras in their faces. Tyson ended up punching the guy because they simply grew tired of the constant media exposure. People just need to be left alone sometimes.

But after all these years, I think Mike Tyson has finally found peace. If there is anyone in the world who understands the multifaceted behavior of humans, it is him. And after all that he's been through, he always returns to his pigeons. He says it is because they are loyal, they always return to the coop, they return to their friend. They cannot choose this behavior. It is in their nature.

Humans, on the other hand, have a choice in how to behave. We are the only organisms on the planet with free will and the option to choose. We are influenced by society, by the things we are told to desire, and somehow these empty objects of superficiality become more valuable than things like friendship, things like loyalty.

Today, Tyson says he has few friends. From what he has learned, the human being is a species hard to trust. He prefers staying in the coop, attending to his pigeons. I can't say that I blame him.

How I Make Decisions

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Thu, 12 May 2011 15:34:00 +0000

According to popular psychology, our goal as human beings is to seek pleasure and avoid pain, an adequate summation to how my mind makes choices on everyday autopilot, a very pragmatic cost/benefit approach to life. How much time and effort is this going to take and what would I really get out of it? What goal does choice A work towards and do I really care in the end? But sometimes this makes you stagnant in deciding. Sometimes you spend so much time looking both ways that you never cross the street. And sometimes it can make life downright dull.

There is an old Arab proverb that says: “Throw your heart out in front of you and run ahead to catch it,” a dare to journey into the unknown and be lead only by the indefinable force called “passion”. For the last decade of my life, I lived according to the belief that you don’t really live unless you live passionately. After all, Hegel once said, “Nothing great in the world has been accomplished without passion,” and aren’t accomplishments how one’s life is measured? But then again Ben Franklin also once said, “If passion drives you, let reason hold the reigns.” Wait. Now I’m confused.

I feel like the choices in my life have been driven by an amalgamation of inspirational quotes that I’ve found in sparse places of popular media. You absorb yourself in Hollywood movies, some cheesy, some not, all of them about fate, about how small choices can dictate how diametrically different our lives could have turned out if we had went left instead of right.

Choices. I wonder if the concept of choice is an illusion or if it actually exists. There are many theories out there concerning the existential debate between choice and fate. Do we have a say in the outcomes of our lives or are we all destined to head down a predetermined path? Me? I like to take the middle ground of indecisiveness. I say that fate presents us the doors of opportunity, but ultimately it is our choice on whether or not we walk through them.

But then there’s the whole issue of the varying amount of choice available to different people in different situations. My friend Scott put it best when he said, “You don’t choose which crib you’re born into,” when describing the unpredictable amount of opportunity a youngster may or may not have depending on how life turned out for the generation before them. So how is that fair? How can we possibly believe that the circumstance of the individual is based on personal merit if we aren’t starting from a level playing field? But I digress. I guess the most pressing concern to a person is how one chooses relative to his or her own reality.

If there’s anything I’ve decided in life, it’s that passion is something worth having. Passion is something worth fighting for. Now the hard part is finding out what you’re passionate about. I mean truly passionate. How does one discern when you are pursuing something from a place of passion rather than a place of ego?

For the longest time I’ve wanted to do everything in the world. I wanted to be a lawyer, a writer, a professor, a musician, a small business entrepreneur, but most of those goals stemmed from either a place of insecurity or a need for validation; it came from either an inability to trust others in handling certain matters or a desire to be looked upon as a modern day renaissance man. Soon the more practical list became composed of things that I would be willing to give up rather than things I wanted to accomplish. But then again, understanding your life purpose is just as much of knowing what you don’t want, as it is knowing what you do.

The only things I’ve determined in my life are the ones that have inexplicably appeared throughout it, like the arbitrary Jazz vendor on the beachside of Peru insisting I go to the boxing gyms of Brazil, or the random woman in front of me at the North Seattle Community College bookstore slapping a continuing education brochure into my hands and me stumbling onto the page about writing courses. I figure anything willing to force itself so loud and clear into your life is worth looking into. But even with these signs, there is still a level of uncertainty, a degree of fear in making the wrong choice. I think the worst feeling to have is to feel that you should have lived your life a different way.

But I look it at like this. There are two kinds of fear: “fears that keep you from dying and fears that keep you from living.” My life has been an ongoing lesson on how to discern the two between each other. Anytime I felt I wanted to do something and the only reason I held myself back is because a fear of failure or a fear of embarrassment, I’ve done my best to push through because rarely do we regret those actions in retrospect, so I’d like to think I’m trying to wake from the autopilot like syndrome of just trying to get away with living. My friend tells me that when we’re older we’ll thank ourselves for taking chances when we young regardless of how much initial pain it caused. And isn’t the etymological root of passion, “to suffer”?

I suppose confusion is all part of the process, and stumbling is bound to happen. I try hanging onto the words of those that appear wiser than me; maybe they can offer tidbits of advice of how to avoid the pitfalls of regret. I ask them how I can live a life without mistakes to which they simply laugh and say, “Mistakes are inevitable. They are our best teachers. Mistakes give us the chance to be foolish, and the ability to be foolish is what makes life worthwhile.”

Three Minutes

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 10:38:00 +0000

(This piece was also published here. Minor changes in this version)

The time it takes to listen to a good tune, the number of minutes to cook a microwavable snack, one eighth of your favorite television sitcom, is three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds. For some, it is an instance, a fraction of time that can pass by unnoticed. But time has a strange way of working. It morphs with the surroundings encasing it, and inside the squared circle, three minutes can last a lifetime.

In amateur bouts, open fighters compete for 3 rounds, fresh pugs in the pros go at it for 4, and those at the pinnacle of the sport battle 12 three-minute rounds for the right to call himself “Champion”. But the actual number of rounds is irrelevant. Some fights are cut short due to a devastating knockout, accidental clash of heads, or one corner simply throwing in the towel to defend a fighter from hurting himself further. But legacies can be defined in one round, careers solidified or shattered within the duration between bells. All you really need in order to know a fighter is one single round, just three minutes.

Even in the gritty chambers of the boxing gym, one three minute round of sparring can tell you everything about a fighter’s mood, a reflection of their day, maybe even their life. How he moves, whether he adopts a slick southpaw stance or the posture of face first brawler, what he is willing to give and what he is willing to take, will tell you who that person is as a fighter.

Some boxers enter the gym after 16 long hours of menial labor; others come because it’s the only thing that will keep them out of trouble. I’ve heard countless anecdotes of how the Sweet Science saved troubled lives and strangely enough, sometimes a controlled environment of violence is what prevents fighters from committing violence outside of it. You might get a sprinkle of college grads or urban professionals looking to refine their skills in unarmed combat, but most of the serious ones are in it because they want a better position in life, and there’s no other option to go about it but to raise your fists and fight for it.

Boxing is the sport of the dispossessed; the gym a sanctuary for those outcasted from society. “I’ve had ex-convicts, rape victims and drug addicts walk through that door,” my coach tells me. “Anyone that needs it can train.” And sure enough, posted outside the gym door is a staunch reminder of this ethos: “This is a safe zone, all are welcome here.” You don’t need an academic scholarship to train here or even a shred of athletic talent; just show up with the right attitude and you’re good to go.

Most people who scurry in fresh off witnessing the latest Pay-Per-View extravaganza are gone within days. Where were the blazing fast fists? The back and forth action? Where was all the drama? Contrary to the exciting glitz of a bloody brawl, a boxer’s training regime is incredibly boring. You might spend 2 weeks throwing only one punch, endless hours studying footwork, and there’s a guarantee of at least 3 rounds of skipping rope in the exact same spot each time you walk in. But the ones that stick around gain something. They find a discipline, a few sacred moments of silent focus, and for some, maybe even a momentary sense of peace.

The first sparring session is a frightening one. In those three minutes you are tested of your will, your durability, and if you’re lucky, your resolve at the prospects of defeat. You learn what you are afraid of; you learn what you can do, and more importantly, what you can’t. But in any good boxing gym, sparring is never about beating up one another. It is a cultivation of skills, a bonding of camaraderie, and an exploration of into the self.

The feelings are heightened when a fighter starts competing. Now you are not only fighting for yourself, but you’re representing your gym. In a professional fight the stakes are raised even higher as most fighters compete to quite literally feed their families, and given the dim employment prospects for boxers, there is little recourse elsewhere. The Greats fight for an entire nation, sometimes even a universal cause beyond them. Muhammad Ali’s legendary bout against George Foreman legitimized his stand against Vietnam. Tito Trinidad fought in protest of the US bombings in Vieques, and crime on the streets of Manila comes to a virtual halt anytime Manny Pacquiao laces up the leather.

Of course boxing suffers its share of causalities. Benny Paret died ten days after taking 18 unanswered punches at the hands of Emilie Griffth, the death of Duk Koo-Kim changed title fights from fifteen rounds to twelve, and each year the sport continues to add victims to its mortality rate. But contrary to the tragedies that bestow the sport, the intention behind these combatants is seldom to actually hurt one another. It is merely a contest, a payday for all the hours toiled inside the gym and for the monastic abstinence from worldly temptation outside of it.

So if you think boxing is nothing more than an exhibition of brute savagery, go into a gym, talk with the fighters. Ask them where they’ve been, where boxing has taken them and where they would be without it. Just spend three minutes with them, in person or through the television screen. Three real minutes, and it might change your view on the whole thing.

A Perspective on Self-Sabotage

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 23:10:00 +0000

When Hernán Cortés first set foot onto what is known today as Mexico, one of the first things he did was drill holes into his own ships with the intentional purpose of sinking them. The Chinese did the same thing in their own foreign conquests. To most people, this appears as a foolish measure of self-sabotage; even Cortés' own men were on the brink of mutiny upon learning that their unfortunate predicament lay in the hands of their own leader. But this is simply a strategy of war. To successfully extract the precious metals they originally sought, an undeniable obstacle remained in defeating the powerful Aztec Empire, and in order to do that, Cortés needed his troops' full attention. Their complete focus.

Being soldiers on conquest in a foreign land, naturally their minds wandered astray in thoughts of their wives, their children, their lives back at home. Having those ships afloat represented the possibility to flee, to run back to what is familiar and comfortable. Cortés sunk that possibility and left them with only two options: Fight together or die together.

Sometimes I feel we can apply the same concept in our own lives. We might have an initial interest in pursuing something that is, at the same time, frightfully dangerous and magnificently glorious, but we approach it with caution. We always maintain a safety net in case we fall. While I do think it is important, at times crucial, to have an exit strategy, it's also important to investigate how much reliance we invest in that exit strategy. Do they begin harboring our excuses to retreat when we had more left to give? Do they provide enough reason to surrender the good fight in exchange for a comfortable death?

If our defense mechanisms against self-sabotage act as crutches instead of an instrument to aid us in the battle for our lives, that, ironically enough, is more of a self-sabotage than "drilling holes into your own ships" could ever be.

Don't Get It Twisted

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 23:06:00 +0000

Women threw down just as much as the men did back in the day:

"Although boxing matches were frequently advertised as 'trials of manhood', women as well as men could often be found fighting at the booths and bear-garden. In August 1723, The London Journal noted that 'scarce a week passes but we have a Boxing-Match at the Bear-Garden between women'. It would not have been unusual, while browsing the newspaper, to come upon a challenge and reply such as this:

CHALLENGE
I, Elizabeth Wilkinson of Clerkenwell, having had some words with Hannah Hyfield, and requiring satisfaction, do invite her to meet me upon the stage, and box me for three guineas, each woman holding half a crown in each hand, and the first woman that drops the money to lose the battle.

ANSWER
I, Hannah Hyfield, of Newgate-market, hearing of the resoluteness of Elizabeth Wilkinson, will not fail, God willing, to give her more blows than words - desiring home blows, and from her no favour; she may expect a good thumping!"

From Boxing - A Cultural History by Kasia Boddy

The Downsides of Travel

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 23:05:00 +0000

When people hear about all the places I've been, a common response is usually, "Oh, I wish I would have gotten that chance. You're so lucky!" While I do appreciate all the opportunities I've been blessed with throughout my life, sometimes I wish people would stop treating my circumstances as some dumb strokes of luck that landed into my lap. The result of my life has been a culmination of choices where I consciously took the most difficult route on the sole basis to challenge myself.

An ongoing existential debate is whether our current realities are dictated by choice or fate. Do we have a stake on the outcomes of our lives or are we all predetermined to an unforeseen destination? Like any wavering 26 yr old, I choose to take the middle ground. I am of the strong belief that fate presents us with the doors of opportunity, but only you and you alone can make yourself walk through them.

The earliest genesis of my travel experience dates back to when I made the voluntary choice to enroll in the Honors Program of the Sociology Department, simply driven by the principle that it would make my academic studies more difficult. From that, my name appeared in a database of eligible Sociology students to be employed on a nationally funded research project. I spent 2.5 years filing through thousands of census records in pursuit of determining whether or not social characteristics affected the likelihood of blacks being lynched in the late 1800s. This work allowed an opportunity to earn a Mary Gates Research Scholarship, which eventually funded my first trip abroad to Spain. During those three months, I caught the travel bug to motivate me towards any other outlets of travel, and because of my Honors status with the University, I was eligible for the Bonderman Travel Fellowship - a grant that permitted 1.5 years of globetrotting and the basis of my Fulbright proposal in Brazil, leaving me where I am today.

But as transformative as traveling can be, I think people have a misconception that somehow transformation is easy, romanticizing the end product without considering the massive amount of shit you have to go through to get there. It comes with a lot of disappointments and failures, a lot of sacrifices and heartbreak. Many good relationships have been broken from my traveling. I created distance with old companions due to my shifting perspectives, missed the wedding of one my closest friends when I was in Guatemala, and because I chose to leave and explore the world, I lost an amazing woman that I still think about everyday. I'd say that 90% of those 18 months traveling in Latin America I spent depressed, constantly questioning my adequacy in the world, and always feeling this overwhelming sense of fear each time I departed for a new destination.

Now to some people, this may sound like some real bitching over some spilled milk. (For Godssakes, you were traveling!) But to be fair, nobody else was on that journey with me. I didn't spend the majority of my time in party hostels or sightseeing the major attractions of each country. In fact, I felt incredibly guilty whenever I took a moment to enjoy myself. Instead I spent nearly every moment in the boxing gyms, in uncomfortable situations that beat me physically and emotionally. I went home every night angry at the state of the world, unable to accept the incomprehension I had witnessed that day and worried about the day that was to follow. But for some reason, I just kept going back. I don't necessarily know why I did, I just felt something innately discomforting with the way most people travel. There was something worthwhile in exploring the emotional places that few people venture, something more valuable than what any guidebook or tourist attraction could give me.

Most people have called me a "negative person", a real pessimist because I choose to acknowledge the afflictions in the world. While I do believe it is harmful to allow suffering consume you into a bitter person, I also believe it is incredibly selfish to completely ignore these things just because they make you uncomfortable. Quite frankly, I think I've reached a point in my life where I know myself well enough to vocalize my beliefs and those who disagree can either discuss, ignore, or go fuck themselves.

However, my point isn't trash the beliefs of others or to stroke the ego of my accomplishments, but just to say that it always pays off to take a challenge. It is worth going into those dark places of despair and uncertainty to battle all that is unsettled in your heart. I've recently adopted the belief that you cannot spread peace in the world until you have found peace within yourself, and ironically, finding inner peace is a long grueling process of going to war with yourself.

But eventually you learn to appreciate the pain, you learn to love the struggle. It's just much harder than most people would like to believe.

Something I wish I would have said

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Sun, 28 Nov 2010 00:45:00 +0000

The first two friends I made in the boxing gym were these guys from Somalia, Omar and Mohammad. Omar, a strong and stocky inside fighter who always opted to slug it out rather than box, and Mohammad, with his lanky, long-limbed frame fit best for an outside fighting style turned boxing into a choreographed dance. Despite their physical differences, they were the best of friends, probably because the one physical commonality they shared was that permanent smile plastered on their faces. They were the epitome of friendship, real ball-busters around the gym, but at their core, kind young men.

To this day I still don't think either of them know my real name. They just called me "Nasty", the ring moniker given to me by my coach. But despite being on a nickname basis, these two knew me better than most of my own friends. Omar initiated me into my first sparring session, forcing me onto one knee by way of lefthook body shot, my first experience of "getting the wind knocked out of me." I picked myself up to survive through the third and final round, and immediately after the bell rang he came and hugged me, exclaiming in my ear, "You did good Nasty! You did good!" as if celebrating my final rite of passage to joining the team.

Now you know what it feels like to be beaten up. Now you're one of us.

And despite being pummeled and dropped, Omar somehow managed to pummel and drop me without making me feel embarrassed. There was no shame. No dishonor amongst a band of brothers who had all been there before.

For the next few months Omar became my regular sparring partner, inadvertently teaching me the valuable lesson that chewing gum relieves the soreness a fighter feels after getting their jaw bashed in. Soon it became ritual to buy a box of Wrigley's after a week of sparring with Omar. I still remember when he clipped me with a right uppercut that jammed my teeth down right over my bottom lip, creating a small black scar that I still carry with me today.

But Omar didn't go far in boxing. Mohammad told me he enjoyed soccer too much to make the necessary sacrifices of the pugilistic mantra, and spent more time juggling the round ball on his feet than throwing combinations on the heavy bag. After taking a few fights in weight classes too high, he eventually disappeared from the gym. But I hear that he now has a wife and two kids, works with a friend of mine in a production factory. Overall, I hear he's happy. In many ways, he's made it.

I shared a very different relationship with Mohammad. We weren't sparring partners due to our drastic weight disparity: me, a welterweight, him, a featherweight, but we always went to the fights together. I still remember during one of our first visits to the fights, we watched boxers battle it out at the Niles Country Club in Mountlake Terrace where I sat in disgust at the sight of high brow men of power placing bets on my teammates as they smoked cigars and groped the bikini-clad women serving them drinks. When I turned to Mohammad for his opinion, I found his eyes tranced on the faux tiki torches planted on the golf course. "Man, this reminds me of Africa," he managed through somber tears. "I miss home."

That year, Mohammad was the only other fighter to accompany me in our first cross country road trip to the Ringside World Amateur Championships in Kansas City, Missouri. My first tournament and actually, my first fight. Over 33 hours of driving, we slowly became more acquainted, found solidarity in being the only two colored kids whenever we made a pit-stop in places like Idaho, Montana, and Nebraska.

I learned that Mohammad had just been admitted into the University of Washington, but had reservations about accepting his enrollment. His goal was to be the first Somalian boxing superstar and didn't want university courses to interfere. I thought about how both were possible; hell, I was a living example, even though I wasn't nearly as good as he was. But people still did it. Former Undisputed Lightweight Champion Juan Diaz reached the pinnacle of his division while studying Political Science at Houston University. Education and boxing could coexist, but for some reason I never mentioned it to him.

I ended up losing my first match in a hard fought battle against Alonzo Juarez from New York, but many spectators came up to me afterward to pat my back and say, "Hey man, you won that fight." Being that Juarez had 7 fights to my none, I didn't feel all that bad. Mohammad, on the other hand, was irate, up in arms crying foul play at the nod going to the other corner. "I'm going to win this tournament for you Nasty," he proclaimed.

Unfortunately, Mohammad's road to glory also fell short, getting robbed himself in the second fight of the tournament (and I mean REALLY robbed), but he didn't let a silly tournament get him down. He went on to compile a string of victories upon his return, knocking out tough prospects and generating a small following in the community, me being one of his biggest fans.

After a couple more of my own fights back in Seattle, I left for Spain to study abroad for a quarter. In those three months I discovered part of myself through reckless partying and stuffing my face stupid with bocadillos and churros con chocolate, effectively destroying any physical fitness I had gained from boxing. When I returned, I was so out of shape that I couldn't go back to the gym with dignity. I had to at least look somewhat decent before showing my face.

I didn't step foot in the gym for nearly a year, but when I did, Coach welcomed me back with open arms, spoke to me so nonchalantly as if I had showed up to train the day before. We quickly caught up on each others' gossip. I told him about Spain, he told me about his recent tournament ventures through the West Coast. I instinctively asked if Mohammad had snatched up any titles, but Coach's expression instantly turned bitter, reporting that Mohammad started drinking and hanging out with the wrong crowd. "The streets got him," Coach put it angrily.

But I knew it wasn't just anger; it was disappointment, not only at the prospect of losing a great fighter, but because he just cared about the kid.

I saw Mohammad a few months later and the rumors were true. The first thing I noticed as he waddled in was the uncharacteristic pot-belly he bore and a general look of dishevelment on his face. But he came back to train and straighten his life out. Even though he was noticeably slower, frequently short of breath, and the time he dedicated to training was about half as long as he once spent, he was back. Mohammad was back.

After about two days I never saw Mohammad again. I ran into his cousin a few weeks ago and was told he now spends most of his day in the streets with a beer can married to one hand and a cigarette in the other. I was heartbroken. How did this happen? How did such a young, bright kid with that mean left jab get reduced to this?

My narcissism left me responsible. I should have never left for Spain. I should have stayed and helped him through the tough times. I should have told him about Juan Diaz. Why didn't I tell him about Juan Diaz?

But Spain had changed my life and I really thought Mohammad didn't need any living examples to push him forward toward his goals. I simply had a different path and boxing wasn't on it.

I was never really that good at boxing, just good enough to survive. Quite frankly, I just never put enough effort into it. But I didn't make that choice because the sport didn't interest me. I did it because I was scared. I lacked the courage to put all my eggs into one basket, especially in a trade where the success ratio follows a decimal point and is never based on ring talents alone. Of all I know about the politics of boxing and all I've witnessed in the lives of fighters, it was a good decision for me. I always say, if you have any other options in life besides boxing, take them. I just wish I would have said that to Mohammad.

A Conversation

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 03:31:00 +0000

* One of my more recent writing assignments was to recall a past conversation that told led to the moral of a story. This is what came out. Any feedback is appreciated.

“What are you doing here in Colombia?” he asked meekly, fishing for the right answer.

“I’m doing a photo documentary on the lives of boxers. What boxing means to people. How it can change lives,” I stated proudly.

“They call me ‘The Bear’,” he offered, raising his hands and posing in an orthodox stance, urging me to evaluate his form. “I’m a featherweight fighter…maybe you could help me find a fight in the United States”

I paused for a moment. The desperate hope in his dish saucer eyes made me a bit uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to say, I wasn’t here to scout fighters, nor could I really do anything if I found a promising prospect. So I did what anyone does put in an uncomfortable situation. I stalled.

“Well, I’m not really a promoter and…”

“Are you an agent?”

“No, I’m a fighter, but…”

“Well maybe you could get me in contact with your promoter.”

“Actually, I don’t fight professionally and well…”

“Are there professional fighters in your gym?”

“Yes, but…”

“Well maybe you could ask their promoters.”

“Ok, see, I don’t…”

“Because I can fight anywhere. I’d be willing to travel. You don’t have to pay me much. I don’t even have to win.”

At this point I’m exhausted, simultaneously empathetic and annoyed. Like any independent traveler, I wanted to be validated for my character, not for the color of my passport. I was, afterall, like him wasn’t I? I was a fighter. I knew what it was like to be punched in the face. Hardship? Yeah I’ve been through some of that myself. I wasn’t privileged. I mean this trip wasn’t all flowers and honey you know. It was tough traveling on your own. You get lonely, you get tired, sometimes you get hungry. I was roughing it. Spending my nights in cramped hostels, intermittent couches and whatever barren floor that could accommodate my sprawled body and cover me from the forces of nature. On top of that, I wasn’t even sightseeing or doing your “typical” backpacker’s journey of drug tourism and partying. I was writing a book, doing something meaningful. Yeah, that’s it. I was doing something to change the world.

But at that moment, the thing I wished to be most was a traveling boxing promoter.

“Ok look. I’m more of a writer than a boxer. I don’t have any connections to promoters. I’m just trying to do a documentary.”

“Are you a journalist then?”

“Well, no, not really, but…”

“Because maybe you could publish something about me in the papers and…”

“Okay, really this is something I’m just trying. I don’t really know what I’m doing or where this is going to go so I have no connections. I can’t help you get a fight.”

“Then why are you writing about us?”

“(Sigh) because I want the world to know about your struggle. I want to write about the lives of boxers and what boxing means to them. I want to write about how boxing can change…”

At that moment I pause at the realization that those were the exact same words I had squeezed out thirty seconds ago. It was my rehearsed response in case anyone questioned the integrity of my journey, against anyone exposing my ignorance of my intentions, but “The Bear’s” inquiry pierced through it all. What was I doing? Did any of this really change anything?

“Look,” I finally said, “I’m not here to find fighters. I just can’t get you a fight.”

“Oh…ok.”

As he sullenly carried himself back to the heavy bag, I was left with a feeling of anger. It wasn’t that he asked these questions forcefully, in fact they were about as passive as a child asking someone for a candy bar, but I think that was the problem. I felt strange at the fact that a grown adult spoke to me as if I had such authority, as if I had earned this presence of power that he regarded, as if my privilege was something more than merely the unexplained twist of fate of being born in a particular part of the world.

There was such an eagerness in his voice that if I had been an actual promoter, I could have probably made him concede to any ridiculous stipulations I set forth and I became enraged at the realization that this is in fact how boxing works: The stepping-stones of the sport’s superstars are plucked from third-world gyms and paid pennies to risk their lives. I guess I just hated the desperation in his words, hated how the world created and allowed such desperation to exist, that it forced people to sacrifice their dignity for their livelihood.

I was angry at his questions, angry at how it forced me to face the truth. I was a nobody. Absolutely powerless.

So I did the only thing that was in my power. I printed the photos and handed them out to every person I photographed in the gym. Two for each fighter, a tab that still amounted to well over $150.00 USD. In retrospect, a cheap price to wash away the guilt of global inequality, but it was the only thing I felt I could do.

The next day as “The Bear” approached me to claim his photos, I readied myself for the conversation I envisioned:

“No I can’t send pictures to promoters.”
“No I can’t get you into the newspaper.”
“No I can’t help you feed your family.”

“Hey, did you take these photos?” he asked.

“Yes I did,” I said resentfully, waiting for yet another plea for a fight.

And in perhaps the most humble and grateful manner, he kindly said to me, “I just want to say thank you, because nobody in Colombia would do this for people like us. So Thank You.”

As he started to walk away, I immediately chased him down and took down his information, told him to repeat to me his weight class, his wins, his losses, telling him I’d see what I could do, see if I could maybe pass on his stats to someone I knew or someone I’d meet. The truth is, there’s really nothing I can do. But I figure that maybe it was better to at least let him think that I was trying, that maybe there existed some hope for him to land that big fight, even if it really was a lie. To this day, I still wonder if I made the right choice.

Frustrations with the Trash

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 00:28:00 +0000

There is this garbage can that sits in the common area on the bottom floor of my apartment. Each week this garbage can gradually becomes stuffed with newspaper ads bombarded into the residents' mailboxes. If there is one constant in the world, it's that my unopened mailbox is brimming full of coupons from QFC and Walgreens. As the pseudo on-site manager, the emptying of this garbage can is technically my responsibility, "technically" meaning that it's a hassle to lug that thing to the dumpster 20 feet away and that I'm just fucking lazy.

But today I finally decide to fulfill my duties since it was starting to reflect poorly on the property, and as I'm dragging this cylindrical trash receptor up the road, the winter winds begin snatching the various ads for next week's Black Friday Sales and scattering the streets with 2 for 1 deals on USB Flash Drives and the best price per pound on turkeys. I begin to become frustrated, not only at the prospect of retrieving these renegade leaflets of newsprint, but at the incredible waste of paper I'm responsible for disposing of week after week after week after week. My neurotically over-analytical mind begins imagining the corporate boardrooms that make the executive decision to plow advertisements into random apartment buildings because regardless if 90% of these ads become destined to wander the earth as litter, 10% will bring in new customers, and what that 10% spends usually outweighs the financial cost of printing these things.

I began to become frustrated at the fact that business decisions are made at the expense of the annoyance to the people and to the environment. I'm annoyed at the fact that these mass produced advertisements are just prompting us to buy other mass produced products that in the grand scheme of things, is shit we probably don't need. I'm upset that our overindulgence in consumerism is a direct cause to the suffering in other parts of the world and we are completely justified in ignoring it. I'm angry that people aren't honest enough to admit that the holiday season is really focused on instantly gratifying our desires and painted over with the veil of holiday cheer.

This is my thought process within the 45 seconds it requires to take out the trash. This is how ridiculous my mind has become.

I make my way around the corner and haul the horrid reminders of global inequality into the dumpster. I run into the streets and retrieve each and every fugitive paper and shoved them to the bottom of the now empty trash can. Out of sight, out of mind, out of worry.

But for some reason, I was still angry. Angry that we are allowed to be irresponsible with our lifestyle at the expense of the world. Angry that we care about things only when they affect our immediate reality. Angry at the fact that what angered me the most during this whole ordeal was having to carry out a heavyass can of trash in the cold.

My Opinion on Writing and Grammar

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 09:04:00 +0000

As a writer, you have a commitment to your audience. Your duty is to guide your readers through the text with ease and clarity to your intended message. Whether or not the message is worthwhile is completely a matter of personal opinion, but the necessity of grammar is undeniable. They are tools to your craft and writing a piece with inadequate grammar is like attempting to build a car with only a hammer and a screwdriver.

I’ve never been a grammar Nazi or even considered myself “good” at grammar, but I’m not foolish enough to think we don’t need it. You must have some command of the English language in order to effectively guide your readers because it is simply a fact that linguistic communication of our society, or any society for that matter, is based in some organized structure.

Don’t get me wrong, I always appreciate, at times even admire, the awkward styles of writers that take a non-conventional approach to writing, so it’s not to say you can’t manipulate the organized structure of "traditional" literature. But you have to know what "paint" and a "paintbrush" are before you can create your masterpiece. You can’t think outside the box if you don’t know what the box is made out of.

Do Not Fly Too High with Wax Wings

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 06:43:00 +0000

The rise is exhilarating. The flight is heavenly. You are surrounded by praise and adoration. You are loved. It gives you a false sense of confidence, an empty facade of invincibility, a foolish belief that you can fly higher than you are capable, because in that hastily obsession with flight, you never took the time to learn the virtue of humility.

You fly towards the sun, it's glorious warmth only matched by being completely engulfed in its presence. However, wax wings were not built for such magnificence. They were never intended for greatness.

As the wings slowly melt, as you begin to descend, the light begins to fade, the chill begins to crawl across your skin. You don't fall instantly; it feels like it last for years. Each second is a regret of the shortcuts you took, of never paying your dues. Each forceful gust of violent wind is a reminder of what you once had and the cruel reality of it being stripped away. Maybe even realizing that you never had them to begin with.

When the torturous fall finally ends, you hit the ground, and wake up in complete darkness, terrified at the discovery that this is where the real torture begins. You are accompanied only by your lost moments of glory. They are your only companions. Your demons.

You huddle naked, crouched in a cold corner, the open wounds sting as the damp mist drips down your back. It is here you realize that wings should never be made from wax. They should be made from materials of fortitude - the broken shards of failures and disappointments, from the scattered remnants of heartbreak. They are made from lessons of defeat and sewn together in a jigsaw pattern of unmatched colors by the hands of hope and despair. The wings are horrendously ugly, but they are yours.

This is where you should have started your ascent. Not in the clear blue skies of manufactured bliss, but in the dark pits of Hell, where you're forced to create your own light, because then, you'll never need the sun.

Artist Statement

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 06:13:00 +0000

I’ve always been taught that a writer must use words to appeal to every sense of the reader in order to allow them the space to create a reality in their own minds. While I respect the imaginative freedom of personal interpretation to a writer’s words, my approach to art utilizes multilayered mediums to not only provide more pieces to constructing an experience, but to also prevent the mind from creating a story that simply is not there. This is not to say that my approach is meant to be limiting, but rather that my work is deeply committed to presenting the rawest account of my experience and challenge the reader to determine their own truth without ignoring the possible discomforts they might not want to confront. In other words, I don’t want the reader to ignore the starving baby in the corner if there was in fact a starving baby in the corner.

But my intention is not to shove my beliefs down the throats of others, but rather it is a humble plea for people to simply consider these uncomfortable truths I’ve encountered. When someone has read or seen my work and questioned their beliefs as a result, I feel I have accomplished this goal. And likewise, the thoughts and comments of others have forced me to second-guess my own interpretations. None of us are exempt from the possibility of being wrong, the artist included. I believe that is the beauty of art: it inspires us to explore the genesis of our beliefs and question the current state of our lives. It gives us the courage to create against our conditioning.

The Road Less Traveled

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 06:38:00 +0000

People will be angry when you don't conform. They will be angry because your non-conformity reminds them of their fear. It reminds them of that one memory that continually haunts them; that pivotal point where they traded their individuality for the safety of the crowd. And since that day they have felt a subtle restraint. A consented imprisonment. Your brash and unwavering freedom will drive them mad with rage. It will remind them how they once were and how they are now too afraid to be. The more you grow indifferent to the opinions of the world, the more they will want to destroy you. Indifference does not belong in a comfortable world. But keep steadfast to the beat of your own drum. Structured dances do not match with awkward rhythms and taking the road less traveled always pays off in the end.

The Definition of Success

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Mon, 27 Sep 2010 19:44:00 +0000

I had a friend recently ask me, "What is your definition of success?" I had to contemplate that question for a while and think about the things that validated my life as worthwhile.

Originally, I gave a cop-out explanation that it was dependent on the individual and what that individual defined as important in their individual life. I saw it as a cop-out because under that logic, well, success could be anything the person wanted it to be. While that technically is true, I think our definitions of "wants" and "desires" always need to be investigated beyond what we're conditioned to believe. Why do we want the things we want? Why do things like money, recognition, titles, accomplishments or whatever, define who we are? Why do we give value to these things?

I guess the point I was trying to make was that I felt we needed to understand if it came from a place of living in accordance to our own expectations or the expectations of others. Do we want that car and that house because our neighbor has that car and that house? Do we want that accomplishment just so people will acknowledge our accomplishment? Even our "noble" intentions: Would we still be motivated to act on the behalf of others if nobody applauded our efforts?

It's not to say that these things shouldn't be part of our lives. Every underpaid teacher deserves a reminder that they're changing someone's life. A humble display of gratitude to an overworked social worker probably aids their service to others. But it shouldn't be the core motivation behind our choices. External validation should be a supplement to our driving principles, not at the core, and I just think finding that core is a much more complicated and painful process than what we have probably invested. More often than not, we're still operating from an expectation of others (at least I know I am) and I think that is how success eludes us.

In the end I answered that my definition for success was the ability to pay back your dues. I don't know if I believe any longer that we should strive towards the things we enjoy. In some ways it's incredibly selfish to think only of our personal fulfillment. I'm beginning to see that many of these things I'm able to realize are due to opportunities I've been given in life, so I think a large part of my definition is related to the ability to pay back what I owe. That is the driving motivation behind most of my choices. Which choice will put me in the best position to repay that which I owe? And even that needs to be questioned of its true intentions. I'd like to think that it comes from a place of personal belief, but I clearly haven't reached a full level of sincerity if I still find the need to post it on a blog.

Who knows, in two years time, my answer will probably change. But I'm starting to accept the fact that each epiphany I too hastily label as a universal truth has a smaller lesson packaged inside of it. And I think this time the hard lesson is that sometimes you don't do things because you like them; you do them because you have to.

Challenge

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 03:28:00 +0000

I make a lot of analogies with boxing and life because for me, I see life inside the squared circle. But I usually try to find the stories of gentle kindness to exhibit the humanistic side of the Sweet Science because I think boxing gets a bad rap as a barbaric, brutal bloodsport and I just feel it deserves a fairer shake. And it does. Paradoxically, most times boxing allows the compassion in a person to flourish.

But to be honest, there is also a very dark side to boxing. After all, it is combat packaged into a sport. This is evident in the feeling of you have when inside the ring, that one moment when you're staring your opponent in the eyes, right before the opening bell rings. You two are pegged in battle: one will come out the loser, and the other the victor. That other person is literally trying to take something from you. They are going for your heart, they are going for your soul, and when faced with the hypothetical of "me or them?", the core question of every match is:

"What will you do? Will you fight for it, or will you give it up?"

That is why boxing reveals the true nature of a person. How you react is a precursor to how you live your life. What is it? Fight or flight?

In Defense of SELF

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 08:30:00 +0000

I've had close friends in my life say to me with venomous ardor that I am a condescending "elitist" and that I think I'm better than other people. Because of that, I’ve gone a good portion of my life thinking that people generally don’t like me. It's a strange feeling to have before you approach every new person in life, a feeling that you just don't fit in anywhere (and no, this isn't one of those "I don't fit in anywhere because I want to look cool," type feelings), but rather a true sense of loneliness, like you are unloved in this world. It's a pretty crappy feeling to carry around really. Truth be told, it just kinda hurts.

But instead of actually confronting these questions, I always ran to the scapegoat explanation that, “I don’t need other people. I don’t want to be reliant on external validation,” which is true, but only when it comes from a place of sincerity and not a desire to quickly cover my unanswered inadequacies with something profound I heard but didn't yet understand. You have to distinguish the differences before you can move on.

I’ve had this belief for most my life in Seattle. I don’t know where it started exactly but this is the reason why I keep wanting to leave the country. Spain was the first place where I realized that people could actually like me for who I am. It was the first place that allowed me to reinvent myself, but by then it was already too late. My identity had become defined by being critical, on separating myself from others because they were the ignorant ones, not me. It wasn't until Costa Rica that I realized all the "ignorant" people around me were enjoying their lives, while I sat in a disgruntled rut, angry with every possible thing in the world. Maybe I was the ignorant one all along.

Akey told me that this realization was a catalyst to a long journey of self-hatred and loathing before I finally learned to love myself again. For the longest time I kept wondering what it meant to love yourself and if I could finally say that I did. I just wanted that painful journey to end.

I started making myself agreeable to people. I wanted to be liked. I'd bite my critical tongue around those I didn't know, and would even nod in agreement with things I was fundamentally against. I felt sick to my stomach with disgust when the curtains closed, but hell, I was no longer being "elitist" anymore right? All I had to do was be liked by others and then I could learn to love myself, right?

No. That's what you call being a fucking tool.

Loving yourself is loving your ideals, your passions and having the conviction to stand for your beliefs despite the disapproving gaze of others. Loving yourself is a willingness to put yourself through the pain and uncertainty to explore those dark places of your inner being because you love yourself enough to make sure you are being led by the SELF, not by the ego. It is learning how to maintain a respectful dignity in your stance because you've realized that the intention behind your beliefs isn't about being right, but about the principle behind them.

If you've TRULY dived into yourself and came out with the conclusion that you're not an elitist, then you're probably not. At the end of the day, that's really the only person you need to prove it to.

The Ultimate Rejection

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 07:06:00 +0000

They say a good salesperson is hard to come by, probably because honestly, how many people want to be in their field? How many people want to deal with rejection on a daily basis? How many people want careers where you are evaluated based on how other people feel about you? No, we'd rather have the same comfy job where we don't have that kind of pressure. We want our value to come from something less, or at least conceivably less, superficial than "what other people think of us". But is it because we truly believe it is shallow or because we are afraid to be rejected by other people?

Think about that. If success was a guarantee, how many of us would choose to be models or entertainers or involved in any field where our success was dependent on the judgment of others? How much of our decision to pursue our path is rested on the mere assurance that we won't fail?

That is how I used to play Warcraft and Starcraft. I only played the games I knew I would win, and I played those levels over and over and over again. Those games are actually extremely intricate. Experts gamers calculate hit points, hit damage, the strengths and weaknesses of each character and how to exploit those weaknesses with their own strengths. Basically, the game is way more than building units and ransacking the enemy, like how I played it. It's really a complex game of strategy and I realize that I did not know ANY of the strategy for those games. That just proves my laziness and fear. I was always afraid of competing with someone who could potentially beat me.

That's when I realized that I am afraid of competition. It is not the job, but the competition. Don't get me wrong, there are definitely jobs that just don't click with people, but it's because of the nature of the job itself that turns them away, not the passion for the job. If you love the work but hate the competition, the rejection, or whatever part that is a reflection of an insecurity, then do it. I say that anytime the sole reason you're not pursuing a career is because a personal insecurity scares you, then that's probably the job you should do. It means that nothing about the job itself has stopped you, and instead your mind had to create a reason to stop yourself from not having what you want. Those justifications aren't real. They're made up in our heads. How much power we give those justifications is an indication of how bad we want it. And that's the ultimate rejection:

"I don't want it bad enough."

Reckless Abandonment

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 07:43:00 +0000

The reason we are scared to chase our dreams is because once we pursue them, they are no longer dreams. They are pulled into the realm of reality, which means they are subject to the possibility of failure and if they fail, they can no longer be that place of comfort we run to when shit in our "real life" doesn't go our way.

Simply said, we want a cushion. We want a fallback. We want a place where we can run to in our minds and say, "This is where I'm really happy. One day I'll be here." But the truth is, we don't want that day to come. We don't ever want to be "there". We are afraid of disenchantment. We are afraid of being left naked with no recourse, because if we ever do get "there", where will we run for refuge? Where else can we keep lying to ourselves that who we are, is not who we are?

I say fuck it. A life never realizing your dreams is not a life worth living. Welding together the two realms of consciousness is true enlightenment. It is worth the risk.

Looking for Light

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 06:17:00 +0000

For as long as I can recall, I've been in this constant battle in defining the concept of "happiness". I would say I'm "happy" maybe 10% of my life, depending on what standard of evaluation one uses. The other 90% is an oscillation between depression and confusion, an unsure stance on whether to adhere to a majority perception of the emotion or to live by an independent standard.

I suppose the definition of "happiness" I employ refers to the heart lifting sensation of the chest, the increased bloodflow through the body's circulation that sometimes gets misinterpreted for a bout of inspiration. Truth be told, a lot of "happiness" is a mere change in the bio-chemical balances in our bodies, not necessarily an abstract concept we struggle to subjectively define.

Instead what I think matters is the source in which we generate the hybrid sensation of physical and metaphysical state-of-being. I'm starting to realize that the majority of "happiness" has been dependent on the external. Career goals, relationships, material possessions, whatever.

I've been trying hard to cultivate happiness within. That isn't to say there isn't use of the external objects that make our lives easier, but the problem lies in the dependence of these things. I always wonder how I would be if all these things were stripped away from me. Would my integrity still be there? Would I still be the person I claim I am? That's the real test. Who a person is at their core.

Finding that core is half the battle, sometimes, it's the entire battle. It's almost like standing right in front of your darkness and not turning away. Thinking this time that you have enough strength, maybe not to fight, but at least enough not to flee. You start thinking that all your previous defeats were merely stepping stones in the lesson plan and suddenly, you have no more regrets. It's like a shower to wash the grime. Everything was meant to happen. Everything had its purpose.

Once you go under the demon's wing, you better be prepared. You better have that resistive instinct salivating at its teeth, ready to fight and rebel against the beckoning call of night. Because whoever comes out of that battle will be a different person. It'll be that who defines you. And afterward you won't even know the whole thing happened.

The crowd is fickle

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 05:50:00 +0000

...I'm interrupting her ...I'm interrupting her ...I'm interrupting her. I'll never see her again.

“Roll with the Punches”

noreply@blogger.com (Wandering Pugilist) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 14:20:00 +0000

* I gave the following piece as my closing reading at VONA 2010.

“Roll with the punches” is probably the most overused boxing proverb to get us through tough times, but I’ve spent far too many hours in stuffy gyms around the world to settle on a cliché one-liner.

In many ways the Sweet Science is like writing. It’s a lonely affair. You may have your coaches and gym mates beside you, but come fight night, you’re the only one in that squared circle. Stepping through the ropes for the first time is much like publishing your first piece. You’re naked out there. You’re vulnerable. That’s what makes the experience both frightful and exciting. That is the reason we live.

Fighting pushes you to the extreme limits of being human. It is in those moments of pain and despair, of confusion and desolation that you truly know what you’re made of, and your training makes or breaks your survival. Ali once said “The fight is won or lost far away from the witnesses, behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road; long before I dance under those lights.” And that’s true. Preparation is everything and the difference between talent and skill is self-discipline.

Most readers will never see those countless hours toiled while the rest of the world slumbers. They will never understand how cutting out a paragraph can be just as agonizing as self-amputation. And they will never appreciate how after the critics tear us to pieces on the public sphere, we slowly learn to love ourselves again.

But writers, like boxers, learn to grow tough skin. We might fall, but we get up and come back stronger. It becomes instinct to “roll with the punches” and soon enough, we learn that it was never really about winning or losing in the first place, but all that ever mattered was that we showed up and fought well.