Wu/Hao Style Taijiquan

The 'other' Wu style of Taijiquan.

 

Cook Ding's Kitchen 20th Anniversary

Today is Cook Ding's Kitchen's 20th anniversary. I began this as a place where I could find things that I found interesting, and would know where to look for them again.

So far there have been over 2.6M views of over 2500 posts.  

The "skill stories" of Zhuang Zi (Chuang Tzu) particularly resonate with me, especially the story of Cook Ding, whose attentiveness to his job led to his enlightenment.

Below is the story of Cook Ding.

Prince Huei's cook was cutting up a bullock. Every blow of his hand, every heave of his shoulders, every tread of his foot, every thrust of his knee, every whshh of rent flesh, every clink of the chopper, was in perfect rhythm — like the dance of the Mulberry Grove, like the harmonious chords of Ching Shou.

"Well done!" cried the Prince. "Yours is skill indeed!"

"Sire," replied the cook laying down his chopper, "I have always devoted myself to Tao, which is higher than mere skill. When I first began to cut up bullocks, I saw before me whole bullocks. After three years' practice, I saw no more whole animals. And now I work with my mind and not with my eye. My mind works along without the control of the senses. Falling back upon eternal principles, I glide through such great joints or cavities as there may be, according to the natural constitution of the animal. I do not even touch the convolutions of muscle and tendon, still less attempt to cut through large bones.

"A good cook changes his chopper once a year — because he cuts. An ordinary cook, one a month — because he hacks. But I have had this chopper nineteen years, and although I have cut up many thousand bullocks, its edge is as if fresh from the whetstone. For at the joints there are always interstices, and the edge of a chopper being without thickness, it remains only to insert that which is without thickness into such an interstice. Indeed there is plenty of room for the blade to move about. It is thus that I have kept my chopper for nineteen years as though fresh from the whetstone.

"Nevertheless, when I come upon a knotty part which is difficult to tackle, I am all caution. Fixing my eye on it, I stay my hand, and gently apply my blade, until with a hwah the part yields like earth crumbling to the ground. Then I take out my chopper and stand up, and look around, and pause with an air of triumph. Then wiping my chopper, I put it carefully away."

"Bravo!" cried the Prince. "From the words of this cook I have learned how to take care of my life."

ZhuangZi (Lin YuTang)  

 

 

The Ego in Martial Arts Training

Below is an excerpt from a post at Budo Journeyman, regarding the ego on display (or not) in martial arts training. The full post may be read here.

 

Way back in the late 70’s or early 80’s on a bleak Saturday afternoon in Yorkshire I was attending a seminar in Wado karate with a Japanese instructor, who, for the sake of this article, I will call ‘Sensei N’.

He was pretty much fresh out of Nichidai university and had been in the UK a short while. I hadn’t had much exposure to him on the larger courses, as, being one of the more junior Japanese Sensei, he was usually relegated to teaching the lower kyu grades; while we spent all of our time with Suzuki Sensei. But for this course in Yorkshire, it was just him on his own.

(In the near future I will use Sensei N. as a springboard for another piece to be released at a later date).

He did a really comprehensive, well-constructed lesson and his English was good enough to get across what he needed to communicate and he always did it with a smile. His own techniques were crisp and assured, as you would expect from his years of university karate.

At that time, he had a particular thing about footwork, and drilled us in stance-shifting, up and down the room and explained how important it was for Wado karateka to be light and smooth in movement.

But, on this day there was one incident that for me was to have a big influence on how I viewed what we were doing with our karate and how we related to other people. Something bigger than just a set of technical notes.

A model of humility.

Towards the end of the session, he called us up one at a time to spar with him. Bear in mind that this was in front of the entire class. I watched closely as he very calmly out-manoeuvred his opponents, who were, to some degree, being slightly deferential towards the Sensei, not that it would have made any difference, he was more than capable of dealing with what they had to throw at him.

Then came my turn.

In my mind I felt it would be disrespectful to not present myself in the best possible light; not because my ego demanded it, but because the situation demanded it. There was no space for ambiguity.

In a sparring situation like this, it is important to dig into your reserves and you also have to draw upon your toolkit. At a basic level, here was a problem that had to be solved – respectfully and appropriately.

The fight started out well enough; some good solid exchanges flowed both ways. Then, I must have spotted that he favoured a left stance, and so I went for a footsweep (ashibarai). It wasn’t a full-on take-down sweep, more of a calculated tickle; something I had used many times before, a set-up, if you like.

I honestly thought he would read it, (was he laying a trap for me?) But no, temporarily he was wrong-footed and the sweep tipped him ever-so slightly to his left, and for a nano-second he locked up to readjust his balance; to which I saw my chance and connected with a gyakuzuki; right distance, right timing – but, what had I done?

I had less than half a second to come to the thought that can be summed up with, “Oh no, I’m in for it now!”

I expected him to power up the gears and turn me into mincemeat. (After all, I had been brought up on stories from my seniors where certain Japanese Sensei had broken bones if they thought for a moment that the Westerners were getting uppity).

Had I overstepped the mark? I had the audacity to lay a technique against the respected Japanese Sensei, and was I now going to pay a heavy price?

To give a little background on the cultural dynamics.

International judoka Neil Adams, in his autobiography wrote about randori in the Kodokan in Tokyo, when he was only 16 years old, where he came up against an elderly, highly-respected 9^th Dan Japanese Sensei, and for a second, he was absolutely sure that he had the old geezer bang to rights. But… his coach, Brian Jacks, shouted ‘Adams…No!’ and so he held back.

Obviously, I wasn’t there, but part of me wonders about that story. If that oldster was a Kodokan senior, probably someone who had rolled with Mifune Kyuzo, having seen what the elderly, fragile Mifune could do (through films on YouTube), part of me wonders if the hothead Adams would have been humbled by his interchange with this Kodokan master? Adams said that he heard that if you come up against one of these old guys, the tradition was that you let them have their way and almost ‘throw yourself’.

Yorkshire - What actually happened.

I expected Sensei N. to adjust his determination settings, move the dial to 11 and give me a lesson in pain. I had the cheek to strike the respected Japanese Sensei, and was now going to suffer the consequences.

But no… he paused and then said, ‘nice technique’ and continued exactly as before, no change of speed, no great urgency to ‘get one back’. I know, if he wanted to, he could have taken me to the cleaners. Instead, one simple encouraging comment, then business as usual.

I had plenty of time to think about his response and, in my mind, the simplicity and the humanity behind the choice that he made, the course of action he chose to pursue (or not to pursue) proved the measure of the man, here was someone who was comfortable in himself. Total respect from me.

 

Tae Kown Do Knockouts

Deep down, who doesn't enjoy spectacular knockouts?

The Rising Phoenix

Who among us hasn't had their regular practice shattered by the events of our lives? 

 Some of us never recover. The rest of us pick up the pieces and figure out a new way to carry on.

Maybe we must find a new teacher or even a new martial art.

Or start a new school.

Over at Kenshi24/7, there was a recent post describing how a job change led to the author founding a new kendo club, so that he could continue his own practice.

Below is an excerpt. The full post may be read here.

 

Back in 2014 I wrote how I made a deliberate change in my kendo life by deciding to focus on asageiko more. I had attended morning keiko since about 2009 (well, 2005, but that wasn’t few-and-far between and doesn’t count), but I went full-morning-mode in 2014 (Mon, Wed, and Fri: three times a week). After  my daughter arrived in 2017, my after-work kendo life mostly stopped and, instead, I focused almost entirely on asageiko and work sessions. 99% of my kendo at this time became kihon based. 

When the pandemic struck my asageiko sessions dried up and so, after a year, I decided to take matters into my own hands and began (starting February/March 2021) running my own morning sessions. When my usual asageiko re-started (in 2022) I decided to keep hosting my sessions as well… which meant some weeks I was doing asageiko every weekday. On top of that, I had my normal six keiko/week at work, and the occasional degeiko or Eikenkai session and what have you. Oh yeah, and I was constantly taking my students to shiai as well. 

Needless to say, I was doing a LOT of keiko. A lot. 

Sadly, this period of my life has come to an abrupt halt. 

I started working in my current school in autumn 2008. Almost immediately I took over the running of the kendo club and, for the last 17 years, through rain and shine, good times and bad times, I have been at the helm. I’ve taught hundreds of students, some of whom have gone on to pass yondan and godan. 

It was with a sad heart that on the last day of February this year I was told I was being transfered school in April. This is something that happens to all public servants in Japan, but I had been told – due to the uniqueness of my position – that a move would be highly unlikely. 

Still, I had actually expected a move to happen eventually, perhaps in the next three~five years, and had already had some schools (with good kendo clubs + near my home) in mind. Anyway, after the order came, I had to wait another week to find that the school I am being moved to is not only super far from my house, but the kendo club there had been shuttered, seemingly due the impact of the pandemic (no teacher to guide them through). 

Due to the distance of the school, my normal asageiko sessions have become almost impossible to attend (I can go during test seasons, days off, and the like). Added to that, I can’t run my own sessions anymore  because all my asageiko friends work in central Osaka. The number of weekday keikos I could do from April, because there is no kendo club in the new school, went from ten down to two (evening sessions at my police dojo).

My kendo life was turned upside down in an instant. 

At this point I had two choices: 1) wait for four years and apply for a transfer (that’s the minimum time you have to do before putting in a request)… but even there is no guarantee the school will even let me go (I’m a good teacher!); or 2) re-boot the kendo club. 

There was a kendo-jo in my new school… but the question was, given the current state of the kendo population amongst young people in Japan, could I even recruit any students? 

Once I knew what was happening and where I was going, I immediately set to work: within a day I already knew that there was an almost unused kendo-jo in the new school, which was a good start. It was communicated almost straight away (teachers have networks of colleagues – remember we all get moved around) that some kendo-crazed teacher was en-route to posses it.  

Arriving on April the first, the subject of kendo came up immediately, with many of my new colleagues taking an interest. I discovered almost immediately that the club that had been there for more than 50 years folded just prior to the pandemic. The kendo teacher that had been there retired a long while back and, with no replacement sent, the students ran things themselves for a few years. Due to this, over time, numbers sunk very low and when the pandemic hit it – and with nobody to lead them – the last nail was struck. 

My first job was to check out the condition of the kendo-jo and what it was being used for. I was pleasantly surprised to find the dojo, although bare of any ornamentation, was in very good condition. At least, the floor was. Bogu and various kendo bits n’ bobs had been left discarded in the storage areas and nothing was really kept in order. Usage wise, the baseball club used it when it was raining, and the music club used it for the odd concert. Hmmm, I thought. 

So, what does it take to start a kendo club in a public high school in Japan? Well, in the spirit of sharing my kendo experience with you, let me give you a brief rundown. 

Part one: get some members 

If I was to start a new club I of course needed students. I created some posters, stuck them up around the school, and waited. My new school has a rule that you cannot start a new club up without collecting ten interested students. Considering the downward spiral of kendo population in Japan of late, I had little confidence I could manage, so I was more than a bit concerned. On the very first day I went to put up posters – even before I put my first one up – a second year boy came to find me and ask about joining: “I heard about the kendo teacher in [my previous school] is famous, everyone knows about him” he said! 

Within a week I had collected enough students to start a club, more than enough. My final total was 15, which is three times more than my old school managed to gather this year. Go figure. 

 

 

The Yagyu Clan

Over at Budo Journeyman, there has been a series of posts about famous martial arts families, both east and west. Recently there was a post about the Yagyu clan; famous swordmen in Japan. 

I had no idea that they continued to hand down the art within the family beyond the 2nd or 3rd generation.

Below is an except. The full post may be read here.

 

In this part:

· Iemoto, family traditions passed on.

· The Yagyu school of swordmasters.

Iemoto.

There is a thing in older Japanese culture and the Arts called, ‘Iemoto’ 家元. It means, ‘family foundation’. It is/was to be found in the tea ceremony, calligraphy and traditional music. But, critics say that it suffers terribly from, rigidity, nepotism (clearly; because you are inclined to prioritise family connections over ability); as well as authoritarianism and a lack of a democratic process.

Well, maybe the last two are the most contentious ones. Particularly ‘democratic process’? Democracy is often described as ‘the best of a whole load of bad ideas’. Churchill said, “The best argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter”. In current UK politics, he had a point.

You could also make an argument that ‘genes do not maketh the man’, but who is qualified to comment? Certainly not me.

And then there is the idea of a hierarchy of competence based on merit. It’s a tricky one. Have a look at French and Raven’s ‘Bases of Power’, particularly ‘Legitimate Power’ and match it off against ‘Expert Power’. It is unusual for any head of an organisation to not claim that their authority comes from the idea that they are the definitive expert in their field.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/French_and_Raven%27s_bases_of_power

The Yagyu clan. Mid 16^th century to the modern age.

In this deep dive into dynasties, it would be negligent of me to miss out the Yagyu clan of sword masters.

According to the common understanding, currently the Yagyu have taught their system for thirteen generations.

Let me put that in perspective; a sword school that came out of a very practical life or death world, that somehow managed to survive into the current age, when really, through pressure from the modern world, the Japanese abandoned the sword in the 1860’s. How did that happen?

Let me return briefly to Part 1 and the world of Domenico Angelo in 18^th century London. Although, in Europe, the firearm had subsumed the sword as preferred weapon, the Angelo’s (over time) allowed fencing to be turned into a sporting art form where blood was never really drawn.

Whereas, in Japan, the martial arts became almost institutionalised, and despite its antiquated radically conservative image it’s still around, even the Old Schools, the Koryu. In part, it survived into the modern age because of sportification and that there were moves to slap a preservation order on some of the Koryu.

This certainly seemed to happen to the Tenshin Shōden Katori Shintō-ryū school of Bujutsu, of which the teachings of the school were designated an ‘Intangible Cultural Asset of Chiba Prefecture’ in 1960. I accept that for the modern Japanese that kind of martial arts, even though it is a national treasure, is not really hip and trendy; but, amazingly, it’s still hanging on.

The Yagyu.

The story of the Yagyu clan seems very hit and miss; it looks like their fortunes yoyoed and were dependent in lucky alliances.

The beginnings – First generation; Yagyu Munetoshi (1527 – 1606).

Although genealogically the Yagyu clan were well-connected, Munetoshi’s father was a minor landed lord.

Munetoshi, himself, rose to prominence as a military man through a series of unstable alliances before coming to the notice of an up-and-coming clan leader called Tokugawa Ieyasu. By the time that encounter had happened Munetoshi had put away his ambitions to be a warlord and retired to his fiefdom to refine and teach sword skills. You see, in his developing years as a martial artist, Munetoshi had experienced some lightbulb moments through encounters with other skilled swordsmen, notably, Kamiizumi Nobutsuna master of the Shinkage Ryu school of swordsmanship, an experience that both humbled and enlightened him; thus, we see the birth of Yagyu Shinkage Ryu.

The summons from Tokugawa Ieyasu came very late in Munetoshi’s career, but not so late that he was to prove the supremacy of his style by taking Tokugawa Ieyasu’s bokken off him (while unarmed) and knocking him on his ass.

The humbled Tokugawa was smart enough to recognise Munetoshi as an asset and a deal was established where Munetoshi’s son, Munenori, (second generation) was to become hereditary sword teacher to the newly emerging Tokugawa clan and its supremacy as Shogun in Japan.

Development across the generations.

As mentioned above, 13 generations and still around. But, it was not without its bumps in the road. It’s all too complicated to go into here but not all of the Yagyu successors and the various branchings-off seemed to be as skilled politically and socially as their earlier forebears. The clan/school branches did spread out which created a kind of Yagyu Shinkage monopoly, resting in part upon their reputation as sword teachers to the Shogun. But also, that the branches spread beyond the capital of Edo.

Sprinkled among the Yagyu teachers were some big hitters, who became almost mythical and their stories developed into legends and seeped into popular fiction as romantic heroes.

Overall, this is a solid combination that other generational martial arts families could learn from.

Cutting the Ox

Over at James Roach's Classical Tai Chi Blog, there was an article about how to approach one's Taijiquan form practice: like Cook Ding cutting the ox.

This has been my approach. I don't try to practice the form slowly. I don't pay attention to the speed at all. What I do is to try to feel everything that is going on. The result, or rather the side effect is that I practice the form slowly.

An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

I've included more info on this, and there is a certain serendipity in Wu’s “ox plow” postures and one of my original articles at Cook Dings Kitchen.

ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ʀɪᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴏᴋ ᴅɪɴɢ’ꜱ ᴋɪᴛᴄʜᴇɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴀɴʏ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ. ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ᴠᴀʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴛɪᴀʟ ᴀʀᴛꜱ. ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴀʟᴋᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴛᴀɴɢʟᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴏᴅʏ ɪɴ ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄɪɴɢ ꜱᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ᴍᴀʀᴛɪᴀʟ ᴀʀᴛꜱ. ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴɪᴏʀ ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ ᴡᴜ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴɪᴏʀ ꜱᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ʜᴡᴀ. ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀᴇ ᴋᴡᴏɴ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴜɴɢ ɢᴀʀ. ɪ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴜᴘ ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴜʙᴄᴏɴꜱᴄɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ. ʜɪɢʜ ᴋɪᴄᴋꜱ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴇᴄᴏɴᴏᴍɪᴄᴀʟ, ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ʜɪɢʜ ᴋɪᴄᴋꜱ! ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛᴀɪ ᴄʜɪ ɪꜱ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘɪɴɴᴀᴄʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴄᴏɴᴏᴍɪᴢᴇ ᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ. ʜᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴏx ᴘʟᴏᴡ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ᴄɪʀᴄʟᴇ!


Ox Plow Posture 

Master Stephen Hwa and I have taught weightlifters, ballet dancers, karate practitioners, etc. Some seem to grasp "Yi" martial intent, and some do not. Master Hwa taught for years at a Karate school. For most, I saw that “Yi” was not easy to get, and "intentions" to do something else with the movement usually began to show early on.  


The dancers would not keep their heel down on the back foot and would rise on the toe, with "flourish" movements in their hands.  The weight lifters were incredibly stiff and inflexible around the upper chest and shoulders; the internal discipline of the core would elude them.  

Karate people seemed to be stuck on a permanent type of staccato movement; making movements continuously seemed to elude them.  I recall conversations with one long-time Karate practitioner who said in so many words that he could not understand why anyone called Tai Chi a martial art.  He implies that only Karate (or at least "his" Karate) could be a martial art.


Cook Ding, also known as Cook Ting, is a character from the Zhuangzi, a text foundational to Taoism. He is renowned for his skill in butchering oxen, which he performs with such precision and care that his knife remains sharp for nineteen years, only needing to be sharpened once a year because he cuts rather than hacks. His technique is described as being in perfect rhythm, akin to performing a dance or keeping time to music.


The story of Cook Ding is often interpreted as a metaphor for Tai Chi, emphasizing fluid, natural movements and the harmonization of body and mind. Tai Chi and Cook Ding's butchery highlight the importance of following the natural flow and structure of the activity at hand, allowing for effortless and efficient performance.


The ox plow posture, also known as the Wu Plow Oxen stance, is specific to Wu-style Tai Chi. It is characterized by an inclined posture that appears slanted externally but maintains a straight line from the crown of the head to the heels internally, ensuring the spine remains erect and allowing chi to flow freely. 

 

Keeping it the Family: Aikido and Shorinji Kempo

At Budo Journeyman, there has been an interesting series about martial arts being a family tradition for good or ill.An excerpt from the  final installment, which examines both Aikido and Shorinji Kempo is below.The full post may be read here.

In this final part; keep at the back of your mind these two continuing threads (it will help readers understand the framework of what I am exploring here).

1. The three-generation rule.

2. Iemoto (Family lineage passed on).

Content:

· The adopted son.

· Aikido.

· A brief note about Wado Ryu.

· Shorinji Kempo.

· Conclusion.

Adoption and non-familial transmission.

I don’t want to drift too far off my ‘keep it in the family’ theme but, what if the family pass on the tradition outside of the family; including adoption?

The ‘adopted son’ concept is something found all over the older Japanese martial traditions. Sometimes a promising student will be encouraged to marry into the family to make things easier to pass the lineage on to him. The Japanese do not seem as up-tight as westerners in these things. Modern westerners seem unconsciously aware of blood and genes; perhaps because science has influenced our thinking for much longer than in Japan (there may also be biblical and other cultural reasons).

Also, outside of my current remit, clearly; it’s not compulsory for the traditions to go through the family line, but I want to stay with my theme.

What about the current generations of family traditions in the broader Japanese martial arts?

Aikido.

Aikido seems to have reached its third generation:

· Ueshiba Morihei (1883 – 1969) First generation and founder.

· Ueshiba Kisshomaru (1921 – 1999) son of the above.

· Ueshiba Moriteru (1951 to present day).

Lined up is potentially the 4^th generation; Ueshiba Mitsuteru, born in 1981.

The progression from Morihei to Kisshomaru is an interesting one, something that throws up the issue of generational responsibility.

Put simply; Ueshiba Morihei was a martial artist of almost God-like ability; his son was always going to find that a difficult act to follow. (I would actually say; not ‘difficult’ but impossible). This is an extreme example that appears with other ‘second generation’ family inheritors (see below).

A basic Googling around reveals that there was disquiet when Kisshomaru took over the running of the firm. There were those who said that his emphasis on a particular style of teaching suppressed the idiosyncratic nature of Aikido, and alternative interpretations were not given the credit they deserved.

In part, I am sure that comes from the mercurial nature of the system and its original founder. Kisshomaru was always going to struggle with that.

...

Shorinji Kempo, another example.

Shorinji Kempo is a kind of hybrid Japanese martial arts system, very difficult to categorise. Founded in 1947, it stands out among the other modern styles. Part karate, part jujutsu and supposedly part Chinese Chuan-fa. Is it a religion, is it a cult (in Robert Twigger’s book ‘Angry White Pyjamas’ a ‘friend’ describes it as such – I couldn’t say). Or is it just a well-marketed business? (Current membership figures says 1.5 million members in 33 countries, that is pretty impressive).

 

 

 

BJJ Solo Practice Drills

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Gracie's All The Way Down

At the Budo Journeyman blog, is a series of articles about martial arts dynasties. There was a recent post about the celebrated Gracie family of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu fame. An excerpt is below. The full post may be read here.

Still looking at the three-generation rule I want to carousel through other family dynasties.

In this third piece, I will look at:

Gracie Jiu-Jitsu.

I always liked the simple historical fact that the Gracie’s originally came from Scotland. It made me think of ‘The Clans of the Highlands’, you couldn’t get more tribal than that.1

In reading around the subject (another one which I have zero practical experience of) I found myself going down a whole Brazilian rabbit hole, and really had to discipline myself to stick with the ‘three-generation rule’.

This is going to be a lightning tour and I do hope the GJJ and the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu community will forgive me.

First impressions: the Gracie family really do go for huge families (yet the ‘Mrs Gracie’s’ never seem to get a mention. They must have been heroes in themselves. Incidentally, Carlos Gracie is said to have fathered 21 children, most of them became black belts in Jiu-Jitsu; I wonder if that’s some kind of record?).

So, this leads me to the second observation; patriarchal family structures. I would posit that this particular dynamic promotes a strong brand of masculine-based family loyalty and pride, a distinct kind of energy. Possibly here we see some of the ingredients for success.

Gracie’s triumphant.

I found myself looking for some references on a kind of Gracie family business model. What did the clan get right? Before I fully get into the whole brand identity thing, let me dip into the origins story.

Early decades of the 20^th century. The Gracie family have already worked to develop an entrepreneurial spirit; but this needs a little background.

The beginnings.

It all really starts with a Brazilian chance encounter for one of the early family patriarchs, Gastão Gracie, who in 1916 went into the circus business and came across a Japanese ex-pat called Maeda Mitsuyo who used to be a rising judo star in Kano’s Kodokan from 1895 to 1904. In that same year, 1916, Maeda travel to the Americas and barnstormed his way through open fighting circuits all the way through to his arrival in Brazil. Read up on Maeda’s life; it’s a hell of a story.

 

First generation.

As I understand it, Gastão Gracie did not train under Maeda, but two of his sons did; the elder, Carlos Gracie and younger brother Helio. Both of these are generally considered as first generation of what was to become Gracie Jiu-Jitsu.

This was the founding of the generations.

The impression I get is that this form of fighting, so far removed from Japan, does not deserve the name its detractors give it, i.e. ‘Pseudo-judo’. It has Japanese origins but developed its own distinct identity that suited the environment it was later to flourish in.

Some people say that the Gracie/Maeda style came out of a Kodokan project intended to break the ground impasse; hence the emphasis on the ground game. I am not qualified to comment, but it sort of makes sense.