Submitting | The Secret Diary of Anthony Bourdain

Submitting

How one woman went from getting her ass kicked to delivering ass kickings of her own.

By Ottavia Busia Bourdain Aug 17, 2016

中文

走进曼哈顿的伦佐·格雷西柔术学院（Renzo Gracie Academy），你需要走下第30街一栋商业建筑背后的消防楼梯。你注意到的第一件事是一股浓烈、潮湿、阴冷的空气扑面而来——这是许多人（绝大多数是男人）在两个铺满垫子的大房间里，在汗水湿滑的地板上近身缠斗、拼尽全力的产物。空气中弥漫着睾丸、湿透的防磨衣、发霉的衣服和股沟的混合气味。

九年前，女儿刚出生不久，我便开始在上东区练习踢拳（kickboxing）。那里的健身房和更衣室闻起来都是刚吹干的头发和指甲油的味道。和我一样，那里的大多数女性都是为了产后“恢复身材”或学习自卫而来的。但是，即使我“恢复了身材”并完成了自卫课程，我发现自己想要的更多。我上瘾了。一旦我决定喜欢某件事，我就会全力以赴。而我真正喜欢的，是痛击我的教练。因此，当他们建议我应该去练柔术时，我记在了心里。

我以前看过综合格斗（MMA）比赛。我是女演员、前综合格斗选手吉娜·卡拉诺（Gina Carano）的粉丝；我认为她重新定义了女人可以且应该成为的样子，那是我想要效仿的，尽管一开始综合格斗并没有吸引我。地面上的拳手试图施展复杂的关节技或其他招式，但在我未经训练的眼中，以及那些在比赛进入地面战时发出嘘声的多数无脑观众眼中，那只是两具汗流浃背、湿滑的身体在互相摩擦。看起来既不好玩，也没什么用。

然而，我愿意尝试任何新鲜事物。所以，尽管可能会遇到那种肉搏摩擦，我还是报名了。

第一天，走下那些楼梯，随着恶臭变得越来越浓，热气越来越重，我以一种原始的直觉意识到，我闯入了另一种动物的领地。我耐心地坐在空荡荡的办公室外，等待有人注意到我。男人——偶尔也有女人——穿着牛仔裤和T恤、西装和领带从我身边走过；无论老少，都提着健身包，径直走向更衣室。

终于，一个年轻人问我是否需要什么。我告诉他我是来上入门课的，他消失了几分钟，拿回了一件和服（或者在柔术中大家都叫它“道服” / gi）。他建议我赶紧换上，因为五分钟后就上课了。这鬼东西足足大了两号，又硬又重。

赤着脚，摘掉所有首饰，我走进了两个铺着垫子的房间中较小的那一个，问这里是不是“入门课”。结果发现，根本就没有什么“入门课”。满怀同情的同学们建议我听从教练的指示，尽量别让自己受伤。在那里，没有人会牵着我的手教我。环顾四周，看着身边这群古怪的白带学员（他们大多数习惯了被经验丰富的学员蹂躏），我能看出他们在打量我，就像看着一个狗狗磨牙玩具——或者一块新鲜的猪排。

热身时，我跟着周围的人，拼命想跟上节奏，并努力弄懂那些随机下达的指令，其中许多术语我根本听不懂。每一个技术动作我都搞砸了，我的身体对哪怕最基本的动作也完全陌生。

接着，就在课程即将结束时，“实战训练”开始了。在课程的最后30分钟里，你需要和同学们进行对打——四个五分钟的回合，每回合之间有60秒的休息时间。自小学以来，这是第一次有“活生生”、全神贯注的人类力量和蓄意的动作，将我的身体作为一个目标发起攻击。柔术中的招式之所以被称为“降服（submissions）”，是因为它们旨在迫使对手屈服，你可以通过拍垫子（拍击投降 / tapping）来示意。我拍了很多次。

一个邋遢、多毛、满身大汗的家伙会把头卡在我的头旁边，锁住我的手臂，用肩膀压迫我的颈动脉，切断通向我大脑的含氧血液。我只能拍击投降。接着：这堵肉墙移开，让我获得了几秒钟可以呼吸的空气……直到，突然之间，这个混蛋把我的手臂反关节拉伸，让我身体的其余部分完全动弹不得——我只好用空着的那只手疯狂拍击，祈祷在另一只手臂像鸡翅一样被折断之前有人能注意到。

我痛苦地领悟到，身体的每一个部位，都是潜在的攻击目标。

手臂、肩膀、脚踝被孤立出来并受到攻击。关节技会带来不断升级的疼痛感。当疼痛达到无法忍受的程度时，你就会拍击投降。绞杀是一种特殊的降服方式。当你的脖子被紧紧勒住，而身体的其他部分却无能为力时，那种感觉简直是专属的炼狱。我第一次体验这种感觉时，单单是对气管的压迫感就足以让我立刻投降了。

我养成了一种训练模式：迷茫地移动，随后四肢绝望地挣扎，在我和其他白带学员在汗水的海洋中胡乱挥舞时，脸上挨了无数次意外的膝盖和手肘。而每一次，总会有人锁住我的一条肢体，或者把他们那该死的手臂勒住我的脖子，我不得不拍击投降。

妈的。

整个第一个月，以及随后的几个月甚至几年里，当我走下那些楼梯，踏上那些垫子时，我都暗下决心，要成为那个让别人拍击投降的人。很长一段时间里，我每天都在挨揍。我拖着酸痛的四肢、被砸伤的手指，带着胳膊、腿和脖子上的淤青回家。每天上课前，我坐在那里都会感到忐忑不安，我假装在拉伸，但实际上是在为我深知即将到来的一切做心理准备。

现在已经是五年后了，每天早上7点，当我走下楼梯来到伦佐·格雷西学院时，那股汗水、睾丸和股沟的气味变得熟悉，甚至让人感到亲切。在我踏上垫子之前，总会有一个简短的站立鞠躬，代表着在这里没有高低贵贱之分。

在一个充满着各种经验和技能水平的人的房间里——摔跤手、擒拿手、职业MMA选手、蓝带、紫带、棕带、黑带——我不再感到忐忑。我以一种近乎冷酷的超然态度环视整个房间，打量着男女双方潜在的对手。

当被一个比我强壮的对手压在身下时，我不再惊慌失措或感到沮丧。我不去想那种不适感。我思考的是我的反击计划。

我的大脑驱使着我的身体奔向一个目标——本能地率先攻击对手。我测试他们在面对那些曾经是我最大恐惧的压倒性钳制和重压时，进行周旋的能力。

我现在确信，在这门艺术中，任何人都是可以被战胜的。体力仅仅是另一个需要被智取、被包抄、用策略去克服的障碍罢了。

这是课程的最后半小时，“实战训练”时间。

我环顾四周挑选搭档。在房间的另一头，我看到一个有着典型健美身材的新人。我点点头，他朝我走来。我们击掌示意开始。我们站着靠近彼此。我假装去拉他的头，然后迅速滑向他的双腿。他满脸困惑——这正是我想要的效果。

我利用他的犹豫，迅速将他摔倒在地，并把他的腿顺势代入我们刚刚在课上练习的招式——反向足跟勾（inverted heel hook）。这个招式通过锁死对手的脚和臀部，利用你全身的力量向其膝盖施压，拉扯对手脆弱的膝盖韧带——让对手在一个残酷的选择中二选一：要么投降，要么终身残废。

他意识到自己被困住了，开始拼命地踢踹和扭动，但已经太迟了。我每天训练几个小时，每周练七天。我已经经历过几百次这样的情况，对他的反应做了充分的准备。我呼吸平静而均匀。这个健美男喘着粗气，拼尽全力进行最后一次逃脱的尝试——他惊恐万分地意识到，在这个满是爷们的房间里，他即将被一个体重比他轻了整整50磅的女人降服。

我耐心地继续控制着他的腿，把它紧紧地锁在我的足跟勾里。他又多抵抗了一会儿——纯粹是大男子主义作祟，因为这毫无意义；他心里清楚，我也很清楚。我轻轻地——坦白说，甚至是很仁慈地——施加压力，然后他大喊道：“我投降（TAP）！！”

这个动作过程只用了几秒钟，在那个惊惶失措的新人看来就像是魔法一样。但这并不容易。学习这些攻击招式需要花费无数个小时的努力和重复。而且每天依然会犯错，然后纠正。但我是真的把这当回事。

这是一场蜕变。我的身体发生了巨大的变化。我也变了。我丈夫半开玩笑地说，他娶了索菲亚·罗兰，结果却得到了尚格·云顿。但这话也不无道理。我不再是同一个人了。我现在从身体到精神都变得坚不可摧。我所获得的自信，我很自豪能与我的女儿分享，她和我一样，也已经练了一段时间柔术了。

在我看来，任何男人都不应该能够恐吓我的女儿或把自己的意志强加于她——或者任何女人。在一个理想的世界里，愿意这样做的女性应该拥有自信、自尊、力量和身体技能来支撑这种态度。为此，我希望不久的将来能够把我学到的东西教给她们。柔术已经成为了我的生命。

English

You enter the Renzo Gracie Academy in Manhattan by walking down the fire stairs in the back of a commercial building on 30th Street. The first thing you notice is a thick, humid wave of dank air — the end product of many people, overwhelmingly men, grappling in close contact, exerting themselves on the sweat-slicked floors of two large, matted rooms. It smells of balls, sodden rash guards, moldering clothes, and ass crack.

I began kickboxing on the Upper East Side shortly after the birth of my daughter nine years ago. The gyms and locker rooms there smelled of fresh blowouts and nail polish. Like me, most of the other women were there to "get their body back" after pregnancy or to learn self-defense. But even after I had "gotten my body back" and finished the self-defense classes, I found myself wanting more. I was hooked. When I decide I like something, I go in all the way. And what I really liked was hitting my instructors. So when they told me I should train in jujitsu, I took note.

I began kickboxing on the Upper East Side shortly after the birth of my daughter nine years ago.

I'd seen mixed martial arts fights before. I was a fan of Gina Carano, the actress and former MMA fighter; I thought she redefined what a woman could and should be in a way I wanted to emulate, although MMA didn't initially appeal to me. The fighters on the ground are trying to apply sophisticated joint locks or other moves, but to my untrained eye, and to the majority of meatheads in the audience booing when the fight goes to the mats, it's just two sweaty, slippery bodies grinding away at each other. It didn't look either fun or useful.

I will, however, try anything once. So I signed up, despite the potential grinding.

That first day, walking down those stairs, as the stench grew stronger and the heat intensified, I knew, in a primordial way, that I was in another animal's territory. I sat patiently outside an empty office, waiting for someone to notice me. Men — and the occasional woman — walked by wearing jeans and T-shirts, suits and ties; young and old, all carrying gym bags, headed for the locker rooms.

Eventually, a young man asked me if I needed anything. I told him I was there for the introductory class, and he disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a kimono (or a "gi," as everyone calls it in jujitsu). He suggested I change quickly, as class started in five minutes. The damned thing was two sizes too big, stiff, and heavy.

Barefoot, all jewelry removed, I entered the smaller of two matted rooms and asked if this was the "introductory class." There was, it turned out, no "introductory class." I was advised by my pitying fellow students to follow the instructor's directions and try not to get hurt. Nobody was going to hold my hand in there. Looking around at the odd collection of white belts around me, most of whom were used to being mauled by more experienced students, I could see they were sizing me up like a doggie chew toy — or a fresh pork chop.

Nobody was going to hold my hand in there.

I followed the people around me during the warm-ups, desperately trying to keep up and make sense of random commands, many of them in terms I didn't understand. I bungled every technique, my body completely unfamiliar with even the most basic movements.

And then, as class was nearing its end, it was time for "live training." In the last 30 minutes of class, you fight your fellow students — four five-minute rounds, with 60 seconds in between each one to rest. It was the first time since grammar school where "live," totally focused human strength and intentional movements were aimed at my body as an object. The moves in jujitsu are called "submissions" because they are aimed at getting your opponent to submit, which you signal by tapping. I tapped a lot.

A scruffy, hairy, sweaty dude would wedge his head next to mine, trapping my arm and using shoulder pressure against my carotid artery to shut off the oxygenated blood flow to my brain. I would tap. Then: a few seconds of breathable air as the wall of human meat moved away ... until, suddenly, the motherfucker would have my arm hyperextended, the rest of my body completely immobilized — and I'd have to tap with my free hand, hoping it would be noticed before the other arm snapped like a chicken wing.

Every part of the body, I painfully learned, was a potential target.

Arms, shoulders, ankles are isolated and attacked. Joint locks lead to escalating degrees of pain. When it becomes too excruciating, you tap. Strangulations are a special type of submission. The feeling of a squeeze around your neck when the rest of your body is powerless to do anything about it is its own circle of hell. The first time I experienced it, the pressure on the trachea alone was enough to make me tap immediately.

The first time I experienced it, the pressure on the trachea alone was enough to make me tap immediately.

I developed a training pattern: confused movement, followed by a desperate scramble of limbs, and many accidental knees and elbows to the face as my fellow white belts and I flailed at each other in a sea of human sweat. And every time, someone would isolate one of my limbs, or get their damned arm around my neck, and I would have to tap.

Damn it.

All that first month, and for months and years that followed, when I walked down those stairs and onto those mats, I was determined to be the one to make people tap. I got my ass kicked every day for a long time. I'd go home with aching limbs, smashed fingers, bruises all over my arms and legs, my neck. Every day before class, I'd get butterflies in my stomach as I sat there, pretending to stretch but actually mentally preparing myself for what I knew came next.

It's five years later now, and when I walk down those stairs to Renzo Gracie Academy every day at 7 a.m., the smell of sweat, balls, and ass crack is familiar, even welcoming. Before I step on the mat, there's always a short standing bow, an acknowledgment that no one is above or below anyone else.

In a room full of people with a wide span of experience and skill level — wrestlers, grapplers, professional MMA fighters, blue belts, purple, brown, black belts — I feel no butterflies in my stomach. I scan the room with clinical detachment, sizing up potential opponents of both sexes.

I scan the room with clinical detachment, sizing up potential opponents of both sexes.

I no longer panic or become unhappy when pinned underneath a larger opponent. I do not think about the discomfort. I think about my plan to counter.

My mind drives my body to a purpose — to instinctively attack my opponent first. I test their ability to maneuver against the same crushing pins and pressures that were once my greatest fear.

I know now, with certainty, that in this art, anyone can be overcome. That physical strength is just another obstacle to be outwitted, outflanked, out-strategized.

It's the last half-hour of class, time for "live training."

I look around to select a partner. Across the room, I see a new guy with a classic bodybuilder's frame. I nod and he walks over to me. We slap hands to signal the start. We approach each other standing. I fake pulling on his head and slide quickly into his legs. He is confused — as I'd intended for him to be.

I use his hesitation to quickly bring him down to the ground and pass his leg into the move we were just working on in class — the inverted heel hook. This move stretches your opponent's weak and vulnerable knee ligaments by locking their foot and hips in place and using the force of your entire body to arch into their knee — giving your opponent a stark choice between submission or crippling injury.

He realizes he's being trapped and begins to violently kick and turn, but it's already too late. I train several hours a day, seven days a week. I've been here hundreds of times, and I am fully prepared for these reactions. I breathe calmly and evenly. The bodybuilder gasps and uses all the energy he can gather for one last attempt at escape — realizing, with mad panic, that he is in imminent danger of being submitted in a room full of dudes by a woman he outweighs by 50 pounds.

I patiently continue to control his leg and tightly set it in my heel hook. He resists a bit longer — a macho thing, because there's no point; he knows it and I know it. I gently — and, frankly, charitably — apply pressure, and he yells, "TAP!!"

The sequence took seconds and seemed like magic to the unpleasantly surprised newcomer. But it's not easy. It took hours and hours of work and repetition to learn these attacks. And still, errors are made and corrected on a daily basis. But I take this shit seriously.

The sequence took seconds and seemed like magic to the unpleasantly surprised newcomer. But it's not easy.

It has been a transformation. My body has changed, dramatically. I have changed. My husband half-jokes that he married Sophia Loren but ended up with Jean-Claude Van Damme. But there's something to that. I'm not the same person. I'm hard now, physically and mentally. The confidence I gained is something I'm proud to share with my daughter, who, like me, has been training jujitsu for some time.

In my view, no male should ever be able to intimidate or impose his will over my daughter — or any woman, for that matter. In an ideal world, women who care to should have the confidence, self-esteem, strength, and physical skills to back up that attitude. To that end, I hope someday soon to be able to teach them the things I have learned. Jujitsu has become my life.