Hands in Translation

It was December last year, and I was feeling sad. I’m typically sad in December. Old memories of tense Christmases growing up in a home with an alcoholic dad and an angry mom waft into my psyche and cells. The lights, the music, and the forced jolly, holiday glee make me want to puke. But every year I’m less sad, for I’ve learned the art of creating new memories to replace the old. That’s part of why I wear an elf hat at the office every day during the last month of the year.

But it was December, and I was traveling alone on a business trip to San Diego. It rained dump trucks on my way to the resort hotel. (“The weather is perfect in San Diego,” my publisher said.) I arrived to the hotel room dead-beat tired and hungry. I ordered a pizza that I immediately regretted. (I have yet to figure out how to eat well on travel days.)

I’d never been to California, and though sad, I was also slightly hopeful. My wife and a friend had visited the city a year earlier, and I had a list of “Diane- and Mare-approved” sights. Officially, I was there to support my publisher’s martial arts tournament, seminar, and end-of-year author awards banquet. But (besides hoping that I’d sell most of the luggage-bag-full of books I’d brought along what I really wanted was to see some beauty, spend some time meditating near the water, and relaxing. It didn’t happen quite as I imagined.

There really wasn’t anything wrong with the flight, the hotel, the tournament, the seminar, or the banquet. (I was named Sidekick Publications’ Female Author of the Year.) It was just flat. Like most Decembers, it was just me viewing life and events through depression-fogged bifocals.

But it WAS December, and as much as I’m clothed by wet-blanket, ho-hum feelings, there’s a childlike side of me that still hopes and believes that magic dust can cover you in an instant and shazam! A gift appears.

My gift on this trip wasn’t wrapped in pretty, shiny paper with creatively curved bows. It came in the form of a humble couple from Italy who spoke little English. Ving tsun kung fu Sifu Paul Tang and his wife, Simu Miriam Ponce, were still a bit jet lagged as we sat on a couch in my publisher’s home. I didn’t know what to say, especially since I spoke no Italian, so I did what I always do in awkward social situations: I pulled out my cell phone and started showing them pictures of my dogs. (I had five at the time.) Their faces lit up. They had a dog too, and Sifu Paul pulled out his cell phone and began finger swiping through photos of their canine loved one. They spoke a mix of Italian and English the entire time, but I understood every word. In the universal language of dogs, no translation was needed. I liked them immediately.

I didn't see them again until the day of the tournament, but our real connection came on a beautiful, sunshiny San Diego Sunday morning in a small, mirrored conference room in the hotel.

I missed their seminar because I had to man my author booth. So on my break, I found Sifu and Simu and asked them how the seminar went. Through broken English, Simu said it wasn’t well attended. There were some big martial arts names on the schedule, and most seminar participants decided to attend those sessions that involved cool knife defenses or celebrities. They were an unknown entity from Italy.

"But we train anyway," Simu Mariam said with a genuine smile.

In a sweet, clunky manner, Simu asked if I wanted to practice Siu Nim Tao and pak sau with her and Sifu. I smiled: The universal word for “YES!”

And so it began. With very little English or Italian spoken, we began having a deep and rich conversation through our hands. Sifu Paul corrected my technique through motion instead of words. He spoke very little. He didn’t have to. Everything that we needed to say to each other we were saying as I punched and he pakked, as I pakked and he punched. Then the three of us followed one another through the form Siu Nim Tao, and again, very little verbal language was needed, but I was having a detailed conversation of how the form is practiced a world away. Sifu Paul was kind and gentle. Through his hands he spoke with grace and authority. When I switched to play pak sau with Simu Mariam, he interrupted sparingly to adjust for distance and target accuracy. Again, he spoke through his hands, and it was a conversation filled with wisdom and enlightenment—pointing out weaknesses to my structure and making micro-adjustments to where my forearm, elbow, and hand should be to most efficiently intercept Simu Mariam’s incoming attack.

Simu Mariam and I were in sync, alive in a fast-paced conversation of the hands and the heart. I didn’t want to break from our work, but I had another seminar session to attend. We stopped and smiled awkwardly at one another, and Sifu Paul repeatedly and rather excitingly nodded approvingly: He was so happy that I took time to train with him and his wife. Before I left the room, he loaded me up with gifts to take back to Texas: a soft, black school T-shirt; a red, rubber, stress-relief ball; and a keychain with the ving tsun symbol etched in metal. He also invited me to stay with them if I were ever in Italy. And he meant it.

Our training time was over, but the experience buoyed my spirits for the rest of the trip. The love and rich conversation we shared remains to this day.

I left California with a book luggage bag that was just as heavy as when I arrived. (I ended up selling one book, trading another with a fellow author, and giving away one to a young boy who asked me the price of the book and then looked heartbroken because he didn’t have enough money. I autographed it: “No matter your dreams, don’t quit.”) But my heart wasn’t so heavy anymore. I’d been sprinkled with some of that martial arts magic dust by the couple from Italy. They gave me the gift of their time and generously shared their love of ving tsun.

And suddenly December wasn’t so bad after all.