That Time I Took a Casino Bus Trip from Hell

My mom loved to gamble. Her answer to my nightly alcoholic dad passed out in his easy chair was to drag me to smoky, crowded bingo halls. By God, she loved the adrenaline rush of winning—even though she lost far too often in my high school honors math opinion.

Mamma’s love of gambling started with bingo and, after a divorce and remarriage, she graduated to casinos. She’d spend hours at a variety of penny slots, hoping for a big jackpot that never came. But she absolutely loved it, and after she died, my sisters and I went to a casino on the shores of Lake Charles, La., and scattered her ashes in the water. Because that’s where she was the happiest.

My mom died in August four years ago, so my sister Susan and I decided to honor her memory by taking an overnight tour bus trip to the Lucky Eagle Casino and Hotel in Eagle Pass. My sister found the tour bus company via the casino website, so I never questioned its reputability.

We rolled out of a Walmart parking lot a little after 8 a.m. Thursday in San Antonio, and it was an uneventful start. All the passengers were in good spirits. It reminded me of the time Mamma and I took a bus trip to a casino in Marksville, La. (Riders going TO the casino are always excited. Coming back, their pockets a lot lighter, they aren’t so happy.)

As the bus rolled on, I noticed something out of the corner of my eyes in the front side bus window. Something green was sliding back and forth in a wave. It was water. Green water. At the bottom of a double pane window sloshed green moss. (Gut sign #1 that this bus was not in good shape.)

Two-and-a-half hours later, we pulled onto the Kickapoo reservation, rolled down a long road out in the middle of nowhere, and like an oasis, the casino appeared. We all got off, my sister and I stashed our backpacks with the hotel concierge, and we agreed to meet up at 3 p.m. for our hotel check-in.

All was going well. I even won $20 right off the bat, and to me, a $20 win is a big deal because I’m not a gambler. I’m far too risk averse. I’m cheap and impatient. If a slot doesn’t hit in three tries, it’s like baseball: You’re out! So I spent the better part of the afternoon roaming around the casino tossing in a bet here and there at games that had significance: A goldfish game (fish are my spiritual symbols), a dachshund game for my dachshund mix Frederick, and a game for Paris in remembrance of a great trip years ago that Mare and I took to France.

I looked for my mom's favorite game, Wild Cherries. but I guess it had been replaced with some other new, loud, and visually frenetic alternative.

My sister and I checked into the hotel room, which was very clean and comfy, gamed a little more, lost a little more money, met for dinner, and while she lost a little more money, I went up to the room to watch the Olympics on television. We went to bed early, and repeated the day on Friday until it was time to board the bus at 5 p.m. Susan and I had a great time, and we thought Mamma would have loved this bus trip. We were both tired now, though, and looked forward to napping on the bus.

 

The Return Trip from Hell

 

We boarded late because the driver had to make an emergency phone call. (Sign #2.)

Hope everything’s O.K., I thought. It would suck to be out in the middle of nowhere with a family emergency in San Antonio.

But soon enough, we boarded the bus. It was the hottest day of the year, a blistering 106 degrees with a heat index of 109 degrees, and the inside of the bus hadn’t cooled down yet. The tour coordinator said that it was because the bus door stayed open too long during passenger loading.

O.K. I’ll buy that, I thought. However, the air coming out of my tiny vent wasn't even cool. It was hot air. (A sign of the verbal hot air to come.)

As we began to slowly roll out of the casino parking lot, the bus immediately stalled and died. And the air conditioner stopped working too. (Sign #3.) My trusty gut immediately tensed. I knew that this was likely to be a long trip home.

The bus driver restarted the bus, and it puttered, jostled, and jerked down the road at about 10 miles an hour. I knew that the reservation had a low speed limit, but I recalled us going much faster on this road when we arrived the day before.

Once off the reservation, the driver pulled into a Shell station, and passengers were joking that he must have forgotten to get gas.

“Everybody off the bus,” the coordinator said. “The driver needs to reboot the computer.”

Computer?

My bullshit meter jolted sharply to the right. (Sign #4.)

Susan and I joined the ant line of mostly elderly passengers, many moving slowly with walkers and canes, into the convenience store as the bus took a few test laps around the store.

My gut told me to buy a big bottle of water. Susan snagged some Gatorade.

We boarded the bus again, and the bus slowly pulled out of the parking lot.

At about 10 miles an hour.

And for the next 30 minutes, the bus repeatedly stalled and died; the air conditioner shut off and popped back on several times; and the bus advanced slower and slower—so slow that the driver hugged the edge of the road so that other cars could pass safely on the left. We made it past the U.S. Border Patrol checkpoint when Susan and I, who were seated at the back of the bus, heard a pop.

“That wasn’t the computer,” I snarked. Susan laughed.

The bus, now on a two-lane road, advanced slower and slower until it stopped—not quite completely off the road—and the engine and air conditioner stopped again.

“Everybody off the bus,” the coordinator said.

Passengers started to grumble. “I ain’t gettin’ off no damn bus again. I’m stayin’ right here,” some proclaimed stubbornly. Mamma would have been one of those stubborn people. She always walked with a limp due to suffering from polio when she was a child, so she wouldn't have wanted to continue to climb up and down the bus stairs.
 

The coordinator was insistent, though. And when I rose from my seat and carefully made my way down the narrow aisle to disembark, I knew why: Texas Department of Public Safety troopers were outside—hands on their well-armed and equipped hips and not a smile within a thousand miles.

Troopers stopped the bus for a safety check. Thick smoke was flowing from the back of the bus, and the troopers didn’t want a repeat of a tragic casino tour bus fire that killed eight people and injured 40 in May.

Slowly, one-by-one, most passengers left the hot and humid bus for an equally hot 106-degree heat outside in tall, dry grass and uneven terrain.

“Be careful of rattlesnakes,” one person said. They weren’t kidding.

As we stood in the shade of the bus, I watched a frenzy of activity: The tour coordinator called the home office to try to get a mechanic or another bus, while troopers accompanied the driver as he opened the back of the bus. The source of the smoke? A split fan belt and busted water hose. And that's when I also got a good look at the assortment of past Band-Aid-like mechanical repair jobs. (Sign #5.)

 

Always Carry Water

Passengers were ill prepared to be in the heat, and I was never more glad that Mamma was safely in another realm, because she never did well in the heat and would have been the first to croak.

Most passengers didn’t have water and some were even wearing long sleeve shirts. Their walkers and canes didn’t help steady their gait, for the terrain was rocky and there were holes in the ground. One man fell trying to find a place to stand. No one could sit down because there were also ants all over the ground. So we all stood there like a herd of sheep, wondering what we should do. The tour coordinator, still on the cell phone, went into the nearby field and picked up stray branches.

What's she going to do? Start a fire? I thought.

She used the limbs to prop open all the windows of the bus so that fresh air could circulate for those still inside. And soon, she announced that a bus would be coming in two hours.

“Should Crystal come pick us up?” my sister Susan asked. Her daughter was willing to drive all the way from San Antonio to get us. But Crystal would arrive about the same time as the next bus. Why ask someone who has been working since 6 a.m. to drive two-and-a-half hours to get us if she didn’t need to? So we thanked Crystal for the offer, and declined.

In time, the most elderly passengers were starting to show signs of heat exhaustion. A nice lady driving by stopped to give us a big jug of water that she kept in her car. And finally a Border Patrol agent brought out a huge, trademark orange Home Depot water jug. No cups, but it was cold water.

The faces of some passengers were red, and by this time, the troopers were trying to coordinate a  two-at-a-time ferry system in which some of the more ill passengers would be taken to the Pilot gas station 20 miles back in Eagle Pass. There was water, food, and air conditioning there.

So the ferrying began, and though this is might be terrible to say, the process of deciding who went with the trooper felt very much like the sinking Titanic—everyone wanted to go first, but couldn’t, and we wondered when or if the trooper would return.

The sun began to set, providing a much-needed relief in temperatures. It also signaled the start of swarming mosquitoes.

“And there are coyotes that come out at night around here,” a passenger added.

Lovely.

About an hour later, area sheriff’s deputies and Border Patrol agents came with sport utility vehicles and vans to accelerate the ferrying process. By this time, we were way past the two-hour mark of the replacement bus, and there were many folks still left at the side of the road.

 

The Challenge of Keeping Your Cool in the Heat

All this time, I had decided that I wouldn’t complain—that I was hydrated, healthy, and mobile. I was a black belt, and I was fine. A replacement bus was coming. And even if it didn’t, my sister and I would eventually be taken to the Pilot station. I could stay out on the side of the road longer if necessary. But with the sun setting, I began to worry that a car would slam into the back of the bus because only one of the hazard blinkers was working and the bus battery was dying.

I've had a lifelong fear of dying at an early age, and I was slowly becoming convinced that this was it. I would die on the side of the road out in the middle of nowhere with people I didn't know because I wanted to go gambling with my sister.

Some things aren't worth the risk, I mumbled to myself.

“So I’m curious,” I said to the trooper. “Where is the safest place to be in a situation like this? I mean, if a car comes along and careens right into the back of this thing. I’m thinking as far away from this bus as possible.”

The DPS trooper looked behind him, pointing out toward the field. “Actually, I’d be out there.”

But before I could take his advice, a single thumping sound hit the brim of the trooper’s hat.

Plop.

Plop, plop.

Plop, plop, plop...

We stared at each other, then looked up at the sky.

And saw lightning in the distance. (Sign #6.)

Really, Mother Nature?

“Everyone needs to get back on the bus,” the trooper announced.

I wondered whether a replacement bus was coming at all and began making mental escape plans once I got to the Pilot station. Was there a hotel and car rental place in the area? By this time, I needed more water, food, a shower, and time away from the coordinator, who was still assuring us that the bus was gassing up and on its way. (Sign # 7.)

My sister and I left on the final ferrying caravan in the air conditioned comfort of a Border Patrol agent’s SUV. He was so nice and understanding. But now that everyone was safe, I was starting to get pissed. My cell phone had died long ago, so I didn’t take pictures of the folks standing around the bus, evidence of past shitty engine repair jobs, or the algae in the window. I got angry when I thought about the fact that the driver and coordinator didn’t stop in the casino parking lot when the bus died the first time. They should have stopped to fix the problem then. They put the lives of all these people in danger. I was fine. My sister was fine. But everyone else was struggling.

I give most people the benefit of the doubt, but when my gut tells me that someone is telling me a lie, it’s usually correct. And my gut had been screaming since we left the casino.

It was about 9 p.m. when we arrived at the Pilot station, and 10:30 p.m. when the replacement bus arrived.

A smaller replacement bus.

With bad shocks.

And fewer, smaller seats.

But we were rolling again, heading toward the broken down bus to retrieve everyone’s luggage and then off to San Antonio.

The new driver almost hit the old bus when we drove by it because it was raining so hard he could barely see it in the dark. In the driving rain, the driver of the broken down bus darted in and out of oncoming traffic to cart every piece of luggage from one bus to the next. How he didn’t get hit by a car, I’ll never know. It was also a dangerous place for us to be—parked in front of a bus without flashers like a sitting duck.

The driver finally loaded the last piece of luggage onto the replacement bus and boarded soaked. He had nowhere to sit, so he parked his rear in the aisle. The safety violations of this trip were piling up, and I decided that when I was back in Austin, I needed to contact the casino and urge them to sever relationships with this company. The number of customers this tour brings isn’t worth the possible loss of one life. The tour coordinator and driver were too irresponsible to remain employed.

After calming down, I finally drifted into a nap, and we finally arrived in San Antonio at 2 a.m. I’ve never been more happy to see my brother-in-law, Mark, who had waited up all night to drive us the rest of the way home.

 

And What Did We Learn?

1.     One of the lessons of this adventure is to do more research on who I allow to drive me anywhere. I did have a part in this fiasco. I didn’t have to take this tour.

2.     The other lesson is that it’s O.K. for me to back out of an agreement if I don’t feel completely safe. I could have waltzed up the bus aisle as we rolled out of the casino and inquired about the bus’s condition. And I could have refused to get back on the bus while at the Shell station.

3.     Probably the biggest takeaways from this is that it reinforces the fact that I should ALWAYS trust my gut when it tells me not to go along with the crowd—to be the squeaky wheel when others won’t be. I know that I wasn’t the only one whose gut was screaming that this bus wasn't safe. So next time, I’m going to honor my gut.

4.     And lastly, regardless of the fact that my mom loved casino bus trips, I think I’ll take my car next time. Some risks aren’t worth taking.

The Weekend I Didn’t Spend at a Buddhist Temple

When I pray, The Universe listens. When necessary, it answers. I don’t have to be chanting in a Buddhist monastery to receive the answer. I can be sitting at my cluttered kitchen table, my bags packed by the door, ready to take a short drive to the outskirts of Austin for a four-day silent retreat at a Buddhist temple when I get a voicemail from a monk going on and on about communication issues, dignitaries making a surprise visit, and the decision—with apologies—to cancel my stay. (This a whole 90 minutes before the retreat was supposed to begin.)

Stunned in silence, I sat at my kitchen table for about 30 minutes; my car keys still in hand.

I’d reserved my spot at the temple a month in advance. The silent retreat was part of the spiritual development portion of an upcoming fourth-degree black belt test. But I’d said a couple prayers earlier that week along the lines of “…and if for any reason I shouldn’t go on the retreat at the temple, please intervene on my behalf.”

The Universe answered.

And though disappointed—on the verge of crushed—I knew that there was a reason for the intervention, even if I may never know why.

While planning for the retreat, I’d tried to apply my kung fu Sifu’s advice of “never expect; never compare.” I didn’t think I had any expectations of how the weekend at the temple was supposed to go. But I did expect to go to the temple. If there was an underlying expectation beyond that, it was the acceptance that I’d likely be uncomfortable at some point during the retreat.

The Universe has a wicked sense of humor. I was uncomfortable alright.

I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I was looking forward to living at the monastery for four days of silence. I had told coworkers before leaving that ever since watching Kung Fu as a child, I’d wanted to shave my head and move to a Buddhist monastery, just like “Grasshopper.”

 

 

What was I supposed to do now?

·       First thought: Go see my niece Amanda in Corpus Christi. She gave birth to a son six months ago. I hadn’t yet met my great-nephew, Landon.

·       Second thought: Get dressed and go to work. No since in wasting a perfectly good vacation day.

·      Third thought: Go get a donut.

I went with my first instinct: I quickly reserved a hotel room near the Corpus Christi bay front, grabbed an extra pair of shorts and my comfy white ALABAMA T-shirt, and decided to make “lemonade”—spend as much of the weekend in silence as possible. New rules: No radio, no television, no social media, calling Mare and responding to texts within a one-hour span in the evening, and “speak only if spoken to.”
 

Day 1 Observations: Sadness

On the drive to the beach, without the radio blaring, I note:

·      The terrain changes from tall trees to short, stubby bushes. The grass along the frontage roads takes on a dry brown hue typical of summertime in Texas. One burning cigarette tossed out a car window would start a wildfire.

·      Two semi-trucks fly by me with Bible verses printed on their cabs. Never seen that before.

·      This day 28 years ago, I made the same drive to interview for a newspaper job in Corpus Christi. (Weird coincidence #1)

Upon entering the lobby of the hotel:

·       I realize I’m in the exact place that the newspaper put me up at 28 years ago during my interview. The hotel has changed ownership and seen better days, but it is definitely the same place. (Weird coincidence #2)

·       I’m a tad annoyed that I have to speak to the hotel clerk at check-in (the nerve!), but she is really nice, and it isn’t her fault that I’d rather be at the temple.

In the room, I’m silent:

·      The only noise comes from the hum of an air conditioner and my annoying, chronic tinnitus.

·       I reach for my cellphone repeatedly out of habit, then pull away at the last minute as if it were hot coals.

·       It feels weird to be at the beach and not plan fun outings.

·       I feel sad when I realize that when I woke up this morning, I thought I’d be ending my day in a completely different place.

·      Through the hotel window, I watch seagulls fly around the building—because I have nothing else to do. And I’m sad again because, while the seagulls are entertaining, this is not what I want to be doing or where I want to be. Then I notice a baby seagull. How cute. Pretty sure I’d have never noticed the little sucker if I weren’t just watching in stillness and silence.

At sunset, I take a walk outside:

·       I wonder if this silent weekend counts toward my test if I’m not at the temple.

·      A humid, hot bay breeze hits my face as seagulls chirp overhead. I hope the birds don’t poop on my head, but then I think that it’d be fitting considering how the weekend is going thus far.

·       I become sad all over again. Lots of sighs and deep breaths. After all these years of sobriety, my go-to emotion in times of disappointment is still sadness.

Back in my room, the sun now gone, I toggle between studying a book of quotations from Mother Teresa and another from the Dalai Lama.:

·       I read about the “Tree of Self-Defeat,” and notice how often I feel empty and inadequate.

·       I read about forgiveness, and realize that on many levels, I’ve refused to make peace with myself—that I won’t let myself off the hook for certain imperfections.

·       I read about “freedom from mental anguish.” Boy, do I want that.

I’m so ready to not be sad anymore.

Day 2 Observations: Water, People

I’m ready to go down for the hotel’s free breakfast when I realize that I have a dark T-shirt on, and that if I plan to hike in 100-degree heat, I best put on something lighter. I choose my trusty white ALABAMA tee.

Now down at the breakfast bar, I grab some oatmeal and coffee and try to find a place away from everyone. I see an empty spot at the bar, but the moment I sit down, I know it’s not the right place. I get up and move to another table in the corner.

Two boys—a teenager and another about age five—come sit at the next table. Their mom quickly follows. She eventually leans over toward me: “So how do Alabama beaches compare to those in Texas?” She’s looking at my T-shirt.

I look down at my T-shirt. I had forgotten what I was wearing. “Oh, I don’t know. This is a souvenir.”

She was from Alabama, hence the conversation starter. We talk for AN HOUR. Turns out she knows my ex-brother-in-law. (Weird coincidence #3) Had I not changed T-shirts at the last minute and moved seats, I might have never met her, and her conversation was a welcome reprieve from sadness.

After breakfast, I take a long stroll along the bay front, where there is a fascinating display of the planets, placed much like the Stations of the Cross.

I’m in awe at how much the information seems perfectly suited:

·       The sun is one big bunch of hot air—a lot like me!

·       Mercury has a lot of craters. “Craters cover the surface,” the display reads. “Most are scars from the dawn of the solar system, when asteroids and comets pounded the planet. Now all is still and silent.” I’ve “cratered” before, I have a lot of childhood scars, and I’m still and silent this weekend. Hmmm. Who knew I had so much in common with Mercury?

·       “Jupiter’s beauty masks turbulence… Between its colorful bands of clouds swirl hurricane-like storms.” I look at the Great Red Spot in the display’s photo. I know that Inadequacy is my Great Red Spot. Like Jupiter, I mask it pretty well. I think that everyone probably has a Great Red Spot, though. They just don’t blog about it.

As I continue to stroll, I notice a banner for the Corpus Christi Hooks, the city’s minor league baseball team:

·        Sadness and inadequacy are “hooks” that keep me stuck. Whoa…

I go to a restaurant for lunch. While eating, I write a letter to myself—an honest account of how I’ve held myself back all these years:

·        You’re unfairly hard on yourself.

·        You’re a good person. Other people see it. Why don’t you?

·        Will you ever let yourself off the hook? Life is short, you know.

After lunch, I walk to the edge of the bay, tear up the pages of my letter, lay down near the water, and toss the tiny pieces of paper in the water. I watch the individual pieces slowly sink to the bottom, some quicker than others.

I gave my worries to the water. Which is Earth. And now I think it was fitting that I saw that planetary display earlier. (Weird coincidence #4) I learned that the Earth and its water are huge—big enough to absorb my little worries and take them out to sea, far away:

·        I can already feel some distance from the pain.

·       The sun feels good on my skin.

·       The coastal breeze feels good on my face.

·       The rhythmic sound of the waves lapping up against the shore is comforting.

On the walk back to the hotel, I realize that I’m a naturally social person—with a generous side of depression—and that staying away from people on a long weekend on the heels of disappointment probably isn’t the smartest thing to do, and may be a tad unhealthy. As I wait for a traffic light to change, I hear the whine and howl of the wind as it pushes the street signs back and forth. The hotel is located on the corner of Water and Peoples streets.

Back in the room, I’m restless:

·       I want to turn on the TV.

·       I want a soda pop.

·       I’d LOVE a donut.

·       It’s hard to stick with the silence when I’m sad. And again, the thought occurs to me that doing a solo silent retreat may not be the healthiest thing for a person prone to depression.

·       I meditate for 40 minutes.

I decide to break my silence, calling my niece to see if little Landon is awake. He is, so I go visit for a couple hours. He is cute and giggly and adorable. My spirits lift.
 

My great-nephew, Landon

I return to the hotel later in a better mental place. Some people and water time was just what I needed.

People.

Water.

I remember that the hotel is on the corner of Water and People streets. (Weird coincidence #5)
 

Day 3 Observations: Peanut Butter Deprivation

I’m wide awake at 5 a.m., so I get up and write about some awakenings with old-fashioned pen and paper:

·       I actually like early morning silence.

·       I need to make more time for silence and meditation, daily reflection, and spiritual study.

·       I’ve enjoyed studying my books.

I meditate for 20 minutes, then get dressed and take another walk to the shoreline to watch the sun come up. While I wait, I practice the two martial arts forms I’m working on at the moment: Taekwondo’s Pyongwon and ving tsun kung fu’s Siu Nim Tao. It feels good to be out this early. I watch the sun rise, take some pictures, and stroll back to the hotel.

In my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, wondering why I thought it was so important or necessary to do a silent retreat. What am I trying to prove?

I remember a day that Mare and I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She asked me why I spread the peanut butter so thin.

“Slather it on thick!” she urged, taking the butter knife, digging it deep into the peanut butter jar, and emerging with a clump the size of a squirrel. “Otherwise, it’s not a peanut butter sandwich. It’s a bread sandwich.”

It was my first awakening to a warped sense of deprivation:

·       I think that suffering or going without basic comforts is a noble endeavor—that by going without, I’ll somehow be stronger.

·       I’ve told myself for a lifetime that I don’t need much—that I can get by with very little. And I have. Now, though, it’s working against me. (It never really worked. It was just a coping skill that I used to get through a childhood living amid the family disease of alcoholism.)

·       I hear the voice of my mom, saying, “Don’t use too much. We have to make (fill in the blank) last.”

·   When other people go on the No Sugar Challenge, it’s about cutting something horrible from their diet. When I do it, it’s about punishing myself because I like cake and donuts.

Sitting on the bedside, I realize that while the silent retreat was born out of a challenge to become more centered and present, it ended with me depriving myself of all contact with people. I had gone to the opposite extreme—from community to isolation—and, as suspected, it indeed wasn’t healthy. Because I went into a deprived state of being on the heels of disappointment, I really set myself up for unnecessary pain:

·       The Plan B retreat deprived me of talking, of connecting with others—something that I truly need and love. I like people. I see now that I got it wrong.

·       It’s not silence I need as much as stillness. Peace. Reflection. Observation.

I decide to return home a day early.

All packed, I walk through the hotel room one last time for any forgotten items. And that’s when it hits me. By the door, I see my packed bags, stacked the same way they were the morning I thought I was going to the temple. I can’t stop the tears. I wanted to go to the temple so bad. I was looking forward to it. I excitedly told my coworkers and friends about it. I had my heart set on it. I cried hard. “Little girl” hard, because that’s probably the last time I really got this excited about something.

On the drive home, I feel numb. The drive feels familiar, though—not because I’ve driven it so many times, but because 25 years ago this month, I drove away from Corpus Christi having had my last drink of alcohol. I’ve been sober ever since. No wonder this has been a hard weekend.

As soon as I walk back through the door at home, greeted lovingly by Mare and our furry pack of puppies, my spirit lifts.

I’m imperfect—still a work in progress. Though the weekend didn’t turned out the way I’d planned, I am oddly grateful. If I hadn’t decided to take the stupid fourth-degree black belt test, and as a result go on a silent retreat, I may not have ever learned that:

·       Sadness and inadequacy are my “hooks.”

·       It’s O.K. to need and want to be around other people.

·      The beach is not always the solution to ever problem, but it’s good to check.

·       I don’t need to spend the weekend at a temple to practice stillness—to reflect in silence.

·       As usual, I have everything I need right where I am—and that’s enough.

·       I’M ENOUGH.

And Acceptance is the Key

As an adult, I’ve had an odd attraction to Christians. The most fundamentalist kind.

My wife Mare says if I’m at a party and there’s a Christian in the room, we will be drawn to each other like a moth to flame and spend the entire evening in a deep, meaningful spiritual conversation.

She’s right. I've always been drawn to anyone who lives a spiritual life.

My best friend at a publishing company I used to work for is an Assemblies of God member. Coworkers would see us bop off to lunch on a near-daily basis and shake their heads. I was an out lesbian then, and everyone knew my coworker’s beliefs.

“How does that even work?” a coworker asked me one day. “You’re gay and she’s…”

“I don’t know,” I said. “And I don’t care.”

My most profound martial arts influence remains a Buddhist-turned-born-again Christian. Today he’s a pastor. Years ago, after coming out to him, I was hurt and angry because I didn’t feel accepted. I sat in Alcoholics Anonymous/Al-Anon meetings for months, crying my eyes out because I loved him so deeply and felt rejected. I eventually moved to Austin, stopped commuting to classes, and time took care of the pain. We never discussed the matter again.

It took me years to realize that the only acceptance that really counted was mine—and that of my Higher Power. At that point, I decided to agree to disagree with my beloved mentor.

When I opened my martial arts studio, guess who was the first to be invited to teach a guest seminar? Yep. My students absolutely loved him, just like I always did. And today, though in my 24 years on the mat I only trained with this man for about three years, I pass on more of his essence and knowledge to my students than all my many instructors over the years combined.

I don’t know how all this stuff works. I’m spiritual, I pray, and I’ve been known to break into tears upon crossing the threshold of a Catholic church. Mare calls me a freak because I have coincidental interactions with strangers that turn out to be powerful God moments. I’m friends with people who society might say I shouldn’t be. Whatever. Today, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I continue the hard work of acceptance—of accepting myself and others as they are, not as I would have them be.

I suspect it will be a lifelong exercise.

Black Belt: Not for Sale

Sacred.

This single word uttered repeatedly at a meeting yesterday has helped me understand on a new level why I struggled so much when I ran Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute, and why black belt factories grate my nerves and test my compassionate spirit.

Yesterday at an AA meeting, the day’s topic morphed into how we must etch out time in our busy days to honor the things we find sacred.

Time to honor the sacred.

And it got me thinking:  This is why I get so angry at martial arts schools that charge outrageous tuition and churn out black belts like an assembly line—or worse, six-year-old black belts who don’t yet have the mental capacity to understand the weight and responsibilities of the belt.

The process of getting a black belt in many schools is no longer sacred. An important, life-changing rite of passage has been put on speed dial in exchange for a hefty monthly bank draft.

Now before you get all hot and bothered and prepare to write a Facebook rant in defense of your style and your school, know that I’m most likely not talking about you. (But you know who I’m talking about, right?)

I know a city full of excellent martial artists who run reputable schools. Through many martial arts conferences, I’ve met the finest martial artists and instructors from around the world who don’t belong in the aforementioned league. They’re the real deal, and it shows in how they conduct themselves and in the students they produce.

So, sorry. This post isn't about you. It’s not really even about them. It’s about me. It’s about why I have—after five years as a school owner and 15 years as a Taekwondo teacher—always struggled to take money in exchange for lessons.

Because to me, martial arts knowledge is sacred.

If a six-year-old cannot comprehend the meaning of sacred, I don’t understand how that kid can become a black belt. It’s as simple as that. (Unless, of course, that kid is the next Dalia Lama.)

I know so many good martial arts business owners who don’t have a problem with running a martial arts school as a business. By doing so, they are able to support their families and their communities, and they run great schools. And we NEED great schools. I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without a great school and instructor in San Antonio and many others right here in Austin.

Can martial arts be sacred and still a business?

Let me be drill down another rabbit hole: At what point does it cease to be sacred? When the belt is essentially sold and the process rushed along? When students are cheated out of a profound mental, physical, and spiritual experience because they are walking the path a little slower than expected—and the school owner needs to cover bills?

This is my issue. Again, my issue. Black belt factories have taken away what’s sacred about a martial arts life and have soiled the work that so many great martial artists do on a daily basis, like those who:

·        Speak at schools about combating bullying;

·        Teach self-defense at women’s shelters; and

·        Raise money and then travel hundreds of miles to an impoverished area of Alabama and work to revitalize the community.

I’ve tried to make my personal peace with martial arts and business for a long time. I may never get there. Because now I know that to me, it’s sacred.

But I applaud all who are doing the good work of teaching martial arts on a daily basis. I’m glad they can do it, because the world desperately needs more people who practice and pass on the full-circle skills that come with this way of life.

But for those who are selling us out—for those who are tarnishing our names and our way of life—in the words of infamous Honey Badger Mom Kelly Muir:

Stop it.