Sword Fight Summer Camp

I was heavily into martial arts when I was a kid. Akin to so many American children, Karate was my first foray, but it didn’t last long. I couldn’t transfer the use of skills from thought to instinct, and thus I never earned my instructor’s permission to spar with the other students. Absent his blessing I couldn’t develop any confidence of my own. I finally quit out of embarrassment. I was seven.

I tried again as an adult, starting with Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and moving on to Tae Kwon Do. Physically challenging and mentally engaging, it required focus and control over one’s limbs unlike- well, unlike anything video games had offered. For someone who’s body image issues include a fear of being clumsy, it felt like a genuine path toward being treated like a normal person instead of an oaf.

By my late 20s I recognized it was impractical. I wasn’t getting into fights all the time. All throughout school I had been bullied enough to become a pacifist, and cultivated an intimidating appearance to keep the punks from punching me (easy enough for a person my size). As I was approaching my 30s, spending money on defense classes was more expensive than I could manage, and ultimately too much to justify. I still missed it, though.

In my second year of grad school I found the perfect replacement with stage combat. It required the same level of physical challenge, the same quality of mental discipline, the same character of dexterity and control over my body. More importantly, it was directly related to my career; when the stage directions read “They fight,” the scene is more effective when the actors aren’t falling over themselves.

I joined the Society of American Fight Directors with the goal of learning every skill that could be taught and rising through their ranks. Every time I reached a new level I’d stretch for the next one. Once I’d earned the rank of Advanced Actor Combatant, I asked my instructor the same question I had so many times before: “What’s next?” This time the answer kicked me in the teeth and grounded my advancement.

“First, you have to be a dues-paying member for five years,” he said. That meant I had four years to go. “In the meantime,” he told me, “find classes to assist and get some choreography jobs.” Didn’t work for me. I knew I hadn’t the experience to choreograph, and once I graduated I couldn’t afford to continue training. The Winter Wonderland workshop in Chicago was the only one I could attend without traveling, and even that tuition was beyond my reasonable reach. I could neither develop my skills further nor network my way into an assistantship. I was deadlocked, agonizing the loss of What Could Have Been.

For neither the first nor the last time, a few years later my Lady Love opened the door for me. She knew how much I missed it, and told me it wasn’t fair that she should pursue her craft through travel and workshops and I wasn’t. She told me, straight out, “You’re going to Winter Wonderland this year.”

So I did.

I emerged from that week with a renewed vigor and enthusiasm. My appetite for the craft was sharpened like never before, my great heart grown fonder for the absence. What’s more – I was still good at it, which was a relief. I knew this was something I would never again be able to live without, so long as I have the choice.

I write this now sitting in the dining hall of Louisiana Tech University, attending for the first time the National Stage Combat Workshop; a 3 week intensive which puts a weapon in my hand almost 9 out of every 12 hours, six days a week. The demands on my body and mind have rarely been so steep, and collapse from exhaustion is a guarantee.

But so is the satisfaction.

Week One is over, and only one day of rest separates what we’ve learned from what lies ahead. I refuse to back off ever, ever again.