Ghosts of Dojos Past

Just a few weeks ago I had one of those encounters you wish had happened earlier in this blog but, as always, happens when and where you least expect it. It was on Good Friday during the Holy Week ceremonies in Old San Juan, on the Cathedral steps. I ran into an old sensei, my first sensei, whom I hadn't seen in some 30 years: Gusi González (The "Soft Sensei") from my Ochoa years.

He looked at me quizically and it was only after I said my sister's name that he acknowledged an old student, somewhat. Not that I expected to be recognized. We fell into talking about the old days, and what had happened to us since then, etc. And as happens when karatecas meet, a common ground is found, the invisible bonds of an acknowledged brotherhood in the martial arts.

This is something not to be taken lightly in this haphazard world we live in. The martial arts bring people together from very disparate walks of life in this one thing that bonds them.

We exchanged cards and eventually I sent him the link to this blog of which he is part. He answered me and I hope in the future to expand on those years, clarify those gray areas that he experienced first hand.

It is a window to a time past and I look forward with his help to fill in the blanks. Gusi sensei has a dojo in Maryland, under the Chi-I-Do organization, a link to which I put in my "Links of Interest."

I'm joyous!

(Finally, a photo of the Ochoa Dojo, courtesy of Gusi sensei's dojo site))

The Ochoa Dojo

On my way to work each day I pass by the street where the old Ochoa Dojo used to be, where I began Goju Karate so many years ago. It went by that name because it was on Ochoa Street in Hato Rey, on the very edge of the expanding Banking Sector known in Spanish as “The Golden Mile.” The street then was still in the rundown part of town, tiny, almost hidden. It was still then a bad and a bit dangerous part of the city, dead after 5 PM, neighboring a workers barrio, “Las Monjas” ( The Nuns). Adult classes started at 6 and ran to 8 PM, when the black and brown belts would train alone. The white belts were told to get there 30-45 minutes earlier to either clean the dojo and/or warm up. Classes were held in groups on either Monday and Wednesday or Tuesdays and Thursdays, Friday off, with Saturday “optional” ( for white belts this meant you had to go). My sensei was Gusi González, (“the soft sensei ”), and he was usually to be found sitting behind a desk reading a book in a starchy white and ironed Gi. He was never seen to sweat, except for once. Once out of the dressing room you looked to the side and if no one else was there that meant you had to mop and clean the training floor and mirror, etc. Although Gusi Sensei always did find something for you to do. If not you had better look busy warming up and practicing your kata and bunkai. As a rule, you could approach any senior green belt or brown for help on your kata. Warming up was a technique onto itself: too much and you might be winded before it really began, too little and you ran the risk of cramping up. If you had worked up a good sweat and there was time left over before the start, you could socialize a bit, but beware a higher rank caught you fooling around without even a bead of sweat on your brow, he or she would have you gushing like a faucet in no time. A loud “Shugo” would call you to formation. You’d shout back “Ai” and run to your place, according to rank, but you had better be fast about it or be called to task. You would then greet your sensei, the brown belts and then each other, and then on the floor for zazen meditation, a very uncomfortable position where you literally (if you could) sat on the heel of your feet. Then karate began, in earnest.