This is adapted from an essay I wrote for one of my college courses in April 2015. The original version was tied to the book “Let’s Talk About Love” by Carl Wilson, but references have been removed and the thesis has been revised to make the text relevant to those unfamiliar with that work. The original prompt was to write a piece exploring a “taste object”, I.E. something that you may have a taste for an others do not. Both my writing and my Jiu Jitsu have matured since this was written, but upon review I think it still possesses some value. Also note that this work references some survey data that I collected that is no longer available.

I shake the hand of a stranger in mutual agreement that we will attempt to simulate either maiming or choking one another unconscious, with the understanding that we will stop only when time is called or one of us has surrendered. The man against whom I am pitted is nearly half again my size and looks as though he is trying out for the part of a more carefully groomed Lou Ferrigno in a modern remake of the old Hulk television show. There was a time, not so long ago, when this would have intimidated me. But I am now jaded to this experience, having lived it a thousand times before. A moment later, a buzzer goes off, we shake hands, and our dance begins. The external world peels away, leaving only thought and kinetic sensation. I do my best to eliminate the former from the equation. My reality becomes: hand fight, grip break, 2-on-1, armdrag, back-take, scramble, top position, x-pass, torreando, underhook, re-pummel, backstep, pass and solidify, pin, kimura, scramble and stand, clinch, sasae-tsurikomi-ashi, breakfall, shrimp, reguard, hook sweep… and time is called*.* I smile and shake the hand of my new friend, genuinely grateful for the opportunity to learn and grow. The time for struggle over, I sit on the edge of the mat and slowly rub my surgically repaired knee, wondering if it will ever really be the same again. I relish the easy movement of my fingers along my leg, acutely aware that to open and close them will be a more painful affair come morning; I am twenty-one years old and already have arthritic flare-ups in my hands. I briefly consider taking a break from training, just long enough to heal those recurring injuries, and then laugh quietly at the notion, knowing that it will require something crippling to keep me off the mats and death to keep me away for good. Still, the pain is not insignificant, and I dimly wonder: Why? What is it that keeps me coming back? But the better questions are: Why does coming back make me happy? And why can’t I be happy without coming back?

What you have just read describes the end of a night of training in the martial art known as Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, a style developed in (surprise!) Brazil during the early 1900s which focuses primarily on subduing opponents through superior grappling ability once both combatants have fallen to the ground. Why, one might ask of such a description, might one voluntarily choose to participate, nay, dedicate a sizeable portion of one’s life, to such an endeavor? The answer, I would submit, might best be explained as a matter of taste. Indeed, in this piece I will attempt to answer in terms of taste, drawing on history, surveys, interviews, and personal reflection what it is that draws people to Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and what makes them stay, both in general and as opposed to the myriad other popular martial arts.

For the uninitiated, a brief history of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (hereafter “BJJ” or simply “Jiu-Jitsu”) should be understood before one attempts to understand the culture and taste appeals of the art. BJJ stems from the early dissemination of Judo by the Japanese, which at that time was not always referred to as distinctly separate entity from Jiu-Jitsu. The two names are very similar, and not just in sound: the “Jiu” and “Ju” of the words are identical, meaning gentle or yielding, with “do” meaning most closely “way” and “jitsu” signifying “art” or “technique”. Judo eventually came to be the standardized name of the larger Japanese style and BJJ ended up keeping the older “jitsu”. The two arts became distinct when the Japanese teachers who first taught in Brazil returned to Japan after a few years of instruction, leaving the famous Gracie family and a few others to develop their Jiu-Jitsu without formal guidance. The development of the art continued in Brazil over the course of several generations, staying at first within families and then soon after shared with the public, with the guiding ideology of creating a grappling system that would enable smaller, weaker individuals to overcome bigger, stronger opponents through superior technical mastery, and would emphasize “live” practice against fully resisting training partners. The popularity of the style was originally spread through open challenges, public matches, and “dojo storms” in which rival martial arts schools would be entered and challenged. The art exploded in popularity in North America in 1993 when Royce Gracie won the no-rules fighting tournament that was UFC 1 against an array of larger and far more imposing opponents with seemingly little difficulty. The style continues to experience rapid growth worldwide and is commonly accepted to encompass three main facets: “street” self-defense, sport Jiu-Jitsu competition, and mixed martial arts (MMA)/Vale Tudo (the Brazilian no-holds-barred precursor to modern MMA). It also enjoys a reputation of high standards of instructor qualification and practicality relative to other martial arts, in part thanks to its stringent and relatively meritocratic ranking system. This is by no means a complete overview of BJJ or its history, and there are many who (in my opinion, credibly) dispute even the basic outline of this story. However, stories of martial arts’ origins often take on a character annoyingly reminiscent to that of creation myths, with similarly hazy details, and I have merely relayed the most popular version with as few questionable details as possible.

In my examination of people’s tastes as they relate to Jiu-Jitsu, I first turned to informal online surveys and interviews of my own training partners. The responses that I received were largely what I expected, but a great deal of BJJ culture sensitive interpretation was needed to tie the results to taste. When examining responses to questions such as “why did you start Jiu-Jitsu”, a few patterns become evident. Of course, there is the standard “there was a gym near me and the price wasn’t offensive so I walked in and tried it” where Jiu-Jitsu could be substituted with any martial art, but a number of answers were more revealing. Without question, the two most common answers were variations of “to get in shape” and “to learn to defend myself”. These are answers that, again, might be associated with any martial art, but when one reconsiders the history and culture surrounding Jiu-Jitsu, further meaning can be gleaned. As mentioned, BJJ is not a “soft” style practiced without resistance, and physical fitness is generally demanded and cultivated as a part of training, leading more educated “consumers” to seek it out as a likely candidate for pursuing physical fitness. Likewise, in the context of Jiu-Jitsu’s reputation, the “learn to defend myself” can also be interpreted as significant. Cultural precepts of “traditional” Eastern martial arts schools as daycares for children exist, and this is often not an unjustified image. By contrast, Jiu-Jitsu, with its meaningful ranks, resisted practice, and video evidence of its efficacy, is often seen as much more “real”, making it a safer choice for “informed” consumers wishing to learn how to defend themselves without the risk of brain damage associated with striking-oriented sports.

The next most common answer to the “why” question was far more BJJ-specific, and requires less interpretation. It was “to learn how to fight on the ground” or “to become a more well-rounded martial artist/fighter”. These answers, less generic than the previous ones, begin to lead us towards the most taste-related aspects of choosing a martial art. Most striking-based traditional martial arts (hereafter TMAs) include little to nothing in the way of groundwork, and so often people seek to shore up this deficiency by training in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, the most popular and revered style for this purpose. These people often have plans to train for a limited amount of time until they feel they have achieved a level of competency to feel “safe” outside of their existing comfort zone, and then return to their first love, whatever that might be.

It is very interesting then, that in my own experience these people often end up either disappearing after a few classes or staying (seemingly) forever. Reasons for this, naturally, can be explained at least partially in terms of taste. Training in martial arts is often popularly depicted as a quest for knowledge, and although this characterization might be somewhat simplistic, it is nonetheless the way many practitioners view their journey: as a sort of pilgrimage. For this reason, a crisis of taste can emerge for people trying out Jiu-Jitsu coming from other martial arts: any half decent pilgrim is willing to humble themselves in search of enlightenment, but these martial pilgrims are often possessed of a very particular sort of pride. Very often, people come to Jiu-Jitsu with high ranks in other martial arts, confident that their pre-existing abilities will allow them to progress quickly in this new endeavor. Furthermore, because these other arts sometimes have little or no fully resisted sparring component, these people are often unaccustomed to experiencing regular defeats without the buffer of an intensity or rules-based excuse. Ego, then, becomes an opposing force pitting two tastes against one another: one’s taste for challenge and learning against one’s distaste for vulnerability and ignorance. What is doubly compelling is that those latter distastes, the especially the one for vulnerability, are often the very same tastes which lead people to train in martial arts in the first place. To be a beginner again is to expose oneself to the things they were fleeing in the first place, and so it is my belief that it is only those with the strongest tastes for Jiu-Jitsu stick around, explaining why they tend to become so dedicated.

These are not the only interesting notes that can be had when examining data either. For example, only one person who I asked if they could see themselves still training in 10 years answered “no”, despite the fact that anyone with a modicum of experience can tell you that for them all to be still training in ten years is all but statistically impossible. The reasons for this cannot be determined empirically (or at least not within the scope of this writing), but when someone considers taste in other areas, we can get at least guess at plausible answers. If one were to ask anyone (especially a younger person) if they will still be listening to the same kind of music in 10 or even 20 years, then I would wager that a majority would answer “yes”, even if all rationality and precedent tell us otherwise. In the moment, things that suit our tastes become that which we love, and it is human to view that which we love as beyond criticism; people often become offended in an almost primal manner if they are presented with even the possibility of repudiating their tastes. People describe their progression to their current state of taste with words like “growth” and “maturity”, but it would appear that in marital arts, as in much else, we are hesitant to admit that our current state might one day be viewed in the same way. To further discuss the reasons for this goes beyond my understanding of cultural sciences, and most likely crosses over into the realm of behavioral science, but it is an interesting point to consider nonetheless.

While all of this survey and interview-based info is helpful, is also somewhat limited: there are obvious concerns about lack of depth, and some considerations might require a degree of openness that it is difficult to ask of people. I turn now to my own journey into Jiu-Jitsu in hopes of providing deeper, if admittedly less broad insight. I myself come from the group that was exposed to Jiu-Jitsu coming from other martial arts, but I also came to it through a venue that I have yet to discuss and none of my training partners or survey takers mentioned: internet forums. On most discussion of martial arts online, channels are dominated by practitioners of styles with strong combat sports components, with a great deal of disdain directed towards TMAs due to the (often correct) notion that they are ineffective and driven more by a desire to part parents from their money than to fight or do anything “real”. Coming from Taekwondo, perhaps the most maligned style, I initially took offense to this. But at the same time, I was curious as to why this “BJJ” was treated so much differently. After all, it too used colored belts and archaic Japanese-derivative clothing, and so seemed just as “traditional” as that which people seemed to despise. Even more, many of their arguments spoke to me: how could a method centered around training against full resistance not be effective, not to mention interesting and fun? When my Taekwondo instructor began dabbling in Jiu-Jitsu, it seemed almost preordained that I had to try it out as well, and I was soon addicted. For me, there was immediate, wonderful gratification in being able to train in a style with so much concrete feedback; in Jiu-Jitsu, I could suddenly try to defeat my partner with (nearly) 100% resistance, and provided a level of control with submission holds, neither of us would be injured. To try the same thing in a striking martial art with powerful barefoot kicks to the ribs and shin to head contact would result in emergency room trips and brain damage. There was the previously mentioned humbling, to be sure; there are liberating aspects of going from a black belt to being a white belt again, but to say that it does not require some swallowing of pride would be a lie of the highest order. Instead, I can only say that, for me, the level of blessed honesty in the training far outweighed the embarrassment I had of being clueless again. In terms of explaining this as taste, one could see it as a valuing of truth over comfort, and practice over theory: an aesthetic valuing of “realness”, if you will. I am aware that this explanation paints me in a rather flattering light, and that a more cynical interpretation might be that I merely became bored with Taekwondo or lost faith in my instructor. My only counter to that assertion would the simple claim that it is false: it was not a transformation of my previous love into hatred that drove me to the choice I have now made, but rather the development an even deeper, more intense affection for what I do now. I would also argue, purely from intuition and unscientific observation, that this is the way in which a mature taste develops. Nearly every young person trembles at the memory of what music they listened to in middle school, but rarely does a man or woman of 40 despise in abject embarrassment what they listened to 10 years, prior, even if they have no further interest in it.

This thread of tastes as personal values can be used for further fruitful introspection, in this case the value of fun and fulfillment over safety. Simply put, Jiu-Jitsu is not an incredibly safe activity. My opening description of a night of training is not every training session, but it is also not uncommon. I have had only one injury requiring surgery so far, but smaller damages are sustained very often. The fear of injury in training is omnipresent, and I am not alone in this: the most common answer in my surveys to the question “what is your least favorite thing about Jiu-Jitsu” was “injuries”. For me, the reason for this is perhaps somewhat ironic: the primary reason that I am afraid of being hurt doing Jiu-Jitsu is that it will prevent me from doing more Jiu-Jitsu. Others have slightly more noble concerns, especially those with occupations that require them to be able-bodied in order to provide for their families. And yet, we all continue to take the risk, and so the only logical conclusion that can be drawn is that we rate what we get out of doing Jiu-Jitsu as worth the risks associated. It strikes me that in some ways, we are not unlike drug addicts in our cycle of injury and return: Jiu-Jitsu (the drug) is something that we know will hurt us if we do too much of it, and is returned to again and again in part because we enjoy it so much (the high), and in part because we fear the negative mental and physical consequences of going without it (addiction and withdrawal). Also, like drug dealers, academy veterans and owners do not warn prospective students “be careful: you might like this too much and want to train to the point that it’s bad for you.” Besides sounding ridiculous, such a warning would be a great way to sink a business. So it goes perennially left unsaid, something for white belts to learn the hard way after they are hooked. In all honesty, I am not sure what this metaphor says about BJJ practitioners. One might argue that BJJ artists and drug addicts are equals in that they value gratification and escape over independence and health, but I think this might be a simplistic conception. In the end, I think the difference may be based on love. I (and it would appear countless others) truly and with a clear head understand the risks associated with Jiu-Jitsu, and offer my body unto its altar willingly, to be broken or made strong as the journey sees fit. I know no drug addicts that can confidently say the same for their vice of choice.

Lastly, I would speak on what is perhaps the most personal aspect of taste: the way one’s taste objects become sources of community and second homes (third spaces), places of safety and security that one has likely not felt since outside the home of one’s childhood. This is a roundabout way of saying that, for me, Jiu-Jitsu has granted me not just a sport or an art, but a community. The people that I train with are my friends, and my interviews have indicated that I am not alone in this. People, within their taste-driven subcultures and gatherings, form some of the most tightly-woven communities seen in society. One feels far more connected to other individuals with shared interests than one does with those with a similar place of birth, and from that initial link of taste connection, friendships are formed. That such happens is a basic truth of human interaction, and no amount of dissembling by a Kant or Bourdieu will ever eliminate the primal, subconscious thought process along the lines of “I like this. You like this. I like you.” That this might be argued as illogical is irrelevant; it is, reason be damned. I am aware that this has nothing to do with Jiu-Jitsu specifically: it could have been any taste object by which I am bonded. My object of obsession happens to be the application of biomechanics towards maximally efficient means of unarmed grappling. Other people’s objects, as much as it might pain me to admit it, might be centered on the musical stylings of the Insane Clown Posse, and they are not inherently less valid for it. I might (and do) decry their taste object as bad, or even claim that their subculture promotes inferior values, but I cannot disregard the value they place in their communities. “Juggalos” know very well that their clown make-up and bizarre mode of dress will ostracize them from society at large, but they accept this willingly in order to ingratiate themselves towards their community, so much do they love the sense of belonging and kinship it brings them. In light of this, explanations of taste seem almost vulgar: whatever its origins, it is a key factor in the building of communities, and can be the genesis of some of humankind’s most meaningful connections.

And so I am brought to the question: where does this leave me, on my melodramatic journey to the consequences, if not the ends of my own taste? I am unsure. I sit now, as a result of my own thoughts, scarcely separated from drug addicts and (far worse) ICP fans. In terms of exploring taste as phenomenon, I have done little beyond assert that taste has traceable origins and that taste as a phenomenon is invaluable to the human experience. These two statements, while significant, should hardly be controversial. In truth, my accomplishment is mostly limited to explaining a very niche taste, but it suddenly strikes me that such an endeavor might not be without value. To imagine a world in which clear, compelling examinations exist to explain every subculture is an interesting thing. At the very least, might not this potentially lessen taste-based animosities? A great deal of the people who read this might still think BJJ as a taste object strange, but it is my hope and belief that fewer now will find it mysterious or repulsive. To invoke an awful cliché, understanding someone’s taste can be something akin to walking a mile in their shoes, and if that mile were more accessible, (and took less time to walk) would it not be walked more often? It would seem to me that, while the elimination of taste divisions is neither possible nor desirable, a world of increased taste understanding would be a world of greater mutual benefit and welfare for all.