A Night at the Technician Dojo

Snapshot of a world filled with totems, old magic and the human pack.

Crumbling concrete steps led to a long, narrow room at the corner of industrial and hope. Before South End became SoCo and investors came running.

Back when the only ones walking Parsons Avenue were those who had to.

It was a full house with barely room to pack all the jostling, joshing, jumping karateka. Fear and hilarity took turns in this sacred space, the hulking bulk of a man with a Cheshire grin analyzing every nuance.

Sensei. Brother Bear. The stubborn one, keeper of confidences and keys, tradition and the good clippers. Meticulously observant godfather of lost items like kids both grown and new.

Warm lighting and Pandora playing in the background, stifling hot and no one seemed to care much. Random merciful breezes through quickly opened doors let in fresh air, old faces and new bursts of loud teasing with the bleats of traffic.

All ages, elders down to round-cheeked preschoolers squeezing past and grinning.

Visiting Senseis prowling through the crowd, lightening energy or intensifying as needed. Correcting, encouraging, teasing or taking-to-task.

Booming Kiais making walls rumble. Sweet, baby-voiced exclamations causing masters to swell up and soften, crinkle-eyed.

Powerful women faced off as laughing predators, absolute stillness exploding in calculated whirls of motion. Leaping and lightning fast movements, unfazed and absorbing strikes with gorgeous gap-toothed grins.

Twirling embrace of sisters at the end to a swell of applause and more teasing hollers.

Halting, unsure matches between little ones were supported with encouragement from the circle of black belts. Big eyes peeked out of headgear, learning the ceremony of this game of tag.

Bow here, there, again, shake hands.

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