08/04/2026
"So before we start," he said, "we need to establish the rules."
"The rules," I said.
"The rules," Chris repeated. "After you left yesterday I started really pondering and thinking about how we're going to approach this, and what parameters we're going to use, and what I even have to say, and how to organize all of it, and what we're going to include and not include. And I was thinking about how, no matter who I think I'm writing this for—whether I think I'm writing it for my children or my grandchildren or my great grandchildren, or for the white belt or the blue belt or the over-the-hill brown belt who's looking for tips for how to stay on the mat and not get discouraged—the fact is that all kinds of different people are going to read this for all kinds of different reasons. So we have to consider the moral implications, and how we guard ourselves against bad effects."
He'd started moving, now: started walking in a broad circle around the perimeter of the mat.
"Which is actually something I've thought about a lot," he went on, "and it's something we definitely need to talk about in the book. Because for me—like for anybody who teaches more than a handful of students—I can't know everyone that I teach. When I teach seminars, I often have no idea the moral alignment of the people I'm teaching. I have no idea who these people are, and here I'm handing them this potentially deadly technology. There's no real screening process for who gets to learn. Which is why, as my teaching skills have developed over the years, I've tried to develop my ethics as well. Not to where I'm screening the moral characteristics of those I'm teaching, but screening the morality of what I share, and how I share it. I'm asking myself whether it's ethical to show this move to someone who may use this knowledge in a not good way, and sometimes not showing the move.
"Which leads us into a whole other conversation about the fact that it almost doesn't fu***ng matter now: about how, technologically, we've reached a point where—no matter where people lie on the ethical spectrum; no matter what moral universe or online rabbit hole they've built a hideout in—Jiu-Jitsu is readily available to them, for free on YouTube. Which is a fascinating topic, and one we also have to get into at some point: how the internet has impacted Jiu-Jitsu's development, and how all new technologies introduce new and unanticipated effects, from the telegraph in the American Civil War era to mass printing in the World War One era to radio in the World War Two era to television in the Cold War era. And hopefully we can get into all of that, too. But for now, the question is: How do we ethically proceed, knowing that whatever wisdom or insight I might have to offer could be twisted or clipped or taken out of context in whatever way some reader wants? To justify some totally—in my mind—misguided or ethically questionable action or philosophy?"
He'd been circling this whole time, but now he stopped and looked at me.
"So, the point is," he went on, "I was thinking about all of this last night, after you left. And while this is going on, my son, Andy, isn't following bedtime instructions. He's fussing and pouting, and he's talking back to his mother. And with him, because he's a lot like me—he's very curious and precocious but he's also very strong-willed and very resistant to authority, and he gets very focused on things—we have four rules. And because I like to put everything in threes I'm still fiddling with it, but the rules are—one—listen—two—no fussing or pouting—three—be kind, and—four—no lying."
He was counting them off on his fingers, still looking at me.
"And so last night Andy was being stubbornly defiant," Chris said, "not listening and being rude and unkind to his mother, and this went on for almost an hour, and I finally blew up at him. I lost my temper. I rushed up to him and I grabbed him. I yelled at him and I ordered him around like a drill instructor. I didn't s***k him, but I scared him really bad. And I instantly regretted it. Not only was it really harsh, but it wasn't good in terms of helping instill the ethics those rules are supposed to instill. Basically I broke the rules, trying to teach him the rules. I didn't listen. I wasn't kind."
He dropped the hand with the four raised fingers and started walking again, his eyes on the floor.
"Almost every night," he went on, "sometime between midnight and two in the morning, Andy gets scared and lonely, and he crawls into bed with Melissa and me. Which is something I did too, for most of my childhood. I could climb into bed with my parents for maybe five minutes before my dad would kick me out and send me back to my room. He slept light and I kept him up, with my squirming and fidgeting. But last night, after I chewed Andy out and scared him, he didn't come into our bed at all. And I was heartbroken. I was up most of the night, waiting for him. And it put me in this place where I was not only reflecting on my childhood but also questioning myself, and all of our collective human wisdom. And thinking about how, even when the wisdom is simple and readily available, we often fail to follow it. And thinking about this book, and whether I actually have any wisdom to share. Because the reality is that, so much of the time, I feel like I am continually learning—or relearning—life's lessons the hard way. And I was thinking about how none of us can escape our history or our specific experience, and how this inability to escape, coupled with—on my part—a continuous drive to try, has always made me more of an observational philosopher than a believer in any doctrine. Meaning that, as much as I love my 'Rule of Threes,' these rules are emergent, not prescriptive. They're a conceptual framework to describe the truth, rather than a dogma to follow to access the truth. Which leads back to the question of what wisdom or insight or instructive experience I actually have to offer, and the framework we're going to use to tell it."
He came around and he stopped in front of me again and he looked at me.
"So," he said, "the rules for this book, like the rules we have for my son. And—like with any other hypothesis—we may discover that this model fits and we may discover that it doesn't. We may discover that we need to evolve as we go, and probably we will. But the rules I have set for myself are the following. Rule number one: No whining. No feeling sorry for myself, or playing the victim. No self-pity. Two: Be kind. Be fair. When I'm telling stories about the things that happened, try to see the situation from the other person's point of view. And three—and this is the most important one: Be honest. No lying. There are going to be some things—some people and institutions—that I leave out or don't mention by name, or whose names I change, more to protect them than to protect me. But within what I do share, I'm going to tell you all of it, even the parts that are shameful."
He reached into his pocket and he took out his phone. He slid his thumb across the screen, scrolled and clicked until he found what he was looking for.
"So, with that in mind," he went on, "let's start with this..."
