A Second Message

About mortality and paying attention to fellow beings.

Many years ago, I had a Tai Chi student named Linda Renshaw. Now, I should say here that Tai Chi Chuan, coming from Chinese culture, has a certain tradition of patriarchy, in which the Sifu (“expert teacher”) is somewhat detached from the students. It’s a matter of being respected, a bit like a parent’s position of “I’m not your pal; I’m the grown-up”. I never really thought much about it, but it was a natural extension of my own learning. My principle teacher, Grandmaster William C.C. Chen, is a wonderful, down-to-earth man, in spite of being a bit of a “rockstar” in the martial arts world. During the years I made the long weekly trek from the Philadelphia area to NYC for class, I was often the only person with a car, so I would drive him from the Chelsea studio down to his home in the Village, and I can guarantee you that it wasn’t like a buddy film. He was always friendly, and we might make a bit of small talk, but respect was my first order. To a certain extent, I came to expect the same of my students, although I sometimes had to establish those borders. After all, I saw myself as a youngster compared to Master Chen, and an American to boot. 

I remember reading that Bruce Lee, who became a master at a very young age, had to establish the difference between himself and his often-older students. Out in the world, they might call him “Bruce” and joke around, but, in class, it was “Sifu”, and the proper modicum of respect was expected. 

So I got to know Linda Renshaw a little bit, and learned that she owned a health food store in Doylestown. I’d occasionally stop in for some product or other, and we developed a sort of friendship. Her significant other, Steve, was, like me, a BMW motorcycle rider, so there was that. They were involved with a group that was showing independent films outdoors in Doylestown, which later developed into the non-profit County Theater, now a long time landmark in the town. Anyhow, I always thought, “She’s an interesting person. Sometime, I’d like to get to know her better.” Sometime around 1993, I returned from a Tai Chi tournament in Virginia, and one of my other students told me that Linda had had a medical misadventure and died during the week I was gone. This was a great tragedy since she was relatively young, but also felt like a personal tragedy to me, since I never got to know her as well as I would have liked. Here was someone who was just one of 15 or 20 students in class to me, but who had a rich life as a force for good in her community, and I knew nothing about it. I vowed that I would pay more attention to who my students were, and not let opportunities to meet interesting people pass by.

Yesterday, I played a song, by request, at the memorial of another of my students, who died of cancer recently. Bill Brokaw, along with his wife, Pat, had joined my Tai Chi class a few years back. Pat had learned the whole form (a year of work) and then dropped off, but Bill had remained to do one of the things I respect most in students: He started again from the beginning, and learned the form all over again. In time, I learned that he was a photographer, and he showed up at a concert or two and took some nice fotos. I liked him. When the pandemic hit, and my classes went onto Zoom, he continued. When I needed some promotional fotos, I went to Bill. It was not a “normal” photo shoot. Instead of getting right down to business, he suggested we sit and talk for a while, so he could get a sense of who I was. I thought this was charming, and we sat on couches in his Frenchtown NJ studio and just got to know each other a bit better. I learned that he had survived throat cancer many years before, and we talked about Tai Chi and other things. Then he took some excellent photos of me. I was sorry to learn later that his cancer had returned and he was undergoing treatment again. Eventually, Bill passed away. At the memorial yesterday, I heard many of his fellow community members speak about what a great force for good he had been, how his whimsical approach to life and his commitment to his art and to the forging of a community had enriched their lives. I thought again of Linda Renshaw, and of how the vagaries of my life and my schedule (not to mention the isolations of the pandemic) have often prevented me from really “seeing” my students. After I had ended the ceremony with my song to honor Bill, another old fellow like me came over to say hello. It was Steve, formerly Linda Renshaw’s partner, whom I had not seen for many years. It seemed like a “second message” about the connections in life. I’ll continue to try to keep my eyes open for good people walking the walk. Rest In Peace, Bill Brokaw, and Rest In Peace, Linda Renshaw.

Bill Brokaw with his daughters.