Master Brien Gallagher
Part Two: Learning from Brien
I began my martial arts training with Master Brien Gallagher in June of 1980, shortly after graduating from high school. My martial-arts apprenticeship with this brilliant instructor continued intensively for seven years, overlapping my early involvement with Masters Liang Shou-Yu and Yang- Jwing-Ming. In many ways my study with Brien continues to this day and each time we interact I learn something new.
My studies with Brien were predominantly in Yang-style Taijiquan and judo but Chen-style and Fu-style Taijiquan, as well as other martial arts were a part of my training as well. For most of those years, the training was six-days per week, with Sundays devoted to private training for up to seven hours.
The timing of my arrival into Brien’s martial-arts world could not have been more ideal. At the beginning, most of his nephews were still active in judo, which meant that I had several well-trained practice partners around my age and physique with whom to train. I learned many things very quickly in this environment, absorbing the basics of the art during public classes and extra private sessions. Soon, I was following Brien’s own training schedule: Tuesday and Thursday evenings and Sunday mornings at the Burnaby Family Y.M.C.A., and Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings at the Vancouver Judo Club.
In 1979, Brien built a dojo in the basement of his home for the purpose of advancing the training of his seven nephews, all of whom had been provincial (British Columbia, Canada) age-class champions in judo. His nephew Jerry Page, at only twenty-years old, had already received his 2nd degree black belt (nidan 二段) and earned countless trophies in judo competition (shiai 試合) or competition, while the other nephews had all been graded to brown and black belt ranks.
Within my first year with Brien, almost all-at-once, five of the seven nephews, all of whom had been training with their uncle several times per week since childhood, lost interest in the sport.The drop out of the five nephews meant that the attention that Brien had always given their training was now directed toward my development. As an example, while I was still a white-belt judoka, Brien was working to perfect an advanced judo partner ‘form’ (kata 型) needed for his own next grading. Normally, he would have used one or more of his nephews as training partners but none of them was available.
The partner form, called goshin-jutsu (護身術) meaning ‘self-defence skills,’ is based on twenty-one defences from attacks and includes both an unarmed section and a weapons section. In these kind of forms the defending tori (取り) executes a defensive technique against a predesignated attack initiated by the attacking uke (受け) who is the eventual loser. The routine, which involves the taking away of a dagger, a staff, and a pistol, is not typically taught to beginners, as fate would have it, but here I was, learning advanced self-defence techniques, one of which I was later to use to disarm a man wielding a knife and threatening a group of people.
“I’ve put you straight into university,” he said.
The Judo Room
Two of his nephews, Jerry and John, still continued the training and we sometimes met on Sundays, after the Y.M.C.A. Session, back at Brien’s house for extra training in the basement dojo. The floor of the ‘judo room’ was entirely covered with firm, high-quality straw-filled training mats called judo-tatami. Brien had special ordered these tatami from Japan several years before. At one end of the small rectangular room stood a floor-to-ceiling set of shelves and on the opposing wall was a small basement window. Along each of the two side walls there was a ledge at about shoulder height running most of the length of the room. All along the ledge tops, and covering the shelves, were trophies from judo tournaments attended by Brien and the nephews over the years. Hanging from each trophy was a medal, also from a tournament. Collectively, there were several hundred awards. The judo room was the furnace in which they’d been forged.
Brien brought his nephews and I together in the judo room to show things he’d been trying to teach in the class but that I wasn’t able to grasp without further demonstration. We’d practice for several hours as Brien explained the fine points along the way. He’d usually partner me with sixteen-year old black belt John and then with older brother Jerry so I could compare the techniques on different body types. We’d do it first as a right-sided technique, then we’d try it on the left side, then in combination with other skills. This is what these boys had been doing since childhood. John and Jerry behaved differently in this environment than when in formal training sessions. Very relaxed and a bit goofy, showing off advanced throws and moves which weren’t allowed in competition—more like the traditional jujutsu (柔術) that judo had evolved from.
I started to realize that there was a big difference between the judo world ‘outdoors’ and the other completely different judo world here ‘indoors.’
Practicing with Jerry Page was unbelievable. He was like a snake. You could never tell where he was going or what he was moving toward. There was no difference between his standing ‘throwing techniques’ (nage-waza 投げ技) and his ‘grappling techniques (katame-waza 固技). Upside down or right-side up, it didn’t matter, he was equally versatile—a purely improvisational judoka at age twenty, he could basically do anything.
One time, a merchant ship from Japan had come into Vancouver and many crew members were judo black belts—some nationally ranked in Japan. They had arranged for some informal exhibition matches with the Vancouver Judo Club, each team selecting about half a dozen judoka and self ranking them in order. The matches were very exciting but the Japanese judoka definitely dominated. The last match was between their highest level judoka, a fifth-degree black belt, matched against Jerry who had just recently received his second-degree. The man was larger, in excellent condition, and a highly-experienced competitor. As they approached each other, the other man took hold of Jerry’s jacket—and it was over. The match lasted less than five seconds. I don’t think Jerry even took a full grip. Without stopping, Jerry just walked directly through the fifth-dan with a large-outside sweep (osoto-gari 大外刈)—one of the most basic throws in judo.
‘Join-hands’
After some hours of judo training, the nephews would leave and Brien would begin teach me ‘join-hands,’ better known as ‘push-hands’ (tuishou 推手). Brien’s use of the term ‘join-hands’ (or ‘joined-hands’) followed that of his teacher Master Raymond (Yam-Man) Chung ( (鍾蔭民) who focused a great deal of his own work on the ‘sticking and adhering energy’ (zhan-nian jin 粘黏勁) concept where the hands are ever-joined in practice. Our ‘join-hands’ practice would go another couple of hours with a balanced focus on technical and free-style pushing. Brien scrupulously partitioned taijiquan techniques away from those of judo and other martial arts. It was, in his view, absolutely necessary to keep the various schools separated so as not to pass down confused systems. However, he would relate the movement and application concepts from one discipline to the others, illuminating common underlaying patterns at work in all martial arts.
For me as an eighteen-year old, Sunday training, with the nephews, and one-on-one push-hands sessions, was an incredible experience. Eventually, as changes took place in the Y.M.C.A club schedule, and John and Jerry’s interest levels diminished, Sundays became all-day taijiquan days for me with my teacher. I would arrive at Brien’s place in the late morning and we’d train until dinner time. Somehow, within the space of about eighteen months, Brien’s judo Sundays with the nephews became taijiquan Sundays with Sam.
In the years to follow, Brien taught me the full curriculum of traditional Yang-style Taijiquan as he learned it from Master Chung—but his emphasis was always on push-hands. Brien’s approach to push-hands was completely martial. He rarely mentioned taijiquan theory and, if I bought up the subject, he usually said, “Just do.” This is not to say that he didn’t break the skills down. A push-hands genius and a keen martial analyst, Brien taught me how to dissect skills in order to find the essence. He was meticulous in his evaluation of movement, intention, and application, always thinking in terms of direct causes and effects rather than of the metaphysical ideas that also form part of taijiquan study. By teaching me, he was also practicing his taijiquan, especially push-hands, more than he had in years.
During these years of study, I read a lot of taijiquan theory and Chinese philosophy and, when I tried to engage him these themes, he usually changed the subject. But once, when I asked Brien, “What is yin and yang?” he said this; “For long time periods of time there is nothing unusual or interesting happening. There are no opportunities. This is yin—you are inactive. Then, suddenly, something of value appears, an opportunity. You become active, grabbing it with both hands, and pulling it in toward you. This is yang. That’s what you should do when learning. Sometimes I’ll tell you something that I’ll never say again in that way—you have to grab it with both hands.”
In spite of my great interest in the subject, I found push-hands extremely difficult to learn and was very impatient for progress. Brien was fastidious in every detail—slow and methodical in his explanations. He wanted me to understand the principle at work in each skill, explaining that these principles were the basis of more advanced push-hands training. He pointed out that most taijiquan practitioners fall into ‘rhythms’ in which their movements are not conscious or clear. He insisted that the practice be slow and even with no changes in height or tempo.
For me, compared to judo, everything in taijiquan seemed to grind to a halt. Whereas, judo seemed specific and dynamic, taijiquan felt gratingly fussy. In judo, I experienced constant, rapid, definable progress, whereas in taijiquan, I felt that the more I practiced the worse I became. Still, with each small improvement I was elated—and taijiquan was really what I wanted. Brien explained to me that many of the skills Master Chung was passing on were hardly to be found in taijiquan anymore—that they were almost extinct.
Becoming a teacher
This made me feel special, as if I was learning a rare secret—and it made me want to learn directly from Master Chung at his Vancouver Tai-Chi Chuan Association where Brien himself was training. In order to avoid offending Brien by telling him that I wanted to learn directly from his teacher, I said rather that I wanted to practice in a room filled with people all practicing taijiquan together. Brien discouraged me from going to Master Chung’s arguing that I wasn’t really ready for that, that my skill level was still very low and that if they saw my form now, in years to come, the students there would always think of me as a beginner. I thought Brien’s thinking, in this regard, was somewhat petty since I wasn’t interested in anything more than the learning experience. Besides, I wanted to learn from the seemingly mythical master and, if Brien was training with him, Master Chung must have something to teach me. In spite of the fact that my mentor was training me six days per week, charging me not a penny, and usually paying for beer and food several times a week after evening judo training sessions, I believed he was being stingy—something I feel ashamed of to this day.
In response to my expressed desire to practice with a group, Brien did something of superb generosity and imagination. A year or so into my study he created a taijiquan class at the Y.M.C.A. where we were training judo. Since we were practicing taijiquan after judo on Tuesdays and Thursdays anyway, he reasoned that he could offer a public class just as easily as teaching me privately. Several of the parents of kids in the judo program expressed interest and there was an open house coming up to highlight the programs on offer during the upcoming autumn session.
Brien arranged the program with the Y.M.C.A. programs coordinator and began doubling his efforts to help me with my form. The open house turned out to be an important experience for me. Each instructor had about twenty minutes to present material either verbally or by demonstration. The little gymnasium was full of people enjoying performances from the gymnastics, aerobics and Karate groups, and the many other programs offered. The was no judo demonstration since the classes were already full. When it came time for the taijiquan presentation, Brien surprised me by leaning over, whispering, “Go do your form, now.” Since the room was silent there was no possibility of arguing, something I had grown comfortable in doing with Brien. I felt very much put-on-the-spot but walked out to the middle of the floor and stood silently.
.Aside from Brien I’d never shown my taiji form to anyone and, as I slowly began to move, I was suddenly possessed with anxious thoughts. Two hands rise, “I just finished learning this form, what if I forget things? Will they be able to tell?” Brush Knee Left, “Did I just speed up there? I’m going too fast—or maybe it’s too slow.” Fist Under Elbow, “Oops, did they see that wobble? Oh my gawd, what am I going to do when I get to the kicks?” Parting Kick Left, “Just hang on... it’ll all be over soon.” Parting Kick Right, “I’m not even half way through the form yet! Concentrate.” Turn to Kick with Sole, “I hate this. I’ll never do this again as long as I live.” Repulse Like Monkey, “They look so bored. Don’t let them see you looking at them!” And, so it went for half an hour. I had far overshot the twenty minutes.
I felt sure that everyone in the room could see every trickle of sweat under my shirt. They could see my every insecurity, that I’m just a beginner. You could have knocked me over with feather as the audience roared with approval. They loved it! They were, apparently, riveted. I almost fell over my feet walking back to where Brien was sitting. He stood up and addressed the room, “Taijiquan classes will be on Tuesdays and Thursdays, starting in September. Sam here, will be my assistant instructor,” and sat down.
On the first evening, the new taijiquan class was packed with curious students. Brien taught and I assisted. I really loved working with people in this way and it was through this class that I began to understand why other people also love to do taijiquan. We’d all practice, trying to perfect each movement, and then take a break for tea. Brien brought a big commercial-sized urn to make Chinese herbal tea just as Master Chung did in his studio.
During these sessions, Brien made a mental note of all my mistakes and misconceptions and, throughout the week, he corrected me so that I’d do better in the next classes that I taught. I was always horrified to learn that I’d incorrectly explained or demonstrated things to the students. But Brien always reassured me, “In taijiquan you’re always learning,” he said. “Even the teachers. That’s why it’s worth doing for your whole life.” He explained to me that, although I’d only been practicing for a year and a half, my level was more like that of a four-year student at Master Chung’s club.
Throughout the next years I would open my own classes in various places throughout the city. I always knew that if a student asked me a question that I had no sure answer for, I could depend on Brien to help me with it on one of our Sunday sessions which lasted for about six years.
Gaining perspective
Every training session with Brien brought something new. One week, I’d be doing eyes-blindfolded newaza (judo ground grappling) with the nephews; the next, I’d be standing on teacups defending myself from a flailing bamboo kendo sword (shinai 竹刀). On one day, it would be my taiji-sword defence techniques against his kendo or European fencing attacks, on another.
One time, Brien entered me into in a sumo tournament. There was an incident where two large wrestlers suddenly fell directly toward Brien and I who were sitting on the ground next to two small children. I rolled out of the way at lightning speed and turned to see the fallen combatants at the feet of Brien who was standing calmly upright with one child in each arm.
Once, a famous Yang-style Taijiquan master from England came to Vancouver, and Brien sent me onstage to test him. Another time, Brien entered me into a Royal Canadian Mounted Police pistol-target competition having taught me what he called ‘the old method’ of shooting only the day before. Although I was only allowed to use a ball-point pen to learn with, he assured me that, since he’d learned this shooting method from a former Olympic shooting champion, I couldn’t lose—and I didn’t. I actually won my division shooting against experienced marksmen.
When the Jiangsu Province Wushu Team from China gave a performance for the first time ever in Vancouver, Brien had the tickets. We went to the ‘Golden Harvest’ and ‘Shaw Brothers’ theatres in Vancouver on countless occasions to see Hong Kong produced kungfu movies.
He taught me alternative strength-training and weightlifting tricks, unusual swimming exercises, and use of playground balls in the swimming pool—all to improve my push-hands. He showed me how to identify likely trouble makers in a pub and how recognize when a dog was trained to attack. Sitting in a pub, he one time said to me, '“There’s going to be a fight”—and sure enough one broke out a few moments later. When I asked him how he knew he said, “I could feel the vibration in my feet through the floor.”
Brien was always expanding my perspective on the art of taijiquan and the art of life. Over the years, I heard about many martial-arts related occurrences and strange things he had experienced or observed: the time he’d witnessed a visiting Japanese sword-drawing (iaido 居合道) master cut through his entire hand in a demonstration (the master scooped up his hand, wrapped it in his clothing and was taken to the hospital where it was sewn back on); the time he’d seen a fight in a pub where a taekwondo guy did a perfect spinning back-kick, knocking out his opponent, only to be jumped on the guy’s three friends and trounced to a pulp; the time when, at a karate demonstration when a black belt smashed through pile of boards, a woman ran out of the room screaming, “Devil’s power! Devil’s power!” He’d sought out and seen many martial things.
In spite of his calm and measured approach to everything in life, I could always feel that Brien possessed an extreme intensity. As a youth he was able to run up a wall and flip backward onto his feet. As a teenager, for the sheer parkour-challenge of it, he traversed the entire length of the Lion’s Gate Bridge (length 1,823 metres; height 111 metres) along the suspender cables. If, during judo training, someone succeeded in throwing Brien or holding him down even once, that person’s name went into a small black book he kept in his judo training bag. Only when Brien had thrown or held-down the person ten times would the person’s name be crossed off the list.
Brien had endless martial-arts stories from his years of training, from his Vancouver police-force days and from living in a rough-and-tumble Vancouver at a time when most nightclub bouncers were judoka.
A Brien story from the bad-old days: “One time, this other judo guy, ‘Henry,’ and I were having a beer at the Biltmore Hotel. I was on crutches due to a knee injury and Henry—who for some reason had latched onto me as his teacher—started picking a fight with big loud guy sitting with a bunch of his friends a few tables away from ours.” “‘Don’t do it Henry,’ I said.” “But Henry like stirring things up to provoke a fight—so, that day we wound up fighting about forty guys in the Biltmore pub.”
Brien told me he’d never picked a fight in his life, but also that he’d never backed down from one either. “A fight is not something you look for,” he said, “it’s something you deal with if the occasion arises.”
Brien Gallagher is a true ‘martialist’ in the sense that he believed martial arts were for combat and for healing. He esteemed his teacher, Master Raymond Chung, as the most balanced martial artist he’d ever met. He praised Master Chung’s softness and had high respect for his martial-arts capabilities. He said he saw many people improve their health conditions under Master Chung’s tutelage.
Brien had worked methodically through every lesson in tenth-degree black belt (judan 十段) Kyuzo Mifune’s classic judo textbook ‘The Canon of Judo’ and mastered the entire corpus of judo including rarely-taught ‘sacrifice techniques’ (sutemi-waza 捨身技), ‘body-striking techniques’ (atemi-waza 当て身技), and ‘resuscitation techniques’ (kappo 活 法). I saw him use kappo techniques several times, including once on his nephew Jerry after I had accidentally knocked him unconscious with a tap of my palm on the top of his head, and once I experienced him reviving me after I’d blanked out due to another judoka applying the ‘naked-strangle’ hold (hadaka-jime 裸絞).
Wings
Brien told me he’d seen many people try to get rough with Master Chung in the early years but that the master had never had any problems handling things. He told me he’d witness Master Chung do many unusual and highly skillful things—like ‘tortoise breathing,’ where his back would substantially broaden, or the ‘bullfrog method,’ a skill used to protect the throat from various kinds of attacks. Brien learned these methods and, in time, applied them in judo to prevent himself from being held down or choked.
“The basis of Master Chung's method is ‘neutralization,’” Brien would tell me, “and he can do that because of the ‘sticking.’ The basis for the sticking is ‘root’ and ‘softness.’ This is really what we are training.”
In my youthful and naive way, I’d ask questions like, “In a fight between you and Master Chung, who would win?”
“I’m not interested in fighting Master Chung,” he answered. “I’m there to learn from him and improve my own taiji.”
I’d insist, “But, what do you think would happen?”—not seeing the irony of a twenty-year old youth suggesting a forty-five-year old man fight with a seventy-year old senior citizen.
Brien told me that about ten years before this conversation, Master Chung had asked him to attack with anything he wanted, and not to hold back. According to Brien, this was completely out of character for Master Chung but Brien, wanting neither to challenge nor disappoint his teacher, obliged, entering with the judo technique ‘large hip throw’ (o-goshi 大腰). Master Chung slipped out of the attack with ‘apparent closure and counter’ (rufeng sibi 如封似閉), easily pushing his apprentice away.
Decades later, Brien told me, “I’ve thought about that incident many times. I realize that it was shortly after that, that Master Chung gave me the ‘Yang Tai-chi High-class Rank’ certificate and arranged for me to be fitted for a gold ring with the yin-yang symbol like the one he wore. It was a test of character.” After the hip throw incident Master Chung appointed Brien ‘Push-hands Research Assistant’ of the club and began bringing Brien along with him to classes he’d teach in Seattle.
It seemed that in every Chinatown kungfu movie I’d seen with Brien— usually on Sunday evenings after our long training sessions—the student, after many years of devotion, eventually tries to kill the teacher. Either, the disciple advanced by killing his creator or the master survived by killing his creation. One time I asked Brien, “Do you think if I do what you teach me I’ll ever become as good as you or Master Chung?” His answer should be the motto of every teacher. “Sam,” he said, “my purpose as a teacher is not to keep you below me or to make you better than me—it’s to give you wings.”
I love this article!
I wonder if advanced (in length of practice) taichi cultivates storytelling in the teller, or the storyteller's life lived...