Writing a New Narrative: My Journey as a Chinese Warrior

My right hand rests upon two and a half pounds of steel, fingers clenched around the grip, index finger pressing against the guard, while my left holds onto the sheath. The sheath itself is coated in metal on both ends, Chinese engraving patterns etched into the sides, both for aesthetics and to lighten the weight. My thumb stays out, flat against the cold, smooth metal, keeping the hilt half a thumb’s length away from the sheath. Just above my thumb, the base of an inscription is visible: 梁雋燁. Conveniently, these characters, which make up my name, also make for an appropriate name when roughly translated to English: A Beam of Brilliant Flame. As I remove the blade from its wooden restraints, I feel the load on my left hand lessen as the weight of the sword transfers to my right. To the side of me, on a stand, is an old Chinese sword technique guide. Rereading and memorizing the strokes, I face the flat side of the steel towards my chest, the eyes of a beast engraved in the guard level with my own, the design meant to instill fear into both the wielder of the blade and those who would face it. them. From this close, the smell of the wax used to protect the edge is particularly pungent.

Following the instructions on the stand, I push my right arm forward, twisting my left arm back. Now my eyes face the engraving of the dragon on the pommel, the Chinese symbol of luck, strength, and honor. For the Chinese warriors in my history, this would be treated almost as a prayer, asking for those very qualities to lead them through battle. The thought of this gives me a small rush of excitement, even though I face no opponent greater than the mosquitoes swarming around my yard. I spend the next half hour following the motions in the guide, imagining the swordsmen throughout Chinese history that used these same moves. Each pose I lead into is one that saved a life, or one that ended another, which is a humbling thought. My hand clutches the wooden grip, leading the blade in an elegant dance through over three millennia of martial arts refinement. As I switch to practicing my flourishes, I am reminded of the many times I have accidentally allowed the sword to taste my blood over the course of my practices, and the time it took to clean dried blood off of the grooves in the steel afterwards. Each time, it was an easily identifiable mistake. For the first cut on my right leg, I’d held the blade too far back and couldn’t balance out the weight. For the small slash off my left shoulder, I didn’t exert enough control over the guard, and it slipped. With those mistakes, I resolved to continue to practice until I’d mastered handling the blade.

As I move to sheath the sword, the small scar near my abdomen stings slightly, a reminder of my failure from before I took the time to understand my sword. At the time, I believed the sword was a toy and treated it as nothing more than a sharpened piece of metal. However, after finally taking the time to learn the sword, I now accept it for what it is: a bridge between me and the history of my ancestors. With my practice complete, I push the sword out of its sheath slightly. My thumb returns to a resting position along the characters that spell my name, before pushing the blade back in, followed by a small satisfying “tink”. My imagination runs wild with what I hope to be able to do when I truly master the sword. I hope, like my ancestors before me, my sword becomes a beam of brilliant flame.