I've always been uncomfortable with money,
especially asking for it. I come from a hard-working immigrant family and there
wasn't a lot of extra income when I was young. And asking other people for
money? Forget it. Every time the band fundraiser came around, I would go to the
two neighbors who I knew would buy a tin of cookies without fail. The prizes
for the student who raised the most never motivated me. In this area of my
life, I had no problem coming in last place.
So when I heard the word "fundraiser"
at the dojo, I thought, "ok, I'll do my part, I'll buy a ticket, I'll help
clean, and that's that." After coming back from summer camp last year,
which was paid for by a dojo scholarship, Sensei pointed at me and said,
"You. You'll be good at raising money. You're going to help with the
fundraiser." I wanted to tell him, "No, no, I think you might have it
wrong. See, I'm terrified of asking people for money. It makes my stomach
churn." Instead, I replied, "Uh, ok, yes, sure."
To maintain distance between myself and the
discomfort of asking for money, I focused on logistics. If you're keeping your
head down and working, no one can really find fault with you, right? It's a
good way to hide. But surprise! I chose to train in a martial art that's about
the opposite of hiding. “Present yourself!” Post-fundraiser, during the follow
up, I messed up and some things fell through the cracks. When we discussed it
as a team with Sensei, I wanted to say, "It's not my fault. I really hate
money. Also, I don't know what I'm doing, and no one told me what to do."
Thinking about it later, I realized that I didn't just have an issue with
money. I also hesitated in stepping up, taking responsibility, asking for help,
or even being ok about making decisions. It was hard to say "Yes, the buck
stops with me on this. So if it's messed up, it's me. And if you need to know
what else needs to be done, that's me too."
I decided this year would be different. If I
saw what needed to be done, then I would step up and do it or ensure it was
done by providing guidance or a helping hand. I wasn't going to look around the
room and wait and see who else would do it. Shockingly, I was also excited
about raising the money. What changed? I'm not quite sure. Maybe it was just an
accumulation of seminars, hours, injuries, and off-the-mat experiences, but it
was clear to me that the dojo was central in me seeing myself differently, and
in making better choices for myself. The fundraiser was no longer only about
asking people for money. If I thought about the dojo like a well from which I
drew water, then I wanted to help replenish that well for myself and for
others. And how long was I going to keep hiding behind my fear of money? If I
was serious about Aikido, then it was time to present myself to my fear and do
it. I felt this shift in attitude palpably when I accompanied Sensei to Athens
in September. My sempai, Andrés, hadn't arrived yet, and even though there was
a former uchideshi there, I was the only student from Brooklyn. Stepping onto
the mat straight from the airport in a surreal haze of jetlag and sleep
deprivation, I thought, "Shit. It's me. There's no one else."
-A. Shridhar
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