I have always had a great amount of respect for Henry Rollins. I listened to Black Flag on repeat as a teenager and I have listened to a lot of his spoken word material. I always
walk away inspired in some way or another. Here we are 20 years later
and his words still inspire me. This article on the surface is about
Strength Training. But, more so than that it is an article about
Composure, Identity, and Responsibility. As, I keep my head in this
journey I am taking. These words give me confidence to move forward and
find myself.
“Iron
and the Soul”
I believe that the definition of
definition is reinvention.
To not be like your parents. To not
be like your friends. To be yourself. Completely.
When I was young I had no sense of
myself. All I was, was a product of all the
fear and humiliation I suffered. Fear of my parents. The humiliation of
teachers calling me “garbage can” and telling me I’d be mowing lawns for a
living. And the very real terror of my fellow students. I was threatened and beaten
up for the color of my skin and my size. I was skinny and clumsy, and when
others would tease me I didn’t run home crying, wondering why. I knew all too
well. I was there to be antagonized. In sports I was laughed at. A spaz. I was
pretty good at boxing but only because the rage that filled my every waking
moment made me wild and unpredictable. I fought with some strange fury. The
other boys thought I was crazy.
I hated myself all the time. As stupid at it seems now, I wanted to talk like them, dress
like them, carry myself with the ease of knowing that I wasn’t going to get
pounded in the hallway between classes.
Years passed and I learned to keep
it all inside. I only talked to a few boys in my grade. Other losers. Some of
them are to this day the greatest people I have ever known. Hang out with a guy
who has had his head flushed down a toilet a few times, treat him with respect,
and you’ll find a faithful friend forever. But even with friends, school
sucked. Teachers gave me hard time. I didn’t think much of them either.
Then came Mr. Pepperman, my adviser.
He was a powerfully built Vietnam veteran, and he was scary. No one ever talked
out of turn in his class. Once one kid did and Mr. P. lifted him off the ground
and pinned him to the blackboard.
Mr. P. could see that I was in bad
shape, and one Friday in October he asked me if I had ever worked out with
weights. I told him no. He told me that I was going to take some of the money
that I had saved and buy a hundred-pound set of weights at Sears. As I left his
office, I started to think of things I would say to him on Monday when he asked
about the weights that I was not going to buy. Still, it made me feel special.
My father never really got that close to caring. On Saturday I bought the
weights, but I couldn’t even drag them to my mom’s car. An attendant laughed at
me as he put them on a dolly.
Monday came and I was called into
Mr. P.’s office after school. He said that he was going to show me how to work
out. He was going to put me on a program and start hitting me in the solar
plexus in the hallway when I wasn’t looking. When I could take the punch we
would know that we were getting somewhere. At no time was I to look at myself
in the mirror or tell anyone at school what I was doing.
In the gym he showed me ten basic
exercises. I paid more attention than I ever did in any of my classes. I didn’t
want to blow it. I went home that night and started right in. Weeks passed, and
every once in a while Mr. P. would give me a shot and drop me in the hallway, sending
my books flying. The other students didn’t know what to think. More weeks
passed, and I was steadily adding new weights to the bar. I could sense the
power inside my body growing. I could feel it.
Right before Christmas break I was
walking to class, and from out of nowhere Mr. Pepperman appeared and gave me a
shot in the chest. I laughed and kept going. He said I could look at myself
now. I got home and ran to the bathroom and pulled off my shirt. I saw a body,
not just the shell that housed my stomach and my heart. My biceps bulged. My
chest had definition. I felt strong. It was the first time I can remember
having a sense of myself. I had done something and no one could ever take it
away. You couldn’t say **** to me.
It took me years to fully appreciate
the value of the lessons I have learned from the Iron. I used to think that it
was my adversary, that I was trying to lift that which does not want to be
lifted. I was wrong. When the Iron doesn’t want to come off the mat, it’s the
kindest thing it can do for you. If it flew up and went through the ceiling, it
wouldn’t teach you anything. That’s the way the Iron talks to you. It tells you
that the material you work with is that which you will come to resemble. That
which you work against will always work against you.
It wasn’t until my late twenties
that I learned that by working out I had given myself a great gift. I learned
that nothing good comes without work and a certain amount of pain. When I
finish a set that leaves me shaking, I know more about myself. When something
gets bad, I know it can’t be as bad as that workout.
I used to fight the pain, but
recently this became clear to me: pain is not my enemy; it is my call to
greatness. But when dealing with the Iron, one must be careful to interpret the
pain correctly. Most injuries involving the Iron come from ego. I once spent a
few weeks lifting weight that my body wasn’t ready for and spent a few months
not picking up anything heavier than a fork. Try to lift what you’re not
prepared to and the Iron will teach you a little lesson in restraint and
self-control.
I have never met a truly strong
person who didn’t have self-respect. I think a lot of inwardly and outwardly
directed contempt passes itself off as self-respect: the idea of raising
yourself by stepping on someone’s shoulders instead of doing it yourself. When
I see guys working out for cosmetic reasons, I see vanity exposing them in the
worst way, as cartoon characters, billboards for imbalance and insecurity.
Strength reveals itself through character. It is the difference between
bouncers who get off strong-arming people and Mr. Pepperman.
Muscle mass does not always equal
strength. Strength is kindness and sensitivity. Strength is understanding that
your power is both physical and emotional. That it comes from the body and the
mind. And the heart.
Yukio Mishima said that he could not
entertain the idea of romance if he was not strong. Romance is such a strong
and overwhelming passion, a weakened body cannot sustain it for long. I have
some of my most romantic thoughts when I am with the Iron. Once I was in love
with a woman. I thought about her the most when the pain from a workout was
racing through my body. Everything in me wanted her. So much so that sex was
only a fraction of my total desire. It was the single most intense love I have
ever felt, but she lived far away and I didn’t see her very often. Working out
was a healthy way of dealing with the loneliness. To this day, when I work out
I usually listen to ballads.
I prefer to work out alone. It
enables me to concentrate on the lessons that the Iron has for me. Learning
about what you’re made of is always time well spent, and I have found no better
teacher. The Iron had taught me how to live.
Life is capable of driving you out
of your mind. The way it all comes down these days, it’s some kind of miracle
if you’re not insane. People have become separated from their bodies. They are
no longer whole. I see them move from their offices to their cars and on to
their suburban homes. They stress out constantly, they lose sleep, they eat
badly. And they behave badly. Their egos run wild; they become motivated by
that which will eventually give them a massive stroke. They need the Iron mind.
Through the years, I have combined
meditation, action, and the Iron into a single strength. I believe that when
the body is strong, the mind thinks strong thoughts. Time spent away from the
Iron makes my mind degenerate. I wallow in a thick depression. My body shuts
down my mind. The Iron is the best antidepressant I have ever found. There is
no better way to fight weakness than with strength. Once the mind and body have
been awakened to their true potential, it’s impossible to turn back.
The Iron never lies to you. You can walk outside and listen to all kinds of talk, get
told that you’re a god or a total bastard. The Iron will always kick you the
real deal. The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective
giver. Always there like a beacon in the pitch black. I have found the Iron to
be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs.
Friends may come and go.
But two hundred pounds is always two
hundred pounds.
-Henry Rollins
