by Shawn Kirby L.Ac.

I have suffered from insomnia several times in my life for various reasons, the latest of which was attending acupuncture college. Insomnia isn’t all bad though. For instance, it has afforded me the opportunity to watch a number of classic black and white movies I never would have seen otherwise. If nothing else, I am forever grateful for being introduced to Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not. On the other hand it has also landed me with a bunch of products advertised on late night infomercials that I would never have bought had I been asleep. Inability to slumber and the accompanying suggestibility brought on by fatigue have made me the proud owner of a juicer, a set of serrated knives that will cut through a lead pipe, and a sushi roll maker constructed out of a “space age” material. During these bouts of sleeplessness I have had repeated opportunity, while watching the innumerable infomercials on late night TV, to examine in detail what I term the “fear-based sales technique.”

The fear based sales technique works first and foremost by convincing you that you have a problem. A big problem. A problem that is screwing up your life. The problem could be that you are grossly uninformed (newspaper sales), that you are horribly deficient in trace minerals (remember that multi-level marketing scam?) or perhaps your current chef’s knife might not be able to cut through a lead pipe (hey, don’t laugh – they got me). Once the shill has put you into a state of foaming at the mouth anxiety, he then sets the hook by explaining that he, and he alone, has the cure for what ails you – never mind that he’s the one who gave you the problem in the first place! Because, let’s face it, you didn’t buy that 2000 watt hydraulic vegetable peeler because you wanted it. You bought it because the guy selling it convinced you that you couldn’t live without it. It is with great sadness, but not a lot of surprise, that I have noticed numerous little “gurus” cropping up within the Oriental medical community like toadstools on an otherwise healthy lawn. And almost without exception they all seem to specialize in the fear-based sales technique, endlessly trying to convince potential students that they and they alone, have the magic bullet.

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Oddly enough, I was originally made aware of this phenomenon long before I went to acupuncture school. I had begun seeing an acupuncturist following a presentation he gave at the health food store I worked at. One day he invited me to lunch with him following an 11:00 treatment. Being both poor and hungry for a little Szechwan chicken, I gladly accepted his invitation. The conversation at lunch soon turned towards my interest in going to acupuncture college one day. He nodded his head knowingly and told me that, “once the student is ready, the master will appear.” He then suggested that I “apprentice” with him for awhile before applying for school – at a nominal fee of course. Throughout the conversation he repeatedly stated that Chinese medicine was originally an oral tradition and not taught in a classroom environment. Consequently, you couldn’t learn “real” Chinese medicine in a classroom, but only from a “master.” Feeling suddenly very uncomfortable with the relationship, I stopped seeing this practitioner. After a few weeks, he showed up at the health food store asking for me. He was “disturbed” that I was no longer receiving treatment from him, and expressed his hope that I would be back soon. I gave him some expired spare ribs from the freezer and delicately ushered him from the store much as I would handle a violent drunk.

This experience was not unique. Within the first two weeks of school, more gurus made their presence known. One such self-styled master came by the school to give a talk, a “renowned” martial artist with long flowing hair and the “eye of the tiger.” He informed his audience that most of us would likely never amount to much, as few people had the intelligence and the powerful qi necessary to become a proficient, let alone great, acupuncturist. Those of us who did work like dogs might some day make a go of it… but he doubted it. He did, however, have room for just one student to work for him at his clinic. This well-delivered sales pitch worked like a charm and people fell all over themselves to attain the position as his apprentice. His eventual choice worked for him for the next four years, the rest of his tenure in school. Slaving for his master, he was rewarded with minimum wage, a few crumbs of “wisdom” that were doled out every once in awhile, and all the verbal abuse he could stand. The poor guy even had to clean the toilets.

Another practitioner set up a beautiful practice in an expensive part of town which he then staffed with attractive young women from the college. They were lured in during one of his free seminars given to the students during their lunch hour. These “seminars” centered on the theme that TCM was just too hard to learn, and no one ever really gets it anyway. However, even though you were wasting your time at studying TCM, if you were the right kind of person you could work at his clinic and learn his special technique for prescribing herbs using only abdominal diagnosis and your “intuition.” While a few of the men thought that it was their lack of feminine “intuition” that prevented them from attaining these positions, most felt that a lack of breasts was the real obstacle. Once the girls figured out that they were nothing more than eye candy and no further instruction was forthcoming, they invariably left, only to be replaced the following year by the next crop.

This has continued to go on long after graduation. Recently, a colleague of mine told me about a continuing education program that was labeled an “internship.” Being a graduate with a diploma on her wall, a practice full of patients and a malpractice premium due every quarter, my colleague regarded becoming this guy’s “intern” as mildly ridiculous. Nonetheless, interested in what she could learn from him, she contacted him regarding cost, timing, CEU’s, etc. The email response that came back eschewed such practical questions, and clearly indicated that she wasn’t thinking correctly. The real consideration was whether or not they would be able to “work together” as teacher and student. Vague intimations were made as to whether or not she had the “right attitude.”

Many people, when faced with this kind of asinine bullying (because that’s what this is), would’ve caved in and fallen in line. As human beings we are hard wired to seek approval. When presented with the idea that you are “wrong” by an authority figure, most people will go to great lengths to prove themselves “right.” (This is how brainwashing, boot camp and cults all work.) And what better way to prove yourself right than to give away your power and sign up for an “internship” that’ll cost you a couple of grand? That’s good salesmanship. It’s also, if you’ll forgive me, a steaming load of excrement. My colleague turned him down flat. I told her I was proud of her.

A good teacher doesn’t use the fear-based sales technique to lure in students. A good teacher doesn’t hide their curriculum from their students (until they’re “ready”), or anyone else. A good teacher doesn’t put down other teachers, or schools of thought, in an attempt to turn their opinions into gospel and their approach into a cult. A good teacher doesn’t operate outside the boundaries of accreditation and academia. A good teacher doesn’t pretend that they’re a little old man with a long white beard who lives at the top of a mountain and beats you with a bamboo stick once a week whether you need it or not.

A good teacher is someone who fills their students with a profound confidence and enthusiasm that they can, and will, learn what is being taught. We need fewer gurus in our profession, and a lot more teachers.

If you haven’t seen Kung Fu Panda, I highly recommend this film. It is an excellent way to spend an evening, with or without insomnia, and it has a very important lesson for us as practitioners. The main character, a giant panda named Po (played by Jack Black), has to learn that “there is no secret ingredient.” While he may not know everything about Kung Fu, he learns that if he uses what he does know with confidence he can overcome any obstacle. And of course, in the interest of dramatic tension, the obstacle in question just happens to be the most feared martial artist in all of China, a tiger named Tai Lung, who possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of Kung Fu. Po learns that the most important lesson of all is to believe in himself.

Too often people in Oriental medicine spend their time looking for magic bullets and secret techniques. Faced with the daunting responsibility of providing people with health care, it can be easy to lose confidence in yourself and go looking for an edge. The thing is, like the character Po from Kung Fu Panda realized, “there is no secret ingredient – there’s just you.” What makes a practitioner great is not their ability to perform the Microcosmic Orbit while sexually aroused as they stand waist deep in an ice cold river. What makes a great practitioner is not their use of the Esoteric Drunken Jade Monkey needling technique. What makes a practitioner great is not how cool and notorious their guru is.

What makes a practitioner great is how seriously they take what they are doing. I already quoted Tony Bourdain for another blog, but I’ll quote him again here to reinforce my point. “It takes a special person to do the very basic things correctly.” However, what makes a practitioner truly great is how much they believe in themselves. Miriam Lee changed the world with ten needles. You can too. There is no secret ingredient.