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Some Memories You Don’t Share… Until It’s Time

It’s strange how time works.

Something that feels like it just happened… suddenly you realize it was seven years ago. Not last year. Not recently. Seven.

That memory popped up in my feed today.

Seven years ago, I was in the Philippines with a group of our WMAA members. As we always do, we made the pilgrimage to Hinigaran, the birthplace of Modern Arnis, on the Negros Occidental side of the island.

That stop is never casual.

We went first to the graves of my teachers, Remy and Ernesto. We stood there quietly. Paid our respects. Reflected. There’s always a weight in that moment. Gratitude. Responsibility. A reminder of why we do what we do.

Afterward, we headed to the ancestral home to spend time with the youngest brother, Roberto.

Every visit had its rhythm. Stories. Laughter. History. Family talk. But this trip… this one was different.

As we pulled up, sticks in hand, there he was near the gate, even though we had been told (more than once ?) that he wasn’t “allowed to train anymore.”

That was Tito.

We ended up having a deep conversation that day. About the family legacy. About how Modern Arnis started. How it evolved. Where it had gone. And where it was headed.

And then something unplanned happened.

Craig and I somehow found ourselves demonstrating in the backyard, blending Balintawak concepts with Tapi-Tapi. It wasn’t staged. No rehearsal. Just movement and flow in the moment.

Now, I’ll be honest, it wasn’t my best performance. There were clotheslines strung across the yard, and I kept clipping them with my stick. It threw off my rhythm more than I’d like to admit. You’ll see it in the video.

But that wasn’t the part that mattered.

After we finished, we sat back down. The conversation continued. And that’s when it happened.

In the middle of talking about the art, the family, the future, Roberto endorsed my use of the Presas family name. He told me he liked what I was doing. He felt the demonstration was good. He appreciated how I had spread the art into areas the family never had the opportunity to reach.

And then he said something that humbled me even more.

The family had been watching.

Cousins following social media. Keeping tabs. Seeing how I was representing the art. Seeing how Modern Arnis was being carried forward.

I didn’t know that.

That moment meant more to me than I can fully put into words.
For me, it was the trifecta, having the respect and good standing of all three Presas brothers before they passed. That’s not something I take lightly. That’s not something I ever wanted to parade around.
That’s why I didn’t share it back then.

You all know how politics can be. Noise. Opinions. Hurt feelings. People making things about themselves.

This wasn’t for that.

This was ours.

Craig Mason. Tye Botting. Chris Workman. Myself. Sitting with our Tito, Roberto Presas, in his backyard in Hinigaran.

And as if the day wasn’t already meaningful enough, as we were leaving, we ran into the wife of the late Cristiano Vasquez, a dear friend of the Presas family.

It was one of those days you don’t plan… but you never forget.
I remember telling everyone there, “This is ours. When the time is right, maybe we’ll share it. But we don’t have to. We were there. We know what it meant.”

With Roberto’s passing this past November, there are no Presas brothers left.

That reality hits differently.

Each one of them shaped my life in different ways. They weren’t just teachers. They were pillars in the Philippines, much like the Gracie brothers were in Brazil for Jiu-Jitsu. They pushed, promoted, fought for, and built something that changed lives.

And now it’s on us.

Time moves. Generations shift. Legends pass.

But legacy only survives if someone is willing to train… and train others… and keep moving forward.

That’s what I intend to do.

I miss all three of them.

And I carry that backyard moment in Hinigaran with me every day.

Respectfully,
Datu Tim Hartman
Modern Arnis Tribal Chief

Learning From a Master Doesn’t Always Make You a Student

Recently, I was listening to an FMA discussion podcast featuring several Modern Arnis practitioners when a comment by Bruce Chu of Florida really made me think.

He said:

“Professor had a lot of followers and participants, but not a lot of students.”

At first, that statement might sound controversial, but the more I thought about it, the more I understood exactly what he meant.

Professor Remy Presas introduced Modern Arnis to thousands of martial artists through seminars, camps, and demonstrations around the world. Those who attended absolutely learned from him, and many even hosted his events. His influence is beyond question.

But it raises an interesting question:

Does learning from a master automatically make you their student?

I don’t believe it does.

A student-teacher relationship is built through consistency, guidance, correction, accountability, and mutual commitment. It is an ongoing relationship, not simply a shared experience.

Here’s one way to look at it.

I’ve spoken with people who say they trained with Professor for ten years. That sounds impressive until you learn they may have only attended one seminar each year. If each seminar lasted five hours, that’s roughly fifty hours of instruction over an entire decade.

Now compare that to your own school.

If someone attended only five hours of class each year for ten years, would you consider them one of your active students? Most instructors probably wouldn’t. We’d likely describe them as someone who participated occasionally.

So why should the definition change simply because the instructor lived in another state or another country?

Distance doesn’t redefine the relationship. It only changes the opportunity for interaction.

My own experience was different.

I began training in Modern Arnis in 1985 and trained with Professor regularly for many years. Between monthly training, seminars, camps, private instruction, and extended weekends together, I estimate I accumulated well over 1,500 hours of direct training with him.

I don’t mention that to elevate my experience. I mention it to illustrate what an ongoing student-teacher relationship can look like. It was built over years of repeated instruction, correction, conversation, and mentorship—not just memorable seminars.

That doesn’t diminish anyone else’s experience.

A single seminar with a master can change the direction of your martial arts journey. You can learn lessons that stay with you for life.

But inspiration and mentorship are not always the same thing.

Learning from a master doesn’t always make you a student.

I’ve always made a distinction in my own school between participants, members, and students. Every person who walks through the door has value, but occasional participation isn’t the same as an ongoing student-teacher relationship.

The same applies to me.

I’ve attended seminars taught by exceptional martial artists throughout my career. I gladly give those instructors credit for what they taught me. But if I trained with someone once—or even several times—I wouldn’t honestly claim to be their student. I was a participant who had the privilege of learning from them.

The same principle applies outside of martial arts. I regularly attend business conferences and seminars where I learn from outstanding presenters. Their knowledge has helped me grow, but attending a presentation doesn’t make them my mentor. Just as in martial arts, a true student-teacher relationship requires an ongoing connection.

None of this diminishes Professor Presas’ legacy.

If anything, it highlights the extraordinary reach of his influence. Thousands learned from him. Thousands were inspired by him. His impact on Filipino Martial Arts is immeasurable.

At the same time, I believe we honor our teachers best by honestly describing the relationships we had with them.

Words matter.

Relationships matter.

Giving proper credit doesn’t diminish anyone’s experience—it puts it into its proper perspective.

So I’ll leave you with this question:

Where did your relationship with Professor fit? Were you a long-term student under his guidance, or were you someone who had the privilege of learning from him through seminars and camps? Both experiences have value—they’re simply different.

The original thought came from Bruce Chu, and I wanted to give him full credit for planting the seed for this discussion.

My goal isn’t to divide anyone or diminish anyone’s journey. It’s simply to encourage thoughtful reflection about what it truly means to be a student.

I’d genuinely like to hear your perspective.

Respectfully,
Datu Tim Hartman
The Tribal Chief