Belts are one of my least favorite things about BJJ. Brazilian jiu-jitsu has always had a strange relationship with belts. They are treated like sacred milestones, social currency, proof of suffering, proof of loyalty, and sometimes proof that you survived one very specific gym long enough to be noticed.
Craig Jones, naturally, has a less romantic interpretation. This post is somewhat a commentary on Craig Jones’ youtube video he threw out a few months ago on building up a cult, but I vibe with his sentiments big time.
The belt system is supposed to represent progress. In theory, it marks technical development, mat time, discipline, and a student’s growth through the art. In practice, it can also represent politics, gym culture, favoritism, business strategy, and the personal standards of whoever is doing the promoting.
Jones has made that point elsewhere when talking about what it takes to become a black belt. His answer: it depends who gave it to you. That may sound dismissive, but it is also one of the most honest summaries of BJJ rank. A black belt from one room does not always mean the same thing as a black belt from another. Standards vary wildly. Some instructors promote based on competition performance. Others value loyalty, teaching ability, time served, technical knowledge, or simply the culture of their academy.
This is where Craig’s criticism becomes more than trolling. He is not just saying belts are fake. He is attacking the way belts can become a control mechanism.
In unhealthy gym cultures, the belt becomes more than a rank. It becomes the carrot. Students chase the next stripe, the next promotion, the next public validation from the coach. People stay quiet because they do not want to jeopardize their rank. They avoid cross-training because it might be seen as disloyal. They accept bad behavior because leaving means starting over somewhere else, often with their status suddenly uncertain.
The uncomfortable truth is that belts are both meaningful and meaningless at the same time. They can reflect years of real work. They can also be inflated, delayed, politicized, or weaponized. A belt can tell you someone has been in the room. It cannot always tell you how good they are when the match starts.
That distinction matters even more in modern no-gi grappling. The sport’s competitive hierarchy is increasingly performance-based. Fans care about who wins, who submits who, who can wrestle, who can survive under pressure, and who can do it against elite opposition. In that world, belt color has less power than results.
Craig Jones’ larger point seems to be that jiu-jitsu should stop pretending the belt system is a clean, universal measurement of ability. It is not. It is a tradition, a business tool, a social structure, and sometimes a useful marker of development. But it is not a scoreboard.
And maybe that is why his comments resonate. BJJ people love to talk about humility, but the sport is still obsessed with hierarchy. The belt wraps that hierarchy around your waist and makes it visible to everyone in the room.
Craig is just asking the obvious question:
What if the thing we treat as sacred is also one of the easiest things to manipulate?
Belts may always have a place in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. They help organize classes, give beginners goals, and connect the sport to its martial arts lineage. But Craig Jones’ critique is a reminder that the belt should never become more important than the training, the room, the culture, or the actual ability to grapple.
Because when the slap-bump happens, nobody gets points for fabric. And if you need some sort of color hierarchy to respect people, that sucks because you should treat everyone with the same respect – white belt or otherwise.
At the end of the day, the belt is just a relationship you have between you, your coaches, and your friends. As as someone who has received a black belt, I can tell you nothing changes.
Personally, I’ll be wearing my leopard print belt instead of my black belt.
