It was sweet. It was greasy. It was sticky. It was purple. It was sleeping late. It was overheated. It was drunk (or at least feeling no pain). It was pate' on pumpernickel bread. It was creative. It was smoky. It was overpriced. It was in color. It was paint-smeared. It was champagne. It was the grocery store closing at 6pm Christmas eve. It was musical. It was quiet.
It was not cold. It was not crowded. It was not noisy. It was not stressful. It was not (too) grumpy. It was not religious. It was not disastrous.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Distractions
I have lately been transcribing my travel diary from this year's trip to Japan. Yes, I still handwrite them - no worries about batteries or lost files, unless I really, really lose an important piece of luggage (at which point I'd be more worried about my passport than anything else). In the past, I just transcribed things I was using for articles, or technical notes about training sessions, but this time I decided to transcribe the whole thing so I can print it out and put it in the year's travel file. There are several reasons. My handwriting is, and will no doubt remain, abysmal to the point where a few months after writing something sustained like a journal, I can no longer read what I wrote and the only solution is to type it. I also forgot certain important logistcal points about traveling in Japan that would have been good to remember on this trip and several times would have made my life easier. By transcribing the whole journal I can read it through before going on next year's trip and save myself at least a little grief.
I have come into possession of an iPad in the meantime that will probably mean I can just type my journal next time and save this step, but it is sort of cool to relive the experience as I go through my notes. One of the points that jumped at me, and not for the first time, is the difference in the attitude of the people I train with in Japan versus most of the people I train with here. Granted, the people I train with in Japan are not exactly typical. Koryu budo in Japan is a rare pursuit and the people who train are indeed serious. I am not talking about high school or college budo, as intense as that may sometimes be. Many of the people I train with are descendants of samurai families, and even though that and 400 yen will get them a cup of coffee these days, in their non-working lives the study of koryu budo is not a hobby - it is their identity.
With very few exceptions, there are not many Americans who understand this point. I wonder sometimes if Americans are serious about anything, except maybe consumerism (maybe the time of year makes me feel that way). Whenever an American has a deeply satisfying pastime that goes beyond buying stuff and throwing it away, it makes the news. But anyway...
I have known a few people in my American budo life who always make a point of telling me how deep their commitment is to budo. They stay and train for a few weeks or months, and I think to myself, hey, they really are committed to this. And then it starts - Absences and excuses, generally work or family issues. I also have a family, and a job, and both are important. Otani Sensei also pointed out that family and work must take precendence over training when necessary. But it's the "when necessary" that gets me. When is "necessary"? People in Japan also have families and jobs, and certainly they sometimes will miss an okeiko because of one or the other, but somehow they always manage to come back to the dojo. As important as those other things are, the center of their non-family, non-work life is to carry on a tradition that preceded them, and, with luck, will continue after they are gone. Call it nuts, or eccentric, but the people I train with in Japan have a strong sense of themselves and what they think is important.
Recently I had very committed student who claimed many work-life conflicts. It took almost a year, but I finally managed to work out a schedule with him that made it possible for us to train together. It was great - for three weeks. I have not seen him in over two months. I have gotten a few pinched emails promising an appearance the following week, and now, nothing. I wish I could say I am surprised, but I'm not.
In all fairness, I have no doubt the work-life issues this person is experiencing may seem insurmountable to him. But that is the point. All of us have our stuff, but why is it that I can show up every week? Sure, we are always prioritizing, but I wonder.
One of the excuses I have heard from time to time is "Well, I was going to be late, so I decided to go home." My response is always the same - come anyway. Oh. So then there is another excuse. And another. And I quit worrying about it, because by that time it is obvious that something else has piqued the person's interest and they have moved on to it. They don't bother me as much as the person who keeps insisting on their genuine interest and then does not follow through.
I realize complaining about less-than-serious students is a rant that goes back (even in Japan) at least 300 years. In Western culture, I think Plato made the same argument. At least I am in good company. And I'm not stupid - the sempai I train with in Japan are the ones who stayed, not the ones who ended up being unserious about training. There just seems to be a lot more of them than here.
I have come into possession of an iPad in the meantime that will probably mean I can just type my journal next time and save this step, but it is sort of cool to relive the experience as I go through my notes. One of the points that jumped at me, and not for the first time, is the difference in the attitude of the people I train with in Japan versus most of the people I train with here. Granted, the people I train with in Japan are not exactly typical. Koryu budo in Japan is a rare pursuit and the people who train are indeed serious. I am not talking about high school or college budo, as intense as that may sometimes be. Many of the people I train with are descendants of samurai families, and even though that and 400 yen will get them a cup of coffee these days, in their non-working lives the study of koryu budo is not a hobby - it is their identity.
With very few exceptions, there are not many Americans who understand this point. I wonder sometimes if Americans are serious about anything, except maybe consumerism (maybe the time of year makes me feel that way). Whenever an American has a deeply satisfying pastime that goes beyond buying stuff and throwing it away, it makes the news. But anyway...
I have known a few people in my American budo life who always make a point of telling me how deep their commitment is to budo. They stay and train for a few weeks or months, and I think to myself, hey, they really are committed to this. And then it starts - Absences and excuses, generally work or family issues. I also have a family, and a job, and both are important. Otani Sensei also pointed out that family and work must take precendence over training when necessary. But it's the "when necessary" that gets me. When is "necessary"? People in Japan also have families and jobs, and certainly they sometimes will miss an okeiko because of one or the other, but somehow they always manage to come back to the dojo. As important as those other things are, the center of their non-family, non-work life is to carry on a tradition that preceded them, and, with luck, will continue after they are gone. Call it nuts, or eccentric, but the people I train with in Japan have a strong sense of themselves and what they think is important.
Recently I had very committed student who claimed many work-life conflicts. It took almost a year, but I finally managed to work out a schedule with him that made it possible for us to train together. It was great - for three weeks. I have not seen him in over two months. I have gotten a few pinched emails promising an appearance the following week, and now, nothing. I wish I could say I am surprised, but I'm not.
In all fairness, I have no doubt the work-life issues this person is experiencing may seem insurmountable to him. But that is the point. All of us have our stuff, but why is it that I can show up every week? Sure, we are always prioritizing, but I wonder.
One of the excuses I have heard from time to time is "Well, I was going to be late, so I decided to go home." My response is always the same - come anyway. Oh. So then there is another excuse. And another. And I quit worrying about it, because by that time it is obvious that something else has piqued the person's interest and they have moved on to it. They don't bother me as much as the person who keeps insisting on their genuine interest and then does not follow through.
I realize complaining about less-than-serious students is a rant that goes back (even in Japan) at least 300 years. In Western culture, I think Plato made the same argument. At least I am in good company. And I'm not stupid - the sempai I train with in Japan are the ones who stayed, not the ones who ended up being unserious about training. There just seems to be a lot more of them than here.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The ma of great expectations
"You have such great ma with a sword," my dance teacher informed me, "I can't understand why you don't have it when you dance!"
"I didn't know it was genre-specifc," I responded, morosely.
This discussion has gone on, on some level, over the past 1-1/2 years. Up until that time, my Nihon buyo (classical Japanese dance) teacher had never seen much of my iai. That all changed last year when we organized a performance and included 5 minutes of an iai demonstration. Ever since she saw me do iai, my teacher has marveled aloud at how someone with talent in one area can be so untalented in another, albeit related, area. (To be honest, she says I am not totally untalented; but she wonders why I am not better.)
It's a good question, because truly, I am better with a sword. And I also wonder.
To begin with, it helps to discuss ma a little bit. Ma is one of the most difficult of Japanese concepts to explain in words. In Japanese kanji, it is depicted as the sun seen through a gate. In English it is sometimes called "interval," which does not help much unless someone has studied music. It is literally the timing between the notes. Music students struggle with ma all the time, though some definitely have a better innate sense of it than others. My teacher, a classically-trained musician, knows exactly whereof she speaks. Sometimes even Japanese people refer to ma with the English word, timing. I also think of it in terms of the word talent. No matter how beautiful, a dancer with no ma is no fun to watch.
In dance or budo, ma is how one moves; in Nihon buyo, it could be said how one moves to interpret the lyrics of the song, as well as successfully moving in the timing between sung lyrics and rhythmic passages that make up the dance. It is much more difficult to dance to a slow piece than a fast one.
Sound tough? Tell me about it. Like budo and many western movement genres, learning the choreography is not even the start of performing a dance (though I know a number of buyoka who are content with simply memorizing choreography). Like the painter who copies an old master in order to try to get into the head of the famous artist (as well as learning some useful techniques), the student dancer endeavors to learn the timing of her teacher as an example, though of course, eventually, she has to develop the ma she has in herself in order to make the piece effective.
So, what's my problem? There may be several explanations. One is time served, I think. Though I have taken Nihon buyo classes for years, up until recently, I only attended a class twice a month with my first teacher (who retired a number of years ago). Though the classes were long, the teacher was only able to spend a few minutes with each person. In the past few years, we have shorter classes that take place every week. I consider this an improvement; and up until the abovementioned conversation, thought I might be improving too. In contrast, budo classes have taken up 2-3 hours, anywhere from one to 3 times per week! Not to mention practicing on my own (which I have only occasionally done for Nihon buyo). And I have done this for 25 years. Budo also has some consequences for bad ma - the budoka who cannot block a strike in time will end up getting sore someplace. In Nihon buyo, the only thing that gets hurt, occasionally, is pride.
When I was a little kid, someone read a story to us from the Readers' Digest about the great ballerina Anna Pavlova. The story was extracted from a memoir of some sort (remember I was small enough that the story was being read to us). After spending some time extolling the brilliance of Pavlova on stage, the writer related seeing her once as a total klutz on a diving board. The swan on stage was not as good in actual water, and of course it confounded everyone's expectations that the graceful ballerina was a terrible diver.
I am hardly comparing myself to Pavlova, but maybe the lesson is that no one is good at everything. Or maybe that we can only spend our time doing a handful of things well (really, really well in the case of Pavlova, who surely should never have needed to apologize for anything). In any case, it seems that being a goofball around the pool did not prevent Pavlova from enjoying the water, which is maybe the best and biggest point.
For my part, I feel I should either quit Nihon buyo, from which I have learned a very great deal, or else ask for private lessons in order to work harder. Being stuck in mediocre-land is one interval I am getting pretty tired of.
"I didn't know it was genre-specifc," I responded, morosely.
This discussion has gone on, on some level, over the past 1-1/2 years. Up until that time, my Nihon buyo (classical Japanese dance) teacher had never seen much of my iai. That all changed last year when we organized a performance and included 5 minutes of an iai demonstration. Ever since she saw me do iai, my teacher has marveled aloud at how someone with talent in one area can be so untalented in another, albeit related, area. (To be honest, she says I am not totally untalented; but she wonders why I am not better.)
It's a good question, because truly, I am better with a sword. And I also wonder.
To begin with, it helps to discuss ma a little bit. Ma is one of the most difficult of Japanese concepts to explain in words. In Japanese kanji, it is depicted as the sun seen through a gate. In English it is sometimes called "interval," which does not help much unless someone has studied music. It is literally the timing between the notes. Music students struggle with ma all the time, though some definitely have a better innate sense of it than others. My teacher, a classically-trained musician, knows exactly whereof she speaks. Sometimes even Japanese people refer to ma with the English word, timing. I also think of it in terms of the word talent. No matter how beautiful, a dancer with no ma is no fun to watch.
In dance or budo, ma is how one moves; in Nihon buyo, it could be said how one moves to interpret the lyrics of the song, as well as successfully moving in the timing between sung lyrics and rhythmic passages that make up the dance. It is much more difficult to dance to a slow piece than a fast one.
Sound tough? Tell me about it. Like budo and many western movement genres, learning the choreography is not even the start of performing a dance (though I know a number of buyoka who are content with simply memorizing choreography). Like the painter who copies an old master in order to try to get into the head of the famous artist (as well as learning some useful techniques), the student dancer endeavors to learn the timing of her teacher as an example, though of course, eventually, she has to develop the ma she has in herself in order to make the piece effective.
So, what's my problem? There may be several explanations. One is time served, I think. Though I have taken Nihon buyo classes for years, up until recently, I only attended a class twice a month with my first teacher (who retired a number of years ago). Though the classes were long, the teacher was only able to spend a few minutes with each person. In the past few years, we have shorter classes that take place every week. I consider this an improvement; and up until the abovementioned conversation, thought I might be improving too. In contrast, budo classes have taken up 2-3 hours, anywhere from one to 3 times per week! Not to mention practicing on my own (which I have only occasionally done for Nihon buyo). And I have done this for 25 years. Budo also has some consequences for bad ma - the budoka who cannot block a strike in time will end up getting sore someplace. In Nihon buyo, the only thing that gets hurt, occasionally, is pride.
When I was a little kid, someone read a story to us from the Readers' Digest about the great ballerina Anna Pavlova. The story was extracted from a memoir of some sort (remember I was small enough that the story was being read to us). After spending some time extolling the brilliance of Pavlova on stage, the writer related seeing her once as a total klutz on a diving board. The swan on stage was not as good in actual water, and of course it confounded everyone's expectations that the graceful ballerina was a terrible diver.
I am hardly comparing myself to Pavlova, but maybe the lesson is that no one is good at everything. Or maybe that we can only spend our time doing a handful of things well (really, really well in the case of Pavlova, who surely should never have needed to apologize for anything). In any case, it seems that being a goofball around the pool did not prevent Pavlova from enjoying the water, which is maybe the best and biggest point.
For my part, I feel I should either quit Nihon buyo, from which I have learned a very great deal, or else ask for private lessons in order to work harder. Being stuck in mediocre-land is one interval I am getting pretty tired of.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Amateur Hour
This is a totally different topic than usual. But I have to express some exasperation somewhere, and this is the place!
I have been affiliated with a dance group over some time. With 22 years in, that makes me a junior member. The hierarchy consists of people who have rank - I do not even have a vote, actually.
Over the years they have taken advantage of my theatre experience. It has not been very unusual for me to have to give a light cue, pull off the headset, go out onstage, perform my dance, leave the stage, and give the next cue. Or my personal favorite of all time: put in the music CD for my piece, go out and dance, leave the stage, and cue up the sound for the next dancer! Meanwhile, the divas among them powder their noses in the dressing room, oblivious to the chaos their lack of planning and amateur theatrics is causing backstage. Happily, for the most part, because of the efforts of two of us, there have been no real disasters, but the toll taken on the few of us who manage to run things seems not worth it. Sometimes I have gotten $150 for several weeks' work, sometimes not much of anything at all. Maybe someone thanks us. Maybe not.
The latest stupidity comes two days before what is supposed to be a gala performance. We were to kick things off with a champagne reception. One of the dancers said she knew someone who would supply finger food for free, only she forgot to tell him in time. Since it's Christmas season, the person cannot devote time to a free order, so guess what? No food.
Except there's sushi. Maybe. But no one knows. For 200 people? With champagne? Is there champagne? That was supposed to be donated too.
I have worked in the theatre since I was 14 years old. The first thing we all learned, whether we were performers, tech people, designers or managers, was that the theatre requires a great deal of work, and depends heavily on everyone doing his or her job. One person screws up, the whole performance will suffer.
That said, it is difficult for full-time workers to put on a professional production by ourselves. But one of the good things about New York is that we are surrounded - nay, drowning - in theatre workers willing to pitch in, often for a few bucks. Also, this being a major metropolitan area, we have people who, for a fee, will supply food and drink on demand. Crazy, but it works.
And my orei this time? I have no idea, but whatever it is, I am splitting it with my fellow sufferer. We both deserve it.
I have been affiliated with a dance group over some time. With 22 years in, that makes me a junior member. The hierarchy consists of people who have rank - I do not even have a vote, actually.
Over the years they have taken advantage of my theatre experience. It has not been very unusual for me to have to give a light cue, pull off the headset, go out onstage, perform my dance, leave the stage, and give the next cue. Or my personal favorite of all time: put in the music CD for my piece, go out and dance, leave the stage, and cue up the sound for the next dancer! Meanwhile, the divas among them powder their noses in the dressing room, oblivious to the chaos their lack of planning and amateur theatrics is causing backstage. Happily, for the most part, because of the efforts of two of us, there have been no real disasters, but the toll taken on the few of us who manage to run things seems not worth it. Sometimes I have gotten $150 for several weeks' work, sometimes not much of anything at all. Maybe someone thanks us. Maybe not.
The latest stupidity comes two days before what is supposed to be a gala performance. We were to kick things off with a champagne reception. One of the dancers said she knew someone who would supply finger food for free, only she forgot to tell him in time. Since it's Christmas season, the person cannot devote time to a free order, so guess what? No food.
Except there's sushi. Maybe. But no one knows. For 200 people? With champagne? Is there champagne? That was supposed to be donated too.
I have worked in the theatre since I was 14 years old. The first thing we all learned, whether we were performers, tech people, designers or managers, was that the theatre requires a great deal of work, and depends heavily on everyone doing his or her job. One person screws up, the whole performance will suffer.
That said, it is difficult for full-time workers to put on a professional production by ourselves. But one of the good things about New York is that we are surrounded - nay, drowning - in theatre workers willing to pitch in, often for a few bucks. Also, this being a major metropolitan area, we have people who, for a fee, will supply food and drink on demand. Crazy, but it works.
And my orei this time? I have no idea, but whatever it is, I am splitting it with my fellow sufferer. We both deserve it.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Harry and Paulie
Happily there are no off-topic posts in this blog; that's because they are all off-topic, in their way.
Today's post has to do with two things I watched on tv over the couple of days, which seem to have little in common: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and the 3-way American Chopper Biker Buildoff. One is a film, based on a kids' book, and the other is a "reality" show, ostensibly about building collector motorcycles.
JK Rowlings' stuff both entertains and frustrates me. In a way reminiscent of 70's John Wayne movies, people die in the films to momentary grief, which disappears by the next scene. In Goblet of Fire, the Dark Lord's minions interrupt the Quiddich World Cup by causing a bloody riot - a shocking scene new to the series; but no reference is made to it for the rest of the film. Similarly, in HBP, we have Snape (spoiler alert for the .000001% who have neither seen the film nor read the book) declaring himself the half-blood prince, but we have no idea what, in fact, that means. And no one tells us.
I read three of the Harry Potter books while I was keeping company with an 11-year-old one wintry month of January in Minnesota, a number of years ago, and I have enjoyed the films. I enjoyed HBP, for getting slightly better the mix of violence, magic, plot holes one could drive a truck through, and teenage angst. The death of Dumbledore though, like Cedric's death in Goblet of Fire, seemed not to distract too much from the running of the plot. That was really too bad, because one of the adult lessons I have learned is that the death of someone you know should make you stop and think - not only to honor the memory of the deceased, but to consider your place in the universe and what you are doing here. Not even a shot of the funeral. Meh.
Nevertheless, the death scene itself is moving, and the film overall is complicated and requires close attention. And, outside of the relentless plot-drive, the film is about family - the meaning of it and/or lack thereof; about being a student, being a teacher, being a friend - about loyalty, love, and the amorality of skill. The books and film keep asking if skill and the power attained by it is respectable in itself, or whether the character of the skilled person is more important. It would seem, for Rowling, that power is not value-neutral, and a skilful villain is still a villain; but the number of followers of the Dark Lord suggests that a debate exists as to whether power for its own sake is worthwhile. Harry is in the middle of this debate, and his loyal friends are in there with him. If there is a deeper meaning to the series, it is that the author, while heavily stacking the deck in favor of her opinion, allows this debate to play out so her readers can assess it for themselves.
I am not a regular fan of American Chopper, but anyone with even a nodding acquaintance is well aware of the split between the Teutels - Paul Sr. and Paul Jr. Father and son were originally in business together building custom motorcycles but split over ego and differing ideas of how the business should be organized and run. The breakup was fairly violent (objects were thrown, but at least not at each other) and at loud volume. Lawsuits were launched and settled. Paul Jr. has set up his own shop and has managed to gain a reputation separate from his dad. He also wins the major sympathy vote from fans, who have expressed the opinion that it is the father who is in the wrong, and from whom a reconciliation must be initiated. The series, which started out chronicling the family business and now tracks the soap-operatic developments as the two sides learn to coexist, has become - you guessed it - about the meaning of family (or lack thereof), about loyalty, friendship, mentoring and skill.
Last night's episodes involved a three-way buildoff between father and son with badboy Jesse James. The two-hour run-up and one-hour live conclusion involved letting the audience see the development of the entries, as well as egos on display throughout the process. Jesse trash-talks everyone, Paulie chafes under what he sees as disloyal slights from his father, and his father, whilst dispensing said slights, decides to go totally out of the box in designing and building a reverse trike that shoots fire and otherwise defies description. The audience, not surprisingly, picks Paul Jr.'s entry, a cool but not particularly out-of-the-box creation. They second-placed Jesse, who has forged - forged - mind you, every piece of an awkward, old-school design. Paul Sr. is ignored almost entirely, perhaps in part because his design is not exactly a bike, and perhaps because the audience still perceives him as the real bad guy in the family drama.
The best (and most intense part) was not the all-but-foregone conclusion to the buildoff, but that Paul Jr. brought his entire crew to the final event. At the end of the broadcast, he stands surrounded by friends, co-workers and family (his brother, also estranged from their father over what has happened, stands with him). Both Paul Sr. and Jesse stand alone.
The Harry Potter parallels? Like the Dark Lord, Jesse is skilful but is trying to hurt people, rather than simply outcompeting them. His interest is in winning, in showing up the tabloids, ex-wives and ex-girlfriends that no matter what a rotten person he is, he can turn out a good product and people will love him for it anyway. Paul Jr., as Harry, has learned that the only way to achieve success, whether fighting evil or competing in a bike build-off, is to have others' love and support. Paul Sr., rather like Dumbledore, for all of his skill, ends up in defeat, having not yet learned the lesson that his son could teach.
Or is he Snape? I'm not sure, but he's in there somewhere.
Today's post has to do with two things I watched on tv over the couple of days, which seem to have little in common: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and the 3-way American Chopper Biker Buildoff. One is a film, based on a kids' book, and the other is a "reality" show, ostensibly about building collector motorcycles.
JK Rowlings' stuff both entertains and frustrates me. In a way reminiscent of 70's John Wayne movies, people die in the films to momentary grief, which disappears by the next scene. In Goblet of Fire, the Dark Lord's minions interrupt the Quiddich World Cup by causing a bloody riot - a shocking scene new to the series; but no reference is made to it for the rest of the film. Similarly, in HBP, we have Snape (spoiler alert for the .000001% who have neither seen the film nor read the book) declaring himself the half-blood prince, but we have no idea what, in fact, that means. And no one tells us.
I read three of the Harry Potter books while I was keeping company with an 11-year-old one wintry month of January in Minnesota, a number of years ago, and I have enjoyed the films. I enjoyed HBP, for getting slightly better the mix of violence, magic, plot holes one could drive a truck through, and teenage angst. The death of Dumbledore though, like Cedric's death in Goblet of Fire, seemed not to distract too much from the running of the plot. That was really too bad, because one of the adult lessons I have learned is that the death of someone you know should make you stop and think - not only to honor the memory of the deceased, but to consider your place in the universe and what you are doing here. Not even a shot of the funeral. Meh.
Nevertheless, the death scene itself is moving, and the film overall is complicated and requires close attention. And, outside of the relentless plot-drive, the film is about family - the meaning of it and/or lack thereof; about being a student, being a teacher, being a friend - about loyalty, love, and the amorality of skill. The books and film keep asking if skill and the power attained by it is respectable in itself, or whether the character of the skilled person is more important. It would seem, for Rowling, that power is not value-neutral, and a skilful villain is still a villain; but the number of followers of the Dark Lord suggests that a debate exists as to whether power for its own sake is worthwhile. Harry is in the middle of this debate, and his loyal friends are in there with him. If there is a deeper meaning to the series, it is that the author, while heavily stacking the deck in favor of her opinion, allows this debate to play out so her readers can assess it for themselves.
I am not a regular fan of American Chopper, but anyone with even a nodding acquaintance is well aware of the split between the Teutels - Paul Sr. and Paul Jr. Father and son were originally in business together building custom motorcycles but split over ego and differing ideas of how the business should be organized and run. The breakup was fairly violent (objects were thrown, but at least not at each other) and at loud volume. Lawsuits were launched and settled. Paul Jr. has set up his own shop and has managed to gain a reputation separate from his dad. He also wins the major sympathy vote from fans, who have expressed the opinion that it is the father who is in the wrong, and from whom a reconciliation must be initiated. The series, which started out chronicling the family business and now tracks the soap-operatic developments as the two sides learn to coexist, has become - you guessed it - about the meaning of family (or lack thereof), about loyalty, friendship, mentoring and skill.
Last night's episodes involved a three-way buildoff between father and son with badboy Jesse James. The two-hour run-up and one-hour live conclusion involved letting the audience see the development of the entries, as well as egos on display throughout the process. Jesse trash-talks everyone, Paulie chafes under what he sees as disloyal slights from his father, and his father, whilst dispensing said slights, decides to go totally out of the box in designing and building a reverse trike that shoots fire and otherwise defies description. The audience, not surprisingly, picks Paul Jr.'s entry, a cool but not particularly out-of-the-box creation. They second-placed Jesse, who has forged - forged - mind you, every piece of an awkward, old-school design. Paul Sr. is ignored almost entirely, perhaps in part because his design is not exactly a bike, and perhaps because the audience still perceives him as the real bad guy in the family drama.
The best (and most intense part) was not the all-but-foregone conclusion to the buildoff, but that Paul Jr. brought his entire crew to the final event. At the end of the broadcast, he stands surrounded by friends, co-workers and family (his brother, also estranged from their father over what has happened, stands with him). Both Paul Sr. and Jesse stand alone.
The Harry Potter parallels? Like the Dark Lord, Jesse is skilful but is trying to hurt people, rather than simply outcompeting them. His interest is in winning, in showing up the tabloids, ex-wives and ex-girlfriends that no matter what a rotten person he is, he can turn out a good product and people will love him for it anyway. Paul Jr., as Harry, has learned that the only way to achieve success, whether fighting evil or competing in a bike build-off, is to have others' love and support. Paul Sr., rather like Dumbledore, for all of his skill, ends up in defeat, having not yet learned the lesson that his son could teach.
Or is he Snape? I'm not sure, but he's in there somewhere.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
But can she type?
How do I decide on topics for this blog? Generally speaking, if it's something I am still thinking about the next day, and if I have time, up it goes.
Last night at the end of okeiko (a rather crowded one), I mentioned casually that the classes at the alternate space, on Mondays and Thursdays, were ongoing if anyone was interested. A few of the people who come on Wednesdays do come on Thursdays, but the Monday class, which I am co-teaching with someone else, have had a little trouble getting off the ground.
I share responsibility for the Monday class with a colleague, who happens to have a first degree in the style. While I do not have a degree, I have been practicing it for some time. As we get in more regular practice, I hope that whatever credentials I can garner in the field will become practical for me, but at the moment, as I said, we are still getting off the ground. Neither one of us is considered a teacher, as first degree in *any* koryu style is about 15 years removed from even a junior license to teach. We are being supervised by someone else, and our function is more like "workshop leader." Since I actually have more time in than my colleague, I am the one in the front of the room, as weird as that makes me feel sometimes.
While I was out of town, the only provision I made for Mondays was that if the co-instructor could not be there, he should let the manager of the space know so the practice could be cancelled. Since I have been back, I have pointedly not asked what happened while I was gone, as there was nothing I could do about it anyway. As it turns out, he has recently purchased an apartment for his family (after a long search) and sent me a regretful email saying he hoped he could be back soon, once the renovations for his new home are complete. As a result, I spent Monday practice by myself - not a bad deal, actually, as the space is free, and I am generally happy to use the time to review things, especially after training in the Old Country.
One person who has just lately started with me, when I reminded people about Monday and Thursday classes, remarked that my colleague had not been available much lately. I responded that I had not been in the country lately, but I had been there last Monday night.
"Yes," he said, "but do you have a degree?"
"What?"
"Do you ahve a degree in the style?"
"No," I responded, "but I have been practicing since he was in junior high school. Just because I have not tested does not mean I don't know anything. I certainly know more than you."
It reminded me of my adjunct days, when, in spite of my two graduate degrees, students would be skeptical of my knowledge of the subject.
"This place can't afford [name of my famous advisor], but it can afford me. And I know a great deal more about this subject than you!"
But there it is, and I asked myself then, and I ask myself now: if I were a man, would this even come up? Martial arts, especially in the US, while it early on made significant inroads against racism from time to time, remains relentlessly sexist. Even people in Japan, where gender divisions seem more obvious, wonder at the lack of female participation in budo here. As one female teacher of naginata, a traditionally female-dominated form in Japan, remarked to me on her US teaching experience: "I never taught men until I moved here. I keep asking myself: Where are the women?"
It is one of the explanations for how my situation evolved as it has. Previously, I was manager of my old dojo. I planned events, and even taught most of the students, but when push came to shove (literally) nearly all the students (dare I say it? To a man) chose to stay with the guy. Some of them admitted to me later, in one way or another, that it might not have been the best thing from a learning perspective, but they weren't about to jump ship later on either (not that I would have let them join me). Other American colleagues of mine have said, simply, "I have never even met a woman who does what you do, let alone teaches." And they mean it as a compliment.
What to do about the student? After all, if he wants to deprive himself of a solid experience based on his perceptions rather than the quality of the experience itself, so what? I have been doing this since before he was born. I don't need to prove myself to him or anyone else, except the teachers I currently choose to study with. So, I will ignore him. Students like that I don't need.
Last night at the end of okeiko (a rather crowded one), I mentioned casually that the classes at the alternate space, on Mondays and Thursdays, were ongoing if anyone was interested. A few of the people who come on Wednesdays do come on Thursdays, but the Monday class, which I am co-teaching with someone else, have had a little trouble getting off the ground.
I share responsibility for the Monday class with a colleague, who happens to have a first degree in the style. While I do not have a degree, I have been practicing it for some time. As we get in more regular practice, I hope that whatever credentials I can garner in the field will become practical for me, but at the moment, as I said, we are still getting off the ground. Neither one of us is considered a teacher, as first degree in *any* koryu style is about 15 years removed from even a junior license to teach. We are being supervised by someone else, and our function is more like "workshop leader." Since I actually have more time in than my colleague, I am the one in the front of the room, as weird as that makes me feel sometimes.
While I was out of town, the only provision I made for Mondays was that if the co-instructor could not be there, he should let the manager of the space know so the practice could be cancelled. Since I have been back, I have pointedly not asked what happened while I was gone, as there was nothing I could do about it anyway. As it turns out, he has recently purchased an apartment for his family (after a long search) and sent me a regretful email saying he hoped he could be back soon, once the renovations for his new home are complete. As a result, I spent Monday practice by myself - not a bad deal, actually, as the space is free, and I am generally happy to use the time to review things, especially after training in the Old Country.
One person who has just lately started with me, when I reminded people about Monday and Thursday classes, remarked that my colleague had not been available much lately. I responded that I had not been in the country lately, but I had been there last Monday night.
"Yes," he said, "but do you have a degree?"
"What?"
"Do you ahve a degree in the style?"
"No," I responded, "but I have been practicing since he was in junior high school. Just because I have not tested does not mean I don't know anything. I certainly know more than you."
It reminded me of my adjunct days, when, in spite of my two graduate degrees, students would be skeptical of my knowledge of the subject.
"This place can't afford [name of my famous advisor], but it can afford me. And I know a great deal more about this subject than you!"
But there it is, and I asked myself then, and I ask myself now: if I were a man, would this even come up? Martial arts, especially in the US, while it early on made significant inroads against racism from time to time, remains relentlessly sexist. Even people in Japan, where gender divisions seem more obvious, wonder at the lack of female participation in budo here. As one female teacher of naginata, a traditionally female-dominated form in Japan, remarked to me on her US teaching experience: "I never taught men until I moved here. I keep asking myself: Where are the women?"
It is one of the explanations for how my situation evolved as it has. Previously, I was manager of my old dojo. I planned events, and even taught most of the students, but when push came to shove (literally) nearly all the students (dare I say it? To a man) chose to stay with the guy. Some of them admitted to me later, in one way or another, that it might not have been the best thing from a learning perspective, but they weren't about to jump ship later on either (not that I would have let them join me). Other American colleagues of mine have said, simply, "I have never even met a woman who does what you do, let alone teaches." And they mean it as a compliment.
What to do about the student? After all, if he wants to deprive himself of a solid experience based on his perceptions rather than the quality of the experience itself, so what? I have been doing this since before he was born. I don't need to prove myself to him or anyone else, except the teachers I currently choose to study with. So, I will ignore him. Students like that I don't need.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Jet Lag and Culture Shock, or, Is there a Sartorial Double Standard?
Okay, so I just got back from 2-1/2 weeks in Japan, so I might pull this post after I have had a chance to reread it in a few days, but here goes anyway.
I love Tokyo. This time I was hardly there at all, which to me was a great shame. As always, on my last evening there, I went to Sensoji, threw a coin, asked whoever is out there to send me home safely (and she did) and wiped a tear.
The "dress code" in Tokyo is generally black, navy blue, or grey office attire, except on Sundays. That said, things have become less strict in recent years. One can now see a pair of jeans on any day of the week, and not just on kids. The affection for uniforms endures, but businessmen can now forego ties when the outside temperature hits 80 degrees or so. While conservative, there is a certain amount of dignity also. There is even a sense of casual elegance, as in a country that takes its sartorial cues from Europe rather than the US.
My first day back in New York - I also love it here, for the variety, lacking in Japan (and which would seem sort of out of place there somehow). People of all shapes and sizes, all sorts of individuality on display. I know that people outside NYC think we are not America, and maybe they're right. We reflect the world.
But - or should I say butt - I was not prepared for following an enormous woman up the steps to the subway platform this morning. She was wearing leggings (not jeggings) and a sweater which in no way covered her massive behind swaying above me. I actually had a Japanese reaction for a second and put up my hand to cover my eyes. Oh. My. God.
Lunch time was only improved by the fact that (a) I was not walking up a flight of stairs and (b) some of the women were more attractively dressed, overall, than others. I probably would have ignored this a few weeks ago, but after leaving a country where people take pride in their appearance, it was major culture shock to experience women walking around like they have forgotten an important article of clothing.
My husband thinks it's funny that I remark on the state of women's butts, but honestly, they are literally, sometimes, in my face. If I could see guys' butts as much I would no doubt remark on them, too. In fact, I would pay even more attention. But imagine, for a second, if men dressed like women have done for the past few years. Actually, you don"t need to imagine. All you need to do is look up the old Star Trek episode in which the crew visits a planet where the females of the species rule and the men are the secondary members of their society. The women of the planet wore no-nonsense costumes that emphasized practicality and comfort. The men of the planet were soft-looking, but attractive, dressed in skimpy, billowy tunics and speaking softly. Needless to say, the men of the Enterprise, while trying to follow the Prime Directive, were obviously uncomfortable. In this episode, along with an interesting host of other issues, the idea of clothing and its relationship to who is in power is amply on display.
Throughout history, slaves have often been marked as the people wearing the least clothing. We have contemporary examples, too: in the Harry Potter series, Dobby, a house elf (i.e. slave) wears a sack. He owns nothing, and can only be freed when and if his master were to give him an article of clothing. (He is freed after his master inadvertently gives him one of Harry's socks). J.K. Rowling was obviously following an old trope, of which there are many examples in art (think ancient Egyptian, among others ). The slaves are the naked people you see in the bas-relief.
I know it's fashionable now for women to consider flaunting their sexual charms as if they were some sort of power. This is one of the best fallacies ever perpetuated by the fashion industry, not to mention the backlash against women achieving real power in society. If you don't believe me, put the sky-high heel on the other foot. Men who even remotely emulate some of women's style of dress in this country are laughed at. I'm not saying that laughing is a good idea; after all, in a country that values individualism, presumably we should at least defend everyone's sartorial choices, at least up to a point.
This is not the sour grapes of a middle-aged woman who wishes she could still dress like a 20-year-old. I was there. We pushed the envelope as far as we could. But once we realized, in my little college set, that we wanted to be taken seriously as people, we began to dress differently. And it worked. People are amused by mid 1980's movies in which the women are wearing suits, that, except for the bustline, look like men's attire, but if you wanted to be taken seriously in a professional world, you had to look like a professional. And guess what? It's still true.
Take a look at the all-powerful 1% in this country. Take a look at their clothes. Draw your own conclusions.
I love Tokyo. This time I was hardly there at all, which to me was a great shame. As always, on my last evening there, I went to Sensoji, threw a coin, asked whoever is out there to send me home safely (and she did) and wiped a tear.
The "dress code" in Tokyo is generally black, navy blue, or grey office attire, except on Sundays. That said, things have become less strict in recent years. One can now see a pair of jeans on any day of the week, and not just on kids. The affection for uniforms endures, but businessmen can now forego ties when the outside temperature hits 80 degrees or so. While conservative, there is a certain amount of dignity also. There is even a sense of casual elegance, as in a country that takes its sartorial cues from Europe rather than the US.
My first day back in New York - I also love it here, for the variety, lacking in Japan (and which would seem sort of out of place there somehow). People of all shapes and sizes, all sorts of individuality on display. I know that people outside NYC think we are not America, and maybe they're right. We reflect the world.
But - or should I say butt - I was not prepared for following an enormous woman up the steps to the subway platform this morning. She was wearing leggings (not jeggings) and a sweater which in no way covered her massive behind swaying above me. I actually had a Japanese reaction for a second and put up my hand to cover my eyes. Oh. My. God.
Lunch time was only improved by the fact that (a) I was not walking up a flight of stairs and (b) some of the women were more attractively dressed, overall, than others. I probably would have ignored this a few weeks ago, but after leaving a country where people take pride in their appearance, it was major culture shock to experience women walking around like they have forgotten an important article of clothing.
My husband thinks it's funny that I remark on the state of women's butts, but honestly, they are literally, sometimes, in my face. If I could see guys' butts as much I would no doubt remark on them, too. In fact, I would pay even more attention. But imagine, for a second, if men dressed like women have done for the past few years. Actually, you don"t need to imagine. All you need to do is look up the old Star Trek episode in which the crew visits a planet where the females of the species rule and the men are the secondary members of their society. The women of the planet wore no-nonsense costumes that emphasized practicality and comfort. The men of the planet were soft-looking, but attractive, dressed in skimpy, billowy tunics and speaking softly. Needless to say, the men of the Enterprise, while trying to follow the Prime Directive, were obviously uncomfortable. In this episode, along with an interesting host of other issues, the idea of clothing and its relationship to who is in power is amply on display.
Throughout history, slaves have often been marked as the people wearing the least clothing. We have contemporary examples, too: in the Harry Potter series, Dobby, a house elf (i.e. slave) wears a sack. He owns nothing, and can only be freed when and if his master were to give him an article of clothing. (He is freed after his master inadvertently gives him one of Harry's socks). J.K. Rowling was obviously following an old trope, of which there are many examples in art (think ancient Egyptian, among others ). The slaves are the naked people you see in the bas-relief.
I know it's fashionable now for women to consider flaunting their sexual charms as if they were some sort of power. This is one of the best fallacies ever perpetuated by the fashion industry, not to mention the backlash against women achieving real power in society. If you don't believe me, put the sky-high heel on the other foot. Men who even remotely emulate some of women's style of dress in this country are laughed at. I'm not saying that laughing is a good idea; after all, in a country that values individualism, presumably we should at least defend everyone's sartorial choices, at least up to a point.
This is not the sour grapes of a middle-aged woman who wishes she could still dress like a 20-year-old. I was there. We pushed the envelope as far as we could. But once we realized, in my little college set, that we wanted to be taken seriously as people, we began to dress differently. And it worked. People are amused by mid 1980's movies in which the women are wearing suits, that, except for the bustline, look like men's attire, but if you wanted to be taken seriously in a professional world, you had to look like a professional. And guess what? It's still true.
Take a look at the all-powerful 1% in this country. Take a look at their clothes. Draw your own conclusions.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Learning Koryu (or not)
A quote: "...many people in North America assume that one can learn koryu by training at the occasional seminar. Not true. What one learns at such seminars is only physical technique (and then only in the most superficial way). Learning koryu, though, is much more encompassing than mere waza. It includes the history, the "personality" of the ryu, all the undefined little things that make each ryu different and unique."
Meik Skoss, author of the above, is someone for whom I have enormous respect, even though I don't think he likes me very much. He demands a high degree of commitment from his students, and, as a result, does not have many. But they are among the very best I have ever seen outside Japan (and do better than more than a few I have seen in Japan, for that matter). Years ago, he and I had some similar online discussions - he contended the only way to study a real koryu was in Japan, and I countered that if one had a teacher sufficiently versed in traditional culture even outside Japan, students should be able to get a more in-depth understanding of not only what they were doing, but why. Eventually, we met on this common ground, perhaps in part because he is now teaching in the US, and can't very well advocate for what he himself is doing if he insists it can't be done outside the Old Country.
What brings this subject up is something that recently took place with a teacher from Japan and my old dojo. This teacher is/was my teacher (can't really tell at this point if he is a former teacher or not). I introduced him to my old dojo, and subsequently, yadda yadda yadda. I am no longer there, and have only seen him in Japan or occasionally attempting to train outside the honbu under circumstances that could be described as constrained at best. He comes to the states once or twice a year, goes to Europe once a year, and, last I heard, is working on his debut in Brazil. The ranks of students is growing (at least, outside Japan), and I assume life is good. But what is he teaching, and what are people actually learning, from the workshops?
To address Meik's comment, we need to consider whether iai is koryu or not. The answer is both yes and no. There are some reliably old styles that include the characteristic drawing and resheathing that is part of the definition of iai as opposed to kenjutsu - Tamiya Ryu for one, Shinto Hatakage Ryu for another, as far as we can determine. Some styles are later - Muso Shinden Ryu and its cousins, for example, reliably date from the 19th century and are perhaps more post-Meiji than pre-Meiji, even though their forebears are older. Some styles, like the one the above-mentioned teacher heads up, are brand new. (Specifically, the style broke off from its main branch about 5 years ago, and even the main line had a fuzzy history in the first place.)
If a style fits into this more recent category, and is not technically "koryu," but instead only dredges up echoes of a medieval past, does cultural context matter? Or is physical understanding all that counts?
I have always considered iai in general to be a koryu practice, even if specific ryuha do not date back to the Sengoku Jidai. In that case, as I argued to Meik many years ago, I think cultural understanding of iai is imperative to understanding the practice. Groups such as the ZNKR are busy dragging iai practice into the present, with modern-designed forms and competitions based on physical expertise alone. But while one may become proficient physically (and be physically rewarded for it) one misses a great deal of what iai offers by confining oneself to this level alone. My teacher Otani Sensei understood this, and in his visits to the dojo (or my visits to him when illness prevented his active participation at okeiko) he tried to impart it. Out of respect for his teaching, I also made history and military strategy a part of my practice, as well as - yes - taking seminars in other koryu in order to gain a superficial understanding of what else was out there in the milieu of martial practices of the time.
So, it's not that you can't learn anything from a workshop - I learned a great deal, even if I did not learn that much physical technique. However, you can't learn anything much in depth. Without a competent teacher to lead students to a deeper level, there isn't much left after the master teacher goes home, except to argue technical points, like whether the angle of the sword should be 30 degrees or 35 degrees from plumb. Even a physically competent teacher is shortchanging his students if the deeper level of training is ignored. Does it matter? Obviously, it depends on what people want from their practice. In the case I noted above, "iaido lite" seems to work just fine for everyone concerned, or at least that is how it appears. It is possible that the teacher wishes the foreign students had more interest in the cultural aspects of practice, but he is still willing to teach them kata - and take the fame and recognition (and cash) - even if they don't.
Everyone who walks in my door gets a constant cultural/historical stream of information, whether they like it or not. To me, it is part of the practice as much as anything else. I like to cite the example of newbie students getting to cut makiwara for the first time. Anyone can do this with about 10 minutes of instruction. No kidding - show her the grip, position her feet so she doesn't cut her leg, put her in front of the target at the right distance and step way, way back from her. Then, let 'er fly! But to gain some real understanding of the technique - where did this come from? Aside for the cool factor, why do people still do it? What does it mean? That takes time, along with training with a teacher who gets at least a certain sense of the background of the practice and can impart it to others.
If, however, your local teacher's cultural understanding only reaches to the level of pop culture and anime (or, worse, exists in some fantasy world of his own), don't lose heart - you can always go after that deeper knowledge for yourself. After all, Otani Sensei tried, but only the people who were willing to hear him got any further than skin deep. The opposite can therefore be true. Save your bucks and go to the honbu and find out for yourself. After that, hang out with the sempai. Wander around the countryside. Visit some historic areas. Learn some of the language. Read some books. Repeat for the rest of your life. Don't simply wait for the Big Kahuna's next world tour.
Meik Skoss, author of the above, is someone for whom I have enormous respect, even though I don't think he likes me very much. He demands a high degree of commitment from his students, and, as a result, does not have many. But they are among the very best I have ever seen outside Japan (and do better than more than a few I have seen in Japan, for that matter). Years ago, he and I had some similar online discussions - he contended the only way to study a real koryu was in Japan, and I countered that if one had a teacher sufficiently versed in traditional culture even outside Japan, students should be able to get a more in-depth understanding of not only what they were doing, but why. Eventually, we met on this common ground, perhaps in part because he is now teaching in the US, and can't very well advocate for what he himself is doing if he insists it can't be done outside the Old Country.
What brings this subject up is something that recently took place with a teacher from Japan and my old dojo. This teacher is/was my teacher (can't really tell at this point if he is a former teacher or not). I introduced him to my old dojo, and subsequently, yadda yadda yadda. I am no longer there, and have only seen him in Japan or occasionally attempting to train outside the honbu under circumstances that could be described as constrained at best. He comes to the states once or twice a year, goes to Europe once a year, and, last I heard, is working on his debut in Brazil. The ranks of students is growing (at least, outside Japan), and I assume life is good. But what is he teaching, and what are people actually learning, from the workshops?
To address Meik's comment, we need to consider whether iai is koryu or not. The answer is both yes and no. There are some reliably old styles that include the characteristic drawing and resheathing that is part of the definition of iai as opposed to kenjutsu - Tamiya Ryu for one, Shinto Hatakage Ryu for another, as far as we can determine. Some styles are later - Muso Shinden Ryu and its cousins, for example, reliably date from the 19th century and are perhaps more post-Meiji than pre-Meiji, even though their forebears are older. Some styles, like the one the above-mentioned teacher heads up, are brand new. (Specifically, the style broke off from its main branch about 5 years ago, and even the main line had a fuzzy history in the first place.)
If a style fits into this more recent category, and is not technically "koryu," but instead only dredges up echoes of a medieval past, does cultural context matter? Or is physical understanding all that counts?
I have always considered iai in general to be a koryu practice, even if specific ryuha do not date back to the Sengoku Jidai. In that case, as I argued to Meik many years ago, I think cultural understanding of iai is imperative to understanding the practice. Groups such as the ZNKR are busy dragging iai practice into the present, with modern-designed forms and competitions based on physical expertise alone. But while one may become proficient physically (and be physically rewarded for it) one misses a great deal of what iai offers by confining oneself to this level alone. My teacher Otani Sensei understood this, and in his visits to the dojo (or my visits to him when illness prevented his active participation at okeiko) he tried to impart it. Out of respect for his teaching, I also made history and military strategy a part of my practice, as well as - yes - taking seminars in other koryu in order to gain a superficial understanding of what else was out there in the milieu of martial practices of the time.
So, it's not that you can't learn anything from a workshop - I learned a great deal, even if I did not learn that much physical technique. However, you can't learn anything much in depth. Without a competent teacher to lead students to a deeper level, there isn't much left after the master teacher goes home, except to argue technical points, like whether the angle of the sword should be 30 degrees or 35 degrees from plumb. Even a physically competent teacher is shortchanging his students if the deeper level of training is ignored. Does it matter? Obviously, it depends on what people want from their practice. In the case I noted above, "iaido lite" seems to work just fine for everyone concerned, or at least that is how it appears. It is possible that the teacher wishes the foreign students had more interest in the cultural aspects of practice, but he is still willing to teach them kata - and take the fame and recognition (and cash) - even if they don't.
Everyone who walks in my door gets a constant cultural/historical stream of information, whether they like it or not. To me, it is part of the practice as much as anything else. I like to cite the example of newbie students getting to cut makiwara for the first time. Anyone can do this with about 10 minutes of instruction. No kidding - show her the grip, position her feet so she doesn't cut her leg, put her in front of the target at the right distance and step way, way back from her. Then, let 'er fly! But to gain some real understanding of the technique - where did this come from? Aside for the cool factor, why do people still do it? What does it mean? That takes time, along with training with a teacher who gets at least a certain sense of the background of the practice and can impart it to others.
If, however, your local teacher's cultural understanding only reaches to the level of pop culture and anime (or, worse, exists in some fantasy world of his own), don't lose heart - you can always go after that deeper knowledge for yourself. After all, Otani Sensei tried, but only the people who were willing to hear him got any further than skin deep. The opposite can therefore be true. Save your bucks and go to the honbu and find out for yourself. After that, hang out with the sempai. Wander around the countryside. Visit some historic areas. Learn some of the language. Read some books. Repeat for the rest of your life. Don't simply wait for the Big Kahuna's next world tour.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Talent and (versus) Stubbornness
I have a talented student (or maybe former student - I am not sure at this point). The techniques I have taught him came to him relatively easily. He's young and strong and gifted, the kind of man who makes teachers' eyes light up. Lucky him. This past January I tested him for shodan. He was appropriately nervous, and predictably, he did well. The other judge was as impressed with him as I have been, as other teachers who have seen him in action have been.
But of course there's a problem. He's spoiled rotten. And that's where the fairy story runs out. For months he had been borrowing equipment from me, on the excuse that he was saving up for a different set of equipment (not being satisfied with what he already had). After months of lugging extra stuff around with me, especially through snow and ice, I explained that once he became shodan, he would have to get, and carry around, his own equipment. Right away, I knew we were in trouble. His eyebrows went up. Really? Yes. I'm the teacher, not a pack horse.
After that, he still continued to come to class, but without his gi, wearing gym clothes or workout clothes instead. At first he said he was too busy to do laundry, but eventually he dropped that excuse sometime after it became patently ridiculous. I teach one public class a week for college students. Under the circumstances, I cannot tell them they must dress properly, though the serious amongst them seem to want to after awhile anyway. It is obvious that this guy is talented and knows some advanced techniques, so his dress is, in a way, a sign of disrespect. In a public class, however, I cannot really ask him to dress otherwise. I have let him know through intermediaries (fellow students he has known for some time) that his dress is inappropriate given that he is a ranked student, but to no avail. At this point, the student who almost never missed a practice has been gone for about a month. One of his fellows said he complained of being bored with all of the beginners and doing basic exericises all the time. As I have mentioned in a previous post, every time I do basics (and we have done them a lot lately) I try to do them better. Iai is structured, like a lot of other budo, to be cumulative. After basics, you can learn more advanced things, but without contiuous practice of basics, your advanced practice will decline. No matter what you retain mentally, the execution of technique is what really counts. That's just how it is.
So, this person has talent, but no stubbornness, and the truth is, you need both. Talent is great, but anyone who thinks that it will open all doors is simply wrong. And the shock of realizing that talent alone will not bring you everything you want can be too much for some people.
I am not really talented. As a kid, I called myself a "spaz", as in "spastic." I wasn't really spastic, of course, but that was how it felt to me. A left-handed, chubby, awkward kid who kept going left when everyone else went right. I wanted to dance, but there was not dance studio within 45 miles of where I lived, and no public transportation to take a chubby kid where she wanted to go. Alongside my interest in dance was an interest in fencing, but that, too, was an impossibility, given where I lived.
I was 21 before I had an opportunity to begin fencing (by that time, knowing that dancers started as children, I had given up on that idea). But once I had it, I grabbed it with both hands. I was awkward and unshaped (I can't say out of shape - I had never been in shape in my life), and probably too old to have started. One thing - my left-handedness was considered an asset. I worked long hours. I did drills. I went to summer practices (in spite of being a summer Olympic sport, fencers usually knock off during hot weather). I sweated. My knees, never having had to do more than climb a few sets of stairs on any given day, complained. I ached. But, I got better. Honestly, I sucked at competition, but I had so much fun learning to do something I had always wanted to do, it almost didn't matter.
The came iai, which solved the competition question nicely - there wasn't any. But there were other obstacles, like there are with anything. But I worked on them. Actually, there are always obstacles - time, space, money, other people, death. But I worked hard. Really hard. Spent money going to Japan. Spent time - extra time, by myself, in rented studios all over NYC when I had any to spare.
And unlike my talented student, I did not give up when things did not go exactly as I expected them. One thing as you get older, and it's a good thing - you learn not to expect anything. It's fortunately true, as my old teacher used to say, that it is better to go around an object placed in your path than it is to try to go through it, and that has happened in the past few years. But, as he also said, there are many paths up the mountain. The important thing is to keep climbing.
But of course there's a problem. He's spoiled rotten. And that's where the fairy story runs out. For months he had been borrowing equipment from me, on the excuse that he was saving up for a different set of equipment (not being satisfied with what he already had). After months of lugging extra stuff around with me, especially through snow and ice, I explained that once he became shodan, he would have to get, and carry around, his own equipment. Right away, I knew we were in trouble. His eyebrows went up. Really? Yes. I'm the teacher, not a pack horse.
After that, he still continued to come to class, but without his gi, wearing gym clothes or workout clothes instead. At first he said he was too busy to do laundry, but eventually he dropped that excuse sometime after it became patently ridiculous. I teach one public class a week for college students. Under the circumstances, I cannot tell them they must dress properly, though the serious amongst them seem to want to after awhile anyway. It is obvious that this guy is talented and knows some advanced techniques, so his dress is, in a way, a sign of disrespect. In a public class, however, I cannot really ask him to dress otherwise. I have let him know through intermediaries (fellow students he has known for some time) that his dress is inappropriate given that he is a ranked student, but to no avail. At this point, the student who almost never missed a practice has been gone for about a month. One of his fellows said he complained of being bored with all of the beginners and doing basic exericises all the time. As I have mentioned in a previous post, every time I do basics (and we have done them a lot lately) I try to do them better. Iai is structured, like a lot of other budo, to be cumulative. After basics, you can learn more advanced things, but without contiuous practice of basics, your advanced practice will decline. No matter what you retain mentally, the execution of technique is what really counts. That's just how it is.
So, this person has talent, but no stubbornness, and the truth is, you need both. Talent is great, but anyone who thinks that it will open all doors is simply wrong. And the shock of realizing that talent alone will not bring you everything you want can be too much for some people.
I am not really talented. As a kid, I called myself a "spaz", as in "spastic." I wasn't really spastic, of course, but that was how it felt to me. A left-handed, chubby, awkward kid who kept going left when everyone else went right. I wanted to dance, but there was not dance studio within 45 miles of where I lived, and no public transportation to take a chubby kid where she wanted to go. Alongside my interest in dance was an interest in fencing, but that, too, was an impossibility, given where I lived.
I was 21 before I had an opportunity to begin fencing (by that time, knowing that dancers started as children, I had given up on that idea). But once I had it, I grabbed it with both hands. I was awkward and unshaped (I can't say out of shape - I had never been in shape in my life), and probably too old to have started. One thing - my left-handedness was considered an asset. I worked long hours. I did drills. I went to summer practices (in spite of being a summer Olympic sport, fencers usually knock off during hot weather). I sweated. My knees, never having had to do more than climb a few sets of stairs on any given day, complained. I ached. But, I got better. Honestly, I sucked at competition, but I had so much fun learning to do something I had always wanted to do, it almost didn't matter.
The came iai, which solved the competition question nicely - there wasn't any. But there were other obstacles, like there are with anything. But I worked on them. Actually, there are always obstacles - time, space, money, other people, death. But I worked hard. Really hard. Spent money going to Japan. Spent time - extra time, by myself, in rented studios all over NYC when I had any to spare.
And unlike my talented student, I did not give up when things did not go exactly as I expected them. One thing as you get older, and it's a good thing - you learn not to expect anything. It's fortunately true, as my old teacher used to say, that it is better to go around an object placed in your path than it is to try to go through it, and that has happened in the past few years. But, as he also said, there are many paths up the mountain. The important thing is to keep climbing.
Pensive
Country people used to say that things happened in three's. If one of us saw a snake, they'd say "There's bound to be two more of 'em around here somewhere." Actually, in rural Pennsylvania in the summer, that was a pretty safe bet to make, but it just goes to show what passed for folk wisdom when I was growing up (heavy on the "folk").
In the past week, I learned (1) that a friend's wife is nursing her brother who's dying of cancer, while her mother has just found out she has been diagnosed with the same disease; (2) another friend's father died in a terrible car accident; and (3) as the planet knows, that Steve Jobs died.
Now, do not let it be said that I am a tech-head, because I am not. Unlike some others, I came late to the Mac thing, though once I did, I was a convert. Apple products were the first tech gizmos that I did not think of as tools, but as something to be played with. However, that is not the point of this essay.
The point is, devastating things happened to people this week that only touched me tangentially, but touched me enough to make me think about stuff. I know people to whom things involving other people have happened. In the case of Jobs, of course, I did not know him, but, in a way, he knew me.
When I was in my early 30's, my best friend from college died of AIDS. He was a lovely man, and a friend to my whole family. My mother's reaction, when she heard the news was, "Have a good time, whatever you do. Don't wait, because you never know what will happen." As the planet also knows, Jobs made a similar speech to the trust fund babies who are a typical Stanford graduating class - that time was too limited to spend your life living out other people's dreams. Jobs was iconized precisely because he did live his own dream. It was so unusual for a kid from a middle-class background to have the combination of brains, stubborness, pride and self-assurance to be able to do what he did. The vast majority of people will never have that combination of personal characteristics, not to mention luck (like meeting Woz), or fate, or whatever you call it, to be able to do the same. But the kids graduating from Stanford will have to really screw up to avoid following their dreams, don'tcha think?
So what do the rest of us do? We make do, I guess. I wanted to be a teacher. I'm not one, but I teach three times a week. My job is nearly mindless, but I read Great Books on the subway ride down from the Bronx almost every day. Occasionally (if I'm really lucky that day), I engage a thinking person in a meaningful discussion. Or write something someone else finds worth reading now and then.
Oh yeah - I named my iPhone Steve. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
In the past week, I learned (1) that a friend's wife is nursing her brother who's dying of cancer, while her mother has just found out she has been diagnosed with the same disease; (2) another friend's father died in a terrible car accident; and (3) as the planet knows, that Steve Jobs died.
Now, do not let it be said that I am a tech-head, because I am not. Unlike some others, I came late to the Mac thing, though once I did, I was a convert. Apple products were the first tech gizmos that I did not think of as tools, but as something to be played with. However, that is not the point of this essay.
The point is, devastating things happened to people this week that only touched me tangentially, but touched me enough to make me think about stuff. I know people to whom things involving other people have happened. In the case of Jobs, of course, I did not know him, but, in a way, he knew me.
When I was in my early 30's, my best friend from college died of AIDS. He was a lovely man, and a friend to my whole family. My mother's reaction, when she heard the news was, "Have a good time, whatever you do. Don't wait, because you never know what will happen." As the planet also knows, Jobs made a similar speech to the trust fund babies who are a typical Stanford graduating class - that time was too limited to spend your life living out other people's dreams. Jobs was iconized precisely because he did live his own dream. It was so unusual for a kid from a middle-class background to have the combination of brains, stubborness, pride and self-assurance to be able to do what he did. The vast majority of people will never have that combination of personal characteristics, not to mention luck (like meeting Woz), or fate, or whatever you call it, to be able to do the same. But the kids graduating from Stanford will have to really screw up to avoid following their dreams, don'tcha think?
So what do the rest of us do? We make do, I guess. I wanted to be a teacher. I'm not one, but I teach three times a week. My job is nearly mindless, but I read Great Books on the subway ride down from the Bronx almost every day. Occasionally (if I'm really lucky that day), I engage a thinking person in a meaningful discussion. Or write something someone else finds worth reading now and then.
Oh yeah - I named my iPhone Steve. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
9/11 redux
So, here I am, adding my $.02 to the probably millions of posts out there regarding the big 9/11 10th anniversary. Wanna know my take on this in one word? Here it is: Gak.
Paul Krugman hit the nail painfully on the head when his 9/11 10th anniversary blog post noted the "shame" of politicians wrapping themselves in the debris of Ground Zero to aid their reelection bids, and earned a lot of disapprobation from readers, including one who interestingly said that it would have been appropriate to make the remark, just not on the actual "day." To which I wonder, why? Why should people fudge the truth on one day and tell it on another? I do that. Certainly a famous Nobel Prize winner should be able to do the same. I actually sent Krugman a keep-up-the-good-work email. I almost never do that.
This past weekend I had a good friend come to NYC for some practice and seminars. As I said in my previous post, turnout sucked (it sucked last year, in mid-December, as well, so I very much doubt that the date had anything to do with anything, except as an additional excuse). He hesitated a little, but I assured him that the date was not a problem, and it's not because I think that we should "move on" with our busy lives.
Here's why it was not a problem for me: NYers don't need special ceremonies to mark this terrible anniversary. We have enough memories of the event to last those of us who lived here for the rest of our lives. We all have our stories of where we were, what we were doing, and who we know who was directly affected, one way or another. And there are eight million of us - that's a lot of stories. As one person I spoke to at the time put it, "I didn't actually lose anyone there, but I have lived here all my life, so in a way, it was like I lost everybody." I walked around for weeks with the same physical grief reaction I had when my mom died. And for the record - it seems to me that only the commuters from New Jersey and upstate, along with newbies who just moved here, were actually scared. The rest of us just handled it, like New Yorkers always do.
Last Sunday morning, I turned off the endless coverage and switched to "Pride of the Yankees" on TCM before heading off to practice. I don't need reminders, and I don't need pundits and politicians trying to define the experience for the rest of the country who was Not There. You Were Not There. Get over it.
Here's what I will never forget - going to work and seeing gaping holes in the towers. Hearing from people standing on the steps at St. Pat's that they just saw one tower collapse, "like it was in a movie." Sitting at a bar (my office building was evacuated) that had a pay phone, unable to reach my husband and watching the second tower go down on live tv. The handful of people there, one of whom was furiously trying to email on his PDA people he and others there knew from the downtown area to see if they were okay (and getting no answers). A big one: wondering if my husband was alive or dead, and what I would do in case of the latter. The long, determined trek home on foot with thousands of other people. The smell that lasted for weeks and weeks. The relief that my husband made it out of the area okay, contrasted with knowing that other people's husbands and wives did not. Unplugging the phone at night to ward off curious relatives who, after ascertaining that we were okay, would call at all hours just to "find out what's going on." My husband's bout with PTS that lasted for years. I could go on, but the point, I think, is abundantly clear.
Sunday morning, as I was going to practice on the subway, I saw a large number of firemen in their dress uniforms, many with their wives and children. Firemen were, and are, part of the emotional backbone of the city. Those that did not lose family members were barred from the big party downtown, but even if they did not lose "anybody" they did lose everybody. And they set out to remember them on their own. I was moved by their low-key response to the slight. But I was not surprised.
I am hoping that after the big hoopla and the big opening of the big memorial downtown that people will allow New York to do what it has always done - take and absorb everything into the huge canvas that we are, neither forgetting nor grandstanding, but continuing to survive and go our own way.
Paul Krugman hit the nail painfully on the head when his 9/11 10th anniversary blog post noted the "shame" of politicians wrapping themselves in the debris of Ground Zero to aid their reelection bids, and earned a lot of disapprobation from readers, including one who interestingly said that it would have been appropriate to make the remark, just not on the actual "day." To which I wonder, why? Why should people fudge the truth on one day and tell it on another? I do that. Certainly a famous Nobel Prize winner should be able to do the same. I actually sent Krugman a keep-up-the-good-work email. I almost never do that.
This past weekend I had a good friend come to NYC for some practice and seminars. As I said in my previous post, turnout sucked (it sucked last year, in mid-December, as well, so I very much doubt that the date had anything to do with anything, except as an additional excuse). He hesitated a little, but I assured him that the date was not a problem, and it's not because I think that we should "move on" with our busy lives.
Here's why it was not a problem for me: NYers don't need special ceremonies to mark this terrible anniversary. We have enough memories of the event to last those of us who lived here for the rest of our lives. We all have our stories of where we were, what we were doing, and who we know who was directly affected, one way or another. And there are eight million of us - that's a lot of stories. As one person I spoke to at the time put it, "I didn't actually lose anyone there, but I have lived here all my life, so in a way, it was like I lost everybody." I walked around for weeks with the same physical grief reaction I had when my mom died. And for the record - it seems to me that only the commuters from New Jersey and upstate, along with newbies who just moved here, were actually scared. The rest of us just handled it, like New Yorkers always do.
Last Sunday morning, I turned off the endless coverage and switched to "Pride of the Yankees" on TCM before heading off to practice. I don't need reminders, and I don't need pundits and politicians trying to define the experience for the rest of the country who was Not There. You Were Not There. Get over it.
Here's what I will never forget - going to work and seeing gaping holes in the towers. Hearing from people standing on the steps at St. Pat's that they just saw one tower collapse, "like it was in a movie." Sitting at a bar (my office building was evacuated) that had a pay phone, unable to reach my husband and watching the second tower go down on live tv. The handful of people there, one of whom was furiously trying to email on his PDA people he and others there knew from the downtown area to see if they were okay (and getting no answers). A big one: wondering if my husband was alive or dead, and what I would do in case of the latter. The long, determined trek home on foot with thousands of other people. The smell that lasted for weeks and weeks. The relief that my husband made it out of the area okay, contrasted with knowing that other people's husbands and wives did not. Unplugging the phone at night to ward off curious relatives who, after ascertaining that we were okay, would call at all hours just to "find out what's going on." My husband's bout with PTS that lasted for years. I could go on, but the point, I think, is abundantly clear.
Sunday morning, as I was going to practice on the subway, I saw a large number of firemen in their dress uniforms, many with their wives and children. Firemen were, and are, part of the emotional backbone of the city. Those that did not lose family members were barred from the big party downtown, but even if they did not lose "anybody" they did lose everybody. And they set out to remember them on their own. I was moved by their low-key response to the slight. But I was not surprised.
I am hoping that after the big hoopla and the big opening of the big memorial downtown that people will allow New York to do what it has always done - take and absorb everything into the huge canvas that we are, neither forgetting nor grandstanding, but continuing to survive and go our own way.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Missed opportunities
This past weekend, I once again had the extreme pleasure of having one of my budo friends come to New York to teach. He's highly skilled and a great guy. We put stuff up on the Web and Facebook that the Saturday practice would be an open seminar with extremely reasonable rates for a day's practice.
It's a good thing I don't bring people here for my students' sake, or for attempting to make money (I do it for myself), because I would have been severely disappointed on both counts. Only one person came to the Saturday practice, and only one besides me took part in the Sunday morning practice. Since I was not especially surprised or disappointed, I turned my thoughts to why this happened. I should point out that this is not the first time it has happened, but the second (the first time we had a similar practice, we had four people attend).
First, let's review the excuses. In no particular order:
One group I am affiliated with was interested until they understood that my old sempai might be coming. (My old sempai, a true entrepreneur, had raided this teacher's dojo less than a year ago and walked off with half the students.) So, to a man, they declined. This was probably wise. However, when the old sempai later sent his regrets to my friend, they still declined the Saturday practice. As to the Sunday practice, the teacher stated that it was "too difficult to get everyone together on a Sunday morning" to make what would have been a 40-minute car trip (or equally-long train trip).
The students I teach at the community college gave a blank stare when I pointed out that the seminar would have an *especially reduced* student rate. Nevertheless one person said he would come, but did not.
A friend of my friend from upstate was so enthused about the event that she was even sending him messages late on the night before to get directions, etc. Another no-show. Eventually, after we wondered and worried if she had gotten lost, he sent her a note. She said she had been up too late the night before on a family matter and did not further elaborate.
So, there are two issues here. One of indifference to the event itself, and another of commitment. We should look at these in turn as well.
As to indifference to the event, my friend and I both speculated. This is my take: One of my old professors at NYU, with whom I taught an undergrad course (his first in many years) bemoaned at one point the students' contentment with lack of direct experience. He accused them of being content to feed off of others' direct experiences (in this case, his three years of living in India as a young scholar), rather than going to places to see for themselves what they were like. I do not have any current stats on the idea of a "gap year" abroad, but I have a feeling the numbers are not very large. When I was a student, people were always taking a semester (or longer) off to "go on the road." There were myriad reasons, including irritating parents or a troubled love life, but the idea of "taking off" and disappearing to the Southwest, Europe or someplace else (one guy I remember actually ran away and joined a circus that came through the town!) was not considered the novelty it was years later when I was at NYU. I imagine the lack of curiosity has been exacerbated by a number of other factors at this point, but I have little doubt that being able to see as much exotic stuff as you like on YouTube has probably not improved people's sense of adventure. Why go abroad when you can just watch? LOL.
For that matter, why spend money to go to a seminar when you can just watch the kata on your computer? This elision of virtual with actual experience is really nothing new. Many years ago, I went to my first noh performance in Japan. I had seen truncated performances at Japan Society, and I had seen a number of videos. But seeing noh on its home turf was a mindblower. First, the resonant quality of the stage, nonexistent in Western theatre stages, was a revelation of sound. I could feel my body actually vibrating with the singing of the chorus. Secondly was the audience - totally absorbed, physically and mentally, in what was taking place onstage. I later met some American theatre students and asked them if they had ever seen a noh performance. Every hand went up. "Not on video" I qualified. Every hand went down. The problem was not that they had not actually seen a performance; the problem was they thought they had.
For budo, this means, obviously, that many people, for economic reasons or lazy reasons, will not only blow off an opportunity to improve their practice, they don't know the difference. In this case, not only can they see the same kata (though not necessarily of the same quality, and how would they know?) from the comfort of their living rooms, but they assume that whatever I picked up from my friend I will be transmitting to them at the next class anyway. Leaving aside that I am poor substitute, of course, the point is that there is no substitute for direct experience, even if you think there actually is one. However, if you limit your direct experiences for whatever reason, I suppose you cannot be blamed for thinking there is no difference. You just lose out.
As for the no-shows, I believe disappointed would-be hosts since time immemorial have wondered about that one. I doubt that it has either deteriorated since the web, or improved. It just is. As we used to say when not that many people came to a dinner party - "More for us!"
It's a good thing I don't bring people here for my students' sake, or for attempting to make money (I do it for myself), because I would have been severely disappointed on both counts. Only one person came to the Saturday practice, and only one besides me took part in the Sunday morning practice. Since I was not especially surprised or disappointed, I turned my thoughts to why this happened. I should point out that this is not the first time it has happened, but the second (the first time we had a similar practice, we had four people attend).
First, let's review the excuses. In no particular order:
One group I am affiliated with was interested until they understood that my old sempai might be coming. (My old sempai, a true entrepreneur, had raided this teacher's dojo less than a year ago and walked off with half the students.) So, to a man, they declined. This was probably wise. However, when the old sempai later sent his regrets to my friend, they still declined the Saturday practice. As to the Sunday practice, the teacher stated that it was "too difficult to get everyone together on a Sunday morning" to make what would have been a 40-minute car trip (or equally-long train trip).
The students I teach at the community college gave a blank stare when I pointed out that the seminar would have an *especially reduced* student rate. Nevertheless one person said he would come, but did not.
A friend of my friend from upstate was so enthused about the event that she was even sending him messages late on the night before to get directions, etc. Another no-show. Eventually, after we wondered and worried if she had gotten lost, he sent her a note. She said she had been up too late the night before on a family matter and did not further elaborate.
So, there are two issues here. One of indifference to the event itself, and another of commitment. We should look at these in turn as well.
As to indifference to the event, my friend and I both speculated. This is my take: One of my old professors at NYU, with whom I taught an undergrad course (his first in many years) bemoaned at one point the students' contentment with lack of direct experience. He accused them of being content to feed off of others' direct experiences (in this case, his three years of living in India as a young scholar), rather than going to places to see for themselves what they were like. I do not have any current stats on the idea of a "gap year" abroad, but I have a feeling the numbers are not very large. When I was a student, people were always taking a semester (or longer) off to "go on the road." There were myriad reasons, including irritating parents or a troubled love life, but the idea of "taking off" and disappearing to the Southwest, Europe or someplace else (one guy I remember actually ran away and joined a circus that came through the town!) was not considered the novelty it was years later when I was at NYU. I imagine the lack of curiosity has been exacerbated by a number of other factors at this point, but I have little doubt that being able to see as much exotic stuff as you like on YouTube has probably not improved people's sense of adventure. Why go abroad when you can just watch? LOL.
For that matter, why spend money to go to a seminar when you can just watch the kata on your computer? This elision of virtual with actual experience is really nothing new. Many years ago, I went to my first noh performance in Japan. I had seen truncated performances at Japan Society, and I had seen a number of videos. But seeing noh on its home turf was a mindblower. First, the resonant quality of the stage, nonexistent in Western theatre stages, was a revelation of sound. I could feel my body actually vibrating with the singing of the chorus. Secondly was the audience - totally absorbed, physically and mentally, in what was taking place onstage. I later met some American theatre students and asked them if they had ever seen a noh performance. Every hand went up. "Not on video" I qualified. Every hand went down. The problem was not that they had not actually seen a performance; the problem was they thought they had.
For budo, this means, obviously, that many people, for economic reasons or lazy reasons, will not only blow off an opportunity to improve their practice, they don't know the difference. In this case, not only can they see the same kata (though not necessarily of the same quality, and how would they know?) from the comfort of their living rooms, but they assume that whatever I picked up from my friend I will be transmitting to them at the next class anyway. Leaving aside that I am poor substitute, of course, the point is that there is no substitute for direct experience, even if you think there actually is one. However, if you limit your direct experiences for whatever reason, I suppose you cannot be blamed for thinking there is no difference. You just lose out.
As for the no-shows, I believe disappointed would-be hosts since time immemorial have wondered about that one. I doubt that it has either deteriorated since the web, or improved. It just is. As we used to say when not that many people came to a dinner party - "More for us!"
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Loyalty
Well, I am not by any means the first person to consider issues of loyalty. Even though the concept has different iterations and nuances from culture to culture, and over millenia, everyone seems to know what it means for them. Since many millions of words have been written on this subject at large, I feel opinion is all I can personally contribute; and at that, only in one context (today, at least): loyalty in the dojo.
This is a very sticky issue. I got kicked out of my old place over issues of loyalty - my sometime sempai (he had started befoire me, but had absented himself for 10 years or more before returning) insisted my loyalty to him should have trumped my loyalty to my teacher, the headmaster of the style, in Japan Such loyalty meaning that I should have continued to cover for his shortcomings as I always had since his return, and then some, allowing him to teach a style he was not authorized to teach, and contributing my expertise (I was the one actually authorized to teach) in his name. Certain dojo traditions (modeled on Japanese traditions, or at least what we interpret them to be) held up his argument, but other ideas and traditions upheld my position as well. On my side, I did not feel like contributing to what would have amounted to a breach of personal ethics, perhaps even elevating to fraud in assisting someone without expertise to declare himself the premier Western practitioner of the style. My teacher, Mr, Otani, as traditional an issei as ever there was, I think would have bought the moral argument over the dojo loyalty argument. On the other hand, he would have won no matter what position he took, since it was his dojo. In many, many ways his death was the setup for all that followed, the repercussions from which are still reverberating three years down the road.
Skip to the present day: I have my own group, my own students, and I have, at least for the time being, left aside the offending style, since the old sempai is not content to have me out of the dojo - he is angling to have me quit the ryuha in whatever way he can bring it about. I have decided on the path of least resistance - stop pushing for whatever rights I might have, keep to my roots in my original style (which I have been continuing to teach all along), and...wait. My senior students are well aware of, and tired of, the political intrigues, the disses and the totally predictable mediocrity of the other group (the headmaster of the style, in Japan, stands aloof). They are all perfectly happy to pursue a curriculum that is more peaceful, and, for my part, I have plenty to do - weeks and months pass without my even thinking about the situation "over there."
All of them, except one. While acknowledging the crappiness of the situation with a depth of understanding that surprised me, one student still advocates for pursuing the other style. Several weeks ago I overheard him telling someone that he considers the headmaster in Japan to be his teacher, even though he has met the guy maybe 1/2 dozen times. I arranged for this student to attend practice at the honbu in Japan, and I have trained him for three years.
Who your teacher is can be a complicated business. For example, the current headmaster has taught me officially only since he became headmaster - my real teacher in the style was the previous headmaster, with whom I trained for over ten years. To his credit, the current head has acknowledged as much. My original teacher was Otani Sensei, and even though I have trained with other (and better known, in some cases) teachers since, I continue to claim him, even though, at this point, almost no one remembers who he was, if they ever even heard of him. My student's first teacher is a karate teacher, a man I have met and respect. If anyone should get the honor of being this guy's teacher over me, it should be him.
When I asked the (my?) student about what I had overheard, he said I misunderstood (I did not hear the whole conversation). Okay, but what he said next was discomforting: that while he "didn't mind" learning other things, he wanted to continue to practice the "forbidden" style over any other, and saw his role in the dojo as helping me to promote it. I pointed out that such a path was impossible at this time, that promoting the style was the equivalent of continuing to bind myself to a situation that I found toxic for both my students and myself, but he simply repeated what he had said already. Every opportunity he gets he flaunts his (limited) understanding of the style, in front of new students, in front of me, even though I have made it very clear that I would prefer not to have it practiced in my dojo.
So, what to do with this guy? I cannot give him what he wants, and his continued stubbornness is making trouble for me, though possibly not as much as I think it is. (On the other hand, I have consistently downplayed such situations, and have been screwed by them.) I am considering the possibility of giving permission for him to go to my old place - they have tossed out the style Otani Sensei taught and wholly devote themselves to the new one. Even though their practice is not so skilful, I think he would get a warm reception (especially since the old sempai would probably consider it a personal victory over me to have him). He would be kept informed of the doings of the honbu - information deliberately kept from us (more complications - the headmaster prefers to communicate with the larger, more established group, who then keeps the info to itself, unless it can make money off of it). If the student affiliates with my old sempai, he will have a more direct line to "his" teacher than I am currently willing or able to provide.
And I will have a more peaceful atmosphere; at least, that is my hope.
This is a very sticky issue. I got kicked out of my old place over issues of loyalty - my sometime sempai (he had started befoire me, but had absented himself for 10 years or more before returning) insisted my loyalty to him should have trumped my loyalty to my teacher, the headmaster of the style, in Japan Such loyalty meaning that I should have continued to cover for his shortcomings as I always had since his return, and then some, allowing him to teach a style he was not authorized to teach, and contributing my expertise (I was the one actually authorized to teach) in his name. Certain dojo traditions (modeled on Japanese traditions, or at least what we interpret them to be) held up his argument, but other ideas and traditions upheld my position as well. On my side, I did not feel like contributing to what would have amounted to a breach of personal ethics, perhaps even elevating to fraud in assisting someone without expertise to declare himself the premier Western practitioner of the style. My teacher, Mr, Otani, as traditional an issei as ever there was, I think would have bought the moral argument over the dojo loyalty argument. On the other hand, he would have won no matter what position he took, since it was his dojo. In many, many ways his death was the setup for all that followed, the repercussions from which are still reverberating three years down the road.
Skip to the present day: I have my own group, my own students, and I have, at least for the time being, left aside the offending style, since the old sempai is not content to have me out of the dojo - he is angling to have me quit the ryuha in whatever way he can bring it about. I have decided on the path of least resistance - stop pushing for whatever rights I might have, keep to my roots in my original style (which I have been continuing to teach all along), and...wait. My senior students are well aware of, and tired of, the political intrigues, the disses and the totally predictable mediocrity of the other group (the headmaster of the style, in Japan, stands aloof). They are all perfectly happy to pursue a curriculum that is more peaceful, and, for my part, I have plenty to do - weeks and months pass without my even thinking about the situation "over there."
All of them, except one. While acknowledging the crappiness of the situation with a depth of understanding that surprised me, one student still advocates for pursuing the other style. Several weeks ago I overheard him telling someone that he considers the headmaster in Japan to be his teacher, even though he has met the guy maybe 1/2 dozen times. I arranged for this student to attend practice at the honbu in Japan, and I have trained him for three years.
Who your teacher is can be a complicated business. For example, the current headmaster has taught me officially only since he became headmaster - my real teacher in the style was the previous headmaster, with whom I trained for over ten years. To his credit, the current head has acknowledged as much. My original teacher was Otani Sensei, and even though I have trained with other (and better known, in some cases) teachers since, I continue to claim him, even though, at this point, almost no one remembers who he was, if they ever even heard of him. My student's first teacher is a karate teacher, a man I have met and respect. If anyone should get the honor of being this guy's teacher over me, it should be him.
When I asked the (my?) student about what I had overheard, he said I misunderstood (I did not hear the whole conversation). Okay, but what he said next was discomforting: that while he "didn't mind" learning other things, he wanted to continue to practice the "forbidden" style over any other, and saw his role in the dojo as helping me to promote it. I pointed out that such a path was impossible at this time, that promoting the style was the equivalent of continuing to bind myself to a situation that I found toxic for both my students and myself, but he simply repeated what he had said already. Every opportunity he gets he flaunts his (limited) understanding of the style, in front of new students, in front of me, even though I have made it very clear that I would prefer not to have it practiced in my dojo.
So, what to do with this guy? I cannot give him what he wants, and his continued stubbornness is making trouble for me, though possibly not as much as I think it is. (On the other hand, I have consistently downplayed such situations, and have been screwed by them.) I am considering the possibility of giving permission for him to go to my old place - they have tossed out the style Otani Sensei taught and wholly devote themselves to the new one. Even though their practice is not so skilful, I think he would get a warm reception (especially since the old sempai would probably consider it a personal victory over me to have him). He would be kept informed of the doings of the honbu - information deliberately kept from us (more complications - the headmaster prefers to communicate with the larger, more established group, who then keeps the info to itself, unless it can make money off of it). If the student affiliates with my old sempai, he will have a more direct line to "his" teacher than I am currently willing or able to provide.
And I will have a more peaceful atmosphere; at least, that is my hope.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Happogiri summer
I have continued teaching iai at a local community college as a volunteer. The center where I teach is officially "closed" for the summer, with my classes the only ones on the schedule. It has been a real pleasure to walk in to a room that is reasonably clean every week, free of hair and stray Zumba beads. It's the closest I have ever gotten to having my own practice space, even if it is for only a few weeks before school starts again.
Perhaps because we are the only thing on the menu, new people have come into the class practically every week. Additionally, starting a Thursday night class at Resobox, a cultural center in Queensboro Plaza, in July, has meant that I have given practically the same lesson over and over, time after time, week after week, introducing iai to people who know next to nothing about it.
I teach an opening exercise designed by my teacher to show people the basics of handling a sword. The exercise, "happogiri" means to cut in eight directions, and that is exactly what happens. We are not, however, making the same cut in each direction (which is one interpretation of the expression); we are making different cuts in each of the different directions, as well as a thrust, to make eight. In the process, the students learn the basic stances - how to walk, and how to grip the sword properly and how to make a proper cut. Sensei designed the exercise on two levels, with advanced students given the opportunity to perform more difficult, compound cuts, changes of direction, etc. In terms of style, it's fairly generic, though more resembling our core style of Muso Shinden Ryu and its relatives rather than some more modern styles.
Even though I call it an opening exercise, and we normally do it at the beginning of class, and it is the first thing I show new students, happogiri is not a "warm up." It is kihon waza - technique practice - the cuts and kamae serving to acquaint new people in a general way with how a sword is handled, at the same time allowing more experienced students (and their teacher) an opportunity to further refine their technique.
Some people might think I would be bored to tears to be doing happogiri up to three times per week with people who start out literally not sure which side of a katana is used for cutting, but some people would be wrong. I have no problem at all showing people over and over again. When we do the exercise, I can hear Sensei's admonitions in my head - "Make a circle! Breathe! Iaido is all about circles!" Every week I see the newbies get better and better. I'd like to think Sensei can see them too.
Perhaps because we are the only thing on the menu, new people have come into the class practically every week. Additionally, starting a Thursday night class at Resobox, a cultural center in Queensboro Plaza, in July, has meant that I have given practically the same lesson over and over, time after time, week after week, introducing iai to people who know next to nothing about it.
I teach an opening exercise designed by my teacher to show people the basics of handling a sword. The exercise, "happogiri" means to cut in eight directions, and that is exactly what happens. We are not, however, making the same cut in each direction (which is one interpretation of the expression); we are making different cuts in each of the different directions, as well as a thrust, to make eight. In the process, the students learn the basic stances - how to walk, and how to grip the sword properly and how to make a proper cut. Sensei designed the exercise on two levels, with advanced students given the opportunity to perform more difficult, compound cuts, changes of direction, etc. In terms of style, it's fairly generic, though more resembling our core style of Muso Shinden Ryu and its relatives rather than some more modern styles.
Even though I call it an opening exercise, and we normally do it at the beginning of class, and it is the first thing I show new students, happogiri is not a "warm up." It is kihon waza - technique practice - the cuts and kamae serving to acquaint new people in a general way with how a sword is handled, at the same time allowing more experienced students (and their teacher) an opportunity to further refine their technique.
Some people might think I would be bored to tears to be doing happogiri up to three times per week with people who start out literally not sure which side of a katana is used for cutting, but some people would be wrong. I have no problem at all showing people over and over again. When we do the exercise, I can hear Sensei's admonitions in my head - "Make a circle! Breathe! Iaido is all about circles!" Every week I see the newbies get better and better. I'd like to think Sensei can see them too.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Sartorial Rant - summer edition
They sway on nosebleed-high platforms. Their naked, milky thighs stick to the seats on the No. 1 train. Their soft, sweaty upper arms make contact with anyone sitting next to them. Who are they? They are the skinny ladies in the "band-aid" dresses that I see on the train on Friday nights, going out for a good time.
I'm all for a good time, of course, but why all the flesh? Why the pressure of being rail-thin enough to wear these teeny, tiny dresses that barely cover their butts, swaying atop platform soles (about 2-3 inches high at the toes, and soaring 6-7 inches at the heels) that would make a tayu reach for her yakko's shoulder. But there ain't no yakko available, at least not at the beginning of the evening. Almost as bad is the day-wear - looser dresses, equally short, which one can neither sit down in comfortably nor climb stairs in without giving everyone a free show. We had shows, too, when I was a kid, but they weren't supposed to be free.
Lest anyone think I am letting older women off the hook, consider the yards of middle-aged cleavage spilling out of low-cut tops among the older set on the way home. Honestly, I hate to be a killjoy, or sound that much like a frump - properly foundated middle-aged cleavage can work, but not at Target lingerie prices. Add in that at least 50% of the people on the train on any given day are visibly overweight, and you get the not-very-pretty picture.
Are guys off the hook? Mostly, because guys always seem to dress with their own comfort in mind first. So yeah - flipflops, baggy shorts, stretched out t-shirts - nobody is going to grace the cover of GQ in these outfits, especially with that ultra-important guy heatwave accessory - the wet washcloth draped over the top of the head. But at least I don't have to involuntarily look at so many exposed body parts, unless you consider knobby knees offensive (a knobby knee person myself, I can't really complain).
Recently, there have been reports of a serial groper on the Upper East Side. The guy is built like a jockey, apparently - 4'11" and about 120 pounds. I don't in any way want to condone his actions, but if the people he's groping are dressed like the women I see on the train, it could be considered a crime of opportunity.
Look, we used to push the envelope as far as our parents would let us - halter tops (which, in spite of various excesses, I have rarely seen in the past 20 years), braless by definition, were a summer fashion staple when I was a kid (joke - "You can borrow my halter top." Response: "I have nothing to halt!"). Cut off jeans shorts (remember Daisy Duke was just a descendant of Ellie Mae Clampett, who herself was a descendant of Lil' Abner's Daisy Mae), and the dresses were exactly finger-tip length (longer than they frequently are now). Guys were just as bad, wearing cutoffs so short their balls hung out when they sat down. Amusing, yes, but there's a time and a place.
Is there hope? Yes. As the current heatwave drags on (and on, and on), I am seeing more and more women opt for long skirts and sundresses that sweep the ankles. When made out of linen or cotton or rayon, fabrics that absorb moisture from the air and are cool to the touch, they are amply better than exposing your skin to the sun and subsequent heat, if not UV rays.
And the wearers don't stick to the seats on the No. 1 train.
I'm all for a good time, of course, but why all the flesh? Why the pressure of being rail-thin enough to wear these teeny, tiny dresses that barely cover their butts, swaying atop platform soles (about 2-3 inches high at the toes, and soaring 6-7 inches at the heels) that would make a tayu reach for her yakko's shoulder. But there ain't no yakko available, at least not at the beginning of the evening. Almost as bad is the day-wear - looser dresses, equally short, which one can neither sit down in comfortably nor climb stairs in without giving everyone a free show. We had shows, too, when I was a kid, but they weren't supposed to be free.
Lest anyone think I am letting older women off the hook, consider the yards of middle-aged cleavage spilling out of low-cut tops among the older set on the way home. Honestly, I hate to be a killjoy, or sound that much like a frump - properly foundated middle-aged cleavage can work, but not at Target lingerie prices. Add in that at least 50% of the people on the train on any given day are visibly overweight, and you get the not-very-pretty picture.
Are guys off the hook? Mostly, because guys always seem to dress with their own comfort in mind first. So yeah - flipflops, baggy shorts, stretched out t-shirts - nobody is going to grace the cover of GQ in these outfits, especially with that ultra-important guy heatwave accessory - the wet washcloth draped over the top of the head. But at least I don't have to involuntarily look at so many exposed body parts, unless you consider knobby knees offensive (a knobby knee person myself, I can't really complain).
Recently, there have been reports of a serial groper on the Upper East Side. The guy is built like a jockey, apparently - 4'11" and about 120 pounds. I don't in any way want to condone his actions, but if the people he's groping are dressed like the women I see on the train, it could be considered a crime of opportunity.
Look, we used to push the envelope as far as our parents would let us - halter tops (which, in spite of various excesses, I have rarely seen in the past 20 years), braless by definition, were a summer fashion staple when I was a kid (joke - "You can borrow my halter top." Response: "I have nothing to halt!"). Cut off jeans shorts (remember Daisy Duke was just a descendant of Ellie Mae Clampett, who herself was a descendant of Lil' Abner's Daisy Mae), and the dresses were exactly finger-tip length (longer than they frequently are now). Guys were just as bad, wearing cutoffs so short their balls hung out when they sat down. Amusing, yes, but there's a time and a place.
Is there hope? Yes. As the current heatwave drags on (and on, and on), I am seeing more and more women opt for long skirts and sundresses that sweep the ankles. When made out of linen or cotton or rayon, fabrics that absorb moisture from the air and are cool to the touch, they are amply better than exposing your skin to the sun and subsequent heat, if not UV rays.
And the wearers don't stick to the seats on the No. 1 train.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
About My Stalker
"I never met him, but then, a lot of people who have never actually met me hate me" - this from my academic advisor years ago, after I showed him what was, to this date, the nastiest rejection letter I had ever received from a journal editor. Since I had mentioned that I was his advisee in the cover letter (something I never did again), I wondered if the guy was taking his dislike of my advisor out on me. The above quote, which I have never forgotten, was his response. And his advice was simple - academic publishing can be nasty. If you are going to stay in it, grow a thicker skin. I have, and I still publish - in online journals, here and even on paper occasionally.
But publishing takes all kinds, even more now that there are so many fora out there for expressing oneself in virtual print, if not physical. I have heard from colleagues in martial arts/academic publishing of potential authors who seek to grind whatever axe they have, along with the occasional threatening reactions when their masterworks are rejected as being in some way unsuitable for publication. Generally speaking, these overreactions have been, as one of my Texas friends puts it, "all hat and no cattle," but unfortunately, there are times when martial arts could be said to deserve its violent reputation. I know of no one in martial arts publishing who does not take these threats seriously. A little paranoia beats complacency when you are talking about people who train themselves, however metaphorically, to hurt other people.
About 15 years ago, I published an article in an academic martial arts journal. It was my first major article on the meaning of martial arts practice, and it summarized what I had learned in grad school about performance theory which I applied to the practice of traditional (i.e. non-sport) budo. It being a small journal and all, there was not much in the way of recognition for awhile, but eventually it was reprinted several times. I am still somewhat proud of it in essence (though I cringe at some of the actual writing - was that me?) - it was my first effort at putting some organized thoughts on paper on the subject, and though my thinking has become more complicated, I think, on the whole, that it still holds up.
About 5 years ago a colleague got in touch with me that a grad student somewhere had written a "rebuttal" to my then 10-year-old article. The colleague, the editor of a set of on-line journals dealing with martial arts, combat sports and stage fight choreography, wanted to publish the piece, but he wanted to publish it alongside a response from me. Since I had not really looked at my article since preparing it for its last reprint, I agreed. He sent me the grad student's essay.
Let me say at this point to the uninitiated that academics often relish fights in print, and while the print stuff is often fairly sedate and entertaining to readers, it often stands in for real antipathy between the authors. I have worked at academic conferences where the organizers would go through lists of potential invitees, noting that if so-and-so was invited, then another so-and-so would refuse the invitation, and so on. They would then try to decide which of the two was more germaine to the proceedings, and invite accordingly (inviting both would inevitably mean that both would refuse). It sounds trivial, but it's not. Academics invest a great deal of themselves in their work. Like budoka with big egos, the professional frequently becomes personal. Combine the two together and the situation can become truly combustible.
It was this relishment that spurred my colleague on this project, and I knew it. Fight! Fight! Fight! At the outset, I thought it was funny that the grad student, whom at this point I will call "KG" (not even his real initials, but it is easier to write), would consider his article a "rebuttal" since I had really couched my article as an investigation into whether performance theory could be laid on to budo. In fact, as a more ethnographic writer at the time, it was a little out of my usual ken to write something that dealt with theory at all, but sure. Some of the writer's points were okay, as far as they went. One of the sources he charged me with not consulting had not actually been published until years after my article had appeared (which I pointed out). One of his big points was an error in my transliteration of exactly one proper name, a point I conceded, except to point out that other writers frequently took transliteration liberties. Mine had been based on the way that people in Tokyo had actually pronounced the name, was all. Had I based my transliteration on the actual spelling of the name, I would have probably come to his same conclusion, but in the context of the entire article, it seemed an extremely small nit to pick. I concluded by more or less thanking KG for prodding me into a second look at my earlier work. I also suggested that he should write more about his own ideas rather than spend time trying to make his reputation by pulling down someone else's, but this is a not uncommon tactic (however tiring) in academia.
The two pieces were published side by side. I figured end of story. I figured wrong. KG wasted no time in sending an email blast, saying my response was "wrong," and that he was going to continue to prove me "wrong" by writing yet another follow up (leaving aside the idea of "wrong" in a theoretical article once again was an oxymoron). What bothered me was not so much the content, as the tone. I don't believe I was "wrong" in sensing that there was menace in his response, an implied physical threat. It concerned me enough that I did a search to figure out that at least he did not live in my neighborhood. For his part, the publisher decided he did not want to print a "response to a response to a response," as he put it, so he told KG he was not interested in the follow up piece.
The feeling that I got from this exchange, and subsequent ones, was this: not only were my ideas "wrong" in KG's eyes (everyone's entitled to his opinion), but that somehow my even being here was wrong. KG is not by any means the first man I met or heard from who felt that women should not practice budo, let alone teach, or have something to say about it. In my dating life (ancient history at this point) I met my share of clods who did not like women - thought there was something strange about them, "they're not like us," or that women should, in the words of a (very) former colleague of mine, "know their place." So for me, as a woman, to have an actual opinion, published in an actual journal on martial arts, was simply beyond an affront - it was an insult to budo manhood. The implication was that in stepping out of my "place," someone should push me back in.
To make a long post a little shorter, KG went to several colleagues, including the publisher of the original article, all of whom declined his piece. In several cases, the publishers emailed me to ask what the guy's problem was, to which I really had no answer, since I did not know. Every time he was rejected, I would be sought out, first by email, then, most recently on Facebook, by KG, to let me know the latest, accompanied by a challenge of some sort that we should have a discussion on why I was "wrong." This has gone on - no kidding - for five years.
He sent me a copy of his piece at some point, which I did not read. He's entitled to write it, but it is (ahem) not my place to actually have to read it unless I feel like it.
Finally - success! An FB post last week to let me know that he had finally found an online publisher willing to put his piece up, in spite of "efforts by [my] cabal" to prevent it (this amused a colleague: "you have a cabal? Cool."). This happy news was accompanied by yet again another demand as to why we cannot communicate "like adults" so I can hear firsthand yet again why I am "wrong." A challenge to respond! (And again, an implied threat).
So I responded - I blocked him on FB. You attempt to strike, I block - should be easy enough for even KG to understand.
But publishing takes all kinds, even more now that there are so many fora out there for expressing oneself in virtual print, if not physical. I have heard from colleagues in martial arts/academic publishing of potential authors who seek to grind whatever axe they have, along with the occasional threatening reactions when their masterworks are rejected as being in some way unsuitable for publication. Generally speaking, these overreactions have been, as one of my Texas friends puts it, "all hat and no cattle," but unfortunately, there are times when martial arts could be said to deserve its violent reputation. I know of no one in martial arts publishing who does not take these threats seriously. A little paranoia beats complacency when you are talking about people who train themselves, however metaphorically, to hurt other people.
About 15 years ago, I published an article in an academic martial arts journal. It was my first major article on the meaning of martial arts practice, and it summarized what I had learned in grad school about performance theory which I applied to the practice of traditional (i.e. non-sport) budo. It being a small journal and all, there was not much in the way of recognition for awhile, but eventually it was reprinted several times. I am still somewhat proud of it in essence (though I cringe at some of the actual writing - was that me?) - it was my first effort at putting some organized thoughts on paper on the subject, and though my thinking has become more complicated, I think, on the whole, that it still holds up.
About 5 years ago a colleague got in touch with me that a grad student somewhere had written a "rebuttal" to my then 10-year-old article. The colleague, the editor of a set of on-line journals dealing with martial arts, combat sports and stage fight choreography, wanted to publish the piece, but he wanted to publish it alongside a response from me. Since I had not really looked at my article since preparing it for its last reprint, I agreed. He sent me the grad student's essay.
Let me say at this point to the uninitiated that academics often relish fights in print, and while the print stuff is often fairly sedate and entertaining to readers, it often stands in for real antipathy between the authors. I have worked at academic conferences where the organizers would go through lists of potential invitees, noting that if so-and-so was invited, then another so-and-so would refuse the invitation, and so on. They would then try to decide which of the two was more germaine to the proceedings, and invite accordingly (inviting both would inevitably mean that both would refuse). It sounds trivial, but it's not. Academics invest a great deal of themselves in their work. Like budoka with big egos, the professional frequently becomes personal. Combine the two together and the situation can become truly combustible.
It was this relishment that spurred my colleague on this project, and I knew it. Fight! Fight! Fight! At the outset, I thought it was funny that the grad student, whom at this point I will call "KG" (not even his real initials, but it is easier to write), would consider his article a "rebuttal" since I had really couched my article as an investigation into whether performance theory could be laid on to budo. In fact, as a more ethnographic writer at the time, it was a little out of my usual ken to write something that dealt with theory at all, but sure. Some of the writer's points were okay, as far as they went. One of the sources he charged me with not consulting had not actually been published until years after my article had appeared (which I pointed out). One of his big points was an error in my transliteration of exactly one proper name, a point I conceded, except to point out that other writers frequently took transliteration liberties. Mine had been based on the way that people in Tokyo had actually pronounced the name, was all. Had I based my transliteration on the actual spelling of the name, I would have probably come to his same conclusion, but in the context of the entire article, it seemed an extremely small nit to pick. I concluded by more or less thanking KG for prodding me into a second look at my earlier work. I also suggested that he should write more about his own ideas rather than spend time trying to make his reputation by pulling down someone else's, but this is a not uncommon tactic (however tiring) in academia.
The two pieces were published side by side. I figured end of story. I figured wrong. KG wasted no time in sending an email blast, saying my response was "wrong," and that he was going to continue to prove me "wrong" by writing yet another follow up (leaving aside the idea of "wrong" in a theoretical article once again was an oxymoron). What bothered me was not so much the content, as the tone. I don't believe I was "wrong" in sensing that there was menace in his response, an implied physical threat. It concerned me enough that I did a search to figure out that at least he did not live in my neighborhood. For his part, the publisher decided he did not want to print a "response to a response to a response," as he put it, so he told KG he was not interested in the follow up piece.
The feeling that I got from this exchange, and subsequent ones, was this: not only were my ideas "wrong" in KG's eyes (everyone's entitled to his opinion), but that somehow my even being here was wrong. KG is not by any means the first man I met or heard from who felt that women should not practice budo, let alone teach, or have something to say about it. In my dating life (ancient history at this point) I met my share of clods who did not like women - thought there was something strange about them, "they're not like us," or that women should, in the words of a (very) former colleague of mine, "know their place." So for me, as a woman, to have an actual opinion, published in an actual journal on martial arts, was simply beyond an affront - it was an insult to budo manhood. The implication was that in stepping out of my "place," someone should push me back in.
To make a long post a little shorter, KG went to several colleagues, including the publisher of the original article, all of whom declined his piece. In several cases, the publishers emailed me to ask what the guy's problem was, to which I really had no answer, since I did not know. Every time he was rejected, I would be sought out, first by email, then, most recently on Facebook, by KG, to let me know the latest, accompanied by a challenge of some sort that we should have a discussion on why I was "wrong." This has gone on - no kidding - for five years.
He sent me a copy of his piece at some point, which I did not read. He's entitled to write it, but it is (ahem) not my place to actually have to read it unless I feel like it.
Finally - success! An FB post last week to let me know that he had finally found an online publisher willing to put his piece up, in spite of "efforts by [my] cabal" to prevent it (this amused a colleague: "you have a cabal? Cool."). This happy news was accompanied by yet again another demand as to why we cannot communicate "like adults" so I can hear firsthand yet again why I am "wrong." A challenge to respond! (And again, an implied threat).
So I responded - I blocked him on FB. You attempt to strike, I block - should be easy enough for even KG to understand.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Obon
Yesterday, I took part in the Obon celebration sponsored by the New York Buddhist Church. The NYBC has been celebrating Obon in a public park for over 60 years, and so, like many traditions, there is a lot that is the same from year to year - the parade around the circle, the particpants dressed on yukata or happi coats, the opening address and benediction, the heat. The biggest part of the tradition, of course, is the dancing - there are usually two circles of dancers, the inner circle composed of members of the Tachibana dance group, leading the outer circle composed of everyone else - church members, other performers and members of the audience.
In Japan, this sort of celebration is very local, and there are hundreds or more that take part on hot, sticky nights in different city neighborhoods. In NYC, the party is held in the daytime on a Sunday afternoon. Drinking is kept to a minimum, and the practice is held more closely to Buddhist ritual than it ever is in Japan, for Obon is a folk tradition that may actually predate Buddhism. Like many other practices (lion dancing in Chinatown comes to mind), Obon takes on amplified meaning outside its homeland - ritual, religion and folk tradition all in one.
This year's celebration was a true illustration of Margaret Thompson Drewel's idea of ritual as a spiral rather than a cycle. The crowd was much larger than it has been in recent years. At one point, we had three circles of dancers. I found myself noticing all kinds of things. An old woman, supported by family members, her body contorted by what looked like late stage Parkinson's (my uncle died of the disease), determined to dance anyway, no matter what - and she did too. When I saw her later, she was making her way around the circle unassisted, and while she was not able to follow the steps very well, the painful looking jerkiness of her movement had softened. A silly, middle-aged woman danced "Tanko Bushi" with her little dog jumping excitedly at her feet. A very, very old man, braving the heat, his body hunched over, waved his hands and shuffled along with us, the smile on his face suggesting that he was far away, in both a different time and place.
By the last set of dancing, the shadows of the trees had cooled off the slate plaza somewhat. I was invited into the inner circle of dancers, an honor, and more people from the audience joined too. By the end of the 40-minute set, the inner circle seemed to melt into the other circles (by this time four in all), and, though I am bad at estimating numbers, we may have had as many as 200 people, all moving to the rhythm together. The sense of harmony, the audience members hanging on the edge, including tough-looking bully boys in backward-facing caps, with gentle grins on their faces, seemed to suggest that in a corner of Bryant Park, on an almost obscenely hot day, a little piece of the world bobbed and swayed in unison and seemed very right.
I have danced at Obon for most of the past ten years. I consider it a way of honoring my friends and family who are gone, as well as simply having a great time. But this year was different. We all have occasions, like when the team wins, when we feel like part of something larger than ourselves. It takes rhythm and movement, however, to feel like part of the universe.
In Japan, this sort of celebration is very local, and there are hundreds or more that take part on hot, sticky nights in different city neighborhoods. In NYC, the party is held in the daytime on a Sunday afternoon. Drinking is kept to a minimum, and the practice is held more closely to Buddhist ritual than it ever is in Japan, for Obon is a folk tradition that may actually predate Buddhism. Like many other practices (lion dancing in Chinatown comes to mind), Obon takes on amplified meaning outside its homeland - ritual, religion and folk tradition all in one.
This year's celebration was a true illustration of Margaret Thompson Drewel's idea of ritual as a spiral rather than a cycle. The crowd was much larger than it has been in recent years. At one point, we had three circles of dancers. I found myself noticing all kinds of things. An old woman, supported by family members, her body contorted by what looked like late stage Parkinson's (my uncle died of the disease), determined to dance anyway, no matter what - and she did too. When I saw her later, she was making her way around the circle unassisted, and while she was not able to follow the steps very well, the painful looking jerkiness of her movement had softened. A silly, middle-aged woman danced "Tanko Bushi" with her little dog jumping excitedly at her feet. A very, very old man, braving the heat, his body hunched over, waved his hands and shuffled along with us, the smile on his face suggesting that he was far away, in both a different time and place.
By the last set of dancing, the shadows of the trees had cooled off the slate plaza somewhat. I was invited into the inner circle of dancers, an honor, and more people from the audience joined too. By the end of the 40-minute set, the inner circle seemed to melt into the other circles (by this time four in all), and, though I am bad at estimating numbers, we may have had as many as 200 people, all moving to the rhythm together. The sense of harmony, the audience members hanging on the edge, including tough-looking bully boys in backward-facing caps, with gentle grins on their faces, seemed to suggest that in a corner of Bryant Park, on an almost obscenely hot day, a little piece of the world bobbed and swayed in unison and seemed very right.
I have danced at Obon for most of the past ten years. I consider it a way of honoring my friends and family who are gone, as well as simply having a great time. But this year was different. We all have occasions, like when the team wins, when we feel like part of something larger than ourselves. It takes rhythm and movement, however, to feel like part of the universe.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Martial arts teacher (female)
Every now and then, someone in my sphere of acquaintances asks if I would ever be interested in teaching (or why I never have taught) a class just for women. I bring this up because another colleague gave me a book of essays by martial arts teachers on teaching which I have just started to read. The first essay was by a male teacher, describing his arc of learning and eventually becoming a teacher; of dealing with the disappointment of students who first learn, and then leave, and how he came to realize that whatever way he touched the lives of his students was beneficial, both for him and for them.
The next essay, by a female teacher, described her experience teaching at a martial arts academy that was solely for women and children. The essay was filled with warm fuzzy stuff about teaching as an expression of love, and a harkening back to some ancient group of female priestesses who are somehow women's forbears in the martial arts.
The woman was the better of the two writers, which is probably why my reaction to the second essay was stronger than the first. But of course it was the content of the second essay that was so concerning to me as a teacher and practitioner. The female author described, at the start, being approached by some beginning instructors about a problem they were having with some students. The students were questioning the authenticity of the teachers' methods and opining about them to others in the class. Our author had agreed to teach one of the classes, in the hope of assessing the problem and trying to determine how to help her junior instructors resolve it (after all, it was their class). Great. But by the end of the essay, she never tells us how the problem was resolved. Instead we are treated to a long ramble on love, and women's martial solidarity through history, all of which had me gritting my teeth as I read. While the first essay was sort of predictable, the second one was more dissatisfying.
However, this essay, annoying as it was, brings me to the crux of the problem of women in the martial arts, at least in the US (I don't know about other places). The author began by expressing her concern with her beginning instructors' class, then embarked on a long ramble about women's empowerment and how they have tried to structure their academy to be non-hierarchical. Fine, as far as it goes. Hell knows everyone brings their own political stuff to what they do - some people are just more pronounced about it than others. But all groups, no matter how non-hierarchical they aspire to be, must deal with issues of power and how it is used (or abused). There is simply no remedy for it. In my other life, I used to belong to a (non-martial arts) group that does not specifically exclude men, but has very few involved. The women who occupy the senior positions in this group would do Machiavelli (or maybe the Borgias) proud. The violence does not consist in being punched in the face during a grudge match after regular training; instead, it's all psychological. And it's devastating. Of course, on the surface, everything is lovely. Needless to say, after years of trying to negotiate a path through the highly political currents of the group, I left, as many others have done before me, and continue to do now.
So spare me your universal love thing. Everyone who teaches martial arts should repeat this mantra: It's the technique, stupid. Teach the technique. If a student decides for some reason that your approach is somehow inauthentic or does not suit her in some other way, politely suggest she look elsewhere. It's a free country. And defend your instructors! Always.
As for me and the all-female thing, if I was invited to teach a seminar for an all-women's group, I would not hesitate to take part (in fact, I have already done this at least once). But I would never teach an all-women's class on a regular basis. I have no interest in attempting to create a "safe" bubble for women to practice. A bubble is a bubble - what good will the bubble do you once you emerge from it to go home? Moreover, and more importantly to me, nearly all of my teachers have been male. They could have made it extremely difficult for me to learn, but instead they welcomed my interest (I can't say the same for some of my male, American colleagues, but that is another, and rather tiring, story). I would consider it a betrayal to my teachers if I arbitrarily excluded men from my class and hid in the all-female bubble. My teacher, Otani Sensei, once told me, "If you can play with the boys, you can do anything!" something I always used to take as being brave, stepping up, and doing what needs to be done.
I do wonder about the women and children's academy, though. What do they tell the boys when they get to be 16 (or is it 18)? Yeah, this dojo has been your martial arts home since you were five years old, now go elsewhere? Maybe it's just tough love (or tough luck).
The next essay, by a female teacher, described her experience teaching at a martial arts academy that was solely for women and children. The essay was filled with warm fuzzy stuff about teaching as an expression of love, and a harkening back to some ancient group of female priestesses who are somehow women's forbears in the martial arts.
The woman was the better of the two writers, which is probably why my reaction to the second essay was stronger than the first. But of course it was the content of the second essay that was so concerning to me as a teacher and practitioner. The female author described, at the start, being approached by some beginning instructors about a problem they were having with some students. The students were questioning the authenticity of the teachers' methods and opining about them to others in the class. Our author had agreed to teach one of the classes, in the hope of assessing the problem and trying to determine how to help her junior instructors resolve it (after all, it was their class). Great. But by the end of the essay, she never tells us how the problem was resolved. Instead we are treated to a long ramble on love, and women's martial solidarity through history, all of which had me gritting my teeth as I read. While the first essay was sort of predictable, the second one was more dissatisfying.
However, this essay, annoying as it was, brings me to the crux of the problem of women in the martial arts, at least in the US (I don't know about other places). The author began by expressing her concern with her beginning instructors' class, then embarked on a long ramble about women's empowerment and how they have tried to structure their academy to be non-hierarchical. Fine, as far as it goes. Hell knows everyone brings their own political stuff to what they do - some people are just more pronounced about it than others. But all groups, no matter how non-hierarchical they aspire to be, must deal with issues of power and how it is used (or abused). There is simply no remedy for it. In my other life, I used to belong to a (non-martial arts) group that does not specifically exclude men, but has very few involved. The women who occupy the senior positions in this group would do Machiavelli (or maybe the Borgias) proud. The violence does not consist in being punched in the face during a grudge match after regular training; instead, it's all psychological. And it's devastating. Of course, on the surface, everything is lovely. Needless to say, after years of trying to negotiate a path through the highly political currents of the group, I left, as many others have done before me, and continue to do now.
So spare me your universal love thing. Everyone who teaches martial arts should repeat this mantra: It's the technique, stupid. Teach the technique. If a student decides for some reason that your approach is somehow inauthentic or does not suit her in some other way, politely suggest she look elsewhere. It's a free country. And defend your instructors! Always.
As for me and the all-female thing, if I was invited to teach a seminar for an all-women's group, I would not hesitate to take part (in fact, I have already done this at least once). But I would never teach an all-women's class on a regular basis. I have no interest in attempting to create a "safe" bubble for women to practice. A bubble is a bubble - what good will the bubble do you once you emerge from it to go home? Moreover, and more importantly to me, nearly all of my teachers have been male. They could have made it extremely difficult for me to learn, but instead they welcomed my interest (I can't say the same for some of my male, American colleagues, but that is another, and rather tiring, story). I would consider it a betrayal to my teachers if I arbitrarily excluded men from my class and hid in the all-female bubble. My teacher, Otani Sensei, once told me, "If you can play with the boys, you can do anything!" something I always used to take as being brave, stepping up, and doing what needs to be done.
I do wonder about the women and children's academy, though. What do they tell the boys when they get to be 16 (or is it 18)? Yeah, this dojo has been your martial arts home since you were five years old, now go elsewhere? Maybe it's just tough love (or tough luck).
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Cleopatra
I have just finished reading Stacy Schiff's Cleopatra: A Life (2010, Little, Brown and Company). Of the publications I have written, and occasionally still write for, not a one would be interested in a review by me of this book. It is not about the martial arts, for one thing, and is about Central, rather than East, Asia. Most importantly, the subject defies easy characterization - think of Cleopatra and we think of Elizabeth Taylor in her coal black wig, a figure whose most compelling decision of the day seems to be which stunning ensemble to wear (no offense to the late, great Ms. Taylor - I loved the film).
As many reviewers have pointed out, Schiff assesses the same sources that other historians have, but comes to a different set of conclusions. To take one obvious example, Cleopatra VII did not become the lover of two of the most powerful men in the ancient world because she was stunningly beautiful, or (seriously!) a witch. Schiff instead suggests that she was not even a great beauty (in the few images we can reliably identify, she has rather a large nose). What she did have, apparently, was a superb education, high social status (at a time when well-born women of the Rome had no such thing), royal presence, and a very, very quick wit.
She also had an important requirement for getting, and keeping, power: a strong stomach for ruthless acts. She had both her first brother-husband and her sister - contenders for the throne - murdered in order to secure her position as ruler. Lest we consider this unsettling, Schiff provides numerous examples to illustrate that Egyptian rulers undertook such actions for centuries. She also notes that Cleopatra's family members would have done the same to her, given the chance.
Cleopatra reminds us of the difficulty of getting credit where it is due. Her achievements, which included reclaiming some of her empire's lost prizes and (however briefly) reestablishing its glory, were eclipsed, even during her lifetime, by her personal relationships. Over and over again, Schiff skewers historians and contemporary commentators for their mischaracterizations. Schiff's barbs, lobbed in the full historical context of ancient Egypt, make the book very gratifying to read. If you are (a) female, (b) charged with responsibilities, and (c) never recognized for the heroic things you do every day, you will find some sisterly commiseration with the Queen of Egypt, even if you never seriously considered killing off your siblings.
In the end, of course, Cleopatra loses - her life and her kingdom. Both she and Marc Antony were summarily excised from the official histories, lest the winners be embarrassed by her wealth and power, or Marc Antony's widow suffer embarrassment (an intriguing character in her own right, Octavia - Antony's wife and the sister of Caesar Augustus - raised Cleopatra's children with Antony as her own). But the story, or more properly, the legend, refused to die. Schiff has peeled off the layers of hyperbole and given us back an image of Cleopatra as a person, at last, in her own right.
As many reviewers have pointed out, Schiff assesses the same sources that other historians have, but comes to a different set of conclusions. To take one obvious example, Cleopatra VII did not become the lover of two of the most powerful men in the ancient world because she was stunningly beautiful, or (seriously!) a witch. Schiff instead suggests that she was not even a great beauty (in the few images we can reliably identify, she has rather a large nose). What she did have, apparently, was a superb education, high social status (at a time when well-born women of the Rome had no such thing), royal presence, and a very, very quick wit.
She also had an important requirement for getting, and keeping, power: a strong stomach for ruthless acts. She had both her first brother-husband and her sister - contenders for the throne - murdered in order to secure her position as ruler. Lest we consider this unsettling, Schiff provides numerous examples to illustrate that Egyptian rulers undertook such actions for centuries. She also notes that Cleopatra's family members would have done the same to her, given the chance.
Cleopatra reminds us of the difficulty of getting credit where it is due. Her achievements, which included reclaiming some of her empire's lost prizes and (however briefly) reestablishing its glory, were eclipsed, even during her lifetime, by her personal relationships. Over and over again, Schiff skewers historians and contemporary commentators for their mischaracterizations. Schiff's barbs, lobbed in the full historical context of ancient Egypt, make the book very gratifying to read. If you are (a) female, (b) charged with responsibilities, and (c) never recognized for the heroic things you do every day, you will find some sisterly commiseration with the Queen of Egypt, even if you never seriously considered killing off your siblings.
In the end, of course, Cleopatra loses - her life and her kingdom. Both she and Marc Antony were summarily excised from the official histories, lest the winners be embarrassed by her wealth and power, or Marc Antony's widow suffer embarrassment (an intriguing character in her own right, Octavia - Antony's wife and the sister of Caesar Augustus - raised Cleopatra's children with Antony as her own). But the story, or more properly, the legend, refused to die. Schiff has peeled off the layers of hyperbole and given us back an image of Cleopatra as a person, at last, in her own right.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Rendering unto Caesar
Last week I met an eminent martial artist for the first time. He is a prominent karate teacher who has been teaching for many years. Prior to this, I had only spoken with him over the phone. Incredibly, the stars aligned and we had lunch together, however briefly.
At one point, the discussion turned to politics. I mentioned that one of my teachers kicks our butts when we see him in Japan, which is wonderful and just what we need. When I saw him late last year, he was gracious enough to take the afternoon off from his job and we had a long, long practice that covered points of technique at a very high level. When one of my students was able to go to Japan for a month, my teacher also worked with him in the same way. However, when he comes to the US to teach a seminar with his American students, he allows them to take shortcuts and generally does not correct them on the same level that he did even with my beginning student. Yet the the teacher of the group he conducted the seminar with has been made the permanent head of the US organization, even though their practice is lacking. Why was that, I wondered?
The karate teacher said, simply, that the difference between me and my students and the other group was what we each wanted from our practice. Our group wants to acquire a skill, perhaps some philosophical insight, an aesthetic and/or historical experience. The other group is interested in power and control. If you have power, he explained, you don't need skill (except, I suppose, skill in maintaining power). He said that we were the more fortunate group, because the Japanese teacher was taking us more seriously as students. The other group wanted to control everything, and he was giving them what they wanted. Just keep practicing, the karate teacher said - you get what you want for your students, and the other group gets what it wants as well.
On a certain level, it made sense, but I was still troubled. It wasn't right, I said, that the mediocre group gets to call the shots for the rest of us in terms of how the organization of American students was run. Of course not, he said, it's a double standard, but that is how it is. If we want to study with the teacher, we should simply ignore the membership organization and its leadership and maintain a direct relationship with the dojo in Japan.
And with that, lunch was over, and I had to go back to work. I am still thinking about our discussion, and pondering if helping my teacher maintain a double standard is really a good idea.
At one point, the discussion turned to politics. I mentioned that one of my teachers kicks our butts when we see him in Japan, which is wonderful and just what we need. When I saw him late last year, he was gracious enough to take the afternoon off from his job and we had a long, long practice that covered points of technique at a very high level. When one of my students was able to go to Japan for a month, my teacher also worked with him in the same way. However, when he comes to the US to teach a seminar with his American students, he allows them to take shortcuts and generally does not correct them on the same level that he did even with my beginning student. Yet the the teacher of the group he conducted the seminar with has been made the permanent head of the US organization, even though their practice is lacking. Why was that, I wondered?
The karate teacher said, simply, that the difference between me and my students and the other group was what we each wanted from our practice. Our group wants to acquire a skill, perhaps some philosophical insight, an aesthetic and/or historical experience. The other group is interested in power and control. If you have power, he explained, you don't need skill (except, I suppose, skill in maintaining power). He said that we were the more fortunate group, because the Japanese teacher was taking us more seriously as students. The other group wanted to control everything, and he was giving them what they wanted. Just keep practicing, the karate teacher said - you get what you want for your students, and the other group gets what it wants as well.
On a certain level, it made sense, but I was still troubled. It wasn't right, I said, that the mediocre group gets to call the shots for the rest of us in terms of how the organization of American students was run. Of course not, he said, it's a double standard, but that is how it is. If we want to study with the teacher, we should simply ignore the membership organization and its leadership and maintain a direct relationship with the dojo in Japan.
And with that, lunch was over, and I had to go back to work. I am still thinking about our discussion, and pondering if helping my teacher maintain a double standard is really a good idea.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Are you in this or not?
Last night I was working with one of my budo students. I like this guy; he's talented and is one of the few people who almost never misses a practice. However, like a lot of people, he puts his own interests first.
Why is this a problem? In most cases, it isn't, especially in America. We value individualism, laud the person who rises through her own initiative. For my part, when I was a teenager, my cousin, who was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, could not understand my highly individualistic sense of style paired with a socializtic sense of common good. "You seem to value your personal freedom so much," he told me, "how can you believe that government should be expanded for the common good?" I'll never understand why I was friends with my cousin.
Anyway, as some writers familiar with koryu (old style) budo traditions have pointed out, the difference between the modern stuff and the traditional stuff is that in modern budo (think karate or judo), the practitioner can adapt the art to himself. In koryu budo, the practitioner adapts herself to the art instead. I have mentioned this idea to a number of people, both in and out of budo, and not many of them get it.
As an analogy, let's consider classical ballet. The practitioner spends years practicing, with a sense of commitment that for the best dancers is all-consuming. The discipline is exacting. But if all ballerinas (including the corps) are moving like automatons, there is no art there. They might just as well be automatons. The thrill of ballet comes from seeing a group of highly trained dancers transcend the technique into dance. Some people can never do it. Some people can do it only briefly (especially in ballet, which by its demanding nature belongs to younger people). The enjoyment of watching a corps de ballet is that individuals have adapted themselves to the technique, in spite of their differences. It's uncanny when it works well. And it's sorta cool.
Or take art. My husband and I have this discussion all the time. He is a painter who does work that could be described, I suppose, as abstract with twists of magical realism. (I never try to describe his work except to say that it's his.) But in order to get to that point, he studied life drawing and art history; he studied paint - from its chemical composition to how to manipulate its effects on canvas. If he did not have that background, he could not produce his work in the way he does.
Same with koryu budo. We study technique, seeking to perfect it, even if perfection is an abstract concept that will never be obtained. We adapt ourselves to it; it reshapes our bodies and (hopefully - ideally) our minds. We don't change the form. We learn the form. And maybe, eventually, we can surpass it, keeping the form intact while expressing ourselves through it.
That's why I wish my student's attitude was different. He wants everything to be his own way. In the rest of his life, he gets that he will have to make his own way, and in our society, he has the potential to do just that. Only in this practice, his indiviualism will make the path more difficult to discern. I worry that he will get bored, but in the end, koryu budo will not be adapted. It is what it is; and we either adapt to it or move on.
Why is this a problem? In most cases, it isn't, especially in America. We value individualism, laud the person who rises through her own initiative. For my part, when I was a teenager, my cousin, who was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, could not understand my highly individualistic sense of style paired with a socializtic sense of common good. "You seem to value your personal freedom so much," he told me, "how can you believe that government should be expanded for the common good?" I'll never understand why I was friends with my cousin.
Anyway, as some writers familiar with koryu (old style) budo traditions have pointed out, the difference between the modern stuff and the traditional stuff is that in modern budo (think karate or judo), the practitioner can adapt the art to himself. In koryu budo, the practitioner adapts herself to the art instead. I have mentioned this idea to a number of people, both in and out of budo, and not many of them get it.
As an analogy, let's consider classical ballet. The practitioner spends years practicing, with a sense of commitment that for the best dancers is all-consuming. The discipline is exacting. But if all ballerinas (including the corps) are moving like automatons, there is no art there. They might just as well be automatons. The thrill of ballet comes from seeing a group of highly trained dancers transcend the technique into dance. Some people can never do it. Some people can do it only briefly (especially in ballet, which by its demanding nature belongs to younger people). The enjoyment of watching a corps de ballet is that individuals have adapted themselves to the technique, in spite of their differences. It's uncanny when it works well. And it's sorta cool.
Or take art. My husband and I have this discussion all the time. He is a painter who does work that could be described, I suppose, as abstract with twists of magical realism. (I never try to describe his work except to say that it's his.) But in order to get to that point, he studied life drawing and art history; he studied paint - from its chemical composition to how to manipulate its effects on canvas. If he did not have that background, he could not produce his work in the way he does.
Same with koryu budo. We study technique, seeking to perfect it, even if perfection is an abstract concept that will never be obtained. We adapt ourselves to it; it reshapes our bodies and (hopefully - ideally) our minds. We don't change the form. We learn the form. And maybe, eventually, we can surpass it, keeping the form intact while expressing ourselves through it.
That's why I wish my student's attitude was different. He wants everything to be his own way. In the rest of his life, he gets that he will have to make his own way, and in our society, he has the potential to do just that. Only in this practice, his indiviualism will make the path more difficult to discern. I worry that he will get bored, but in the end, koryu budo will not be adapted. It is what it is; and we either adapt to it or move on.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Martial arts and violence
Once again, the country (and the planet) has been shocked by a mass killing, and, as I have done in the past, I waited to hear whether or not the shooter had some sort of involvement in "the martial arts." It has happened before - the "DC Sniper" reportedly indoctrinated his young accomplice with a disciplined lifestyle that included "karate;" and Slate recently ran a story that concluded that young men who killed with swords seemingly belonged to some sort of geek netherworld of Japanese manga and role-playing games. Add to this the constant bombardment of images of hand-to-hand or traditional weapons fighting (with liberal buckets of stage blood) in films, video games and television, along with the occasional loudmouth bully martial artist swaggering on UTube, and it's small wonder that people look at me funny when I say I practice budo. Small wonder also that I downplay my interest from time to time, depending on who's asking.
The most common reaction I get is that people say I don't look like a thug or a badass. I then usually counter that iai is more like taiji than karate. Then they figure I'm some old lady with a New Agey interest in auras and crystals. Usually, at that point, I just change the subject.
But last night, as the narrative continued to unwind, and details about the shooting in Tucson emerged, and were endlessly spun in various directions, I found myself thinking about where my practice fits in to the culture of violence (or not). It really is oxymoronic to say that a practice that includes using real swords and cutting targets from time to time is not violent. In fact, iai is probably the most violent budo out there. It has no inherent sporting element. Iai kata are, as a rule, very brief, owing to the fact that one or two strokes with a surgically-sharp blade is all you need to dispatch an opponent. Some people make excuses by saying that iai kata are defensive; i.e., they are a response to an aggressive gesture from an imaginary opponent, but anyone who has gone beyond basic techniques practices other kata that are more aggressive. A kata in which the scenario depicts someone advancing on a retreating opponent, cutting him down, can't be spun as defensive, pretty much no matter what.
However (and here's the paradox), because of its violent nature, iai is always practiced in an extremely polite atmosphere, with maximum care taken by practitioners to keep their emotions in check at all times. It is not enough to control one's temper; in iai practice one seeks to cultivate a calm state of mind. At the beginning of practice, we make gestures towards each other that indicate respect. We bow in the practice space to set off the time from outside intrusions so people can practice in peace. Even though tempers can flare in martial arts dojo from time to time, in an iai dojo, such outbursts can never be tolerated (in fact, if you ever visit a sword dojo where tempers are in evidence, I strongly suggest not coming back).
We do not carry swords around with us anymore (at least, the non-geeks among us don't). And as my teacher once famously said in class, "If I want to kill someone, I don't use this stupid thing, I'll go buy a gun." What is left to the modern practitioner is to cultivate that respectful and peaceful state of mind, then take that sensibility and use it to deal with the world. It may not be as exciting as the movies, but it works in life a whole lot better.
The most common reaction I get is that people say I don't look like a thug or a badass. I then usually counter that iai is more like taiji than karate. Then they figure I'm some old lady with a New Agey interest in auras and crystals. Usually, at that point, I just change the subject.
But last night, as the narrative continued to unwind, and details about the shooting in Tucson emerged, and were endlessly spun in various directions, I found myself thinking about where my practice fits in to the culture of violence (or not). It really is oxymoronic to say that a practice that includes using real swords and cutting targets from time to time is not violent. In fact, iai is probably the most violent budo out there. It has no inherent sporting element. Iai kata are, as a rule, very brief, owing to the fact that one or two strokes with a surgically-sharp blade is all you need to dispatch an opponent. Some people make excuses by saying that iai kata are defensive; i.e., they are a response to an aggressive gesture from an imaginary opponent, but anyone who has gone beyond basic techniques practices other kata that are more aggressive. A kata in which the scenario depicts someone advancing on a retreating opponent, cutting him down, can't be spun as defensive, pretty much no matter what.
However (and here's the paradox), because of its violent nature, iai is always practiced in an extremely polite atmosphere, with maximum care taken by practitioners to keep their emotions in check at all times. It is not enough to control one's temper; in iai practice one seeks to cultivate a calm state of mind. At the beginning of practice, we make gestures towards each other that indicate respect. We bow in the practice space to set off the time from outside intrusions so people can practice in peace. Even though tempers can flare in martial arts dojo from time to time, in an iai dojo, such outbursts can never be tolerated (in fact, if you ever visit a sword dojo where tempers are in evidence, I strongly suggest not coming back).
We do not carry swords around with us anymore (at least, the non-geeks among us don't). And as my teacher once famously said in class, "If I want to kill someone, I don't use this stupid thing, I'll go buy a gun." What is left to the modern practitioner is to cultivate that respectful and peaceful state of mind, then take that sensibility and use it to deal with the world. It may not be as exciting as the movies, but it works in life a whole lot better.
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