On being the hired hand

I am a hired hand.  I teach in two places - one, a community college, as part of its ever-dwindling (due to constant budge cuts) fitness program; and one, an art gallery/cultural center.  I have a schedule.  I have one hour at the community college, which I regularly extend to at least 90 minutes, and my other two classes are exactly 75 minutes long.  No more, no less, or else, as the guy who runs the center puts it, we have to change the price he charges for classes.

And ya know what?  I don't even know how much he charges.  I have no idea, because it keeps changing.  I really should go to the website some time and look it up.  The community college class is free for students, and there is a really nominally small fee for non-students (no wonder they have budget problems, but I appreciate the idea that they feel a communuty college should have some sense of "community").

I no longer get paid for the community college class.  It became free after a round of budget cuts almost two years ago.  I am a volunteer.  Even when I got paid, it was seriously the equivalent of carfare.  The gallery pays me a little as a contractor so I can theoretically deduct some expenses.  Again, it is basically carfare as well. 

But pay is not the issue.  The issue, for me, is: is this a dojo?  The thought came up again this morning, when a dance teacher and I were talking about our relationship to our students.  She noted that it was a conundrum - to have some kind of relationship without getting so close that things students do or say start to affect you in some way (any way - good or bad).  And she said, "Well, you guys go out drinking, so you could be said to have some kind of relationship rather than just in the class itself."  I had to respond that even when I was at my old place, we did not go out like we had when I first started.  Somewhere along the line work obligations or family obligations or financial obligations had taken over.  Now, as a hired hand, I can truthfully say that opportunities like that are practically non-existent.  I spend more time socializing on my brief training visits to Japan than I do with my own students here. 

When I first started on my own, I tried to replicate my earlier model, which had worked successfully (and still does, actually, over there, where I started it), but it did not work a second time; whether because the times are different (space is more expensive, people are busier, etc.) or because I am different, or whether it is the catfish pond thing.  I could not charge enough to meet expenses and still make it affordable for the people I did have, and the market seemed to be saturated enough that there was no good way to stand out. 

All the same, I have begun to think about it again, maybe someplace closer to home.  I have refined my curriculum so it doesn't duplicate everyone else's.  And it would be really nice to be able to stay an extra ten minutes without someone calling "time." 

Solstice party

There are many things I like about the 2nd half of the year.  Fall is my favorite season.  I enjoy the cooloff after a hot humid NYC summer.  The colors are frequently beautiful (even if it takes until November until we actually see them).  People even seem a little nicer (which is saying something), because everyone is finished enduring the weather and can actually enjoy it for a change.

But I don't like the creeping darkness.  I usually notice it around the end of October.  It's dimmer in the morning when I get up, and the sun sets rapidly.  I enjoy "garden inspection" in the late spring/summer, but by the time December comes around, I am getting up in the dark and going to work at more or less first light, and returning in complete darkness.  If (as I truly deserve) I sleep in on a weekend morning, I feel bad that I have missed a precious few hours of daylight in the process.  For years I did not do any close work in the late fall through early spring because the insides of my various apartments were so dark; eventually I wised up and got a swing arm lamp with two types of bulbs to fight off the darkness, and it helps, but it's not enough.

I get used to it, eventually, but I still don't like it, even as I enjoy other things about the end of the year.  And I know I am not alone.  I think the reason why Christmas lights are popular is that it's a primordial reaction by humans to rage against the dark.  After all, people have always lit fires at night to keep preditors at bay, and I also think to comfort themselves - a little substitute light until daylight returns.  People often refer to deities as being a source of light.  More than one religion incorporates halos into their artwork to differentiate divine figures.  Even if there was no religion, however, we would still be pursuing light.   

So here we are at the Solstice day, and the hysteria (who knew?) about the end of the Mayan calendar has had a nice side benefit - we are today supremely aware of it being the shortest day of the year.  There was a party at Stonehenge, like there is every year, only this time it was bigger, including people in reindeer antlers and Santa hats, and not just "druids," all to celebrate the return of the light.  I saw that video this morning on the news, along with the sarcastic commentary ("We're still here, guys"), but I also saw something else.  That no matter what anyone's professed religion, we all want the light to come back.  All of us - even plants and animals.  Every now and then, something transcends all of our differences.  Today is one of those days.

Too many budo catfish

I recently spent a day training with a jodo group in Washington DC with two of my students.  Even though we were invited to train for the whole day from whenever we were able to show up (the host teacher arranged for extra afternoon training), I busted my butt (and commanded the busting of my two students' butts) to get there in time for their regular group okeiko, which started at 11:00am.  I did it because I wanted my two guys to have an opportunity to see that there is in fact an audience for this practice (the host teacher has about 20 students).  And I also felt that it would be nice for them to be able to feel part of that larger whole - a bonding opportunity, if you will. 

And it worked out great.  We had a good (and exhausting!) day's practice, I got to see a few people I have not seen in awhile, the guys got to meet some fellow enthusiasts, and we all got our butts kicked.  Even my ancient car cooperated.  It was a pretty good weekend.

However, it did get me thinking about my relative dearth of students.  I have about 7-8, spread between two places, and at this time of year, between college terms ending and holidays looming, I am lucky to get 1-2 people at a practice.  Sometimes there is no one, and while I love the opportunity to practice by myself, it makes my sponsor unhappy because he does not make any money when that happens.  By contrast, about 1/2 of the host teacher's students showed up in DC - about 10 people - with the teacher and the three of us it made for a relative "cast of thousands" as one Facebook commenter put it when he saw the photo. 

And, for the record, it is not just me.  The sponsor of my Thursday space says all of the classes are suffering from lack of attendance at the moment, so perhaps it's just the time of year, but I think there is another side to the problem.

Here's the story.  My great aunt had a small farm in Pennsylvania.  There was a white, clapboard house, a barn, and a catfish pond.  There were blueberry bushes (beloved by the local Pocono mountains bears), and a spring house.  It was beautiful and cool in the summertime, and I used to enjoy visiting when I was going back and forth to NYC in the early years.  At one point, my aunt asked my father to look into a problem with the catfish pond.  Even though she had many catfish, they never got to be more than about 8 inches long.  What, she wondered, could be done to make them grow bigger.  My dad, the biologist, responded - fewer catfish.  She didn't quite understand.  What if she fed them special food?  Same result, said my dad.  You need fewer fish in the pond.  Right now, the fish were the optimal size for the space available in the pond for everyone to have enough food, water and oxygen.  Get rid of some of them, and the remaining fish will be larger, because they will take advantage of the relatively increased resources. 

Heaven forbid!  My aunt could not bear the idea of getting rid of the catfish, so, in spite of special food, they never did get any larger than 8 inches, if that. 

My aunt eventually died after a long life and the farm was sold, as I recall, to a couple who kept horses and were delighted with the place (I don't know if they kept the pond or not).  End of story.

I thought of this when I was talking to the host teacher this weekend about class size.  I could always do more to publicize my classes, of course, but NYC is a lot like a catfish pond.  There are so many dojo, and so many teachers (and senior students who sometimes strike off on their own), and so many fitness crazes that come and go, including cardio kickboxing and hell knows what else, that every place can only attract a handful of students, except for special events.  I should qualify this by saying that there are a few larger dojo out there for things that are less traditional.  Traditional dojo, in my experience, tend to be small anyway, but as people have found out about koryu budo, more dojo have come into existence, and fewer people per dojo are the result.  People can pick and choose the location, style and time of classes, so everyone picks what they want. 

As part of my evidence, several old students of my teacher, Mr. Otani, have said that originally, when he first started teaching iai, his classes were packed with students, many of whom were teachers of other genres of martial arts.  Otani Sensei was the *only* catfish in the pond at the time.  But as time went on, people peeled away, whether to incorporate their new techniques into their curriculum, or to do other things, I do not know.  But we can do the math easily - if 20 people are interested in swordsmanship, and there is only one dojo, then that one dojo will have 20 students.  One senior student goes out on his own, and takes 1/4 of the students, then you have one place with 15 students, and another with 5, and so on.  Since traditional budo involves little, if any, competition opportunities and may or may not function as a rank-granting organization, and (importantly) is not really meant for small children, the number of new recruits in a given year is understandably small.  As groups form and multiply, the available pool of students becomes ever smaller relative to the number of opportunities to train.  Really simple math.   

If we step back and look at NYC's cultural scene, you can take classes of every conceivable description in any cultural practice to be found almost anywhere in the world right here, if you look hard enough for it.  And the teachers are the best to be found anywhere as well, by and large.  It's a wonderful thing, but it also makes sustaining a group a lot like trying to grow big catfish in a very small, overpopulated pond.

Chivalry and Bushido

If you look up "bushido" on the web, you will encounter many things, and one of them will be that bushido was a code of conduct for members of the samurai class "analogous to the code of chivalry."  Really?  Let's take a look at that idea.

I have been enjoying Maurice Keen's Chivalry (1984) lately.  In fact, just for fun, I started it during my latest trip to Japan.  Keen scoured through original documents, including popular literature of the time, as well as visual sources dating from approximately 1000CE until approximately 1600CE, in order to produce an overall idea of what chivalry was, and more importantly, what it was not.  In addition to quoting from some splendid original sources, he debunks certain "truths," including that chivalry was a concept of Christian knighthood (no) or that it really masked a corrupt warrior society (also no).  Chivalry was actually a living, secular ethical system that was consciously promulgated by a Europe-wide warrior class.  The book is a well-written, fun read, and is considered a classic of medieval history scholarship still used in classrooms.  I have been a medieval European history buff almost since the time I first learned to read, but this book came along well after I left school.  Thanks to the NYT publishing Keen's obit some months ago, I am happy to be able to enjoy what is generally considered as much of a last word on this topic as we currently have. 

So, there I was in the Old Country, reading about chivalry while naturally thinking about bushido, and while practicing some koryu with some samurai class descendants.  And you know what?  There's no analogy to be made at all between the two, except to say that both chivalry and bushido were warrior codes of a sort.  That's it.

Let's look at some tenets:

Bushido:

1. Gi - rectitude (a sense of justice)
2. Yuki - bravery
3. Jin - compassion
4. Rei - respect, politeness
5. Makoto - truthfulness, honesty
6. Meijo - Honor
7. Chugi - Loyalty, devotion
(Nitobe and other sources)

Chivalry:

1. Prouesse - skill at arms
2. Loyaute' - loyalty
3. Largesse - generosity
4. Courtoisie - politeness, also generally interpreted as protection of the weak (i.e. women and children)
5. Franchise - generally interpreted as a "free and frank" deportment that suggests good manners and virtue
(Keen, 1984, 2)

We should keep in mind that with the exception of Nitobe, a Japanese scholar who wrote Bushido in English to begin with in 1895, our ideas of bushido will be coming through a highly interpretive, Western  lens.  Nevertheless, a look at both lists brings up significant differences, as well as some implied similarities.  Prouesse for example implies bravery in the field (one can't be skilled in battle if one is known to run from a fight).  Bushido's jin suggests defending the weak, while not explicitly stating it. 

However, there seems to be no parallel, nor even an implied one, to franchise - a sense of self that reveals a virtuous nature to observers.  Here we see a reference to a sense of individuality that is lacking in the tenets of bushido.  This sense of individuality, manifested in franchise, carries through other tenets.  For example, prouesse referred to individual skill at arms, and one of the early goals of chivalry was to engage in individual contests for personal glory, an idea that never comes up in bushido (the idea that heroes would ride out during a siege, state their name, lineage and title in order to do battle with some worthy opponent that we hear in the various monogatari are literary devices - there is virtually no evidence to suggest that such individual challenges were ever issued or taken up by others).  In fact, loyalty (chugi) seems to be chief among the tenets of bushido, at least that was the thought in the early 20th century.  A quick look at medieval European history shows loyalty to be somewhat further down the list of virtues at least in actual practice.

Another tenet of chivalry that has no parallel whatsoever in bushido is the idea of largesse.  Largesse is not generosity of spirit; it literally meant spending money on others, and the literature is full of stories of poor knights who eventually lost their status by overspending. 

In fact, prouesse, largesse and franchise together were responsible for a unique aspect of European chivalry that had no parallel elsewhere - the tournament.  Keen notes that tournaments, rather than the overdressed panoplies most people think of (and which really were more for show by later in the period), began as literal training for war, and they could be brutal. Many, many men died in early tournaments, most especially in the melees - when groups of combatants would fight each other to some definite conclusion. At the very least, a knight who had a grudge against another could easily pull together some allies for a melee and kill his rival without even needing to proclaim it an "accident."  Ideally, though, the goal of a melee was to take fellow knights prisoner - victors were entitled to all of a prisoner's equipment and horses, and moreover a victor could hold a vanquished colleague for ruinous ransom.  A poor knight with enough means (begged, borrowed, etc.) to pay a tournament fee could potentially improve his fortune through prouesse (or lose his status altogether if he lost).  Ransoms eventually became so outrageous that less than super-wealthy knights of necessity formed associations in part to bail each other out in case of capture.

Sound like bushido?  Not really.  Moreover, while some knights were in fact of noble birth, not nearly all of them were.  Nobles actually did rule Europe, and kept knights in their employ.  Bushi (later samurai) became a ruling class unto themselves in spite of the nobility, and while some occupied lesser positions than others, everyone knew what constituted the ruling class. 

I could go on, but I think this very condensed look can easily show that someone who simply claims an analogy between bushido and chivalry may not be that well-versed in either.

Cool book: Chivalry, by Maurice Keen (1984) New Haven: Yale Univ. Pr.

Another twist on the tradition thing

While I was visiting the Old Country last month, I had a nice visit with an old friend.  This person went to Japan in the late 1970's to study budo, among other things, and then stayed, eventually becoming a Buddhist monk.  Since he's my sempai, I find it interesting always when we meet to bring up whatever budo-related topic is on my mind.  I always find his insights worthwhile.

We were chatting generally about relationships between Japanese traditional ryuha and non-Japanese dojo.  He remarked that, in his mind, the best way to handle that sort of relationship is in a relatively distanced fashion - go to Japan and train, invite the teacher to come to your home country to train, even take your students to Japan to train from time to time, BUT - but - draw the line there. 

He was not basing this assessment on budo alone, but from his observations of other types of Japanese cultural institutions that started branches overseas (generally at the behest of non-Japanese people interested in whatever the practice was).  Specifically, he has seen some non-Japanese Buddhist temples that decided to break away from the Japanese honbu.  While he did not get very specific, the impression I got was that the non-Japanese affiliates did not like to be micromanaged by the honbu, and eventually became unhappy enough to separate.  In his opinion, this breaking away was more like "setting up your own religion," in the sense that a group that breaks away from the founding Buddhist sect is, in effect, unmoored.  Where will the breakaway group get its spiritual guidance?  From whomever is leading the group at the time of the breakup?  Is that person in any way qualified to be a priest, or is he/she making it up as s/he goes along?  A group that separates itself from the honbu could therefore be said to be effectively no longer practicing that type of Buddhism, and perhaps may not be practicing anything in particular at all.

Cultural differences seem to be at the heart of these sorts of breakups.  The honbu cannot understand why the non-Japanese affiliate can't be more like their Japanese counterparts, and the non-Japanese affiliate cannot understand why the honbu's attitude cannot be more flexible.  There is simply no middle ground where this situation exists.  I can (and perhaps other readers can) think of a number of examples - not just budo examples either - that are similar.  The relationship that springs to mind for me is Japanese classical dance, where the rules of the honbu are expected to be enforced even outside Japan, while no provision is made for the very weird things that can happen when "the boss" is half a world away.

Many people I know who study budo would love to be under the umbrella of a real Japanese honbu.  I do know of several situations where this has happened.  In at least one of these, the US shibu is very much under monetary obligation to the honbu, even to the point where the dojo is not able to maintain enough for operations without the instructor putting in some cash from time to time.  As I understand it, part of the justification for this arrangement is that the honbu thinks of the practice as a form of property, and if you want access to this property, you must pay for it.  You should, in fact, be happy to pay for it.  There are other stories also, about money-making tactics, but I think you get the drift.  Needless to say, there are times when quality is sacrificed in order to increase the number of students being promoted, but I think I have covered that elsewhere. 

To be fair, there are some Japanese koryu teachers who think the practice is more important than control.  They have a fairly hands-off policy, and don't seem interested in funding a retirement plan with the proceeds of foreign students.  Any instructor fortunate enough to find such a group can embrace this relationship, while keeping a wary eye out: ryuha are human institutions, and a change in leadership (which is inevitable, given that humans grow old and eventually leave the scene) can change. 

The micromanaging arrangement for koryu can hamstring not only instructors but also students.  Very often there is no course of appeal for an unhappy student.  The teacher controls access to the honbu, and the unhappy student, rather than being able to make an appeal or even a graceful exit is simply forced to withdraw.  And in the hierarchical arrangement of official honbu-shibu setup in the US, there is nowhere else to go for a student who would like to pursue the style with a different teacher.  The hierarchical nature, as well as the dearth of people generally involved in this type of arrangement here for instance means that a student who has an issue with the shibu cannot simply pursue the art elsewhere; he or she must leave entirely, or else suck it up in order to keep training.  At least in Japan, in all likelihood, one could simply go to another shibu for training.  Not here.  Needless to say, an instructor who runs afoul of the honbu in the US will not be officially allowed to continue, in effect being put in a position of teaching "his own thing" or nothing at all, sort of like the renegade priest mentioned above. 

The styles that are more diffuse, therefore, like MJER and MSR, may have an advantage.  Since there is no soke for MSR (and I understand, multiple ones for different branches of MJER), the structure is more flexible, and opportunities at least slightly more numerous in an art form that is still relatively unknown outside Japan (and not all that well-known inside it).   I sometimes wonder if Hakudo, for example, did not name a successor because he welcomed this diffusion?  I have no idea, but that is what seems to have happened. 

I therefore think my sempai's thoughts are worth considering: train yourself, train your students, have the teacher come as a special guest from time to time.  Even take your students on a special visit to Japan!  But mind your dojo yourself. 

What does it mean to be involved in a "tradition"?

[This post has been quite revised, relatively speaking.  That's what happens when one serves two masters - Mammon being one of them.]

This is a follow up from the previous post, and also to a certain extent, from Budo Bum's comment -wonderful idea, that - a dojo with a group of committed, senior students with experience training in Japan.  What serious budo teacher here has not dreamed of that?  But, to paraphrase a now-disgraced defense secretary, you go to okeiko with the students you have.  I have lowered my expectations to the point where I am just happy happy happy to have people to train with - it's my major motivation as a teacher.

What does it mean for a non-Japanese person not living in Japan to become part of a koryu tradition?  Is such a thing possible?  Some would say no, or give a qualified yes - it's possible to join a tradition, but like the anthropologist deciding to take membership in the group she is studying, her presence will alter the dynamic of the group in ways it has never seen before (and probably make her resarch obsolete).  Rather than relatively slow generational change, a tradition that opens itself up to foreign students will experience a change in dynamics.

After years of seeing and observing traditional groups become more involved in the non-Japanese world, I would have to say the phenomenon is a mixed bag.  It's been a real blessing for sumo, apparently (which is not budo, but it is definitely a tradition).  The entry of foreigners into competition has raised the profile of what was a hidebound sport form, raising its profile internationally in a way that would never have happened otherwise, and providing more entertainment value for Japanese and international audiences.  (Though as I said in a previous post, attempting to export sumo has not worked out so well). 

On the other hand, another koryu budo tradition that I have seen become established in the United States has suffered, I think, a sense of an Americanized idea of what it means to belong to a tradition.  I am not sure what the Japanese honbu's ideas were when it gave permission to establish this particular branch here (and I hope readers can understand my reluctance to name names), but I believe part of the plan was for the style to spread throughout the US.  The leaders of the US group apparently studied some "how to grow your franchise" type books and implemented a branding plan.  Everyone who studied the style had to wear the same keikogi, with variations that indicated rank in the ryuha (beginners had to wear judo gi, ikkyu and above could wear hakama with white keikogi, sandan and above could black keikogi, etc.).  Everyone wore patches.  When visiting the old country, everyone in the group had to wear uniform shirts when appearing in public.  

Needless to say, when training in Japan, the US students were objects of curiosity.  In a country that is much more into uniforms than anyone here is, the lookalike shirts nevertheless created murmurs on public transportation - uniforms were for work, or for a sports team, but for a bunch of US budoka on a training vacation?  The keikogi uniforms created interest on the dojo floor also, where the standard black, patchless keikogi and hakama are considered normal for iai practice.  (Some groups are more motley, and there are no particular rules.)

One of my ex-colleagues remarked that the leaders of the US group were "more Japanese than the Japanese."  I always thought this was insulting to everyone concerned - what it was, was budo as interpreted through a corporate America lens. 

We don't have much here in the way of traditions - Thanksgiving is really our only American holiday, and immigrant families bring their own traditions to bear (a harvest festival is one of those things that's very close to universal).  The US as a nation exists on borrowed traditions from different places and times.  Sometimes our parents' and grandparents' traditions (ex football), sometimes traditions adopted from other times and other cultures. 

In fact, the alacrity with which some of us put on the personae of other cultures is surprisingly, and I think distressingly, eager.  One person, whom I know slightly, found out that one of his forbears was Native American, and went all out adopting what he thought the dress of his ancestral band must have looked like.  Once he was just a white guy, now he's Leaping Sparrow, or something.  (Should it go without saying that, unless they are involved in a ceremony of some sort, Native Americans dress pretty much like the rest of us?)  Another I know slightly better has decided that Japan is a place where women walk elegantly in kimono and everyone is very, very nice to each other - all the time.  He and his wife sprinkle Japanese words into conversations (she is European, he is Hispanic).  The image they hold is charming, but inaccurate.

Japan is definitely one of those places where pretty much no matter what you ever do, you will always remain something of an outsider.  I don't consider this a problem, really, but it makes me uncomfortable to meet foreigners in Japan who don't understand that point.  One of my former sempai who has lived in Japan for many, many years also says he still does not think he fully understands the culture, and he is surprised when he sometimes meets foreign visitors who are convinced they (as they put it) "get it." 

We cannot shed our original cultural trappings.  I sometimes tell curious people that I am a "Presbyterian Buddhist" (and the reactions range from one person's snorting with laughter to another's solumn look of essentially ignorant acceptance and respect).  I was raised protestant, and now I am - not sure.  And since I find it incredibly rude that anyone would make assumptions about another person's faith (not just my own) I have come up with that confounding rejoinder.  Whatever else it conveys, it shows that I do not feel I can entirely escape my background, and furthermore, I don't want to.

As for our involvement in traditional ryuha, I think we must tread carefully to respect the training we have been admitted to, but to pay attention always to our unique place in it.  When we go to another culture for training, we will adapt, but we will also be adapted to.  We will have an impact by our presence and there is no way to avoid it.  And that can be a good thing.  In spite of the silliness I mentioned above, the ryuha with the US franchise has yielded some benefit for the Japanese honbu.  And the US students are getting a strict, if slightly slanted, training in a very old tradition, a win for them that cranky thinkers like me don't make much difference to. 
 

Traditions and beyond

I had a great time in Japan over the past two weeks.  It is hard to believe I came back a whole week ago.  I miss the old country - the cheap food, the deep sense of history, the toilets with heated seats that spray your butt on request (especially since at least half the time the weather was really pretty cold). 

One of the things I really enjoyed while I was there was watching the Kyushu Sumo tournament every afternoon on TV if I happened to be near one at that time of day.  When I lived in Japan in '92, I was able to catch three separate basho (spring, summer and fall) and got familiar with the wrestlers (especially the brothers at the time called Takahanada and Wakahanada).  At that time there were a few foreigners.  Konishiki was still wrestling (and complaining), as was Akebono.  I am no longer so familiar with the wrestlers, but it was good katakana practice to read the origin countries of many of the top competitors this time around.  And of course, I was intrigued by the idea that one of the most traditional sports in Japan has become, if not dominated by, then at least significantly enhanced by, a foreign presence.  Is there a metaphor here for koryu budo practice?

Some people would definitely say yes.  I have a colleague who has maintained for years that the only way to really learn koryu budo is to learn it in Japan.  (We should leave aside for a moment that he actually teaches people in New Jersey now.)  There is a strong case to be made for this argument.  Look at the sumo tori on TV - physique-wise and technique-wise, the training, traditions and rituals have made them the same in every possible way (ex actual plastic surgery to alter facial features and skin tone).  If I was not trying so hard to read the names at the beginning of each match, I would have a hard time figuring out where most of these guys are from - they're just wrestlers.  My colleague has argued that the same thing can happen to foreigners who move to Japan to train in koryu, and there are some nice examples recently of Donn Draeger training in jodo on the web that help bear this idea out as well.  Except for his size, it's not just his technique, but his whole bearing in the kata.  He moves very similarly to his Japanese training partner. 

Sumo also provides examples of what can happen when people attempt to train outside its traditional culture.  Some who have taken up sumo outside Japan are seeking to make it an Olympic sport.  They have stripped it of its rituals and even, in some cases, from its traditional wrestling gi, subbing the stretchy leotards that western wrestlers wear instead.  There are even some women who train in sumo.  But is sumo without the rituals and traditional lifestyle still sumo?

I would have to agree with my colleague if he was to say that sumo without its rituals is not sumo.  Sumo outside Japan is some form of wrestling, but really we should give it some other name. 

On the other hand, sumo is not budo; and in spite of its age, it is not koryu budo either.  People who practice koryu budo in Japan are pretty much like the people who practice it outside Japan; i.e., they have jobs, and families, and obligations.  They do not live in an intensive training-camp environment.  What they do have, that most American would-be koryu budoka do not have is a deep sense of history.  At least a certain percentage of practitioners can point to some samurai lineage.  And they have other advantages, of course, such as regular practice in a koryu budo style with high-level practitioners. 

They also tend to have a deeper sense of commitment.  While several of my American colleagues (as well as myself) consider budo to be a part of our identity, most Americans never have a very deep sense of commitment.  Many drop in and out, or study until they get bored, until they think they have "mastered" the technique, or until something cooler comes along.  Not that one does not find similar people in Japan - I do, but the number of truly committed people seems to be higher. 

So the question gets down to koryu tradition, and whether someone who does not live in Japan can actually become a part of that tradition.  One of my colleagues says yes, and says that even for foreigners, koryu budo training makes us a part of that tradition.  Others say no, it's not possible unless you live there.  I tend to agree with the first colleague, but I often wonder what that means. 

And yet MORE on teachers and students

This is a more thoughtful (I hope) corollary to what I wrote a few days ago. 

I am a budo teacher, but also a student.  Unlike some art forms where, sooner or later, the artist casts off her apprenticeship and becomes a full-fledged, independent thinker (that's the theory at least), classical budo people are like ballet dancers - no matter how good we get, we still need to train with others, to have more experienced colleagues or teachers looking over our shoulders and kicking our butts.  So, whenever I meet a budo teacher who does not have a teacher himself, I do wonder.  How do you manage to maintain integrity in your style all by yourself (of course, if you have invented your own style, the point may be moot, but not really, when you think about it).

Anyway -

My teacher, Mr. Otani, was a very generous guy.  He did not mind if senior students pursued other budo, especially if that person decided to bring back what she was learning to the dojo.  He was also very respectful of other classical budo (if, in his opinion, they were worth respecting, and he thought they mostly were).  As I have said previously, if you did not rub his nose in something, he was pecfectly fine with us pursuing other interests.

What I am really talking about here is of course a mixture of trust, loyalty and respect.  They are  not mutually exclusive, and it is really difficult, if one of these elements does not exist, to maintain the others.  Sensei was very open, but he also would not tolerate disrespect - not directed towards himself or other students, or even (moving outward) other dojo, or the planet in general.  That did not mean he did not have an opinion, and it also did not mean he did not have a temper - he had both.  But in regular day-to-day dealings he had all of these three qualities even as they were laced with an almost brutal insight and honesty into what was actually going on. 

What should a student expect of a budo teacher?  That s/he should be able to train in a trusting environment.  I don't mean that stuff should be soft-pedaled so the person feels "safe" - there is actually no really safe place in a sword dojo - but that the student could feel assured that no one is going to deliberately try to physically hurt or otherwise compromise them in the course of their training.  The student should feel a sense of mutual respect, and while "no ego" is an impossible goal, at least there should be a sense of restraint and mutual respect.  She should feel that if there is a problem, the teacher is there for her.  A student should never be left to the mercy of other students when there is a problem.  The student also should be able to trust the teacher such that, whatever is being offered in the curriculum should not just be competently done, but should be offered in such a way that it is in the best interests of the group as a whole.

This last sometimes comes up against people's expectations.  Say the curriculum changes.  This used to happen to us from time to time.  I remember sometimes spending so much time on elementary jodo and kumidachi that we would go months without drawing an actual sword, but no one complained.  We did whatever the sempai or Otani Sensei wanted to do (sensei was fond of things like making us practice nukitsuke-noto or chiburi for long periods of time.  Frustrating, but necessary).  No one complained.  We knew that what we were doing was intended to improve our practice.  Likewise, while we kept some core curriculum, some other things would come up and then fade away entirely.  While someone might put in a request to review an old technique, generally, again, no one would complain.

More recently as a teacher I have noticed students who want to do this, but not that.  That's not a dojo - it's a department store (or, if you want a more up-to-date metaphor, a shopping mall).  I have come to realize that there is no pleasing these people and that loyalty is basically a nonexistent quality (trust me - I have had some rather searing experience with that lately).  Pay your fee and get your training - save yourself time and money and just buy the video, please. 

What should a teacher expect of a student?  Those three qualities apply here, too.  Trust, loyalty and respect.  The teacher is not just a dispenser of technique or a reference book - she should have a deep understanding of the curriculum, and the student should be able to trust what he is learning, and also how he is learning it.  Classical budo includes much more than technique - aesthetics, morals, and philosophical ideas are imbedded in the best of it, and the teacher should be able to communicate those; but, more importantly, just as the teacher "has the student's back," the teacher should be able to trust the student.  Sure, NYC is a candy store of budo, all out there to be sampled, but whatever tempts the student, she should know the teacher's opinion and respect it with regard to outside training.  Moreover, just as a good teacher will teach mutual respect in the dojo, those students, when they do go outside, whether to a seminar in dojo's style or elsewhere, should not give her cause for anxiety.  A respectful student is welcome everywhere and should reflect well on the teacher. 

As one of my prior teachers once put it, "Your students will take more out of you than your children ever will."  I do not have children, but otherwise I agree wholeheartedly.  I admit to a selfish interest in needing people to train with - even though what I do is 2/3 solo kata, I cannot do this alone.  But sometimes the price seems awfully high. 

   

And speaking of "students"...

Well, it finally happened.  Someone whose motives for study I found kind of dubious has finally revealed himself. 

This person has done me a number of good turns when I was first re-starting out.  I was grateful for any help in negotiating my new, non-territory, even when it became apparent to me that he had selfish motivations.  Help is still help, whatever the reason, so I tried to do my best for the guy while trying also to do what was best for my particular situation.  There were many occasions when we trained together.  Other occasions where I offered advice when asked (as usual, on some things that were not training-related, but that is what happens when you are a teacher). 

This person wanted to study a specific style of budo which I had been teaching.  Unfortunately, teaching that style was one of the major reasons why I got kicked out of my old group.  The situation was still very political, and I persisted for several years in training him and a few other people in spite of some very unpleasant circumstances.  Eventually, however, I found myself teaching one guy alone, and he was not even the enthusiast I mentioned above.  I was renting space for practice, and was losing money month over month.  So I stopped.

I stopped, and when I got an opportunity to teach at a different space, the sponsor favored MSR, the more classical style I had originally trained in.  By that time, I decided that was a better option for myself as well, though I was still trying to figure out where my former style might fit in.  Over the ensuing first year, I reorganized my curriculum.

And who should decide to come back?  But he was frustrated that I was not teaching what he wanted to learn.  We had several frank discussions, including my offer to meet him halfway - that if we could decide on a mutual time, and he could arrange practice space, I would come and teach.  But he never followed up, whether for scheduling reasons or lazy reasons, I do not know.  Alternatively, I suggested he practice with one or another of the existing groups (including my former group).  I assured him that he had my permission without penalty, and he was welcome to practice with us any time as well (though we were practicing a different style).  No dice there either.  Then I suggested the parent group dojo, hypothetically (my former style was an offshoot of an older style).  I noted it would not be an option for me, because I was beholden to the newer group, but that at his rank, it might be feasible.  That hypothetically interested him, but the conversation ended there. 

Yesterday I got an angry email from the current soke of my former style (are you still following this?  It's like a hiru-mero - a soap opera).  The soke said he had "heard" that I was planning a jump to the parent style, and that he would take it as a personal insult if I did.  There was only one source for this.  The soke had been in NYC this past weekend for a seminar which my erstwhile student had attended.  I had decided not to, owing to some family reasons that are not relative to this post.  Perhaps I erred in not showing my face, but this particular teacher, over four years, has been fairly indifferent as to whether I should continue to be a student or not.  I honestly figured I would not be missed. 

After recovering from my WTF moment, I wrote back to the soke and told him a number of things, including that I had no intention of jumping anywhere, and that I was insulted that anyone should make such an assertion.  I further stated that my "student" had divulged a private conversation, that doing things like that was an undesirable habit, and that he had moreover misrepresented what I had said.  I further outlined my efforts to work with the guy, and how he had been somewhat abusive of my time (i.e., I would arrange practice at a mutually agreed upon time which he would attend, or not - mostly not). 

Of course, I have no idea (1) why this person would do such a thing (if our roles were reversed, for example, I would never have done something so stupid to him); or (2) how many other people overheard what he said.  If some of my former colleagues were in earshot, then what little smidge of reputation I had left with them has been obliterated.  A correction sent to the soke may or may not clear the air with him, but I am positive (in an ironic twist in the age of oversharing) that the content of that email will never be seen or heard of by anyone else.

I even wondered if my (now, assuredly) former student had done me a favor.  My relationship to this style and teacher had been ambivalent.  By burning the bridge for me, as it were, I could really walk away.  But I decided - no.  My relationship to the ryuha and soke was mine - mine to decide - whether to stay, walk away, take a break and come back, or whatever.  While I can't be sure of his total motivation, I have no doubt it was selfish.  He was trying in some way to enhance his rep, and he decided to hurt mine in order to do it.  And my overall feeling?  He did the same thing my old colleagues did.  He used the same tactics and was trying to achieve the same result.  And that smarts.  It does.

After my last debacle relating to this style, I learned not to put things in writing, even to colleagues involved in the ryuha.  Now I know I can't give spoken advice to students, either. 

I would like, in some of these posts, to come up with solutions to problems that I have encounted in my budo life, but this time, I am afraid I only have one thing - No good deed goes unpunished.

A student who wants to date other budo

I have a young student - he's 18, quite bright, and very enthusiastic - who has recently started asking me about other forms of budo he might study.  He's particularly interested in naginata ("Does he know it's mainly for women?" my Japanese student sniffed.), especially Tendo ryu, the old style that I find pretty interesting myself.  This kid has been training with me for a year, and has recently begun to figure out (as some of my other students have) that NYC is a candy bowl of budo - traditional, modern, made-up - and not just from Japan of course, but from all over the world.  There is even a school of traditional Western-style swordsmanship in New Jersey which I would love to check out some day when I have time. 

Like most naginata dojo, the group he was wondering about teaches and practices mostly Atarashii  Naginata - the sport form.  However, Atarashii Naginata also has its own kata and kihon practices that people not necessarily interested in sport would find probably worthwhile for a short time.  Tendo ryu, when I was able to try it, was offered as a special seminar a few times.  In regular dojo practice, it does not figure as prominently in the curriculum.  In fact, it is generally done as the enbu part of a tournament from time to time, rather than seriously practiced on its own, which I think is too bad, but there it is.

I tried to answer his questions as well as I could, about the school and who teaches, and what they do, to the best of my current understanding (a number of years have passed since I had any dealings with them.  After I got kicked out of my old group, true to any divorce trope, that particular group felt compelled to pick sides and decided to maintain its contact with them, rather than with me).  Without going into any detail, I mentioned this part as well.  His curiosity was not particularly satisfied, and I suspect that he will make his way there eventually to check out their practice himself. 

As a teacher, I have mixed feelings about the American taste for dojo-hopping.  I can't blame people, especially here, for their interest.  On the other hand, I know teachers who are very offended when a student expresses an interest in other practices (some would even expel a student if they found out).  For some, obviously, it's a commercial consideration - potentially losing a student to another style means losing income.  For others, it may be pride, ego or even simply tradition. 

When I was training, we were told we had to wait at least two years before we could pursue an interest in other budo, and, even at that, it was best to seek permission to look around.  I noticed, however, from experience, that even though he would not forbid it, Otani Sensei did not care for students to dojo hop.  Among other reasons (besides the obvious one that he might lose a student to what was presumed to be the greener grass on the other side) it suggested the person was not serious about his practice.  The times I was able to successfully pursue another style of swordsmanship, it was because I established a study group inside the home dojo with everyone's permission, not supplanting anything that was already there, but adding to it.  Sensei thought the dojo should ideally be an academy.  I thought that was a great idea myself.

In any case, the worst thing a student could do with Otani Sensei was enthuse about another teacher's style in front of him.  Again, being as he was a real gentleman, he would not say much.  I remember in particular one senior student expounding on the fabulousness of his kyudo teacher.  Sensei listened politely for a moment, but, as the guy would not quit talking, began to quietly remark, "Kyudo - that's for girls.  High school girls."  The talker did not take the hint, and after a few uncomfortable minutes, the subject changed. 

I had to forgive Sensei his somewhat mysogynistic remarks.  In Sensei's time, kyudo was promoted primarily as exercise for women because it was less strenuous than, say, judo, or even iai - not that he ever really agreed with the idea, as I am here to attest.  He was simply signalling his irritation with the blabbermouth, and perhaps his lack of enthusiasm for kyudo in any case.  From that incident, however, I learned to keep any extracurriculars out of the conversation.  We all did other stuff, but he did not want to hear about it.

So, coming when it did a few weeks ago, after what were several Classes from Hell (some other blog post will deal with this at some point), my student's questions sounded a lot like a high school boyfriend telling his girlfriend that he wanted to date other people, just to see what else was out there, but it didn't mean that he didn't care. 

Disingenuous, yes.

Sympathy for the prez, or, why the presidential election is like a dojo

By now, much of the dust from last week's first presidential debate (a misnomer, actually, since only one person was a president, but I digress) has settled.  While some people gave Obama a thumbs-up on substance, most pundits gave Romney the win on his performance.  This has naturally left Obama supporters sputtering about how the GOP candidate lied, prevaricated and flipflopped his way through the debate.  At one point Romney even said he was proud of the Massachusetts health care law that he had been backing away from for the past year, and the camera got a reaction from Obama that seemed to express shock - shock - at the backpedalling. 

Alas, we have been here before.  All I could think of watching the whole thing was - Jimmy Carter.  Carter, who did not have a lying bone in his entire body, losing to the glib, polished performance of Ronald Reagan.  Reagan (a better actor than I ever gave him credit for) could say anything  - and did - and made it sound sincere.  His administration also routinely cut people off from social security and medicare in a kind of "rolling blackout" style (people would get legitimately re-enrolled, but it would take another month or two for the re-enrollment to take effect) in order to save money.  He also said libraries were not important, because he never had access to one growing up and he got to be president of the US anyway.  And, most importantly, he began I think (in modern times at least) the trend that said the civil rights era is over; it's okay to be a rich privileged white guy and stick it to everyone else.  Ah.

The reason I am bringing this up is that this week, Obama is trying to come back from his lackluster, if honest, performance and respond to Romney's lies in a way that does not make him sound like a whiner, or a bitter person.  To make a comeback while being also presidential.  I sympathize with him greatly here, because I have been in a similar, though much less significant, situation, and I didn't do too well.

When I got kicked out of my old practice group, I later realized that the guy who took over had planned my exit for a very long time.  It could be seen in an old video from the first teacher visit from Japan (which I had initiated and arranged).  I was showing some techniques with the teacher, and the sempai's facial expression was very, very dark.  He was not so much paying attention to the technique being shown as that I was the one demonstrating it with the visiting instructor.  Things got worse from there - basically a whole campaign of lies and deceit (I say this stuff now somewhat philosophically, since I don't care much at this point - I am trying to make a larger point here).  When the situation blew up finally, I knew my nemesis was lying through his teeth to everyone - to the remaining students, to the teacher in Japan - in order to solidify his position.  I know some of the stories specifically, and I can guess the rest - I did know him pretty well, after all - and realized eventually that the lies probably started much further back in the past than I had realized, even before I had come to train, which was many, many years ago.  But people believe him, owing to the time-worn (and generally true) idea that people don't lie in a dojo.  The heck they don't, but Americans especially have bought into the idea that the "way place" has some kind of inherent integrity.  A simple look around should convince people otherwise, but it does not.

The more I tried to alleviate the situation, the somehow worse it made me look.  It is very hard to call out an injustice, and yes, it made me look whiney and bitter, even though I was right.  It convinced no one, and made people uncomfortable.  In the first place, no one could believe that I had been badly treated, or that they had been lied to (see above paragraph).  And I was seriously no fun to be around, even for me.  The final round took place - at last - only recently, with an email exchange with the teacher in Japan, who made it clear that his loyalties now lie with the old sempai, and, while I am welcome to still train, he made it pretty obvious that I will not be given the respect that is due me as the person who introduced him in the US and elsewhere and made all these things happen for him.  And since one can't demand respect (or, you can demand it, it just won't do you any good), that is where things have been left.

Unlike Mr. Obama, though, the fate of the nation is not riding on my decision to walk away from this toxic situation at last.  I can, and did walk away, because I needed to, and because I could. 

For everyone's sake, including the people who don't like him, I hope Mr. Obama is reelected.  Hang in there, Mr. President.

More on teachers and students

Teachers and students, and what our relationships should be with regard to both roles are part of what it means to be involved in traditional budo.  Like a classical dancer, we continue to train all our performing lives (and as lucky budoka, we can go much longer than a ballerina).  Even as we gain permission from our teachers to teach, the idea that someone can "look over our shoulder" and suggest improvements in our training is an endless, and beneficial, process.

So, as usual, especially after okeiko, I turn over issues in my mind as I go home, based on what happened in class and whatever else is going on.  Last night, I was changing trains, when I ran into one of my old students on the platform.  I always liked this guy.  He was not particularly ambitious for rank, he enjoyed training, and was kind of a mellow, teddy bear type.  When I was kicked out of my old group he was not involved, though, like most of the rest of them, he decided to stay there rather than follow me into the great beyond of No Dojo.  But that was the only fault I could ever find with him.

We had a pleasant, brief conversation.  He asked me if I was still teaching MSR.  I said yes, I was, and he said he thought so because he had seen something about it.  Still at the community college?  Yes, and elsewhere on Thursdays.  He remarked that he had just come from okeiko himself, and that my old sempai had complained that he did not come to class often enough, which was true, since he worked alot.  Still, he said, he missed MSR, since "they don't teach it anymore."

"I know," I said.

We chatted a little more, about how he would like to do MSR again, but wanted to stay with his current style as well.  I remarked that I had tried to do the same for a little while, but in the end decided to take a different path, mostly for political reasons.  I didn't lay it on too thickly; a lot of time has passed, plus I had just had a great practice and, happily, it's really difficult to be negative after a great practice. 

Just before his train pulled in, he asked if he could come some time and do some MSR.  I told him the community college class was not as much fun as the Thursday class, but, a little taken aback, did not say yes or no.  After we parted, I of course started thinking about it.

If this guy came to my class, what would I do?  If he, or any of my old students (depending on their role in the coup, though I doubt any of the actual conspirators would make an appearance) came to the community college class, I would probably have to accept them, since it's basically a public class.  Unless someone is truly poorly behaved, I don't exactly have a choice.  If he came to the Thursday night class, I might be torn - it's a private class, so theoretically I have some discretion, but the sponsor needs to make money, and one of the prime ways he makes it right now is by students coming to my class.  Turning away someone otherwise ok to take part would be literally taking rent money away from the sponsor, which I would be loathe to do.

More importantly, if he came to either of my classes, would I be generous enough to refrain from bitter remarks about my exile in Queens, while my old place is still functioning, largely because of the framework I built for it?  Or (more likely), refrain from making snide remarks about his current style because of its flash and general impracticality, as compared to what I currently teach?  These are some of the thoughts that preoccupied me on the rest of the way home.  I was happy to see him, and yet, even though the water has passed 'way under the bridge, he reminded me of a former life that I thought was pretty sincere but which turned out not to be. 

I would like to think I would do neither of those things, and simply treat him as a guest student;, someone I already know as opposed to the leagues of weekly strangers coming into the community college movement studio.  This has been a very mixed bag, lately, and not totally in a good way, but that's the subject for another post.

As he got on his train, he turned to me and said, "Goodnight, Sensei."  That stuck with me for a long time, and it occurred to me he might be the only person left at the old place who still thought that way.  Still, I am not sure what I would do.  I guess I will wait and see if he ever shows up (which, if history is any guide is unlikely - nothing personal, it's just that people rarely seem to do what they say they will do).  Then decide if the "host and guest" metaphor would work in this situation.

Sempai versus Sensei

This is one of those "eat crow" moments, but the realization below cleared up so much crap for me, I can't really complain.

I had a superb weekend of training a week ago with a jodo sempai.  He has trained with the uber-sensei in Japan for nearly 20 years, but at the beginning, he was introduced to the dojo by someone senior to him.  That senior subsequently had a falling out with the Japanese teacher, but this guy continued.  He said of the man who introduced him, "He was my sempai, but he wasn't my teacher."  I thought this was a profound distinction to make and I have been thinking about it ever since. 

I used to think that when a traditional teacher retired or died that, as long as the place was well-run and the lines of succession were clear, there should be no problem in a place continuing on, under "new management;" i.e., that the daisempai would succeed and everyone would continue to train as before.  I used to think, when I saw dojo fall apart after the death of the founder, that the chaos was a result of ego, overweening ambition, or just poor management.  As I collected stories, I found all kinds of nuance.  For example, one famous sword dojo in Japan, after the death of the founder, continued, with his widow's permission, to use the dojo space which was part of his home.  While students began aligning themselves with one senior student or another, no one wanted to disturb detante by stepping forward as a successor (he did not name one).  Instead, the senior students installed the founder's chair at the front of the room to remind everyone of the founder's presence.  I did not follow up on this, but, conceivably this arrangement continued until the widow passed away. I doubt it went on much longer than that. 

In another case, the named successor was not considered sufficiently competent to continue as the teacher, resulting in a defection of students to someone more qualified, or to someone in a new art form altogether.  In yet another case, there were challengers for succession.  Factions formed, resulting in this case in a three-way split of a traditional ryuha. 

And it's not just budo - there have been stories with traditional dance groups as well, and I am assuming that other traditional Japanese art forms often suffer the same fate.  A charismatic teacher (especially, I think, the rapidly vanishing group that trained before the Pacific War) passes on, and things fall apart.  They then reconstitute if the style is a strong one, but sometimes in a very different way from how they were before - whether in fragments or branches or in some other dimished state.  Eventually, the new situation stabilizes and becomes the "new normal."

I used to think this was a tragedy, and that if only people had communicated more, trained together better, etc. that it did not need to happen.  But there it is - a sempai is not a teacher.  The sempai who took over my group after my teacher died, in spite of some honorary rankings, was not really qualified to teach much of what he had inherited, though he was canny enough to maintain a connection with a teacher in Japan in the style he preferred, which makes him sort of a study-group leader rather than a teacher.  My job, if I had decided to stay, would have been as the de facto teacher, guiding from the rear at best.  Maybe, if I had held on long enough, I might have come to inherit the group myself.  But it did not work out that way. 

But here's the thing - maybe things should fall apart.  Maybe a founding teacher dying is the spiritual equivalent of getting kicked out of the nest.  The jodo sempai I mentioned above founded his own group and maintained and strengthened his relationship with the original teacher in Japan.  As the instructor in my own group, I am in the process of forging new relationships with teachers and colleagues, even as I leave the old connections to my old group, along with my expertise in that particular style, which I no longer teach.  And the jodo instructor's remark, along with my experience, suggests this is not a bad thing.  A headmasterless style, like SMR or MSR iai should be able to tolerate multiple teachers, as long as people are qualified to teach (and I realize that is the rub).  Each of us who become teachers has a tradition to uphold, rather than just one or two individuals.  As long as we are consciencious, we should get a long fine, both with our students and with each other.

As I said, it feels weird after four years of soul-searching to figure out that this is probably how things were supposed to turn out anyway, not that I have wasted all that much time.  It feels good, finally, to have a chance remark clear up a lot of fog.  It's about time. 

Hitch again

Christopher Hitchens died approximately a year ago, and Slate, among other places, has been running a number of articles in tribute to him, as well as a brief, annotated section of his posthumous book, Mortality, which I believe is coming out in a few weeks.  The most moving piece was written by his wife, saying that as she reread the notes he left around their home for her, or read any of his writings, she could hear his voice.  She could hear his voice, but could not see her husband anymore.  She noted that he never expected, really until the last minute, that his cancer would actually kill him.  I don't totally agree, having read some of his last columns.  One thing for sure, and Katie Riophe, reviewing Mortality today, pointed it out - Hitch looked at his impending end with an unflinching honesty.  I would like to read the book, but I am not sure I can. 

I'm not sure I can.  Not because I have a problem with either crying, or laughing over the book (the reviewer says there is ample opportunity to do both), but because, like many middle-aged people, I feel myself Almost There.  Both of my parents are gone, and though I wasn't there at the very last moment for either of them, I was there for the illness, the decline, the shows of strength, the fadeout.  A couple of weeks ago at a funeral (see previous post) I saw people I had known years ago changed by time, and life.  I saw my older sister last week - she looks great, but we are all at the point where none of us looks (or feels) like we once did.  We're Almost There.

Hitch did not think that, in facing his illness, he was doing anything particularly courageous, apparently feeling that courage should be reserved to those who volunteer to do good in dangerous circumstances.  I concur, actually.  Like my mother, Hitch was struggling to stay alive.  There really isn't any alternative.  It's not bravery - it's necessity. 

But, I think he was brave in his everyday life and writing.  Living on his own terms in spite of any tut-tutters (and they were legion).  I rarely feel like I have that choice - too many compromises - to work, to other people.  Sometimes it really sucks.

The tourists flocking around NYC at this time of year seem to think everyone who lives here faces endless excitement (sometimes we do, and sometimes it's not the good kind), but the truth is that many of us go home at night from our not-very-interesting jobs, make dinner, watch tv and go to bed, and the next day we do the same thing again. 

David Plotz, in his commentary about Hitch this week, pointed out that the way it at least feels like one is living a long life (regardless of the length in years) is to create lasting memories.  Everyday routine is thoughtless and does not create anything worth remembering, but the frequent occurrence of significant events creates impressions that fill up your life experience.  He suggested that Hitch did something of the sort every day.  Even though the number of days he lived was cruelly short, when it came to experiences, he lived a long life indeed.

While adventures are way cool, and I try to have them as often as possible, I really envy the people who  make everyday life an adventure.  There aren't many of them, and it sounds like Hitch was one (and his wife too, and I hope she continues) - there have been many stories floating around in the past week about raucous dinner parties, shouting children, sharp witticisms over drinks, and the like.  I tend to be a quiet person, and I am not sure I could sustain that much noise, but there can also be adventure in introspection, at least I would like to think so.  In any case, we should all value our time, and our friends.  That is one thing it is obvious that Hitch took seriously.

For Mrs. B.

A couple of weeks ago, I got a terse email from the husband of one of my college friends that his mother's graveside service was to be held the following Saturday in New Jersey, not far from NYC.  I did not even know she had died (truth to tell, I thought maybe she had gone some time ago already).    Later emails with my friend filled in a few more details.  I had been looking forward to an unstructured weekend, but I decided to go. 

As might be expected (and it is, I fear, a cliche') anticipating the service shot me right back to college days 35 years ago.  Late nights working in the college theatre and parties, parties, parties.  Nicknames like Skipper, Gumbo, Big George, Space Cowboy, Churl and Chucky-Bird.  Subsequent days of hanging out in NYC and upstate at their home before they moved to PA.  Thanksgivings and Christmases up in sometimes-snowy Lake Peekskill.  And of course, we were all younger.  And thinner. 

No one knew me at the service except my friend, her husband, and some friends of theirs from the NY area.  And the husband's brother's wife. Though I had met both of them long ago, Brother did not remember me at all.  The MIL would have remembered me maybe, as I met her numerous times.  She was opinionated and loud - Bayonne born and bred.  She once said of Bayonne, "I was born in Bayonne and I'll die in Bayonne.  They'll have to carry me out."  This was not strictly true, as she moved to PA with her son and daughter-in-law in the late 80's, but in spirit she was absolutely correct.  My friend said the nursing home staff members were devastated - how many loud, opinionated Bayonne natives end up in quiet Western PA?  She was the life of their workday party.  The gravesite included a very handsome portait of her cat (now residing, I understand, at my freind's house), and her urn draped in her dimestore pearl necklace - who could possibly argue with that?

I thought my friend and her husband looked pretty good, considering the time that had passed.  I wondered if I looked as good, considering the same.  We had lunch at a real new Jersey diner and the handful of us yakked together along with my friend's almost-adult daughters (whom I had not seen since they were babies).  Except that we could not talk about Mother (because her sons would have burst into tears if we had), it was more like a reunion than a funeral.  The other attendees tried to keep the occasion relatively somber, but happily they did not really succeed. 

I never knew Emily well enough to know whether she enjoyed a drink, but here's to her anyway.  She lived life fully, thanks to her two boys, who took her on trips to Vegas and to the first Arthur Treacher's in New Jersey.  And finally, she furnished the occasion for a group of old (and getting older) friends to get together, to talk, to discover, and to still recognize each other after all this time.

The beginnings of classicism?

One of the more interesting presentations last week was from our own panel.  A young grad student presented on a Uigur folk dance ritual.  He had some nice field video of extended members of a family whom he knew dancing together while local musicians played.  Uigurs are Muslim, and here in the US we have this idea that Muslim women are barred from even semi-public participation, but the video showed men and women dancing at the same time, if not always together.  The evening ends with dancers spinning to the music in a contest - the one left standing is declared the winner (in this video a youngster and a young man spun for so long that the musicians stopped and declared them both winners).  It was a really charming and interesting glimpse of a culture that not many people know about (which was, in fact, the theme of the panel).

The presentation went on to note that China, which controls the Uigur Autonomous Region, has variously enacted prohibitions against the Uigur language as well as folk dance celebrations like this one.  Lately, however, they have changed tactics, and have begun allowing very public dance performances with the idea that it would strengthen Uigur "identity" - or, at least, what China would like for the Uigurs to consider their identity.  (I hope, if he reads this, the presentor will bear with me here - this is a real capsulization of his presentation).  To that end, productions have been staged in large theatres and broadcast on TV.  Many, many groups vie with each other using flashy costumes, lighting and stage effects, and putting large numbers of people onstage, doing theatricalized choreography of the actual folk dances.  The presentor noticed that the Uigur audiences are happy with the presentations, since it represents some positive acceptance of their customs, however dramatized, and that some elements of flash have begun to show up in local rituals.  Meanwhile, some of the hominess of family celebrations, as well as local idiosyncrasies, are being lost. 

Though the presentor was trying for some neutrality, he thankfully did not hide the fact that he thought this might mean the end of the local folkdance rituals, and he expressed both distrust of the official acceptance of public performances and some sorrow that elements of flash were showing up locally.  I understood his point - China, after all, is very, very big, and has been dominating all of the areas around it, not just, as is fashionably understood, Tibet.  But the presentation did get me thinking.

For one thing, folk rituals all over the world have gone the way of the dodo with the avalanche of media.  It happened long ago in the US (I remember first noticing in the early 1980's that a mall worker in rural PA looked like an MTV video jock, and suddenly realized that the reason was that, via cable - everyone was able to watch MTV! - A facile example, but you see my point).  So we don't notice here anymore how national rituals - like the Superbowl - have taken over for more local events as a means of underscoring our collective identity.  So the Chinese are busy doing in their autonomous reagions what we have already done to ourselves.

There was no time at our panel for discussion, unfortunately; no time to discuss things like colonialism, post-colonialism, and that the preservation of indigenous cultures often hinges on depriving people of things like plumbing and electricity that the rest of us already enjoy, and that the advent of these things almost by default means that everyone joins the hive collective. 

But what really got me thinking was something different; i.e. how classical dance is formed.  Is the destruction of local culture a necessary prelude to national culture?  Is the absorption of folk movement into public choreography part of a transformation to a national artisitic expression? 

I started thinking about the evolution of ballet.  It has been awhile since I read about this, but ballet started as a "gentlemen's entertainment" held in cigar smoke-filled theatres where an exclusively male audience ogled the bare arms, lower legs and half-revealed bosoms of female dancers doing, essentially, folk dances.  From those somewhat salacious beginnings we have the artistry and athletcisim (and, yes, the sensuality) of modern ballet, while the folk traditions that helped spawn it have all but died away. 

So the Uigur dance transformation from local tradition to a more uniform public one is underway.  It may well be the death of the local, but is it also evolving on the road to classical dance?

Burnout Day

I just finished a long run of activity, culminating in Crazy Week - last Monday in Philadelphia, Tuesday going to DC (it sort of does take all day to get there), gave a paper on Wednesday (went more or less ok), Thursday-Saturday helping a friend with her project in DC, Sunday - getting up at 5am to come back to NYC.  Monday - back to work.  All the while editing galley proofs of a friend's soon-to-be published book celebrating 20 years of publishing a martial arts journal (full disclosure - I have an article in it, too). 

Philly was great -we did a swordsmanship demo/lecture/hands-on workshop for a kids' camp.  The feedback was great - it's nice that every now and then someone likes seeing what we do.  I heard that one of the kids even wrote a haiku ode to his sword - now that's tradition!  I mean, of all the weird things that I've done, I've never done that.

The DC experience was more of a mixed bag.  It was nice to see some people I had not seen in awhile, and some of the sessions were good at midweek.  Good discussions on Chinese "Classical Dance" (or lack thereof) and my own paper about kenbu.  Stuff like that always stirs the brain, which is a good thing, because my brain frequently does not get the kind of workout I think it deserves.  The very best part was that James Brandon, a towering figure in the study of Japanese theatre, gave a lecture, and all of the scholars sat there like undergrads with their notebooks and pens.  And of course, one of the (planned) conclusions he addressed was: what makes kabuki?  My response to that question may make it here, or somewhere else, in the near future.

What did I learn in DC?  A few things: (1) No one really likes shingeki (look it up).  (2) The Shochiku company really did perform short propagandistic "democracy" plays during the US occupation at the "suggestion" of the various cultural review boards (that they showed them from around 1895-1945 on some level or other favoring the other side should go without saying).  Thanks, as always, Dr. Brandon!  (3) Don't listen to Jonah (you know who you are!).  (4) Get my own room again for conferences - it is worth the money (no offense guys, but I am really a loner).  (5) To avoid aggravation, make sure the next time I help someone with a project that it somehow furthers some of my own projects, not just creating an opportunity to review galleys for someone else's book at the same time.  (6) You really can beat beach traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike if you lose enough sleep.  There's probably other stuff but I will have to remember it later.

I am burnt out and this post is not as polished as some of the other ones - editing, writing my own paper, writing the book contribution, creating my powerpoint presentation (the best part), all in the past month or so.  Obviously I have the writing bug today, but am too tired to do anything coherent (not that today should be all that different).  Gak. 

I just finished the galleys today and sent them off.  I think the book will be a smash, inasmuch as books of that sort ever are.  More about that later.  More about a bunch of stuff later.

Hey Joe

In the past few days on Facebook, I have seen links from some of my old PA buddies to articles defending Joe Paterno in the wake of the Freeh report.  Since I don't feel like making a stir on FB, I will comment more anonymously here, and get it off my chest.

Allow me to start with some confessions - (1) I have not read the whole Freeh report; (2) I did not read all of each of the articles that landed on my Facebook page, either.  The reason for #1 is that I don't have much time to sit still reading anything of any length that can be found on a computer.  If I have it in print or on my ipad to read on the subway that is a different story.  As for #2, I just couldn't get through the poorly written drivel.  I would start, then something would piss me off, and I'd have to stop.  Maybe there were some good points buried in there somewhere under the self-pitying muck, but I just could not stick with the articles long enought to find them. 

Look - I trust the Freeh report did a solid job, because that seems to be what he does.  Also, let's face it - football is a sacred ritual in central PA, and Penn State is the grand temple. When I used to visit my aged father during football season, my first step was to consult the schedule and plan visits during away games.  Otherwise the traffic was murder, not to mention that doing one of my dad's favorite activities - going out to dinner someplace - was impossible.  Traffic going back east on Sunday morning was heavy, and crazy; I mean, I live in NYC - why would I want to subject myself to high-speed stupidity during a home visit?  No thanks.  Basically, if you were not a Penn State football booster, you did not belong there, at least from about September until January (that would include me).

The emails uncovered in the Freeh report make clear what many of us already knew.  They covered for the guy.  They did.  They covered for him because reporting him would have been bad for The Program.   It's not just the university that depends financially on the football program, the entire area - restaurants, hotels, bed-and-breakfasts, and ancillary businesses in that tiny town have profited enormously from Penn State football.  So some poor kids got thrown under the bus.  Everyone else was making a profit, engaging in Lions' Pride.  How many times have any of us, especially women, when victimized, been asked to not say anything?  He has a family.  He'll lose his job.  (Or you'll lose yours.)  It's not so bad.  You'll get over it.

Did other people cover besides St. Joe?  Yes.  Lots.  That the family is now hiring people to conduct their own investigation is, to me, yet more evidence of hubris.  Don't like the results?  Buy some new ones.  Keep going until someone tells you what you want to hear.  And for the one apologist in an online article who said these sorts of crimes take place "everywhere" [so what's the big deal about this time?]  I say, yeah - that's right.  That's why Joe P. should not get a pass.  No one should.

Missing out on the principle

The wife of one of my students came by the other day.  She is friends with the student who provides space for us, and she was seeking some advice from him on a project she was working on.  We spoke casually for a few minutes, since I know her, and I have not seen either her or her husband for some time.

Her husband was my first student in my new enterprise, after I left my old place.  He had joined the old place because of me, and when I left, he was the only one who went with me, as opposed to quitting outright or staying behind.  He helped me land rental space for a new class; he also connected me to the community college program where I am still able to teach each week.  In a way, I owe him for helping me redo my act for what I am doing now.

But all along it seems there was a trade-off involved, which I was not totally aware of.  It turned out the ulterior motive was that he wanted to study the particular style that was the cause of the rift with my old place, and which I have at least temporarily shelved in favor of stuff I find less politically fraught to teach.  There were hints, of course, that he preferred one style over another, and I knew that.  Still, when I asked him directly, he said he was happy to do anything, but he hoped that eventually I would return to the other style.  In truth, at least until the end of 2011, I also thought that might be a possibility.  Events at the end of the year, though, convinced me that there was not much to be gained by continuing, and by "gained," I mean in terms of maintaining some respect in the ryuha and providing a fair shot for my students who wanted to study.  It's very difficult to accomplish those two modest goals when a number of people are actively working against those interests and when the teacher is indifferent, to put it rather mildly.  It does take me a little while to see the handwriting on the wall sometimes, but once I see it, I never look back.

During one of our last conversations, I offered this person some alternate paths to training in that particular style - (1) to train with the group who kicked me out, since they were still offering the style he was interested in; or (2) to go to a dojo in New Jersey where the main branch of the style was being offered, quite unaffiliated with the offshoot branch, but very similar in technique.  I had also suggested several times that if he would like to arrange a mutually convenient time and place, I would be willing to work with him, even though I do not consider it part of my curriculum at this point.  (Considering everything, this was meeting him more than halfway, I think.)  I told him that I was not kicking him out in any way, and he would always be welcome in my dojo whatever he decided.   

But, for whatever reason, he has not come back to okeiko.  Last I asked him about it, he said he had obligations on my teaching evenings in the form of networking seminars and other things that were keeping him away.  Getting space for a semi-private workout was a complete nonstarter, since the subject never came up again.

Leave it to his blunt-spoken wife to make everything clear: he would not come to okeiko because I was not teaching what he wanted to learn; and, as for free time, he had taken up dragon boat racing so he was not available to do anything else.  Mystery solved.

Years ago Otani Sensei mentioned something to me that has guided my practice for a long time: "Once you know the principle, the technique doesn't matter."  In fact, this idea had guided my practice even before he articulated it.  When I was training, we did whatever Sensei or the sempai on deck wanted to teach, whether it was empty-hand techniques, jodo, kenjutsu or some weird, obscure stuff that the sempai had picked up at a seminar and that no one (including the sempai) would remember by the following week.  No one complained.  No one.  We were just so grateful to be there, doing cool stuff every week (or even boring, repetitive stuff) that we didn't care; or if we did, we kept quiet.  We were not allowed to complain, or be picky.  If we did not like what was being taught, it was understood that we were free to look elsewhere, and Sensei was the best game in town.  And with experience and observation, it has become clearer and clearer to me that there is a principle, and it is always there.  Once I discovered it, I began to see it everywhere.  I can't say I see it all that clearly even yet, but I know it's there.

Perhaps it's that the internet has opened up so many possibilities for practice, we now feel as though we know what we are missing, and since everyone seems to have less free time than ever (leaving out the dragon boat practice schedule), people have become fussy and very specific about what they want to study.  "I want to learn this, and not that."  As one of my other students put it lately, "It's like going into a math class and saying 'I want to learn math, but I want to use this book, because this is what works for me.'  It doesn't make sense."

Not only that, but you can't learn the principle if you don't know it exists.

Kumidachi

Last night, we were working on kumidachi, in preparation for a demo/lecture that is coming up in a few weeks.  Two people are going to assist, and since one of them was at practice last night, it seemed appropriate to start working on what we would be doing later on.  In addition, we had a new student.  I like this guy - he's polite and funny and seems to have the budo/life balance thing taken care of - at least for now.  Unfortunately for him, he is always being pushed into more advanced techniques, because he frequently comes a bit late to okeiko, and also, at the moment, I have no advanced students available to work with him separately.  What we do lately, we all do together.  But, he has good ma and a fairly good memory, and good humor: When I apologized at one point for once again pushing him into something he was really not ready for yet, he said he was happy with whatever we did.  Reminds me of myself, in a way.

Kumidachi is paired kata practice, and "tachi" refers to "sword."  Proper execution means good timing, good technique and a good sense of concentration.  Theoretically, kumidachi is supposed to be done only by senior students, as it is considered too complicated for beginners, as well as dangerous generally for people not totally familiar with the timing of paired kata of attack and defense. However, we always did a lot of kumidachi compared to other groups, and I started these forms at the beginning of my training.  Moreover, from a demo standpoint, it's good to be able to do either bunkai or kumidachi for an audience.  Last year, I did this lecture/demo thing by myself, and I had to use a camp counselor as an uke.  The crowd loved it, but he was scared, and I was concerned.  We were lucky, I think.  This year I have a couple of assistants, since I don't believe in ever-continuing luck.

The forms we are working on were designed by my teacher, derived from an amalgam of established styles, and probably including some ideas of his own.  One of the old sempai wrote them down, and then arranged them (almost as brilliantly) to build on each other, for the most part.  By my personal reckoning, I believe we are the only people who still practice them; which makes them doubly important to me.   

And they are not run-of-the-mill kata, either, but a series of mind- and gut-stretching chess moves.  In some cases, the uchidachi (attacker) can decide whether to initiate an attack on either the right or the left, and the response by the shidachi (defender) has to change depending on the attacker's choice.  In others, the defender can make the choice of right or left for the counter, but picking one or the other increases or decreases the distance to the opponent.  Kata that have built-in variations - they are similar to, but at the same time nothing like, kumidachi I have encountered in other styles.

The difference is in my two students - one has a couple of years of training, and the other a beginner at iai, but with years of jujutsu training behind him.  Of the two people, of course the newbie is more scary.  While the more experienced student, for reasons known mostly to him, has trouble remembering the handful of forms we have worked on so far, after a review he can reliably perform the kata.  The other person's timing is totally unpredictable.  In particular, when he is the uchidachi, he likes to hang in the opening kamae, whatever it might be, for several very long seconds before attacking, while he reviews the kata in his head before moving. 

Of course, it is unwise to do any such thing in reality.  Kamae are positions from which one is supposed to do something, not wait.  But since he is a beginner, I let him have his hang time, while at the same time reminding the more experienced student he had better not pick up the same habit.

So I decided to be his partner, partly to spare the other guy the fear of the unknown, and partly to see if I could handle the waiting game.  Nerve-wracking, and exhilarating.  And I did not get much sleep later for thinking about the whole experience.  Now THAT'S a good practice!

This year's summer silliness

An update to this post - this week the NYT posted a story about an unfortunate young woman who fell down a set of stairs at an apartment building, hit her head, and died.  The investigation is ongoing, but cops are in part blaming - her high-heeled shoes.  'Nuff said.

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We remember last year's weird sartorial choice - the band-aid dress.  This year's is meant, I think to accompany it - the sky-high heel shoe.  Like the band-aid dress, these personal skyscrapers have been around, but, since I saw two pairs in the span of one block today at lunch time, perhaps they are "having a moment," as they say.

To be honest, they are sort of cool-looking, the way sculpture is cool-looking.  But the thing about sculpture is that, while beautiful or interesting or thought-provoking, we are not intended to wear it.  I suppose it is one thing to wear stilts while relaxing at a restaurant, or padding around the soft, carpeted floor of an office in Midtown, but just try to stand for any length of time, let alone try to walk in them.  There's a reason the concrete jungle is packed in with flat-wearing office workers and tourists.  As cool as they look, like any artwork, the sky-high heels are not wearable. 

A woman in sky-high heels is basically asking for trouble.  We are probably about 3 months away from some tv news story in which special-guest doctors declaim the number of injuries from wearing 7-inch heels.  Once the doctor story hits, we all know the trend is on its way out.  Allow me to be cynical - when the market starts to dip for these items, the stories about how they are not good for you anyway start to come out, followed by some new trend women are supposed to throw their discretionary cash at. 

Actually, in a world-weary way, I am looking forward to whatever comes next.  Midriff-baring tops were followed by the "muffin top" critiques on the morning shows.  Honestly, I thought I heard some sigh of relief from the fashionistas as that trend happily receded into the sunset (I sighed too, and I never, ever wore one).  Now band-aid dresses are having their moment, held over from last year.  I can't wait for this one to go away.  On Saturday, in the 90-plus degree heat, I encountered an enormous - let's just say person - in a band-aid dress that barely covered her(?) butt, double-D (or E?) cups, very long fingernails and a fabulous updo.  S(H)e was easily 6'5", and was walking a teeny-tiny dog on a fancy leash.  We met at the pet store (yes).  If I was more brazen with my cell phone camera, I would have used it.  Also, the pet store lady was a Zen master for not bursting out laughing.  Only in New York.  But if anyone is ambivalent about why getting rid of this trend would be a public service, next time I'll get proof. 

And of course, the heels (even our friend in the previous paragraph had the smarts to wear bejeweled, but flat, sandals - really, really big ones).  I saw an article in the NYT a few weeks ago about some shoe designer who had opened a gallery-type store to showcase his (why is it always his?) skyheel creations.  The writer noted that some of the shoes were priced in the "low four figures", but that people were actually buying them, in spite of the economy.   Make that women - women were actually buying them. 

Which brings us to the conundrum.  My mother would have said that women have the right to wear whatever they want, enhance themselves surgically this way and that, and are entitled to inflict every notion of bad taste on a public that just wants to go about its business free from visual assault.  My counter in these discussions was to try to figure out what it was about us as a society that insisted on requiring that women maim themselves with the idea that it would make them more attractive - I guess - to men.  Given that I have never even plucked my eyebrows and never seemed to lack for male attention, I never understood it.  Men who were attracted to me often said I seemed friendly and approachable.  The band-aid dress as armor - who knew? 

Of course, we are not the only time or place to insist on maiming - China had foot binding; European and American fashions once mandated corsets so tight and stiff they deformed women's figures and messed up their internal organs.  The problem became so bad, an actual movement for women's dress reform took shape (haha), and the graceful fashions of the early 1910's -20's were the result. 

Maybe we need Dress Reform II.  Or at least shoe reform.  As much as I hated the flipflop (flipflop, flipflop, flipflop) trend, it was preferable (gasp) to this one.  Please, climb down off your shoes before you hurt yourself.