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.
A really good question. I tend to believe that training in a dojo filled with senior members of the ryuha is what's important. Having said that, as far as I can tell, the only way to find that atmosphere right now is by going to Japan. It's a matter of all the little things that you pick up by training in such an experience rich atmosphere. You learn things about how to behave and carry yourself without them being actively taught. You just breath them in with the air of the dojo.
ReplyDeleteI'm trying to teach koryu to a group of students in Michigan, and it's really difficult to get some things across. I'm hoping that we can all visit Japan occasionally for a little immersion training. I think this will go a long way, because I can point out things for them that they only can see modeled by me or a senior practitioner who comes to visit. Seeing a whole dojo filled with people who know how to act and carry themselves will do a much better job of teaching these things than I can ever do on my own.
My goal is to eventually have a dojo filled with students who have been training for decades and have absorbed the lessons by visiting Japan many times, seeing for themselves what it means to carry budo within you all the time. If such a dojo can be created, then I will say you don't have to go to Japan to learn koryu. It's just that I've never seen a dojo like this outside of Japan.