A Surfeit of Senseis

"What should I write? Sensei? Shihan? Kyoshi?" The woman, whose own name badge said "kyoshi," did not have even the remotest hint of irony in her voice. I replied that just my name was fine, though I added, sympathetically, that some people would have been offended had she not asked the question. "You got that right," she said.

For the past two years, I have been invited to an end-of-the-year party (though no one calls it that) by a long-ago student of my teacher. This gentleman is 71 years old, still built like a tank, and, in some U.S. martial art circles, is still famous, or at least well-known. He is a larger-than-life figure, and if he is not automatically the center of attention, he will find a way to become one, even if it's just announcing new arrivals in a very loud voice.

We all wore name tags, even though I believe I was perhaps the lone exception in knowing practically no one except the teacher, his wife (the "kyoshi" who welcomed me) and a couple of people I had also seen last year. For everyone else it was old home week - mostly an older crowd of mostly guys in their 60's, 70's and beyond - a reunion of survivors from the U.S. martial arts boom of the 1960's and '70's. Everyone, their students included, was a "sensei," a "kyoshi" or a "shihan." There was even a 30-something "sifu" present.

For me, a traditional, koryu-trained budoka, the party was a chance to wander, more or less obscurely, in a world that constitutes the other side of martial arts here - guys who trained in the "early days" in what was understood at the time as "martial arts." Their teachers were vets who were stationed briefly in Japan or Okinawa, or, in the case of our host, who trained (however briefly) with my teacher, the rare Japanese immigrant. In every case, their sense of Americanism allowed them to take whatever traditional training they may have received and transform it into something few traditional teachers of budo would recognize. Very often they had good reason - New York City in that era was a very different place. Our host had spent time working in nightclubs in Harlem as a bouncer in his youth, defending himself and patrons against every weapon imaginable, and doing it successfully. Many of the other attendees could tell similar stories. Some fought gangs. Some fought in gangs. One younger (60's) gentleman recalled that he started karate as a boy, before there were youth divisions (or protective equipment). He told stories about himself as a 13-year-old, pitted against full grown men, in the days before formal tournaments, when people went from school to school to spar. A number of them despaired of modern parents who object to their kids sparring even with equipment nowadays, worried that junior might suffer hurt, or, worse, be beaten in a match.

And everywhere I turned, there was someone who studied "iaido." I have seen my sempai-host's version of what he had learned from my teacher - a small amount of traditional kata combined with plain old badass showmanship from every samurai movie ever made. Crowds love it. I wondered what the others had done or were doing. Then I asked myself if I really wanted to know.

It's easy to be a koryu snob when faced a crowd like this (though, if you want to make it out alive, better to not say anything while there). Their lack of education generally, but about Japanese culture in particular, the inflated titles (I felt very humbled to be surrounded by so many "kyoshi" and "shihan") can provide ample fuel for a whole year's worth of snark on the web (which is a lot of snark). Except for one thing - that they all love budo - even if it's their own version of it. I kept hearing two things over and over again - that it's important to preserve budo for future generations, because it had given them so much, and for which they were so grateful to their teachers - my teacher included. And that it wasn't about fighting and being badass (in spite of the war stories), it was about character and self-discipline and commitment - the commitment to becoming a better person than you are. And then trying to do the same for your students in turn.

My teacher once said about this sempai that he had a good heart, in spite of the seeming-bombast. He said I should always treat him with respect whenever I encounter him. Those are the reasons I have accepted his invitations for the past two years. That, and it's one of the best shows in town!

Demos part 2 - A Demo is not a class

So, as I was saying, about demos...

I have a background in performing arts. In Western theatre, I have acted, directed, stage managed and designed. As a company stage manager, I ran a summer theatre for 12 very long weeks - everything from rehearsal schedules, car schedules, housekeeping, and - oh, yeah - calling the light and sound cues for shows at night and herding actors around on stage and off. As a director, I had the responsibility of interpreting for the audience what a given play was about. Since practically all plays are capable of endless interpretation (look at the terrible things people have done to poor Shakespeare!), it is up to the director to pick some ideas that work and present them clearly to the audience. When it works, even those who don't like your interpretation will at least respect your choices. If it doesn't work, well, look out. The audience votes with its feet; then there's the critics...

At the demo a couple of weeks ago, several teachers who presented chose not so much to give a demonstration as to teach a class. One teacher who was not satisfied with several of his students' phrase d'armes had them do their kihon waza again (and again). Another spent 10 minutes of his 20-minute time slot having his students do their warm-up exercises. In both cases, I had to call time before either teacher got to the heart of his presentation. This was too bad on many fronts - the teachers did not get to show what they really did in their respective dojo, the students did not really get to show what they knew, and the audience - well, the audience was very patient.

As I thought about these performances later on, I realized that, even though the teachers are competent and talented at teaching, they did not have the theatrical sense to arrange a proper demo that would inform the audience and keep things interesting. All they knew how to do was teach, and so they did. Of course, this was not the first time I had ever seen a class-as-demo, but this time around, it got me thinking about how to resolve the dilemma. As a former director, I was wondering if there was something I could say that would benefit everyone while still being respectful of the different practices involved. I also have to add that directors are famously tactless; some even think that being disrespectful makes them more effective, an idea I thoroughly disagree with. At the same time, I understand the reason for being assertive - otherwise people are unlikely to do what you ask. It's bad enough working with some egocentric actors. Throw some egocentric senior martial arts teachers into the mix and tact becomes really important.

Therefore (even though I know that not many people who arrange demos will read this), I am providing the Ronin/Rogue Scholar's Guide to Successful Demo Planning.

1. The first thing every director needs is a "through line." The through line is what you want your presentation to be about. In the case of most martial arts demos, it's to present, in a confined place and time, the best possible picture of what you do at your dojo. The through line does not have to be confined to simply showing the style(s) being practiced, it can pull in another unifying idea - use of space, maybe, or a historical reference. However, since, in the U.S., your demo is not likely to be much like anyone else's, simply showing what you practice is a great start.

2. Create the performance. Decide what you want to show. For many groups, you would want to show beginner, intermediate and advanced forms or techniques. Keep it simple and do exactly that. Show your primary practice first, and if you have an auxiliary practice, show it in the second half. Very important - stick to the time allotted. As a teacher, you know how long each thing takes. Make a list with the number of minutes for each kata or technique. CUT if you have too much (do those techniques some other time). Make an outline and give copies to everyone so they know what they will be doing when. Then stick to it.

3. Pick your "cast members". My general rule has been that anyone who has practiced for 6 months or more can take part in at least the beginner techniques. Get commitments from your students that they must be available on the day you need them. If they can't commit, tell them you will ask them another time.

4. Arrange your demo - decide which students will do what. In my experience, beginners do much better in a group. Group kata looks really cool. Put a couple of seniors in the front to lead the others. Senior students have more leeway in deciding what to do for their parts, but get them to commit to doing whatever they are going to perform. Don't let them change at the last minute because they just learned something really cool in class and want to show everyone. Get used to saying, "Next time." Consider assigning someone (you or someone else) to be the emcee who introduces students, gives the name of kata or techniques, and explains what is happening when necessary. A bonus to this approach is that an explanation of a kata for an audience can jar a nervous student's memory and keep her on track. However, don't rely on totally off-the-cuff remarks. At the very least, the emcee should be able to work their way through the outline. I wrote scripts for years - it's tedious, but if someone else has to sub as emcee at the last minute, at least he would have something to go on. And you can use a script (or parts of it) over and over again. Try to balance what is being shown among the people taking part. I have been to demos that might as well have been subtitled All About The Teacher. As the teacher, everyone knows you are supposed to know what you're doing; what they want to know is how well your students are able to show what they are learning from you.

5. Rehearse. I usually work with people starting about a month in advance. To keep things interesting, I involve everyone in the dojo in practicing the techniques that will be done at the demo. Beginners might get a chance to stretch a little, and more senior students keep reviewing basics - all of which is good. I have learned to include things like how to walk into the performance space, how to bow properly in front of an audience, etc. This is all good manners anyway, and it gives you a chance to tighten up etiquette a little, which is never a bad thing. This past spring, we ended up doing a whole series of demos over the course of about 3-4 weeks. As a result, since the locations were different for each one (and hence each audience was different), we did the same beginner/intermediate techniques, with only the senior students allowed to make decisions to try some variations (within reason). It was nice for me as a teacher to watch students get more and more comfortable with each performance.

6. Be prepared - the performance day is almost never what you expect. What if it rains, when you are performing outdoors? What if one of your senior students gets hopelessly stuck in traffic? The outline of the demo will help you decide what to cut if necessary, or if someone else can take over a given student's role. To make this easier, *never* tell people to show up just before your scheduled time. At the very latest, they should follow the theatrical rule of showing up 1/2 hour before the event begins. Yes, they may end up having to watch others' performances, but then, they might learn something, too. Being ready at the start of an event might save the organizer's butt if someone cancels at the last minute - it never hurts to be the savior in those circumstances.

7. And lastly, relax and have fun. Stuff *will* happen. I have heard many "war stories" from seasoned budoka about some unexpected thing or other happening at a demo. One very high-ranking iaidoka once told me he was taking part in a televised demo in Tokyo. When he put his sword in his obi, he accidentally caught the saya in his hakama - on national TV. He had no choice, of course, but to fix the problem and go on. He survived. And the moral of the story was: even the most senior budoka are not immune to chance. How you handle chance is what makes you a senior budoka.

8. Assess your performance. After the demo, review what worked and what didn't. Keep those lessons in mind for the next time.

Demos are not just an opportunity to show an audience what you do. It is also an opportunity to perform under pressure. Let's face it - we don't go into combat with swords and sticks anymore. By performing in demos, we get to adapt to conditions that change every time - a great opportunity to find out what you really know. Even though I have been doing this for over 25 years, I am always excited by performing a demo. What will happen this time? How will we do? The results may be mixed, but there's always next time to look forward to.

On demos - part 1 - Revealing the heart

So a good friend and fellow budoka came to NYC for a weekend of training. I have not seen him for nearly two years, though we have communicated during that whole time. We had a GREAT weekend of practice, visiting and recreation.

The sponsor of my Thursday night space decided at some point a few weeks earlier that he wanted to have a "Samurai Night" enbu for the Saturday my colleague was in town. This idea came out of practically nowhere, and the time for planning was very tight. But what the heck. We decided to go for it, and invited some budo teachers to demonstrate at a nouveau coffee house not far from our practice space. Due to the modern miracle of social media, we ended up with about 40 people in the audience(!), along with the members of the various groups taking part.

A word about enbu - in Japan, enbu are prestigious. Usually, a teacher and his very top students are the ones who take part, though there are exceptions. I know one prominent teacher who, if he is doing an enbu in the context of a gasshuku (training seminar), will drag out virtually everyone to show what they know, no matter how well they might know it! The audience, however, is generally of the friends-and-family sort, making the stakes relatively low. However, for high-level, invitation-only enbu the idea is to put only one's best students out there for public viewing. There are excellent reasons for this, of course, besides just skill level. Enbu performers must be flexible, especially if they are walking into a space for the first time. Perhaps some of the techniques they planned for aren't feasible; in which case the students have to be capable of adjusting or changing what they are doing. Students also have to be calm and collected and sure of their technique so as not to be rattled by the stress of performing for an audience. For really haute enbu, the audience may include special guests and dignitaries, so being cool in front of such an audience is essential.

Most importantly, performing in an enbu as a senior student marks one as a bearer of the teacher's faith -the student gets the honor of representing the dojo and his teacher, and the teacher's reputation rests on how well the student performs. Personally, I would find this supremely stressful. Happily, for all the years I have put in to budo, I am not really at a level comparable to my sempai in Japan, so performing in a high-level enbu can comfortably remain an aspiration, maybe forever (but that's ok).

In the US, however, demos can be all over the map. Who performs and what they do can say a lot about the practices at various dojo. Without getting too specific, I would like to analyze some of the performers from last week and try to draw some correlations between what they showed us and what it said about their practices.

Here, in part 1, I can start with my own choices. This is how I handled this particular event.

Of course, I want my most senior students to be present. My group has been very small, but I did have two people who qualified, turned out and I thought did quite well. Both of them, though they have been with me for at least two years but not more than five (which makes them still *very beginners* in the koryu budo world). However, they both have experience in other styles and were therefore aware of what was expected.

Like a lot of US dojo, I have only a couple of senior students and many more beginners. Since we had so little time to prepare, the beginners did not take part, since none of the current crop have been around long enough to perform even simple techniques effectively. I have seen students fumble through demos where they are not confident. I don't know what is going through instructors' heads that they think this is a good idea. I have never seen anyone get hurt, happily, but I doubt the fumblers were enjoying themselves. As an audience member, I can say that watching someone fumble to sheathe a sword is a very unnerving sight.

What I never want, though, is for people who studied for a few years and then drifted away to drift back when they hear there is a demo. So I made it clear that the demo performers had to have been in attendance regularly for the preceding three months. In fact, I find it incredible that there are students who will reappear for a turn in the spotlight, but it does happen. I have had people show up in the weeks before a demo whom I have not seen for some time. Maybe they don't find it obvious that they have shown up because they are stage-struck hams, but I actually do notice. I do. I have let them perform on occasion, but not this time.

Former students showing up to show off does not just happen here in the US. Many years ago I happened to be practicing at a dojo in Tokyo for six months, which was to be featured on a local TV show. People I had never met, even though I had come to every practice for months, showed up for the taping. The teacher took everything in stride, I think mostly because we were just background. It was really the teacher and daisempai who got all the screen time (and who had prepared for months in advance).

At one point, when I was at the old place, the sempai (my teacher was on a leave of absence) would perform demos that included things we no longer practiced regularly (like kendo, and not very well). At the same time, some of the things we were actually practicing were not represented at all. I felt this was misleading the audience, since anyone who felt tempted to actually show up for training would find out that we didn't actually teach some of the techniques they had seen. When I got to the point of seniority where I could have some influence, I asked that we please only show the techniques we were actually doing. It worked, but the penalty was that I got to be organizer of demos from then on. But that was ok. I set about having beginners do beginner techniques, which they could do well. The sempai had more latitude in what they wanted to prepare (in fact, this was how I learned the okuden forms - I volunteered to perform them, and then spent months preparing three or four at a time. Over several years, I got through the whole set, though I wish I was better at them). Generally speaking, though some of the kata and kihon were obscure, at least everything had the potential to be seen in a random okeiko. And since we did more than just solo sword kata, we still had a lot of variety to offer an audience.

Last week, since we had our guest instructor with us, we were able to put together enough material to make a good, competent demo within the time limit (and it's much better to run a little under the time allotment than over it). Once the audience was assembled, the space turned out to be smaller than we thought (never a good thing), but since the performers were more senior people, everyone was able to adapt without too much trouble.

My teacher had this habit of looking at us as though he could see right into us. This was disconcerting, especially to beginners (some of whom could not take that kind of scrutiny, and quit). To him, it was the essence of what our practice was about. Anyone can learn to wield a sword and hurt someone. There are, in fact, modern sword styles that emphasize exactly that. But that was not my teacher's way. To him, the practice should reflect what is in the heart. I want our demos reflect not only what we do physically, but to show (to the extent possible) that inner sense of what we do. It's certainly not for everyone, and it can't be accomplished by only showing up for a few weeks around Sakura Matsuri time. Not everyone in the audience gets it, either. But among those who do, the reaction is usually something like: "That was beautiful."

The sound of thumps and laughter

Once a week I train with a colleague in New Jersey. We divide the time between his teaching me a style of iai that he does, and I teach what I do. We have a lot of fun and learn a lot, and in between we swap lore and stories.

The class starts at 9:00pm, a time when most people are settling down to a news analysis program or two, having cleared up from dinner. Most people, I expect, at that hour, are more or less winding down from the day. 9:00pm sounds like a crazy time to start a practice session, but for me, it's perfect: come home, do something about dinner, maybe a chore or two, jump in the car around 8:00pm - a little early for the start time, but I like to allow for traffic, etc.

I get there generally around 8:30-8:40, so I get to watch the end of the Daito ryu class. Daito ryu is one of the forerunners of aikido, a form of grappling that is highly effective with minimal effort. (Theoretically, at least. This is a beginners' class, and the newbies put much more effort into it than they need to, but I digress.) The Daito class takes up about 1/2 of the floor, while usually a karate class is taking place on the other half at the same time. The teacher spends most of his time with the Daito group, but steps in to correct the karate group from time to time (did I mention this guy is multi-talented?).

Anyway, the other night I came in and crossed the floor to the rest room to change my clothes. From the other side of the closed door I could hear the predictable thump of bodies hitting the mat, whether from the karate class practicing disarms or the Daito class unbalancing people. And I heard a great deal of something else - laughter. Laughter - from the instructor making a point with some sort of witty aphorism, or someone making a silly mistake, or (usually) some combination of both. Both of these groups are necessarily small, to be able to use the same space at the same time, but they are also harmonious - they enjoy each other's company and their practice time together.

Some time ago, I wrote about how the students in a dojo reflect the teacher - if the teacher is a clod or thug, the students will reflect that. If the teacher is sneaky, plays favorites and likes to manipulate people, ditto. If s/he entertains a fantasy about being a modern warrior out of some anime comic, yes, the students will share it. On the other hand, if the teacher is open and generous, very often the students will be the same (though not always; unfortunately, opportunists can find fertile ground for disruption in an open-hearted dojo, but not if the teacher is vigilant). Another colleague I spoke with recently agreed - "You should have a good time at practice. Beware of the places where everyone is deadly serious all the time. If the students aren't having a good time, there's a problem there."

This does not mean that the teacher is ignoring the discipline of practice. Frequently my colleague will use some gentle (or not so-gentle) humor to bring his Daito or karate students, whose technique practice has drifted "off topic" - whether from long-winded explanations by the sempai or too much repetition of the setup to a technique - back down to earth with a deceptively simple takedown or disarm. People laugh, but they get the point. They refocus their attention and the work goes on.

I totally enjoy these late-night practices, even though I get home some time just short of midnight, with an early morning work call the next day. Sometimes I've had so much fun I can't sleep. Sometimes I can't sleep because I am reviewing the techniques I've just learned in my head, something I have not done since I was a raw beginner. And I try to bring that sense of gentle humor to the classes that I teach the next day. My late night workouts aren't just improving my technique, they're improving ME.

Rank and competence

Every now and then I hear stories of some 10th dan teacher of such-and-such martial art who apparently doesn't know what s/he's talking about. Or about a high-ranked teacher or self-appointed "shihan" who is teaching iai but cannot sit in seiza, etc. And it makes me wonder about ranking systems generally, and what they are for (and what they are not for).

A very long time ago, I was involved in a very traditional iaijutsu style. Among the students was an older American who had some movement issues. I was at the honbu dojo for a seminar and ranking exam to be administered by the fuku-soke of the style, who had come for his annual visit from Japan. At one point, the American shihan noted to me (apropos of nothing in particular, except that in those good ole buddy-buddy days we used to share a lot of teaching lore) that the movement-challenged student would be allowed to test during this round, but that the fuku-soke had advised him to tell the student that he would not be allowed to test for any higher rank - ever. I thought this was a little harsh, but I was intrigued by the reasoning: "Fuku-soke feels that in order to attain higher rank than sandan, one needs to be able to do all of the techniques, and be able to teach them to others." Someone who had trouble sitting in seiza, or tatehiza, for example, or who struggled to get up and down from the floor, would be excluded from higher ranks because he would not be able to pass on the techniques of the style to others. The object was not exactly to encourage the student to quit (though he could make his own decision about that) but to advise him that, if higher rank was in his plans for this art form, he should instead pick something less physically challenging to train in. And the corollary seemed to be that the American shihan would be wasting his time trying to teach him techniques he would not be able to master.

By my next visit, the senior gentleman was no longer practicing the art form. I never asked, but I always wondered what that conversation was like. Did the American shihan (not known for tact, by the way), simply tell the student he was not eligible for higher rank, due to his physical limitations, while offering to still train him to the best of his ability, or did he more strongly suggest he not train any longer, period?

I don't know the rest of the story, but it does raise some interesting issues. The sympathetic part of me feels that the American shihan should not have discouraged the student, even as he had to deliver what many competitive-type Americans would consider bad news. After all, if he really loved the style, why not keep going, even if progress would be limited? On the other hand, I have been to seminars where the senior American teacher could not do all of the techniques of the ryuha commensurate with his rank. In one or two cases, it could have been said that the senior on the floor was INcompetent, relying on his students to illustrate his points. In one case, the instructor was muddling through because his students were not even well-taught enough themselves to know (I didn't go to another seminar there - live and learn).

Occasionally, one of these dinosaur-types raises his head on one forum or another, and other members of the American budo community tend to be somewhat derisive, let's say. They have a point, as do organizations, such as the Kokusai Budoin, who insist that higher-ranked members must be able to teach all the techniques of the style wherein they have senior rank (the American shihan that I knew was just making that point abundantly clearly). In Japan, I know that, every now and then, a senior person will actually retire in favor of someone younger and more technically able to teach, but not always. Of the older Japanese teachers that I know, they are, even in their 80s, still able to kick butt, even if they do it more slowly; and they have a legion of senior students and a couple of menkyo kaiden who can fill in any gaps. Their students speak for them; additionally, when it comes to the wisdom behind a particular technique or kata, no one can match these shihan. Even the menkyo-tachi still ask questions seeking better insight into the techniques. I would never say these older gentlemen are incompetent. There is more to techniques than just technique.

This leaves aside the whole question of honorary rank. Honorary rankings are just that - honorary. I look at this as being somewhat similar (though I think more common) to honorary Ph.D's for commencement speakers. No one expects Julia Roberts or Barbara Bush to begin teaching seminars the following semester - their degrees are simply honors and not indicators of ability. Why then do Americans (I am limiting the discussion to my experience) in budo tout their honorary dan rankings as measures of competence? I am not just talking about the occasional honorary rankings from a Japanese shihan, but the ones conferred by organizations where one gets a certificate of rank by paying a membership fee. Is caveat emptor all we have, then?

Unlike Japan, a small country with a fairly close koryu budo culture where many people know of each other even if they don't know each other personally, American budo is like the Wild West (as we are in some other ways, still). In this case, caveat emptor is indeed all we have. I'd like to be able to say I have some sort of magic formula for being able to tell the difference, but I can't. But I can say that the proof is in the doing. Can the instructor answer questions? Can he show the techniques, or does he rely on someone else? Do his senior students seem tentative or unsure, or competent and knowledgeable? Is there a senior student who clearly seems to be in charge, even when the instructor is present?

And then there's this - some years ago, I visited a seminar where the senior instructor was actually sitting off the floor, apparently napping while activity was taking place all around him. Somehow I didn't think this one was worthwhile, so I didn't sign up.

Make some noise

I don't write about my day job for a host of very good reasons. Nevertheless, I can say that this was a tough week - between demanding bosses and the occasional whiney co-worker, by the time Thursday night rolled around, I was real tired of it all.

During jodo class, we began with the first set of kata, and worked from the familiar to the strange - er - less familiar. I should point out that our jodo class is a workshop - we are all beginners, pretty much, and we practice together because we have to - the only way to learn jodo is to learn it together.

I have been struggling with one kata in particular that requires a big hikiotoshi strike to the opponent's bokuto at just the right moment. I learned this kata years ago; but have rarely, if ever, gotten this strike to work correctly. Even though we practice hikiotoshi uchi every week, my strike at this point of the kata, whether because of distance, timing, attitude, opponent's position, my position or some combination of all these, is frequently weak and barely effective.

But not last night! As I went through this kata with my training partner (a much bigger person than me) I let out a sharp kiai and whacked his bokuto with a surprisingly focused strike. Ha. Just like that. I saw his hands curl back to his right, just like they were supposed to. And they curled back that way because they had to, not because the kata called for it. Shazam, I thought. Could I do it again? Yes, I could! I did not feel as though I had put more effort into the strike at all - it just seemed to work better. A bad day, a kiai, and a focused strike.

Recently an article in the NY Times outlined an experiment designed to see if creating music would improve people's workout results. I found this amusing, considering that there are work songs from virtually every culture that have been around for centuries, at least. But this is science. The researchers rigged up some workout machines to generate music while subjects used them. The control group just listened to the same music playing in the background as the kind of soundtrack often heard at the gym.

When they analyzed the results, they found that the subjects who had used the music-generating machines not only had a better workout, they had a more efficient one - they used less oxygen to produce similar results. They also reported less fatigue, even though their workout levels were as good or better than their baselines, done on the same machines without being able to generate sounds.

I thought about this article on the way home last night and wondered if my kiai, in focusing my strike, had made it better. Not just the expulsion of breath, but the creation of the sound. Many years ago, I remember (vaguely) a meditation teacher claiming that generating certain sounds was supposed to create certain states of mind (though, if I am recalling correctly, one didn't need to sing - he said rich people would hire musicians to play certain notes at the right time - it just figures). The gym experiment did not include singing as a music-making activity, though it seems to be the logical next step.

Maybe people in the fields singing work songs, or soldiers singing as they march, are not just passing the time, or coordinating their rhythm with others doing similar work - maybe singing makes their work more efficient - that is, they can accomplish more with less effort. In the same way, maybe the sound made in kiai has more to do with focus than just vocalizing an exhalation of breath.

Only one thing to do - test the theory again next week.

In Memory of Shibata Kanjuro XX

Shibata Kanjuro XX died a couple of weeks ago at his home in Boulder, Colorado. The cause was lung trouble, but he was quite old, I am fairly sure, though I am not sure exactly how old he was.

Shibata Sensei taught a branch style of Heki Ryu Bishu Chikurin ha kyudo, and he was a traditional bow-maker (his "XX" title actually related to his bow-making). He taught kyudo in the US and in Europe, chiefly to people who were also affiliated with a sect of Tibetan Buddhism that was established in the US by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche.

I met Shibata Sensei in the mid-90's. One of my iai sempai had taken up kyudo with him, and waxed on about it endlessly in front of our iai teacher (my teacher was eventually rather put out at the constant enthusiasm, attempting to end the conversation by saying, a number of times "Kyudo - that's for girls." It wasn't that sensei was particularly sexist; it was that no traditional teacher likes endlessly hearing about how wonderful someone else's practice is.) Some time after that, this same sempai arranged for a "power lunch" featuring my teacher, Mr. Shibata, and a taiji/meditation teacher we both knew. To be honest, I don't remember much about what happened at the lunch (this was probably around 1996). I just remember that I thought, for a kyudo teacher, Shibata sensei seemed kind of frail. The taiji teacher noticed the same thing; and it turned out that Shibata sensei had esophageal cancer. I don't know if he knew it at the time, or not, but he had successful surgery for it the following year.

At that time, I was writing pretty regularly for the Journal of Asian Martial Arts, a quarterly that, for a while at least, was doing the seemingly impossible by casting an academic lens on various martial art practices. I wrote book reviews and sometimes contributed a more substantial article. My sempai got it into his head that I should interview Shibata sensei for the journal. The journal editor was all for it. However, things stayed that way for some time, as some of Shibata sensei's students were unsure whether it was a good idea or not. Eventually, after some months of negotiating, it was decided that I should take a "first shot" workshop in Silver Spring, Maryland, on Labor Day weekend in 1998. In the context of that practice, my rota (service, in the Buddhist sense) would be to assist sensei one afternoon, and therefore I would have a chance to ask him some questions.

"First shot" was an intensive practice of the "Seven Coordinations," a kihon-based simple setting of the body, nocking the arrow, and loosing the shot at a close-in target. The practice would take all weekend, beginning Friday, culminating in a completed shot by Sunday afternoon or so, followed by Monday morning of more practice before returning to NYC.

The resulting article, which was published in early 2001, was a combination of a description of my first shot experience, a *very* brief history of kyudo and an overview of how it was practiced in the US; and the interview itself. It seemed only logical to include the other information; while there were a few books on kyudo practice published in English at the time, there had never been a kyudo article published in JAMA. Outlining my personal experience seemed like a natural way to draw readers in to the story - I could honestly assume that this was their initiation to kyudo in the same way the actual first shot experience was for me.

After I heard about sensei's death, I dug up my article. I had not read it really since it was published. I noticed a few mistakes, from odd turns of phrase (did I really write that?) to a couple of inaccuracies, but nothing really major. I was fortunate to have the article reviewed before publication by Robert Dohrenwend, who ripped it apart and made me put it back together again, better.

The interview itself is fairly brief - I had forgotten how brief. Sensei was not given to long explanations. It was not just that his English was limited (it was, but the interview was conducted in Japanese) - it was his way. Sensei said (1) the purpose of practicing kyudo was to make your mind clear; (2) modern kyudo placed too much emphasis on competition and not enough on disciplining the mind; and, maybe most importantly to him (3) the purpose of kyudo was to cut away the ego. "My heart is the target," Shibata sensei said. I was so impressed by that thought, I made it the title of the article.

I practiced kyudo, off and on, for more than a year afterward. There were a number of reasons why I stopped; time being one of the important considerations. When I hear about budoka who have dan rankings in multiple disciplines, my first thought is always "how do they have the time?" Koryu budo takes a great deal of time in practice to even begin to do well. Kyudo in particular, with its exacting form, called for a commitment that was more than I could handle, I knew. I also knew my sempai's circumstances made it easier for him to pursue practice than me. One of the other reasons was political. There were two kyudo camps, essentially, and both camps made legitimate claims regarding the other's practice. I waded into that as far as I dared as a researcher; then stopped. One of my colleagues is fond of saying that politics is endemic to humanity - that wherever you find a group of people, you will find divisions based on opinion. She's probably right, but I never cared for it. I only cared about practice, and though I did not know Shibata sensei all that well, the one impression I always got from him was that practicing was the most important thing. Keep you mind clear. Cut to the heart.

Many things have happened since that time. My iai teacher died in 2004. My affiliations and practice changed (and then changed again!). Some of the kyudoka's affiliations changed as well. JAMA fell victim to the rising costs of paper publishing, like a lot of other journals, and there has been virtually nothing to take its place. The world has gone digital - Shibata sensei's warning that mechanical devices cloud the mind has become true beyond his wildest imagination, I am sure. Even in my practice as a budoka, I often find myself preoccupied with practical concerns, or technical points, rather than the most important point - employing my practice to make my mind clear.

It doesn't matter what the practice is. As sensei said, "The heart is the same."

Calling Remington Steele

So, in my daily round of webpage reading, I come across some writer for Slate who is part of a Sheryl Sandberg "Lean In" group. Ick. But, I decided to read this one, because the title has to do with women not articulating their career achievements. In the very brief article (Slate's new web design not only lists when an article was posted, it also lists how long it will take to read each piece. Somehow a 1-2 minute reading time does not impress me that a given article can be worthwhile, but - whatever), the writer tells about how the women in the "Lean In" group watch an instructional video each month (I give Sandberg credit for marketing genius here - that women can't do anything without someone telling them how) and then do exercises designed to help them accomplish whatever the video tells them to do. In any case, in this one, the women are instructed to tell 2-minute stories of their careers. The writer is shocked - shocked! that the women credit everything - happenstance, luck, other people - everything except their own talent and hard work for achieving whatever they have achieved in their careers. She then wonders why this happens.

I hate to admit it, but the article had me thinking about my own accomplishments, and my reluctance to admit them as being something I brought about on my own. Truly, no one (men included) does anything totally on their own - the women in the group are on to something when they discuss factors other than their own personality traits in talking about their accomplishments - the point the article is making is that men are more likely (however erroneously) to credit themselves alone for whatever success they have achieved. It rankles, especially since we, as women, know there had to be others, including a mother, wife (or wives), numerous girlfriends, colleagues, etc. who had a part in making the Successful Man who he is today (I once pointed out to my dad that part of the reason he was able to accomplish his education, aside from his own considerable efforts, was that my mom and his mom helped keep the domestic ship afloat so he could study. He had honestly never thought about it. Of course). Still, to not give yourself any credit at all is equally ridiculous.

But, there's a reason for that. I know, in my various lines of endeavor, that tooting my own horn can have negative consequences as a female. In my job, I can't mention my advanced degree - it overqualifies me big time (though I hear, statistically, that I am not alone, which means a lot of us are sitting here quietly writing erudite blog posts, simply because, in the mid-1990's, the academic job market utterly collapsed). So, as the proverb states, I hide my light under a bushel, so I can make a living.

In my budo life, I have had a similar problem. I once fell afoul of a teacher because I (very gently) pointed out to his American shihan that I had years of teaching experience (more than the American shihan did), and therefore had an opinion that might be worth respecting. I was told in response that I should "learn modesty." I was not being "immodest," I was stating a fact, but it was a fact that should not have been stated, apparently. Before I went entirely independent, I was told in no uncertain terms that I had forgotten "my place." Wherever that place was supposed to be, it was not in the front of the room, however qualified I might have been. My job was to be second, even if the person in first place was not qualified, in the technical sense, to be there.

American budo is sexist to the point that I have received threatening posts just for having the temerity of being female and intruding into the "man's world" of American martial arts with a reasoned opinion on something or other. I would like to say I am making this up, but I am not. I have run into any number of men who say, with some sense of wonder, that they don't know any women who do what I do. And truly, in the States, there aren't many. And there should be more - but with those kind of obstacles, I am not surprised that there are not more. Other female budo teachers tend to be pretty low-key, too. It seems there are a number of darkened bushels out there. Some women teachers only teach other women. The thought has occurred to me, and in deference to them, they do great work; but to me, not teaching men is a disservice to the memory of my teacher, who was a guy, by the way, and a very enlightened human being.

Many years ago, there was a TV series called Remington Steele. The story was about a woman who opened a private detective agency, but she could get no clients because no one thought a woman could be a competent private detective. So she hired a handsome, charismatic and somewhat roguish assistant, and named him Remington Steele, to be the male face of the agency. Clients appeared, and the place took off. Numerous episodes showed the "real" Remington Steele using judo to subdue the bad guys. Every now and then her male avatar would have to be reminded that he was an employee. Cue the romantic tension, etc., etc.

The scary thing is the number of women who have said they were "inspired" by the series. Inspired to do what, exactly? To hire someone to front for you? Which circuitously brings me around to the "Lean In" group exercise. Women seem to have been inspired to credit men, circumstance, and/or luck, for their career achievements, rather than their own efforts, even in context. While the writer of the article admitted dismay, she also admitted to doing the same thing - crediting her colleagues or bosses for her accomplishments first, and her own smarts and talent - if at all - second.

I admit that I have been tempted to get a student to play Remington in my group, just as an experiment. If a male teacher showed up on the website, would the number of new students go up? And would I be able to stand them if they did? But for now, I have decided to continue on my "immodest" path. So far, I don't feel I have a student with enough experience to come up to the mark to be a good front for me. Though if I was to really follow the RS model, he would need no qualifications at all. Which was part of the original joke. Except that it wasn't funny.

What's in a bow?

For the past several weeks, I have been having a discussion with a colleague about reishiki, the bowing ceremony at the beginning and end of practice. Reishiki, regardless of style, has a few things in common - bowing shows respect for the space, the teacher and fellow students. In iai, reishiki also involves paying respect to the sword. Reishiki sets off the practice time as being special time. It allows students and teachers to leave their non-dojo cares outside the dojo and concentrate on the practice at hand. At the end of practice, reishiki (generally done with the series of bows in reverse sequence from the way they were done at the beginning) returns participants to their outside, daily lives.

There are many other layers to reishiki, however. My teacher used to say that the first and last bow of our reishiki, which was made to a shinzen - a scroll of calligraphy hung in the dojo - was to acknowledge the presence of the divine. Bowing to the shinzen in this way is similar to some Japanese dojo, which have a small kamidana (lit. "god shelf," a small Shinto shrine, mounted high up on the wall, holding some sort of sacred object). In multi-religious America, the divine could be interpreted in any way an individual preferred. Our shinzen featured some of sensei's calligraphy with a very basic meaning: "Great universe, great god spirit." My teacher liked to say that since the divine was, in reality, everywhere, the shinzen itself simply provided a place to focus attention and bring it to mind. Other dojo bow to photos of teachers past (many aikido dojo have a photo of Ueshiba Morihei). Some even have a photo of a living teacher, which I find somewhat shocking (among some Japanese, a framed photo of a living person suggests death, and would therefore be bad luck), but that is their choice.

As the above example illustrates, reishiki vary widely, from style to style and even dojo to dojo. Federations have standardized reishiki, and learning to perform them properly is part of how students are judged for rank, and even competition, for those that hold them. Reishiki has even come under fire outside Japan for being overtly religious; one instructor who was renting a church basement for an iai class had to relocate after some parishioners mistakenly assumed that reishiki was some sort of pagan ritual, and therefore unacceptable in their space. A number of years ago some atheist judoka filed a lawsuit that they should not have to bow before stepping onto the mat at competitions, similarly claiming the performance of reishiki was forcing them to acknowledge Shinto as a religion. They dismissed the idea that a bow can simply be a way to show respect to the space where they were about to perform.

I find it intriguing that people attribute such power to an act that involves a simple bend from the hips, whether standing or sitting. The way a group approaches reishiki shows how the members view their practice, and what their practice says about them. For example, in one iaijutusu style, when recovering from a seated bow to the sword, the participant pulls back the right hand first, quickly, and the left hand more slowly. The way this movement is performed is to suggest that the participant has no intention of suddenly drawing his sword against anyone present. Some groups begin with the sword placed at the right side, making it difficult to draw; others place the sword on the left side, making it much easier. Edge facing away from the iaidoka (potentially easier to draw) or facing towards her (making it more difficult)? I've seen both.

Then there's adaptation. My colleague pointed out that in an old film of an iai demonstration before the Emperor of Japan, the great teacher Nakayama Hakudo, rather than having his sword at his side while performing a seated bow, placed it behind him, as if to say, emphatically, that he intended no harm to anyone there; and meant, instead, the utmost respect to his audience. This extreme formality also showed a sense of flexibility in adapting reishiki to specific circumstances, and not just following a choreographed ritual.

In addition to the formal bowing rituals at the beginning and end of practice, there are bows between partners who are working on kata together (in some styles, this is referred to as sonkyo). Like the group bows, these paired bows say a great deal about the nature of the practice. For example, in SMR jodo, the jo and tachi sides place their weapons on the floor, then step back from them. They bow to each other from a distance, then return to retrieve their weapons, all while maintaining eye contact. Other pairs, such as those who practice Tendo ryu naginata, advance towards each other. The naginata-holder touches the blade end of the weapon to the floor, but maintains control over it, and simply touches her non-weapon hand to the floor as a gesture of respect.

The way of accomplishing reishiki, sonkyo, or any other form of courtesy bow for a given style shows the attitude of the practitioners. Bowing in this case is filled with meaning, including issues of zanshin - the ability to maintain a sense of awareness even when not actively involved in a kata - as well as a sense of trust or lack thereof. Generally speaking, bowing is done with a bend from the hips, keeping the head and neck aligned with the spine. Dropping one's head shows a lack of awareness, as the person bowing will not be able to see her partner, or anyone else who may be peripherally in view. In contrast, keeping the head up while bowing is considered rude, perhaps a too-overt way of saying the partner should not be trusted.

Some teachers take a great deal of trouble to teach not only the proper movements of reishiki, but what the movements actually mean. In contrast, others only teach the most perfunctory of bowing rituals, as if reishiki was something to be tossed off and dispensed with as soon as possible before getting to the "good stuff" of actual practice. The emphasis (or not) placed on reishiki says a lot about the teacher's attitude towards what they have learned, and, in turn, the attitude of who they learned from, and so on. In contrast, there are also teachers outside Japan who insist on bowing at the beginning and end of every kata. In some ways, this is almost as bad as not bowing at all; as the students have no idea of what a bow really means. Ideally, one should bow at the beginning and end of practice, as a group. Otherwise, one should bow to a new partner in a rotation; though I would venture to say that when we only have 3-4 people in our jodo class, it seems redundant to bow amongst ourselves on every rotation, but I have trouble convincing my students of that. Perhaps it's just as well - better too much respect than too little.

Generous spirits

One of my colleagues was recently in Japan, where he had an opportunity to train, test for a new dan ranking (he passed!) and visit some old friends. From his Facebook postings to a few emails that I had from him, it is clear that he had a great, great time. I'm so jealous! But, that's not what this post is about.

At one point last week, he contacted me on All Media, asking me to call him, as he had some "news" for me. I always think that "news" is bad, though the tone of voice in his message didn't sound bad. Still, I was very nervous. It's not every day that someone on vacation calls me out of the blue because he has "news" that can't be put in an email.

So I called, not knowing what to expect (the phone bill will catch up to me eventually). And I found out the answer to the mystery. And it was not at all what I expected.

Through this friend, who has been very generous, I have met a number of very cool people. It was through his intervention that I was reintroduced to a very important teacher and I am now able to train with him. I met another teacher who has also influenced me greatly. I met a junior-ranked swordsmith and was even able to pound some hot, folded iron in his workshop. Of all of my budo friends, this guy has done more than anyone to help put me on my feet, budo-wise and otherwise, after a fairly tumultuous time.

One of the people I met through this friend is a senior-ranked swordsmith. For reasons of privacy, I will simply call him Sensei N. My friend met him originally when he lived in Japan, years ago. He happened to ride his bicycle past Sensei N's workshop one day, and stopped to ask him about what he was doing. They have been friends ever since, for many years.

About 7 years ago, as I was about to leave for a trip to Japan, my friend suggested I stop by and meet Sensei N. I was a little hesitant; I knew exactly nothing about sword-making, except what everyone knows - folded steel, differential tempering, sharp and flexible. I agreed, figuring that a website I was freelancing for might like an interview with a swordsmith. Then I tried to study up on some of the basics that would get me beyond what little I knew (it helped - some.)

So he met me, and we went to a coffee shop. We sat there for about an hour, and I knew, as I had coffee and kept turning down proffers of food, that I was being checked out - assessed, as it were, to decide what sort of person I was. Sensei N was an older man, more slightly built than I would have thought, with a very soft-spoken manner.

I had deliberately not planned on anything else that day, not being sure what might happen. Even though I was considering an interview, I knew from experience that a formal pen-and-paper or tape recorder type interview was out of the question, without some type of formal arrangement; and a formal arrangement gets you only the most formal of answers. So I drank my coffee, turned down offers of all kinds of treats, and sat through an interview of sorts myself. Where was I from? What did I study? How long? What style? How did I know my friend? I was happily prepared to answer any and all questions, and simply let the day take me.

After some time, we got in the car, and went to a Chinese restaurant. It was still pretty early for dinner. As I said, he was an older gentleman, but we were the two youngest diners there (with me being the only woman) - it was old man dinner hour. I was happy to have declined the treats at the coffee shop. And we talked about this and that. Unusually for me, even though I had more pertinent questions, I waited, ate dinner, and otherwise kept my mouth shut.

Finally, after dinner, we went to his home/workshop. At last. Sensei N lived in a tiny second story of a tiny house, with the workshop down below. First, he showed me some old iron fittings he had stacked around the workshop part of his home. He explained to me that he made his own forging materials from these fittings. He said that the area had many very old Buddhist temples, and, being old, they were fire hazards. Whenever there was a fire, they would replace the old buildings and give the old iron fittings to him. Everything I had read about the "proper" way to obtain materials and make swords went right out the window.

We sat in his upstairs living quarters, stuffed, as many small Japanese homes are, with all kinds of bric-a-brac, where he lived with three very spoiled cats. Sensei N. then pulled out a pile of swords - some unfinished blades, only roughly shaped, some more finished. We sat and looked and talked for hours as it got dark outside. In addition to pieces he had made himself, he had a number of blades that he had bought as examples of different shapes and techniques. What made him decide to make swords? I asked. He told me he had been an art teacher who had made sculptures out of steel. At one point he simply decided that a Japanese sword was the highest expression of steel. Meanwhile, the cats wafted by, walking over everything, the occasional tail brushing a rare blade I was holding up to the light.

After a long time, he took me to the train station, and I went back to my hotel, with tons to write about, but not being certain how I should write it. How could I explain what it feels like to hold a sword that, at the very least, was an art work, and at most, was something that seemed almost alive?

I have had the opportunity to meet Sensei N several other times. Three years ago, he came to see us when I was in Japan with my friend who had introduced us, bringing a number of blades for inspection. Each one had a story - about the forging technique, the shape, or other characteristics. As he has gotten older, he has done less and less work, concentrating on smaller projects that can be completed more quickly, but his mind is an encyclopedia of technique. He could recall details of every piece he showed us, and nearly all of the blades were the result of some sort of experiment. All of them were exquisite.

My friend had a chance to see Sensei N during his time in Japan, which brings us to the subject of the "news." They had a nice visit, and talked of many things; including, weirdly, me. Sensei N decided that he wanted to give each of us a gift; so he is giving me a tanto, of which he is particularly proud. I have no idea what I did to deserve such an honor, and I am truly overwhelmed. I have spent the weekend thinking about our meetings, but not so much trying to understand why he would be so generous. It's also not really about the tanto, exactly. Those of us who study classical budo, in our hunger to gain deeper understanding, find ourselves constantly running down (or at least past) rabbit-holes that really have nothing to do with our practice. The problem is, every rabbit-hole seems so probable. One of these rabbit-holes has to do with the idea that traditions are hidebound and have no room for individuality. We maintain this belief especially when it comes to craftsmanship; especially when it comes to the crafting of traditional items, like swords or lacquer work. And of course, we are wrong. Every craftsman I have met, no matter who he has trained with, at some point charts his own path. Like the flute-player for whom improvisation is part of the tradition, craft traditions have endless variations as well. That is part of what Sensei N taught me.

I have an email penpal whom I have not ever actually met in person. He keeps asking questions about mastering technique, as though, through some form of perfect imitation, one can achieve some sort of self-perfection. Honestly, I don't always answer, but if I were to come up with a decent answer, it would be something like Sensei N's point - perfection is not the point; self-expression that transcends tradition is more like it. Technique, and following what one has been taught, is important, but it's the beginning, not the end, of practice.

So, I have to somehow master my poor Japanese language skills and write a heartfelt letter of thanks to Sensei N for his wonderful gift. I hope I have an opportunity to meet him again, even if I have no idea what to say. And to my friend, who I know reads my blog posts, I would like to express my heartfelt thanks for everything he has done - I am much richer for it.

"Summer Festival"

I recently took part in a Japanese cultural event in which none of the organizers was Japanese. To be fair, some of the participants were, but the person who proposed the idea, as well as those involved in the planning and those manning the information tables, were not. What does this mean? And was the resulting event Japanese, "Japanese" or something else?

I am not one of those people who think that one can learn a cultural art form only in the place where the culture originated; or, in the most extreme, that one can't learn a cultural art unless one is born into the culture. My own teacher, who was Japanese, was very knowledgeable and happy to share what he knew with me. To those who disagree, I like to turn the thought on its head - would you tell a Japanese ballerina that she can't perform Swan Lake because she wasn't born in Europe? No? Well, then, you see my point. To assert that the ballerina can't gain enough understanding to perform a European classical dance sounds ethnocentric; even racist. So to suggest that a white chick can't learn a Japanese cultural art form because she wasn't born in Japan makes just as much sense.

On the other hand, I am in agreement with many colleagues who state that one's understanding of a traditional art form (wherever it originated) is definitely enhanced by training in the Old Country, and I think the ballerina would agree with me as well. Recently, my colleague, the Budo Bum, has written an entry about the depth of experience to be found in a Japanese dojo that can't yet be found outside Japan. This is true for many arts, still, but is that where this ends? If enough certified 6th, 7th and 8th dans eventually emerge in the U.S. for example, will that training then be the same as a similar setup in Japan? What about the feeling of being immersed in the culture of origin? Is that an essential part of the experience, or just some gravy that makes the experience that much cooler?

To go back to my first paragraph - I am making three distinctions (there are probably more, but this is what I am coming up with right now). By Japanese, of course, I mean, at least hypothetically, an experience very much like what someone might expect in Japan. By "Japanese" I mean an interpretation of a traditional cultural event, filtered through the varied experiences of non-Japanese, with varying degrees of actual exposure to a Japanese teacher of a traditional art form, or of direct experience in Japan. The "something else" remains to be determined, if necessary, at the end of this particular entry.

Even though I had a good time at the event, I still felt weird. I have taken part in similar events in New York, which are sponsored by a Japanese cultural organization of many years' standing. The immigrant Japanese community, as well as many Nisei, typically attend this event. I know, from my own experience in Japan, that the events sponsored by this group are not quite the same as what I have found there. They have adopted a daytime schedule, for one thing, whereas in Japan, the event normally takes place at night. The New York event has a religious overtone that may or may not exist in Japan. Still, I can recognize the events as being similar. I would refer to this experience as being Japanese, or at least Japanese-American (or maybe Japanese-New Yorker).

For a "Japanese" sensibility, I can think of no better example that of a "Japanese club" at a community college where I sometimes teach. Even though the faculty advisor (whom I have never actually met) is Japanese, the overall interests of the group are in watching anime and eating maki. They're kids, it's true, but what they are playing at has virtually nothing to do with Japan (in reality, the group would be better labeled the Anime Club). I would also lump in the American eccentric martial arts student who wears his hair in a topknot and is somehow convinced that there are still places in Japan where people wear armor and walk about with swords thrust through their belts, and the women are all Madama Butterfly (I am not kidding).

So, was the event I recently attended Japanese, "Japanese" or something else?

It was not Japanese, though it tried pretty hard. The reason was that, even through the event planning, none of the organizers seemed to know what, exactly, the event was supposed to be about. No one had sufficient experience in Japanese traditional culture (though, to be fair, some of the organizers tried to look it up on the Web). I was not an organizer, and had neither the time nor the inclination to be more involved, though I tried, on occasion, to explain. Nevertheless, when casual observers at the event asked what it was about, "summer festival" was the only explanation available. When I tried to explain in more detail, it stumped people. But, more importantly, it also did not seem like the right explanation. True, there was some Japanese stuff there. People wore Japanese clothes (more or less). Japanese music played over the speakers, and people danced folk dances. But it seemed like everything took place in a vacuum. There was no "there" there.

So, I would call the event "Japanese" instead of Japanese, consisting, as it did, of an incomplete idea of what a "summer festival" was. The Japanese who attended may well have had a much different idea of what the meaning of the event was compared to the organizers, because they brought that meaning with them. For the casual attendees, what they saw was what they got, and I doubt that it mattered all that much what the meaning, if any, was.

But I found myself troubled, and it has bothered me ever since (this is the elusive "something else" part). I study budo. I have lived in Japan only briefly, though I visit often. When I give lectures or demonstrations, and when I teach, I emphasize the history and cultural context of our practice. I try to bust some myths, and get beyond fictional notions of what the practice means (in our media-saturated environment, this is somewhat difficult). I encourage my students to go to Japan once they have some experience, in order to get a more committed sense of what the training is like. I do not consider myself Japanese, or "Japanese." Like many of my budo and buyo colleagues, I am simply learning the practice to the best of my ability. In that sense, the practices we learn are culturally specific, but they are also part of the human experience.

The meaning of iai practice

Recently, someone posted on a forum I belong to a comment about how watching iai (Japanese swordsmanship) was as much fun to watch as paint drying. He suggested that it might be more fun (tongue firmly in cheek) if someone were to toss a cherry bomb into an iai demonstration and video the stunned reactions of the practitioners, unable to cope with a sudden, unexpected event. Ha ha. The reactions varied from along the lines of "If you think iai is boring, try watching kyudo (archery)" to a minor discussion of what iai practice was actually for. In that writer's opinion, iai practice was to train people to fight with swords, and learning solo kata alone would not be practical enough to accomplish that aim. That's why, he continued, one needed free-sparring with bokuto (kendo having too many rules and being too sportified, I guess, to be much use).

Interestingly, I have been thinking about this issue myself lately. In fact, last night, at my "summer school" class (see the identically-named post) the other instructor and I had a brief chat on what iai kata training was for. He made a nice analogy. "Kata is like learning the alphabet. Learning the alphabet is good, but the point of learning the alphabet is not to stop there. You learn it so you can write poetry." Or, as he continued, to at least be able to write some rudimentary sentences, if that is the best you can do.

The poster noted in the first paragraph was trying to be provocative, and he succeeded somewhat, but I thought the comments he provoked were similarly off the mark. Initially, iai kata was a safe way to control and use a sword - that is definitely true. But even as long ago as 1585, teachers were considering a deeper meaning to practice. That is why Japanese swordsmanship of this type, wherein kata begins and ends with the sword in the scabbard, is called "iai" (whether "-jutsu" or "-do" - take your pick) and was differentiated from kenjutsu - swordsmanship wherein the sword is already drawn. The kanji for "iai" roughly (very roughly) translate as "being in harmony." As a result, while Japanese people can readily understand "kenjutsu" or "kendo", the word "iai" will leave them baffled. (Contrary to a lot of popular belief outside Japan, Japanese people are not walking encyclopedias of traditional culture; if they are not aware of iai, or even jodo for that matter, they will have no idea what it is).

I wondered for a long time about the word "iai." Why name an artform like this, which involves formalized training in deadly technique (not even potentially deadly, pretty much actually deadly) given such an obscure, and seemingly misleading, name? I used to tell Japanese acquaintances "Kenjutsu wa chotto onaji desu. Chotto." ("It's a little like drawn sword technique. A little bit.") There was no adequate way for me to describe it otherwise. Certainly the techniques, once the sword is drawn, are very similar. But there's that damn obscure name thing again.

As much as I am fond of blaming some recent historical events (like the Allied Occupation) for some of the modern, stated reasons for budo practice (my favorite one is "self-improvement"), I cannot do that for the word "iai" because the use of the word predates the war (though I don't know if anyone knows for sure by how many years. If you have a documentable idea, feel free to comment). So, as the name would indicate, iai practice has a meaning beyond the practical one.

One thing iai is not for is to be an end in itself. This, according to a number of people who teach koryu budo and spend time writing and commenting, is one of the fallacies of modern iai practice. And they have a point. Many instructors (including myself) continually harangue students on how to do correct kata. Step like this, cut like that. We use targets occasionally to check the veracity of techniques. We discuss the technical issues - what artery is being cut, what body part being dismembered. I even occasionally have described partner kata like that in demos, and watched some members of the audience wince at the anatomical correctness of the techniques being shown. I don't blame them. It was a ghastly business, swordsmanship. It had ghastly results. And I think people who forget that, considering iai to be simply some sort of meditative art form, are also missing the point.

Two things - the word iai, and that the kata begins and ends with the sword in the scabbard, in addition to whatever philosophical overlay you want to include, are the essence of this style of swordsmanship. Being in harmony suggests being attuned to the world around you - not just plants and animals (which is sometimes what people think of - being in harmony with nature, as it were) but in a world with other people in it. The sword is in the scabbard. The practitioner decides when, for whatever reason, it should be drawn, and when it should be resheathed. That involves moral judgment and courage, and not just timing or other tactical considerations. There are lots of hoary quotes people come up with on this score. Sayings such as "katsujin to" ("life-giving sword") and "the best techniques are done with the sword in the scabbard," though they seem like cliches, have had deep meaning for practitioners. My teacher was one of them.

As for the cherry-bomb at the demo thing, no one, not even in the commentary, suggested doing such a thing if a long-time master swordsman were performing a demo. That's because it would be unlikely to disturb him/her. If it were thrown in such a way as to potentially cause bodily injury, there would certainly be a reaction; but if the object was just to make noise, I doubt it would make much difference. Concentration is not tuning out what is going on around you. On the contrary, it is taking it all in, and adjusting accordingly. My teacher was once performing a demo in a small, chotchke-filled dojo in New Jersey. The host had decorated the space with every imaginable Japanese souvenir. Suddenly, in mid-cut, Sensei let go of his sword, which went clattering to the ground (it made a nice cut in the wooden floor, which we found when we looked around later). The reason for this seemingly-embarrassing moment was that he had miscalculated the placement of a low-level shelf full of breakable objects against the wall. Feeling the blade come in contact with something, he dropped the sword in order not to damage the wall, the shelf, or its contents. He then calmly picked up his sword and continued what he was doing as though it had never happened. The host was baffled that "someone at his level would make such a mistake." But it wasn't a mistake. Sensei never explained it; and only those who were genuinely paying attention knew what had actually happened. It would have been a mistake if he had continued the cut, unmindful of the damage it would cause.

Unfortunately, many students leave practice before they understand any of this deeper meaning of iai. They get through the shoden set, maybe get to shodan level, and, figuring they have an understanding of what they were doing, stop practicing. They know how to use a sword! And it makes them feel badass! I remember the late, great Bill Mears, an iai teacher and one of the most sincere guys I had ever met in my life, regretting the loss of senior students. In his mind, they were so close to actually understanding what practice was all about, but they decided they already knew. He knew - iai is not about kata, or even fighting. It's about poetry.

Women warriors (again)

So, this past weekend, I got to hang out for a few hours with a statistical rarity - a budoka who happens to be female. I should say, that this particular rarity only seems to be the case outside Japan, and, in my anecdotal experience, specifically in the U.S. The occasion was a taikai (lit. "large gathering") of some modern sword-style practitioners. I respect this style, and many of the people who practice it, but modern styles are not my thing. My friend and her husband were selling equipment. I came to "help," and also pick up an equipment order for some students (I don't think I was really all that helpful - but at least I provided some entertainment).

During the course of our hanging out (which included looking for a beer store that happened to not exist - yes, there are statistically-rare women who also like to drink beer), the thought came up briefly of the dearth of women budoka in the U.S. This is not a new topic for me, as some readers of this blog might know. Go to any large gathering of budoka in the U.S., and you may find a handful of women, mostly junior students. If the event is prestigious enough, you may also find some spouses of male budoka who are not directly involved. We encountered one such person at the event this weekend, who accosted my friend with an endless stream of comment about a psych paper she was working on. As we faded out of earshot, I asked what that was about. "I have no idea," my friend responded, "except that this event has been going on for three days, and she is probably bored out of her skull by now." Hmm.

This point led to a discussion of what it is like to be a woman taking part in such an event. At the events I go to in Japan, women make up 1/4 to 1/3 of participants, and at least some of them are senior students and/or teachers. And it depends on the type of budo - if it is a naginata gasshuku or taikai, men can expect to be in the minority, since women mostly practice naginata. If kyudo, maybe half and half, since many women in Japan also practice kyudo.

At any traditional weapons seminar in the U.S., however, women are a rarity (I can't speak for empty hand styles). The few women participants I encounter at these events are not very friendly; it's as if they have had to hunker down just to get where they are, and they are so used to being alone, and so serious about what they are doing, that getting them into a basic conversation can be incredibly difficult (I am speaking from personal experience). As for the women's auxilliary, they can be almost hostile. Maybe it's because they are annoyed that their husband or boyfriend would rather spend his time swinging a sword or stick on that particular weekend instead of being at home. There is also the feeling that they are mentally asking me, "What are you doing here?" as though, if my husband or boyfriend were not taking part, I had no business being there myself.

My friend pointed out that little girls seem to love swords, sticks, and all kinds of stuff like that. I concur. Years ago, my husband and I contributed a pirate ship miniature golf obstacle for a charity event. Play had to be stopped at least twice because a cadre of little girls had taken over the "pirate ship" and were prepared to repel all attempts at boarding (i.e. playing through). And they were as serious as a group of little girls playing pretend could be (which is very serious, actually).

But something seems to happen once girls get to be nine or ten. Somehow they get the message that martial activities are not for them. By the time they are teenagers, the animated looks are replaced with gazes of supreme boredom, even as boys step right up. Some feminist writers, such as Peggy Orenstein, have questioned the value of the messages young girls are receiving via U.S. mass culture. In particular, the message that girls are supposed to emulate princesses, whose social role is essentially passive. This idea, disappointingly, flies in the face of the previous generation's struggle for equality (and all to make a few more bucks for toy manufacturers). I recently gave a demonstration/workshop at a kids' camp in Philadelphia. One of the more poignant questions came from one of the female counselors: were there gender restrictions to studying swordsmanship? Gender restrictions.

I responded, of course, in the negative. As far as I know, in Japan, there have been no restrictions. I could be wrong about the past, but I can definitively say now that budo in Japan is open to everyone. However, I said, in the U.S., sadly, girls and women feel somehow that the martial arts are not for them.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened to me if I had been judged and pushed into a social mold like the ones I see around me for girls now. When I was a kid, I was a tomboy. Would I now have been called "transgendered" as a child, instead? Would I be ostracized because I don't like the color pink?

Real, traditional budo has a lot to offer people - a sense of history, traditional aesthetics, strategy, philosophy, even ethics; along with the fitness and confidence that one normally hears about. I find it incredibly sad that half the population thinks such things are not for them.

Leap of Faith

[Note to patient readers - lately I have been using a computer that only lets me input straight html for this blog, which results in paragraph divisions being wiped out. I apologize for the difficult read, and promise that, as soon as I get to a more civilized machine, I will reformat any offending posts.]

I just came back from a trip to the south of France. The Languedoc, where I stayed, is a historically rich area. In particular, it was a seat of power of the Cathars, a heretical sect of Christianity that became so powerful, the region was subject to the first (only?) crusade ever launched against a heretical sect in Europe. Outside of simply hearing that they existed, I had little idea of the Cathars, but during the course of the week, I bought four (count'em) books about in order to ease my ignorance. I often do this after the fact: I seem never to have much time to research a place before I visit it, but when I am visiting, I actually have time to browse books and bring some home. Afterwards, I read them on my overcrowded train ride to work. It gives me a chance to relive my experience and add to it at the same time.

So, having read only one book, my observations here are a little sketchy (please don't flame me, historical experts, but feel free to help out).

The Cathars were an interesting lot. Among other things:

1. They considered themselves Christians, but disliked the use of the crucifixion as a symbol. Cathar crosses depict a man with his arms outstretched (sans nails and agony) instead.

2. They believed in a form of reincarnation; i.e., that souls not worthy to ascend to god would have to go 'round again.

3. They held women in a higher social position than the Catholic Church did. A number of educated noblewomen were Cathar leaders.

Anyway, from the 12th-13th centuries, the Cathar heresy grew, was persecuted, moved around, and eventually was brutally wiped out by the beginning of the 14th century (approximately). The one book I read was trying rather hard I thought to not be too hard on the Catholic Church hierarchy, while at the same time trying to tell the story straight - a not-easy task in a book from France, where the largest building in the smallest town is the church.

In the wake of the crusader armies (which were led by men who, not coincidentally, were as much or more into the idea of conquering the heretics for their lands and titles as for the good of their souls) came inquisitors. After an area was conquered, the residents were given about two weeks to turn in their Cathar neighbors. Cathars who turned themselves in or were turned over to the inquisitors had an opportunity to recant. The book does not say, but I expect that those who recanted were probably imprisoned for life (or perhaps offered a merciful death). One could not have a bunch of remorseful heretics running around town, after all. They might, after being freed, shout "Just kidding!" and go back to being heretics again. It looks, without being all that clear, that the Cathars decided death by fire was preferable (after all, union with the divine or being reborn were the two choices, so what's to lose?). In one instance, thousands of Cathars threw themselves onto a pyre in a town square as an alternative to recanting. No one even needed to tie them up.

We always hear about Christians being martyred for their faith, but it is rare for me at least to read that there were others who were equally convinced of their righteousness that they would prefer death instead of renouncing their oppositional beliefs. Moreover, the regular townspeople hated the inquisitors so much, in some towns they complained to their local lords, asking for their expulsion (and in some cases at least, the local lords complied). At least one group of inquisitors was attacked and assassinated with axes! Others were simply killed here and there. Needless to say, the church took a really, really dim view of its investigators being hacked up, and appropriate punishments were meted out for townspeople, too. Again, we read about fear of the inquisition, but this is the first time I read about ordinary citizens who were so appalled at the oppression of the heretics that they took the law into their own hands a number of times.

Nevertheless, the church, between its spiritual power on earth and its ability to hand out lands and titles to the nobles on its side, eventually won the fight. The Cathars were wiped out, the indigenous Oc culture was wiped out at the same time, and the area became more "French."

Nowadays we would look at the Cathar heresy as being a diff'rent strokes situation. It's very hard, from our perspective, to believe that others could be killed en masse for not believing with the party in power. But there you are. And it is nice to know that some people stood up for their fellows. Unfortunately, in the end, they were not able to make that much of a difference.

And that's the really depressing part.

Am I my teacher? (Or should I be?)

Like any number of budoka, my teacher had a profound effect on me. He was a Japanese immigrant who came to the US after the Pacific War wiped out his family business, leaving him with few prospects in his home country. After helping his family members become economically stable, he came to New York in the mid-1950's to start a new life. And he built one here, raising a family and teaching budo until his death in 2004.

I was fortunate to have known him for 18 years. Sensei was a samurai class descendant, though his family was not a very high-ranking one. Still, he was very proud of his heritage. He liked to say that swordsmanship was philosophy, and that, looked at properly, the practice of iaido could guide one's life. Through talking with him as well as the many stories that circulated about him, it was obvious that he was a man of his word, even if that word was sometimes pretty hardassed. Technical instruction for him was just the very beginning of iai practice; after that, we were supposed to find a way to apply the tough lessons inherent in the practice to our everyday lives. The sheer difficulty of practice would hopefully instill some level of stubbornness (in the good sense; i.e. persistence), and that trying to come up to some imagined, or even observed, level of skill would develop both patience and humility. We were supposed to show compassion, even if the result was not particularly satisfying; we were supposed to perform right actions for their own sake.

I came from an intact family, and, though I did not always agree with them, had enormous respect for both of my parents. My dad, in particular, also had a stubborn, honest streak. My mother was a very gracious woman who treated everyone equally, regardless of wealth or lack thereof. So the effect of my teacher was not a result of being deprived of adult role models like it sometimes is for others. Sensei was not a father figure to me; I already had one of those. So, he was neither a parent, nor a friend - he really was my teacher. Someone who could look at what I was doing in the dojo more dispassionately than a biased family member or a friend. He was the type of person who, when he called me on the phone, caused me to sit up straight, a quality I never felt compelled to exhibit with either of my parents. Not a day goes by that I don't think about something he said; or any situation that has arisen in my life as a budoka since his death that I could not think, "What would sensei think of this?" and hopefully gain some insight into a solution.

I have trained with some of his former students (all sempai of mine), and on more than one occasion, one or another has remarked, "I can see sensei in you." I am enormously flattered, but I have to remember: I am not him. I could never be him. Why does this matter? Because it is easy to accept the occasional comparison and think I am somehow becoming more (or different) than what I am. Because sensei himself would never care for the idea that the goal of my practice was to somehow be him.

I can't be him for a score of obvious reasons, of course, but the more subtle ones are also important - my time is different. I live in a different world. Not many people nowadays have the time or even the inclination to come to a dojo for a regular practice. In the first place, many people, even if they leave the office, never "leave the office." They bring it with them. Often that means the best thing is to go home, in case that important email comes up. Distractions like YouTube, with its endless clips of all kinds of budo, from the incredibly stupid (or just fake) to the incredibly brilliant are at everyone's fingertips, and, for some people at least, watching stuff is almost as good as actually practicing it. And for certain, a flesh-and-blood budo teacher can never be a match for a 50-year-old clip of Nakayama Hakudo, can she? When my teacher was training, that film clip was a rarity. Now, you can just dial it up.

There are some teachers who, even when the torch has passed to them, can never emerge from the shadow of their teacher. They try to imagine what their teacher might have done in every teaching situation. They object to things they think their teacher would have objected to, even though their situations are totally different. They refuse to change anything their teacher did. even rejecting innovations that might be useful to current students because "that's not how sensei would have done it." They may be pretty effective anyway, but I wonder when they will bring their own gifts to the practice floor? My teacher encouraged me to explore and investigate, and expected me to bring my discoveries to the classes I was teaching. He may not have liked everything (and sometimes he was very explicit in his opinion of what I was doing), but he knew enough to see the world changing around him. All the same, I find teaching budo very difficult, given all the distractions we now have. But, as a student of my teacher, I intend to keep trying.

Female actors, then and now (revised)

[I revised this post because I decided my analysis wasn't clear enough.  It may still not be clear enough, but at least I gave it another shot!]

As usual, in one of my curious junctures, in reading a book on a particular topic, I begin to see parallels all around me.  In this case, the book is Elizabeth Howe's The First English Actresses (1992, Cambridge University Press).  Note the date, please.  1992 suggests that the scholarship behind the book probably took place during what I like to consider the Last Great Age of Feminist Scholarship; i.e., the 1980's. 

Howe explores English Restoration drama with the advent of actual, live women on the public stages, beginning in 1660.  She profiles prominent actresses from that time to approximately 1700.  In addition to well-known stars, such as Bracegirdle and Barry, she uncovers others that I have heard less of.  Most importantly, she outlines the types of roles created for these actresses, and the connection between their public personae and their roles onstage. 

Reading Howe's book takes me back to my fairly poor theatre history courses.  Some of what she notes, for example that playwrights wrote for particular companies, applies, but in my history classes, the profs emphasized the customization of men's roles for the great male actors of the age, leaving out women's roles altogether (except to note that there were, in fact, women performing for the first time).  Howe shows that certain genres, such as tragedies, became very female-dominated at one point, apparently in light of the abilities of some great female actors to perform these types of roles.  At one point, the "heroic tragedy", which was male-centered, was eclipsed by "she-tragedies" in popularity.  Howe is not able to really place any reason for the shift, except that certain female actors were so good at tragic roles, playwrights had to accommodate their skills in order to get audiences to keep coming to the theatre.

So, that's the history lesson.  At the same time, I took a couple of long plane flights.  Thanks to modern entertainment technology, long flights are the only time I watch movies.  I watch old ones on TV, but I don't go to movies (between the cost and the time they take up), so a long flight is a perfect time for me to catch up on a few releases that I thought about seeing when they came out, but of course did not go to.  Over two long flights, I saw four films - Django Unchained and Lincoln (on one flight - talk about disjuncture), and Cloud Atlas and Skyfall on the return.  There's a good deal of comment that could be made about each of these films (and there were reams of code written about each of them upon their releases) but in particular I was struck by the types of roles played by women compared with Howe's historical investigations. 

Restoration actresses played, in broad categories, strumpet-type roles, and virtuous roles.  The strumpet roles included actual whores (Howe's word, based on historical descriptions) and breeches roles, in which "loose" characters wore trousers, more to show off actresses' legs than for any more substantial reason.  These were comic roles.  Whores, of course, could be married or not, as could the breeches-wearing roles.  The other type of role are the tragic types, in which women are either punished for their sins with death (natch) or are victims of rape or other kinds of personal violence, depicted in order to show them in some form of dishabile.  Aside from the penitent women, the tragic roles included virtuous women wronged in some way or other, for whom the only way to find justice is to seek the divine type (i.e., they kill themselves).  Strumpets, of course, could be good or evil, depending on whether we are talking about comedy or tragedy.  And then, among the virtuous roles, there are the innocent women, usually young girls.  Generally, these were non-comic parts, except when they were played by actresses whose public personae suggested they were anything but.

So, let's look at the films.  In Django, the women's roles include Django's wife, who needs to be rescued, or the small role of Leo DiCaprio's sister, who is a very cold fish indeed, and is an evil type.  In Lincoln, the only real female role is Mary Todd Lincoln (awesomely acted, by the way), who could be very much seen as a virtuous tragic victim type.  In the background of both films are women slaves who have virtually no personalities whatever.  In Cloud Atlas, the female roles are innocent victims (one of Tom Hanks' many characters' wife and children), with one evil role, that of the psych hospital nurse.  What of Hallie Berry?  She plays a fairly resourceful character, but she needs a man's help to do what she needs to do in the film.  As a reporter, she needs the help of a friend of her father to stay alive.  As a powerful off-worlder, she needs Hanks' help to reach the temple on top of the mountain.  She can cure deadly illness and is a great shot, and seems to possess a great deal of wisdom, and yet she needs his help for a mountain climb? (If he had not helped her, there would have been no redemption for him in the end, which introduces yet another trope, though one not covered by Howe - the female as helpmate)  The Asian woman's role as a kind of seer is an innocent victim in need of rescue who suddenly becomes a pronouncer of platitudes on people's mutual dependence as her male rescuers are slaughtered below her.  She goes to her martyrdom with a faint smile on her face. 

And finally, Skyfall.  I liked this film more than I thought I would.  I am, paradoxically, a Bond film fan, in spite of the overt sexism in every Bond film ever made, because I love good stunt work.  In Skyfall, the real "Bond girl" is Judy Dench, who shows that resourcefulness and courage (not to mention skill at producing IEDs out of any available material) bust through all the role types mentioned above. 

So, we had virtuous victims, innocents, and a villain or two, plus one role that defied stereotype.  Times being what they are, there were no whores, though on the other hand, none of these films were comedies.  (Actually, the whore role is rife in so-called reality TV, a point so obvious it almost does not really bear mentioning.)

Berry has a happy ending.  Having been rescued by Tom Hanks, she rescues him in return.  Django gets his wife back.  Mary Todd loses her husband. 

M, in spite of all of her resourcefulness, dies.  Considering her age in the film, one can imagine M climbing through the ranks of male agents, busting rhrough the glass ceiling.  In the process, her temerity creates a villain who takes her transgression into male privilege too personally, resulting in her downfall professionally, and, ultimately, her death.  In some ways, she does fit one of Howe's role types - as the woman who gets her comeuppance for stepping out of her place (though in Restoration times, she would have been an adultress, not a bureaucrat).  She's replaced by a man of action.  The other female agent in the field decides she would rather be an administrative assistant, and balance is restored to the universe.   It's a balance that Mary Betterton, Elizabeth Barry and Anne Bracegirdle would recognize.