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.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Monday, October 21, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, October 7, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
"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.
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.
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