"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!
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