Last week, while waiting for the start of our tiny iaido class, I witnessed a scene in the Daito ryu class that, though not quite unique, has been quite rare. The class was a combined one, in that it included members of the teacher's karate practice. Usually, the two classes share the same space, but work on their own curricula. A sempai usually handles teaching the karate group, and the head teacher instructs the Daito group, but occasionally wades in to the karate group to make a point or a correction. Now and then, the two groups work together, which creates interesting situations and opportunities for everyone, since the movement vocabulary (on the surface at least) is somewhat different. I find these practices most interesting, as everyone tries to adapt to whatever techniques the teacher feels like introducing. I don't know about him, but I always think the deepest learning is going on in the mixed classes.
There are maybe three women in the karate class; or, at least, three women whom I have observed. Of the three, I see two more often, and, of that pair, I have seen one who comes most often, even by herself. She is very small (shorter than me, which is saying something), though she is sturdily built. She appears to be about 18 or 19 years old.
The group was working on taking down an attacker, typically for Daito, by unbalancing him/her. At the end of the technique, the defender reaches to the knee of the attacker and "helps" him into a throw. The attacker knows to roll out of the counterattack (ukemi).
Does it go without saying that nearly all of the guys in the class were taller than she was? Larger than she was? One can debate relative size of participants when it comes to unbalancing techniques, and since she is a beginner at karate and even more of one in Daito, like everyone else there, when she did the correct defensive technique, her opponent dutifully sailed through the air, and rolled out properly. If she had the angle of defense wrong, and started to struggle with the technique, the teacher would step in and correct the angle and the technique would work; but let's face it - a large guy would be unlikely to be that cooperative in a real situation (unless she reacted very, very quickly to the attack situation).
I did not find this very impressive (beyond the idea that this young woman, though she showed some trepidation at having to play with the much bigger boys, trusted the teacher enough to try). What impressed me was the dynamic when she was on the receiving end of the defensive technique. With the exception of one guy besides the teacher, they were all relative beginners. Any one of those guys could have easily sent her flying to the edge of the mat, whether through lack of control or in order to "prove" something. All of them were more experienced, stronger, and had more mass than she did (in the sense that a larger defender dropping his weight could severely off-balance her). Instead, the whole class, being as it was about practicing proper technique, performed in the best possible way to teach her to roll out safely, something that one doesn't do much in karate. The teacher corrected her form (as in, don't extend your hands to try to cushion your fall, and other points), but felt no need to either pamper her or warn the guys to go easy on someone smaller and less experienced than themselves.
I have been in classes where, when a new female student showed up, the senior student would immediately take command of her "orientation." While I never saw anything untoward, I often wondered if things went so benignly after okeiko, especially when the new person stopped coming after a few weeks. I always gave the sempai the benefit of the doubt, since many people don't find swordsmanship to be their thing after trying it (it's more difficult than it looks). But all the same, I used to wonder. He never tried that with me, because he was on indefinite leave when I first showed up, so I had the benefit of several years to find my footing in the place before I met him (and endure other kinds of discrimination - though NEVER from my teacher - but I am a very stubborn person, and I really wanted to learn). And of course I've heard stories about other dojo. LOTS of stores. Some end well, some not. With all the cultural chatter about women feeling vulnerable in mixed situations - on college campuses and in the work place, I am dismayed, but not surprised, that not many women practice budo in the U.S. I really think it is up to the people who are already practicing, not to extend women any special privileges, or treat them like some alien creatures, but to give them exactly what they want - which is to be treated exactly like everyone else. I am fairly certain 99% of guys who walk in to a dojo don't expect to be hit on, but speaking as a female, we know it's a crap shoot.
A female student being treated exactly like everyone else is what I was witnessing in the Daito class last week. The fact that I am writing about it like I am is evidence that it was a rare occasion, but it should not be.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Friday, June 20, 2014
Matters of Faith
Last month, several fellow budoka and I went to an exhibit that specifically dealt with art as it related to the samurai. I enjoyed it; though there were a few aspects of the exhibit that upset me a little bit - a very clear fingerprint on a fine antique blade (moisture from a fingerprint will cause the blade to rust at that point, often in an impressively detailed image of the offending print), lots of fingerprint marks on an ornate, lacquered helmet (doesn't anyone wear cotton gloves when setting this stuff up?) and a museum-wall blurb claiming the "special relationship" that samurai had with "Zen."
I was further dismayed when I read essays in the museum bulletin (more like a quarterly journal than what lay people normally think of as a "bulletin") that additionally extolled the relationship between "samurai" and "Zen." I guess art historians don't read much beyond their fields. Or, like a lot of busy people, they find it easier to simply lump individuals into large groups, and then make generalities about the large groups they have created.
I understand. I used to think the same way. When I was first starting my budo study, being the geek type, I started reading books about it. Since I did not read Japanese, I read books written by English-speaking writers, and books by Japanese writers (and others) in translation. Among other things, I read D.T. Suzuki's Zen in Japanese Culture, with its sections that seemed specifically to address just what I was looking for. At the time, I was living alone in what was then Dangerous New York City, and I found a certain amount of comfort in Zen stories. After all, anything could happen in the Big Bad City - anything, from getting hit by a bus (happened to someone I knew), to getting mugged (ditto), and the kicker was - everything moments earlier was perfectly normal. It is not much of a stretch to consider that a samurai warrior, sworn at any moment to give his life for his lord and master, should be prepared for whatever might happen at any time. And it was in practically every samurai movie I had ever seen up to that point. Add to that Herrigel's Zen in the Art of Archery, and it isn't very surprising that I thought I had the spiritual side of my practice nailed down, and it all made perfect sense to me.
But grad school has this annoying way of making one see nuance in everything. So does reading more accurate research. So I found out stuff - like that samurai were not a monolithic class, but had many subdivisions, and not just damiyo and footmen. There was a whole spectrum of classes and subclasses, and these in turn varied by local domain. And then there was the march of time - in considering "samurai," are we talking about the ruling class of the Ashikaga shogunate or the Tokugawa shogunate? They were more than a hundred years apart, and many things changed over time. Suddenly, truisms like "samurai had a special relationship to Zen" started to ring hollow.
Most importantly, as I went to Japan from time to time to train, I met people who were descendants of samurai families. I found out that their belief systems were all over the map. Japanese religion is syncretic, in many instances. There are certainly people who identify as either Shinto or Buddhist, but in practice they may burn incense in front of a butusdan (a cabinet with an image of the Buddha inside) and also put a cup of rice on the kamidana (a place where traditional gods and ancestors are honored). One family I stayed with in December also mounted a Christmas tree in the living room. And at New Year, everyone goes to the shrine to throw coins for good luck and prosperity in the coming year.
The syncretic nature of Japanese religion seems rich now, but back before 1868 it was an even more indiscernible blend of Shinto, Buddhist and folk beliefs. The Meiji Emperor, in wanting to create a modern state, decided that Shinto should be the state religion, and he set about either purifying Shinto to make it more "Japanese," or creating a state-sponsored version out of whole cloth, depending on one's point of view. But the result was a wrenching apart of a heterogeneous belief system that had existed up to that point, making Shinto and Buddhism more distinct from each other. So, the very concept of "Shinto" or "Buddhism" 400 years ago did not resemble the practices that we recognize now.
So what about Zen? Yes, some famous and high-ranking warriors followed the teachings of Takuan Soho, and some supported Zendo as well. Many middle-ranking samurai seemed to favor Mikyo Buddhism. There has been some scholarly work that suggests a "secret" cult of Marishten, a minor deity in the Buddhist pantheon, but at this point, it does not seem to have been a widespread phenomenon. In an autobiographical sketch of a low-ranking, late Edo period samurai which I recently read, the author described his belief system as an amalgam of practices, primarily rituals to ensure good luck, seemingly from any deity that might listen to him, regardless of origin. This same individual did not seem so overtly religious as to not descend to selling "mystical" objects that buyers hoped would make them luckier, either. A guy's gotta make a living somehow.
A short while ago, I went back and revisited both Herrigel and Suzuki. I was surprised to recognize my beginner's naivete. Suzuki in particular seemed, in the vernacular, to be "full of it." (A scholar-friend of mine once described him, *very charitably,* as "not mainstream." Indeed). Some Japanese scholars have pointed out that Herrigel's archery teacher, upon whom he had based his book, was an eccentric, both in archery technique and belief system, and not at all considered typical (whatever typical means).
I am not a sociology of religion person; just someone who reads books, talks to people and makes observations. And all of that tells me that the nuance of multiple beliefs, though messy and hard to parse, is a lot more colorful and interesting than the homogenous groupthink ascribed to millions of people, over several hundred years, as a whole. When I go to Japan, I throw a coin at the local Buddhist temple, clap my hands at the shrine, and mutter a short prayer to the spirit of my mother. It's nice to know that I am not alone in my eclecticism, either then or now.
I was further dismayed when I read essays in the museum bulletin (more like a quarterly journal than what lay people normally think of as a "bulletin") that additionally extolled the relationship between "samurai" and "Zen." I guess art historians don't read much beyond their fields. Or, like a lot of busy people, they find it easier to simply lump individuals into large groups, and then make generalities about the large groups they have created.
I understand. I used to think the same way. When I was first starting my budo study, being the geek type, I started reading books about it. Since I did not read Japanese, I read books written by English-speaking writers, and books by Japanese writers (and others) in translation. Among other things, I read D.T. Suzuki's Zen in Japanese Culture, with its sections that seemed specifically to address just what I was looking for. At the time, I was living alone in what was then Dangerous New York City, and I found a certain amount of comfort in Zen stories. After all, anything could happen in the Big Bad City - anything, from getting hit by a bus (happened to someone I knew), to getting mugged (ditto), and the kicker was - everything moments earlier was perfectly normal. It is not much of a stretch to consider that a samurai warrior, sworn at any moment to give his life for his lord and master, should be prepared for whatever might happen at any time. And it was in practically every samurai movie I had ever seen up to that point. Add to that Herrigel's Zen in the Art of Archery, and it isn't very surprising that I thought I had the spiritual side of my practice nailed down, and it all made perfect sense to me.
But grad school has this annoying way of making one see nuance in everything. So does reading more accurate research. So I found out stuff - like that samurai were not a monolithic class, but had many subdivisions, and not just damiyo and footmen. There was a whole spectrum of classes and subclasses, and these in turn varied by local domain. And then there was the march of time - in considering "samurai," are we talking about the ruling class of the Ashikaga shogunate or the Tokugawa shogunate? They were more than a hundred years apart, and many things changed over time. Suddenly, truisms like "samurai had a special relationship to Zen" started to ring hollow.
Most importantly, as I went to Japan from time to time to train, I met people who were descendants of samurai families. I found out that their belief systems were all over the map. Japanese religion is syncretic, in many instances. There are certainly people who identify as either Shinto or Buddhist, but in practice they may burn incense in front of a butusdan (a cabinet with an image of the Buddha inside) and also put a cup of rice on the kamidana (a place where traditional gods and ancestors are honored). One family I stayed with in December also mounted a Christmas tree in the living room. And at New Year, everyone goes to the shrine to throw coins for good luck and prosperity in the coming year.
The syncretic nature of Japanese religion seems rich now, but back before 1868 it was an even more indiscernible blend of Shinto, Buddhist and folk beliefs. The Meiji Emperor, in wanting to create a modern state, decided that Shinto should be the state religion, and he set about either purifying Shinto to make it more "Japanese," or creating a state-sponsored version out of whole cloth, depending on one's point of view. But the result was a wrenching apart of a heterogeneous belief system that had existed up to that point, making Shinto and Buddhism more distinct from each other. So, the very concept of "Shinto" or "Buddhism" 400 years ago did not resemble the practices that we recognize now.
So what about Zen? Yes, some famous and high-ranking warriors followed the teachings of Takuan Soho, and some supported Zendo as well. Many middle-ranking samurai seemed to favor Mikyo Buddhism. There has been some scholarly work that suggests a "secret" cult of Marishten, a minor deity in the Buddhist pantheon, but at this point, it does not seem to have been a widespread phenomenon. In an autobiographical sketch of a low-ranking, late Edo period samurai which I recently read, the author described his belief system as an amalgam of practices, primarily rituals to ensure good luck, seemingly from any deity that might listen to him, regardless of origin. This same individual did not seem so overtly religious as to not descend to selling "mystical" objects that buyers hoped would make them luckier, either. A guy's gotta make a living somehow.
A short while ago, I went back and revisited both Herrigel and Suzuki. I was surprised to recognize my beginner's naivete. Suzuki in particular seemed, in the vernacular, to be "full of it." (A scholar-friend of mine once described him, *very charitably,* as "not mainstream." Indeed). Some Japanese scholars have pointed out that Herrigel's archery teacher, upon whom he had based his book, was an eccentric, both in archery technique and belief system, and not at all considered typical (whatever typical means).
I am not a sociology of religion person; just someone who reads books, talks to people and makes observations. And all of that tells me that the nuance of multiple beliefs, though messy and hard to parse, is a lot more colorful and interesting than the homogenous groupthink ascribed to millions of people, over several hundred years, as a whole. When I go to Japan, I throw a coin at the local Buddhist temple, clap my hands at the shrine, and mutter a short prayer to the spirit of my mother. It's nice to know that I am not alone in my eclecticism, either then or now.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Tanaka Sensei
"We can wear our gi. We aren't smelly like those judo guys." It's weird how the mind works. When I heard about the death of Tanaka Miyako sensei, naginata teacher from San Francisco, this was the first thing I remembered. I heard her voice, after a morning of training in Tendo ryu naginata, as a small debate arose over whether we should change our clothes before heading out for lunch.
Tanaka sensei was small and compactly built, sort of like a miniature tank. She did not seem to have any wrists - her hands came directly from her forearms, a result of many years of training and teaching Tendo ryu naginata and the sport form, Atarashii Naginata. Her steel-grey hair was parted on the side and held back with a single barrette. She wore blue hakama and a white, short-sleeved keikogi. Her voice was loud (and could be louder) and her manner was very, very direct.
I had heard of naginata, and that women primarily practiced it in Japan. I had also heard that it was disappearing (happily not exactly true). So when I found out that Tanaka sensei was teaching an intro seminar at a "sword camp" in eastern Canada, I was happy to go and find out for myself what it was like.
This camp was unique. There were no tests for rank. There was just a crowd of curious koryu budo practitioners, and a teacher with access to facilities at a university campus who shared our curiosity. He invited teachers to come show what they knew to the rest of us. The fee was minimal, as was the cost of the Spartan dorm rooms where we stayed. A teacher of one seminar would teach, say on Saturday morning, and by Saturday afternoon would come to another seminar as a complete beginner. Everyone trained together. Different styles of swordsmanship, naginata, kendo, jodo - participants could pick and choose what interested them. Saturday night, we commandeered the main gym and everyone showed off their styles for each other. No hierarchy. No ego. So. Much. Fun.
Over the course of several summers at the camp, I learned some rudiments of controlling a seven-foot long pole with a "blade" attached (the entire thing - a practice weapon, was made of white oak). "Tendo ryu is always a sword against a naginata - the naginata always wins" Tanaka sensei told us. I was fascinated with this art form, in which the kata had been adapted to actually work with women's bodies - with my body. It seems oxymoronic that such a large weapon would be adapted to people who are generally smaller (as in - women. With the exception of my college women's hockey team, let's face it - women are generally smaller than men. And Japanese women are smaller than many others). Tanaka sensei showed us how to balance the weight, including, from time to time, using our chests to help support the weapon during kata.
And the kata were serious. At the end of one, the naginataka pushes the blade into the swordsman's abdomen, then twists it, effectively eviscerating him. A real naginata also had a stubby spike at the non-blade end. In another kata we worked on, the spike end was thrust onto the swordsman's hip bone. Tanaka sensei showed us how the naginataka could control the swordsman by pushing his hip to move him. Happily for the "swordsman," the wooden practice weapons had flat ends. It was possible to get bruised during practice, but not badly hurt.
Saturday nights at the sword school demos, Tanaka Sensei several times took part in exhibition Atarashii Naginata matches against a volunteer kendo player. This took some nerve on the kendo player's part, as most of them had never faced a naginata player before. The only concession allowed was that the kendoka was expected to wear shin guards, as the shins were legit targets for the longer weapon. Just as in Tendo ryu, the "swordsman" in these matches always lost.
One time on her way home from Canada, Tanaka Sensei was able to stop over in New York. We quickly arranged space for a practice. This being the U.S., there were a good number of men taking part ("I never taught men until I came to the U.S.," she once told me. "I keep asking myself, 'Where are the women?'"). We were dutifully practicing the naginata side of the kata as she came down the floor, armed with a wooden sword sporting an especially thick, hide tsuba (sword guard), engaging each person in the kata as she went. Suddenly, she screeched at the top of her voice and chased a guy (none of us knew him) down the floor. "You trust me? You think I won't do anything? You won't look at me?" she demanded as she took off after him. we found out later that, in spite of being repeatedly told to maintain metsuke by looking into his opponent's eyes, the guy preferred to look anywhere but directly at her. Finally, she decided to teach him a lesson. I remember that one of my dojo kohai talked about her for a full two weeks after that - he had a complete crush on her for some time.
After ten years of summer fun, the camp dissolved for lack of interest. It seemed, according to the organizer, that people were happier to watch YouTube videos of little-known koryu budo rather than trying it for themselves. Though he still gets good turnouts for his regular seminars featuring guest teachers from Japan and ranking examinations, an attempt at reviving the old sword school faltered a couple of years back. Maybe it's also that no one seems to have much time off anymore. I sure don't, but I wish I still did. In almost 30 years of practice, the sword camp was one of the best experiences I ever had. I tell my students of our adventures sometimes. They think I'm nuts, but they seem to appreciate the stories anyway.
Even though I was unable to practice naginata on any regular basis (a group eventually formed in New York, but my schedule was so tightly packed, I was unable to really come to practice), I always cherished my experience with Tanaka Sensei. I loved her directness, and the way she contradicted all of the preconceived notions of what Japanese women are like (or even what American women are supposed to be like). I appreciated her generosity, introducing her art to us, and expanding our experience of koryu budo. As I have gained experience as a teacher I have tried to incorporate her no-nonsense approach. Even though I had not been in touch with her for some years, I feel incredibly sad. The naginataka who told us about her death said, "We are devastated." Me too.
Tanaka sensei was small and compactly built, sort of like a miniature tank. She did not seem to have any wrists - her hands came directly from her forearms, a result of many years of training and teaching Tendo ryu naginata and the sport form, Atarashii Naginata. Her steel-grey hair was parted on the side and held back with a single barrette. She wore blue hakama and a white, short-sleeved keikogi. Her voice was loud (and could be louder) and her manner was very, very direct.
I had heard of naginata, and that women primarily practiced it in Japan. I had also heard that it was disappearing (happily not exactly true). So when I found out that Tanaka sensei was teaching an intro seminar at a "sword camp" in eastern Canada, I was happy to go and find out for myself what it was like.
This camp was unique. There were no tests for rank. There was just a crowd of curious koryu budo practitioners, and a teacher with access to facilities at a university campus who shared our curiosity. He invited teachers to come show what they knew to the rest of us. The fee was minimal, as was the cost of the Spartan dorm rooms where we stayed. A teacher of one seminar would teach, say on Saturday morning, and by Saturday afternoon would come to another seminar as a complete beginner. Everyone trained together. Different styles of swordsmanship, naginata, kendo, jodo - participants could pick and choose what interested them. Saturday night, we commandeered the main gym and everyone showed off their styles for each other. No hierarchy. No ego. So. Much. Fun.
Over the course of several summers at the camp, I learned some rudiments of controlling a seven-foot long pole with a "blade" attached (the entire thing - a practice weapon, was made of white oak). "Tendo ryu is always a sword against a naginata - the naginata always wins" Tanaka sensei told us. I was fascinated with this art form, in which the kata had been adapted to actually work with women's bodies - with my body. It seems oxymoronic that such a large weapon would be adapted to people who are generally smaller (as in - women. With the exception of my college women's hockey team, let's face it - women are generally smaller than men. And Japanese women are smaller than many others). Tanaka sensei showed us how to balance the weight, including, from time to time, using our chests to help support the weapon during kata.
And the kata were serious. At the end of one, the naginataka pushes the blade into the swordsman's abdomen, then twists it, effectively eviscerating him. A real naginata also had a stubby spike at the non-blade end. In another kata we worked on, the spike end was thrust onto the swordsman's hip bone. Tanaka sensei showed us how the naginataka could control the swordsman by pushing his hip to move him. Happily for the "swordsman," the wooden practice weapons had flat ends. It was possible to get bruised during practice, but not badly hurt.
Saturday nights at the sword school demos, Tanaka Sensei several times took part in exhibition Atarashii Naginata matches against a volunteer kendo player. This took some nerve on the kendo player's part, as most of them had never faced a naginata player before. The only concession allowed was that the kendoka was expected to wear shin guards, as the shins were legit targets for the longer weapon. Just as in Tendo ryu, the "swordsman" in these matches always lost.
One time on her way home from Canada, Tanaka Sensei was able to stop over in New York. We quickly arranged space for a practice. This being the U.S., there were a good number of men taking part ("I never taught men until I came to the U.S.," she once told me. "I keep asking myself, 'Where are the women?'"). We were dutifully practicing the naginata side of the kata as she came down the floor, armed with a wooden sword sporting an especially thick, hide tsuba (sword guard), engaging each person in the kata as she went. Suddenly, she screeched at the top of her voice and chased a guy (none of us knew him) down the floor. "You trust me? You think I won't do anything? You won't look at me?" she demanded as she took off after him. we found out later that, in spite of being repeatedly told to maintain metsuke by looking into his opponent's eyes, the guy preferred to look anywhere but directly at her. Finally, she decided to teach him a lesson. I remember that one of my dojo kohai talked about her for a full two weeks after that - he had a complete crush on her for some time.
After ten years of summer fun, the camp dissolved for lack of interest. It seemed, according to the organizer, that people were happier to watch YouTube videos of little-known koryu budo rather than trying it for themselves. Though he still gets good turnouts for his regular seminars featuring guest teachers from Japan and ranking examinations, an attempt at reviving the old sword school faltered a couple of years back. Maybe it's also that no one seems to have much time off anymore. I sure don't, but I wish I still did. In almost 30 years of practice, the sword camp was one of the best experiences I ever had. I tell my students of our adventures sometimes. They think I'm nuts, but they seem to appreciate the stories anyway.
Even though I was unable to practice naginata on any regular basis (a group eventually formed in New York, but my schedule was so tightly packed, I was unable to really come to practice), I always cherished my experience with Tanaka Sensei. I loved her directness, and the way she contradicted all of the preconceived notions of what Japanese women are like (or even what American women are supposed to be like). I appreciated her generosity, introducing her art to us, and expanding our experience of koryu budo. As I have gained experience as a teacher I have tried to incorporate her no-nonsense approach. Even though I had not been in touch with her for some years, I feel incredibly sad. The naginataka who told us about her death said, "We are devastated." Me too.
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