Thursday, May 22, 2014

Reality check

Last night in the Daito class, the teacher took a little time to show his students the reality of some of the techniques they were practicing. The students were practicing waza in which an attacker grabs the defender's arms, the defender does a sort of reverse and grabs the attacker's arms in turn, and then throws the attacker. The "attacker," or training partner in this case, knows, as he is being thrown, to roll out of the throw as he lands on the mat. The teacher pointed out that a non-Daito practitioner (i.e. an actual attacker, for example) will actually fall on his face, not having his arms available to catch himself as he falls, and in all likelihood not knowing how to roll out of a throw. In a second example, using a different technique, the untrained attacker fell to his back, hitting the back of his head. The defender ended up kneeling on the attacker's chest, which in reality would probably crush his ribcage. All this, the teacher pointed out, on a hard floor or concrete sidewalk or asphalt roadway, rather than a mat. "Be careful," he said, "if you ever decide to actually use any of this on someone. Here we train safe. There, the consequences could be deadly for the attacker."

I will leave the legal implications of countering an attack with deadly force to those who know the subject better (and it depends on the jurisdiction where the altercation takes place, as well as the surrounding circumstances). But I really appreciated the Daito teacher's point, because it is often lost on practitioners, especially a class for beginners. Generally speaking, this teacher is fairly light-hearted. As I have written elsewhere in this blog, I often hear laughter from the mat as people drill in the various techniques. But last night he ended the practice on this particularly serious note.

There is a reason why Japanese swordsmanship is surrounded by ritual and extreme politeness and why the techniques are done with extreme slowness. Behind all of the cultural, historical and aesthetic aspects, and the meditative aspects as well, the stark reality of what we are doing is this - we are learning to use a deadly weapon that kills people, and we are learning to do it in the most efficient way possible. Generally speaking, any good style (not the "show styles" of flashy moves that just look cool) does not mess around with maiming an opponent (though that might happen). Iai kata are brief for a reason - after two cuts to an opponent at most (and usually only one), the opponent is finished. Even if wounded, an opponent would likely die from infection or blood loss. A calm, cool environment is the only place where this type of thing can be taught, and simultaneously developing a mindset that emphasizes manners and judgment is the only responsible way to teach it. If a Daito teacher, whose techniques consist of empty-hand, use-the-opponent's-strengths-against-him tactics, warns his students that they may overdo it if a real opportunity ever presents itself (or if the practitioner decides to show off his technique to an untrained friend), how much more for those of us who teach the use of deadly weapons?

Well, you say, we don't carry swords around with us anymore. In most jurisdictions (including mine) just carrying a sword around in such a way that it could be drawn makes the bearer subject to arrest. True. But just like it seems all too often with firearms, accidents can happen. Recklessness or a cavalier attitude can set the stage for bad consequences. Moreover, it's been my experience that casual observers have a profound lack of understanding of the inherent dangers of swords, bows and arrows. When I was young and taking Western fencing, I acceded to a co-worker's request to show him my practice foil. The very first thing he did was point it in someone else's face. A foil tip is about 1/4 inch in diameter, made of dull-colored steel. It is very hard to see, and even harder for someone to judge the distance when pointed directly at him. And this was sporting equipment. I barked a stern warning at the guy and quickly took the foil away from him. Since then, I not only don't show my equipment to people, I don't tell them what it is, even if they are nosy enough to ask. I'd rather be thought rude than have something stupid happen.

When I perform demonstrations, I tend to become almost anatomical in my description of the damage that can be done by a given technique should we not be using wooden swords, or if the "imaginary" opponent in a solo kata happens to be flesh and blood. On more than one occasion, I have seen audience members wince at the idea. That's as it should be. Practice for any number of reasons, but the nature of the practice should always be serious. As my teacher used to say at demos, "What we do is real."

Friday, May 16, 2014

Writing tips, part 3 - the last one, I promise

After the first two entries on this topic, I feel the need to finish the story...

I advanced to college at a time when most teenagers were starting their junior year of high school ("You'll miss your senior prom," my mother said, in a vain effort to get me to think about my decision. "I don't care." I replied. "Get me out of here."). There were a few caveats. One was that, being too young, I had to attend the college where my father taught. I also had to return for my high school graduation ceremony with my class. I considered this a higher price than skipping the prom, actually, but it was still a small price to pay. I was utterly bored, and even my parents could see me chafing at the rules and regs of my high school, where I felt much more like a prisoner than a student.

The third caveat (that was made a good deal of) was taking some form of English comp in my first year. Most freshmen had to either take comp or test out of it, but because English comp was one of the senior high school requirements I had wriggled out of, my undergraduate school made a big point of it (no one seemed very concerned that I skipped physics too). Again, no biggie. I had always liked to write. I was pretty smart, I thought. Sure, bring it on.

I had two choices - take a three-credit, one semester course, or take three, one-credit "English Conference" courses. Being a faculty brat, I knew everyone. I looked over the teaching roster for the semester. I didn't really care for the comp teachers. On the other hand, one of the faculty members available for the conference course was a certain Dr. D. I elected for the three-semester, one-credit version with him.

Here's why I picked Dr. D., and sentenced myself to the first 1-1/2 years of my college life spending 1/2 hour each week with him: he was a published writer. Dr. D. was not one of the blowhards in the English department who talked about other people's books - he had his own (which, as far as I knew, he never talked about). I had heard about him from his arrival at the college, sometime around when I was in middle school. Dr. D. was an Indian immigrant, and had published numerous novels there. From time to time, he still published novels there. The library was one of the cooler new buildings on campus, and Dr. D. had a study carel to himself where he worked for two hours, writing - every day, from 8:00 to 10:00am. If anyone tried to get his attention, and managed to get past the phalanx of librarians who seemed as zealous about his work time as he was, he would politely explain that he could not talk, and to see him in his office. Though the librarians regularly reshelved books left in the carels by students and faculty, the books in Dr. D.'s carel were always left alone, by some sort of magical arrangement. I "chanced" to walk by, and found books on history and politics. Here was a guy who was serious and managed to bend rules (of library carels, anyway). My kind of guy.

I remember handing in my first writing assignment to Dr. D. I actually don't remember what it was about. I remember (in those pre-word-processing days) that my father had helped me type it, because I wanted to make a good impression. I remember *most* clearly the way Dr. D. read through my work aloud, with his melodious accent, then took out a red felt-tip pen, and started in.

I felt like I had never seen so much red ink in my life. I was horrified, aghast. I was an A-student. I would have been in the honor society in my high school except for my bad habit of telling teachers what I actually thought about stuff. And I was failing my first assignment in college! Holy crap.

I wanted to cry. But I didn't. Instead, I tried to listen to Dr. D. explain that while my sentences were nice, my organization absolutely sucked. Here, he said, use this as a topic sentence. Look, he said, this sentence down here should be in this paragraph up here. This sentence should really be two. Or three. Finally, he said: Rewrite this assignment and bring it back to me next week.

I was mortified. My dad asked me how it went. I think I mumbled something. He asked if we should type the next assignment. I said no, it was okay.

I could not look at my marked up paper, with its tide of red, for a couple of days, but I thought about it, and about what Dr. D. said. And then I started to remember the Box. The Box that taught me writing skills, 'way back in elementary school, had told me pretty much what Dr. D. had said, and it all came back to me. I reread my "blood"-soaked essay, and saw what Dr. D. saw.

The following week I brought in my hand-written rewrite. Again, the red pen came out, but there was less of a tide this time. By the third week, there was almost no red. Dr. D. congratulated me on my improvement. I did other assignments, and, since I was allowed to, even brought in some assignments for other classes. Other students I met were struggling with their first term papers, but not me (unless you count battling with my dad's old electric typewriter at 3:00 in the morning). By the end of the third semester, I could not understand why everyone didn't take English Conference! What an awesome idea! My new college friends thought I was nuts to spend three semesters having to actually talk to a professor for 1/2 hour every week. By my fourth semester, I wasn't just writing term papers, but journal entries and poetry too.

Dr. D.'s advice led me through two graduate degrees and still follows me now. I summarized most of his big points in part 1 of this topic. It seems like pretty dry stuff, but after you get the basic ideas, you can riff on them, a point lost on a lot of inexperienced writers. The riffing is important; that's what makes it fun, and what makes the work uniquely yours.

Some years ago, I saw Dr. D. at a college gathering (many years ago, actually. If Dr. D. is still on the planet, he's many-years retired by now). I was either still working on, or had just finished my second graduate degree. He looked the same, but a little stouter, and his dark hair had turned silver, though he still had the same haircut. We chatted about this and that, and, without really thinking about it, I told him that everything I had done as a writer was thanks to him. To my complete surprise, his eyes got misty, and he said, "You know, as a teacher, I always hope I do some good for my students, but I don't often get to hear that I actually did."

In my posts, I frequently mention my first budo teacher, along with other colleagues, friends and teachers. I have learned a lot from all of them. But I would not be writing about any of it without the anonymous creators of the Box, and especially not without Dr. D.

Monday, May 12, 2014

My jodo life

I train in a style of budo where I am a relative beginner - jodo. Jodo began, depending on what you read, as a police art that pits someone employing a short stick against a sword-wielding opponent. Policemen in Japan still train in both modern and old-style jo. As common as it is there, however, it is not very well-known in the U.S.

I actually started jodo practice many years ago. In those days, we would go to the dojo and do whatever the sempai on the floor that night decided to do. Practice could be anything, from solo iai kata, to kumidachi practice, to whatever someone picked up at a random seminar over the previous weekend; whether empty-hand stuff or god knows what. No one complained, because (1) it was all cool, and (2) we knew our dojo at the time was the best (and almost only) place around to get the stuff we were doing. In those days, our only referent, besides Black Belt magazine (where our teacher had been written up a few times) was fight choreography in samurai movies. So we did a little bit of everything from time to time.

One little bit of koryu at the time was jodo. One of the sempai was very interested in practicing what little he had learned from our teacher (who, as it turned out, knew quite a bit), so we hauled all of our equipment to the dojo week after week, just to hit each other with sticks. I have to admit I didn't like it very well. It's surprising how awkward one can feel with a 4-1/2 foot long, 1.25 inch diameter, utterly featureless pole in one's hands. Also, as we stumbled through the first half of the standard set, I just found myself not believing that any of this would work. I mean, the opponent is wielding a 3-foot razor, and the defender has this wooden stick. It seemed crazy. So, when things changed and the enthusiastic sempai moved on, we found we still had plenty to do without jodo. This situation prevailed until about 11-12 years ago, when my teacher invited me to come meet him for lunch. He was in failing health then, and he asked me to come alone.

As usual with sensei, I couldn't rush him into anything. We had lunch. We had tea. We talked about this and that. Finally, he reached for a shopping bag he had brought with him. He pulled out a large, old book written in Japanese. It was Shimizu's big jodo book. He said, "This is for you. It is not for the dojo. It's for you alone. I want you to study jodo. Please find a teacher."

So I did. There was really no one in our area (and it's the NYC area, so that's saying something) who knew jodo at the time. Regular instruction was not a possibility; so I did the next best thing - I tapped a friend who was a sandan in Kendo Federation jodo. He lived almost halfway across the country, but, at the time, we had a little money in the kitty to spend on an air ticket from time to time. Also, since he wasn't a big kahuna, we didn't have to pay him like one - spending money, dinners and some entertainment was enough; and one of the dojo members at the time had a place where he could crash. As a special bonus, every now and then his business would involve a trip to NYC. When this happened, I rented extra time at the studio where we practiced and everyone who was available was able to take advantage of his presence.

Things changed again and I found myself on my own. This was a great disadvantage on many levels, but eventually it presented me with an opportunity. Instead of jodo being some auxiliary practice, I was able to make it into a separate workshop class. We have the resource of my old friend, as well as another, more senior practitioner on the east coast, and a relationship with a dojo in Japan. I still have no ranking in jodo. The class is a workshop where we are all learning kata together. Jodo is not a solo art form, like iai. Even with the visual aids available today, jodo is a partner art form. Not only can you not learn it off the Interwebs, you also cannot learn it by yourself, no matter how much you try. Hence the workshop format, overseen by various senior jodoka.

And I learned a few things; for example, that as well-meaning as my old sempai was, he really didn't understand jodo. I don't consider this his fault; he never practiced it enough to realize how much give-and-take is involved in the kata. This back-and-forth with a partner is how one learns to be an effective jodoka. And this simple, 4-1/2 foot pole is actually very difficult to learn, involving time and space considerations that change with every new partner. Once I realized that, I realized that it wasn't that jodo was ineffective; I was ineffective, because I didn't have enough experience to understand it. Even though I have spent almost 30 years in budo (and a few before that as a western-style fencer), I get to feel the frustration of the beginner, along with the sense of little triumphs when a technique "miraculously" works the way it's supposed to. Some practices are great and some are simply tiring. As the workshop leader, I sometimes get confused about one kata or another, but it's all right because as little as I know, everyone else knows less. Progress this way is slow, but it is steady.

So, my teacher, who changed my life in so many ways all those years ago, continues to change my life now.

Friday, May 2, 2014

What it means to be ronin

So, it is May again, the month in which I celebrate being kicked out of my old group, my old life, my old affiliations. At this point, I can say in all honesty I don't think about what happened all that much. Last year (anni no. 5) I did write about it bec. I felt that 5 was a significant number. But, you know things only have significance if you let them. Anyway, a post on FB about one of my budo friends who is a judoka set me to thinking. He wrote briefly about his great judo practice, wherein he both got "schooled" in some techniques, had an opportunity to work on some aspects of his practice that needed work, and also had an opportunity to help along a newbie. It sounded great.

The opposite of that, I can tell you, is what it means to be ronin. It means not having that cool, exhilarating experience of belonging. It means not clearly remembering how to do something, and having no one looking over your shoulder to either reassure you, or pointing out where you're screwing up. It means not knowing for sure if what you are passing along to your students is the right thing. Instead, you have to rely on memory; on what you think you might have observed at some point in the past six months, or last year, or six years ago.

It's not that I don't have friends or colleagues (scattered around the eastern US as they are) or that I don't have the occasional outstanding practice (I can actually say I had one last night). It's the ordinariness of belonging - that you have a place in the hierarchy, that you know what and where that is, and you enjoy being where you are. A perfectly ordinary experience, week after week, that you don't have.

That is the part I miss. I don't miss the politics, or the business of running a group. I don't miss the annoyances of who owes money, or who feels dissed, or what happened to whats-his-name. I miss being part of the group, the crowd. It's not being part of a hierarchy - after all, in my current place, I am the instructor, the person whereat the buck stops. I have met people who dearly want to be exactly in this position - the be-all and end-all, the person at the top. I guess I am, in my little group, at the top, but to be honest, it's not the most fun place. The fun place is being in the mix, in the middle, in the place where there's give and take. Where you can both teach and learn, week after week.

I know, in some ways, including some really difficult ways, I have earned this place. In six years of reflection, I know this is where I should be probably. But I really miss the feeling of belonging to something bigger than myself. I do have that in the abstract, of course - studying traditional koryu arts means you are just a brick in the wall, a piece on the centuries-old continuum of sincere practice. That's pretty cool, actually. But the missing part for the ronin is that being a part of that continuum is the sum of what you have. One of my teachers, before I ended up on my own, remarked that his teacher kicked his butt, and, in turn, he kicked my butt. That is how it is supposed to work. Well, while I get my butt kicked in the global sense, when I have the opportunity to be around people who know this stuff better than I do from time to time, I don't have that on a regular basis.

I go on, because this is what I do. Sometimes I think it would be easier to take up a more conventional hobby. My old teacher, who died ten years ago, once said I was compelled to practice budo because I did it in some previous life. Sometimes I think that is the only explanation that makes sense. And sometimes, I think it is the only reason I go on.

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Writing tips, part 2 - my first writing teacher

I went to a campus elementary school that was linked to a "state teachers college." Even as a kid, I realized what a great deal this was. Our classes were small - I think the largest one was about 20 kids, at one point, though generally, the classes were smaller than that. We had one "real" teacher and two student teachers - that's one hell of a good ratio. Though most of the students were faculty brats like myself, there were local kids too, including some whose families occasionally needed help from others. As I recall, several mothers (including mine) would step up with hand-me-down clothing or transportation for school-related events when necessary.

I remember this time as one of the best in my life. My brain was exploding with ideas, and there were teachers on hand to say, "Go ahead! Do it!" I will forever remember when I first learned to read - when the letters on the page that we had learned to pronounce by rote suddenly combined to make recognizable words. Of course we had rules; but we didn't have grades - we had evaluations instead. Even the classes were flexible and geared to academic ability.

We weren't afraid of tests. We had them all the time. Being somewhat experimental, our school was subject to lots of evaluative tests. The teachers explained that these weren't to evaluate us, they were to evaluate the techniques being employed to teach us. I have no idea how the evaluations played out, since we had almost no anxiety about them. Testing was just part of the routine (I can't imagine something like this being done in a public school now).

Of course, there was a down side. By third grade, we were being subjected to "new math," a mistake in pedagogy that left me math-impaired until 8th grade (when I remembered and started applying the two years of arithmetic I had before I was 8 years old). This was really unfortunate, but there were so many good things that we learned - film animation, history, studying different religions, science field work, geography - I guess I have to forgive the geniuses who screwed up my math ability, at least in the short run.

Our curriculum included boxes of lessons we could work through at our own pace. The teachers' job during these lessons was to act as tutors, and to check our evaluations that we had to fill out at the end of each lesson. Among them (and I remember there were quite a few of them), there was a box called Organizing and Reporting Skills. As awful as the title sounds, this became my favorite Box, because I learned how to write a three-paragraph essay. Among the skills presented were how to write a topic sentence, how to write supporting sentences, and how to coherently organize my little argument in subsequent paragraphs. Additionally (and importantly) the Box gave examples of poorly organized writing and asked me how I would fix it. The Box also gave examples of when a writer's opinion entered into what should have been a dispassionate report. As a grownup writer I can easily make the argument that most "objective" writing actually isn't objective at all, but at the time, seeing where facts were being made to dance a certain way (or were disregarded altogether) became a valuable life skill.

I liked this Box so much that when the end of the semester came at Christmas time, I was afraid I would not be able to get back to the Box after the break, that I would be moved on to something else (that did not happen. And by the way, I was a seriously geeky kid).

I liked school - until I got to 7th grade, and had to transfer to a "regular" school, with lots and lots of rules, where the fundamental point was that we had to be controlled all of the time, or we might do something "bad," but that's another story. The relevant point is that we had English class and learned parts of speech, vocabulary, etc., read some Shakespeare, but we no longer wrote paragraphs - on anything. I am serious. For five years. By the end of that time, I could write boffo sentences, but I had forgotten everything the Box had taught me.

Being a little precocious, I skipped my senior year of high school, and skipped both Physics (which I would have loved, except for the dorky teacher), and English Composition, which, as I recall, was the only required course I would have had to take if I had stayed on, but I didn't. I had aced my SAT's, and I was bored shitless. Time to move on. But the Box wasn't done with me yet...