A number of years ago, I was going through a rather tough time emotionally. I asked a friend of mine, a Buddhist monk, if he could recommend some sutras I could read to calm my mind. He sent three. I printed them out and lugged them around with me for months, reading through them practically every day. I was not looking for comfort, I was looking for a sense of perspective.
I don't remember everything in the sutras. I do remember one portion read something similar to what your mom might have told you: hang around with the wrong crowd and you will begin to identify with it (or be identified with it). Another part that stuck with me was: people will attribute their own motivations to you.
That's a simple thought, right? And yet, when you think about it, you begin to see it everywhere in interacting with people. With regard to the situation that had upset me, years ago now, it was certainly true that I was thinking overall about the welfare of the group I was involved in. The person who ultimately managed to kick me out was thinking of himself as the font of all wisdom. He had decided that I must be thinking the same thing, and there could only be ONE font. Etc. (That's not to say I had not thought of myself as a source of relevant information for these people, but it was not my only, nor my primary interest.)
I am bringing this up because, as I said, people will attribute their motivations to you. After a dry, hot August, with my sponsor complaining about low class attendance impacting his bottom line, I thought of a simple way to kill several birds with one stone. Without going into detail, the idea would have increased income to the sponsor, allowed him to perhaps come to okeiko more often, and give me the autonomy I think a dojo should have, as opposed to a class. It would also allow me to build up a small amount of cash so I could invite teachers for seminars without having to front money I could only hope to recoup though fees. Win-win-win-win. The only caveat was that I would have to pay less to the sponsor than he might have gotten from a total stranger, but it seemed like a reasonable enough deal - it was more than he had been getting, and I was his teacher, right? He would be able to continue to attend okeiko for free, which was worth quite a bit. I was certain enough that this scheme would work that I ran it past some of the students, vaguely and confidentially, since implementing such an idea would impact how they paid for classes. Everyone agreed it was a good idea. I decided to run it past the sponsor.
Except that I had barely seen him over the past two months. I wrote several times that I wanted to talk to him (without committing any specifics to print). Eventually, inevitably, he heard a rumor that I was thinking of breaking my relationship with him (and I was; but only as a sponsor, not as a student). I received a hastily and badly-written email stating that IF I wanted to pay rent, I could pay the same as any other client (an amount that is actually overpriced for the space and location, given everything).
Let's just say the note reflected a boss-contractor relationship, rather than a student-teacher relationship. As to the motivation he was attributing to me, I'm not sure. I can state that my interest was for the welfare of the group, something that I thought would also be of interest to him as a student. In other words, I thought I could attribute my motivation to him. Unfortunately, though it isn't written that way, the sutra works both ways, and I was wrong.
One of my old, old budo colleagues once told me not to teach at other people's dojo. I don't entirely disagree. It's true I can't claim any students there as my own, but, currently, at least, people who invite me seem very grateful for what I can offer, and - they pay me. As much as I can use the extra money myself, I have decided to put my ill-gotten gains towards rent for a space that I could consider the dojo's "forever home." It may be small and only once a week or so, but it would be all ours.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
The New Guy - Part II
Writers are storytellers. I am no exception. Even though I am not happy to revisit this episode, the nine or so followers among the readers of this blog might like to know how the story of the New Guy ended.
The following jodo okeiko was huge, at least in our terms. All of the upper level people were there, and the New Guy sort of faded into the mix. Good, I thought. Maybe he was just nervous and is now finding his groove. Fine.
Or not. The following week found only three of us again, and again he could not keep his mouth shut. When I explained a slight difference in bunkai that differed from how he had been given to understand it (or how he thought he understood it), he rolled his eyes in exasperation. He was also incorrect in his assumption for why his way of doing the kata was somehow "better." I am the first person to admit my limited knowledge of jodo but I do know what I know. I am pretty good at learning things and above everything else, I trust my teachers and sempai. The sempai, to be honest, may miss on occasion, but never in a way that would seriously mislead. And I train with some of the top teachers on the planet. I decided to have a chat with him at the next okeiko - either shut up and get with the program or find some other group to train with.
In the interim I considered how I should talk to him. Ordinarily one would settle differences outside the room. That was the approach I decided to take. However, the next okeiko was also small, and again, he began "correcting" the student who was training with us. We blew him off until after the closing reishiki, at which point I began to tell him, in front of the other (by this time, very affronted) student, that we were studying a particular tradition of jodo. I was going to say that it may be slightly at odds with his experience, etc., but that he should get with the program if he wanted to continue, etc., but I did not get that far. No sooner did I get the above 1/2 sentence out then he went completely off. He began shouting at me. Among other things, he shouted that he was NOT trying to "take over the class," but "when I see a mistake, I'm going to correct it. After all, I've been doing this for a long time."
"So. Have. I." I hissed. Meanwhile thinking, oh buddy, you are so out of here...
He stormed out. Afterwards, my student remarked that he was unlikely to come back. I said, "You know what? I'm going to make sure." The next day, I fired off a short email to the sponsor (who is, by the way, also a student). I told him, briefly, what happened, and said, very clearly, that even though he was the sponsor I was only telling him the New Guy was not welcome and that I was not interested in his opinion. Budo training needs to be extremely polite or else things become very dangerous very quickly. I had always reserved the right to not teach someone I thought was unsuitable. We needed to get in touch with him and tell him.
To my complete surprise, the sponsor went completely "bro" on me (sorry, guys, but I'm not sure how else to put it). He said, "He didn't seem that bad to me."
I believe people near me when I read that saw the steam jetting out of my ears. I AM THIS GUY'S TEACHER, AND HE'S GOING TO ARGUE WITH ME. I understood that, as the sponsor, he was unhappy losing an additional class fee, but he totally forgot that he was also a student and his only proper response would be to trust my judgment and agree, even if reluctantly.
Incredibly, an email exchange between myself, my student/sponsor, and eventually a jodo sempai whom I brought in to back me up (not that I ever, ever should have needed him) went on all day. Finally, the sempai, who knew the New Guy's previous teacher, agreed to contact him to see if we could find out anything further about the New Guy's history. But here's the thing: I know from experience (see the first post on this subject) that violent, rude, abusive people are only that way with those whom they consider targets. With virtually everyone else, they can be perfectly well-behaved. "I don't care if this guy was a prince with his old teacher," I said. "He goes. That's it."
The effects of a rude, impolite student go beyond just aggravating the instructor. Two of the offended students were already making excuses for why they could not come, or could not stay, for jodo okeiko. If the sponsor thought he was going to lose one class fee for bouncing someone who was not appropriate, he was going to find out that losing an entire class would be a lot more fiscally painful. And the disintegration can come about very quickly. I needed to resolve this right away.
The response from the previous (or, as the person himself put it FORMER) teacher, was swift. The New Guy was so unsuitable, he had actually forbidden him to come to his okeiko. "Please extend my apologies to [the instructor]," he wrote, expressing some serious mortification. Vindication; though, as I said, it should not have been necessary at all.
Naturally, I was the one who had to let New Guy know he should look for another class. Maybe he has found one. I don't know. But, if previous experience is any guide, I tend to keep looking over my shoulder. He would not be the first person to come after me to personally express his frustration, let's say. And his former teacher mentioned his persistence. So I am careful not to leave the dojo by myself after okeiko, for now. The two students whom he let loose on were grateful to see him gone, and are back in class. Aside from questioning myself regarding the wisdom of having a sponsor, I have decided to let the issue go for now, since (I hope) it has been taken care of.
I have met many wonderful people, mostly gentlemen, given the one-sided nature of budo in the U.S., and many more excellent people in Japan through my practice. Unfortunately, there are some bad students out there, no matter where, and it is the responsibility of instructors to keep them out of their dojo. They owe it to their students as well as to themselves.
The following jodo okeiko was huge, at least in our terms. All of the upper level people were there, and the New Guy sort of faded into the mix. Good, I thought. Maybe he was just nervous and is now finding his groove. Fine.
Or not. The following week found only three of us again, and again he could not keep his mouth shut. When I explained a slight difference in bunkai that differed from how he had been given to understand it (or how he thought he understood it), he rolled his eyes in exasperation. He was also incorrect in his assumption for why his way of doing the kata was somehow "better." I am the first person to admit my limited knowledge of jodo but I do know what I know. I am pretty good at learning things and above everything else, I trust my teachers and sempai. The sempai, to be honest, may miss on occasion, but never in a way that would seriously mislead. And I train with some of the top teachers on the planet. I decided to have a chat with him at the next okeiko - either shut up and get with the program or find some other group to train with.
In the interim I considered how I should talk to him. Ordinarily one would settle differences outside the room. That was the approach I decided to take. However, the next okeiko was also small, and again, he began "correcting" the student who was training with us. We blew him off until after the closing reishiki, at which point I began to tell him, in front of the other (by this time, very affronted) student, that we were studying a particular tradition of jodo. I was going to say that it may be slightly at odds with his experience, etc., but that he should get with the program if he wanted to continue, etc., but I did not get that far. No sooner did I get the above 1/2 sentence out then he went completely off. He began shouting at me. Among other things, he shouted that he was NOT trying to "take over the class," but "when I see a mistake, I'm going to correct it. After all, I've been doing this for a long time."
"So. Have. I." I hissed. Meanwhile thinking, oh buddy, you are so out of here...
He stormed out. Afterwards, my student remarked that he was unlikely to come back. I said, "You know what? I'm going to make sure." The next day, I fired off a short email to the sponsor (who is, by the way, also a student). I told him, briefly, what happened, and said, very clearly, that even though he was the sponsor I was only telling him the New Guy was not welcome and that I was not interested in his opinion. Budo training needs to be extremely polite or else things become very dangerous very quickly. I had always reserved the right to not teach someone I thought was unsuitable. We needed to get in touch with him and tell him.
To my complete surprise, the sponsor went completely "bro" on me (sorry, guys, but I'm not sure how else to put it). He said, "He didn't seem that bad to me."
I believe people near me when I read that saw the steam jetting out of my ears. I AM THIS GUY'S TEACHER, AND HE'S GOING TO ARGUE WITH ME. I understood that, as the sponsor, he was unhappy losing an additional class fee, but he totally forgot that he was also a student and his only proper response would be to trust my judgment and agree, even if reluctantly.
Incredibly, an email exchange between myself, my student/sponsor, and eventually a jodo sempai whom I brought in to back me up (not that I ever, ever should have needed him) went on all day. Finally, the sempai, who knew the New Guy's previous teacher, agreed to contact him to see if we could find out anything further about the New Guy's history. But here's the thing: I know from experience (see the first post on this subject) that violent, rude, abusive people are only that way with those whom they consider targets. With virtually everyone else, they can be perfectly well-behaved. "I don't care if this guy was a prince with his old teacher," I said. "He goes. That's it."
The effects of a rude, impolite student go beyond just aggravating the instructor. Two of the offended students were already making excuses for why they could not come, or could not stay, for jodo okeiko. If the sponsor thought he was going to lose one class fee for bouncing someone who was not appropriate, he was going to find out that losing an entire class would be a lot more fiscally painful. And the disintegration can come about very quickly. I needed to resolve this right away.
The response from the previous (or, as the person himself put it FORMER) teacher, was swift. The New Guy was so unsuitable, he had actually forbidden him to come to his okeiko. "Please extend my apologies to [the instructor]," he wrote, expressing some serious mortification. Vindication; though, as I said, it should not have been necessary at all.
Naturally, I was the one who had to let New Guy know he should look for another class. Maybe he has found one. I don't know. But, if previous experience is any guide, I tend to keep looking over my shoulder. He would not be the first person to come after me to personally express his frustration, let's say. And his former teacher mentioned his persistence. So I am careful not to leave the dojo by myself after okeiko, for now. The two students whom he let loose on were grateful to see him gone, and are back in class. Aside from questioning myself regarding the wisdom of having a sponsor, I have decided to let the issue go for now, since (I hope) it has been taken care of.
I have met many wonderful people, mostly gentlemen, given the one-sided nature of budo in the U.S., and many more excellent people in Japan through my practice. Unfortunately, there are some bad students out there, no matter where, and it is the responsibility of instructors to keep them out of their dojo. They owe it to their students as well as to themselves.
Friday, September 11, 2015
The bigots among us
Over the past year or so, I've unfriended FBers who expressed sexist, racist or homophobic opinions. Being aware that some pundits suggest we are limiting our exposure to others' opinions, I have done my best to be tolerant; but, eventually, inevitably, someone posts something that sets me off and - - I delete them from my feed, I hope forever.
The most recent unfriending took place this week when a sometime student who had sent me a friend request a few months ago put up an egregiously homophobic comment. I actually liked this guy - he was a lay minister and a teacher at a charter school who was very into the idea of empowering less-advantaged children. But, like any number of "conservative Christians" (as we call them), he considers homosexuality an abomination. After I unfriended him, I told the sponsor we should take him off of our dojo discussion group, both for the remark and the fact that after a few months he had stopped coming to okeiko anyway. My sponsor agreed (without an argument, for a change), especially after he saw the post. (News flash - not all budoka are straight.)
People's social opinions are no longer private. FB and related media are treated like people's living rooms, where they seem to feel comfortable expressing opinions and ideas that once were confined to personal discourse among family and real, not virtual friends. As a kid, I was aghast (along with much of the country) at the sitcom "All in the Family" for its very revealing Archie Bunker character - the casual working-class bigot who said exactly what he thought. The show started a national conversation about who Americans were, or thought they were - one of the few times a tv show had provoked such a reaction. As the series went on, Archie found out that people not like him are not so different in attitude (including that his black neighbor did not trust white people any more than Archie trusted blacks). Ultimately, his social views began to evolve. (I once heard that the actor who played him convinced the creators of the show that Archie should be portrayed as being more complex, which he ultimately was).
The thing that really bothers me is that the people I have been unfriending are fellow budoka, because that's what my FB list mostly consists of (along with family members and the occasional old high schoolmate). And it has set me to thinking: as budo teachers, do we have ethical responsibilities when it comes to deciding who we teach, or who we consider colleagues?
This is not a new topic. About 10 years ago, a group of budoka had a yearly forum at which they presented papers that addressed issues of sexism and other ethical topics as they related to their practice. One guy presented on a teacher who used his position of authority to sexually abuse a female student (he was caught, convicted and sent to jail for a few years). In another story, an aikidoka recommended a friend to his teacher, in spite of having an "edgy" temper. A few months later the guy disappeared. Upon inquiry, the aikidoka found out the guy had been arrested for using his newly acquired skills to put his wife in the hospital. The teacher was mortified, and the aikidoka was upset that he had recommended him, but until his arrest, he had no idea the person was violent or abusive.
In my own practice, I once refused to teach a guy who was mentally at least - if not also physically - abusing his girlfriend. My sempai at the time was irritated with me, because he noted that everyone involved was "an adult," and their private behavior was not my problem. I responded that the girlfriend was a victim and I was not going to teach someone capable of behaving in that way. (He was also disrespectful to me personally for Teaching While Female. Eventually, he and the sempai had a falling out and the issue became moot in any case.)
Koryu budo is a small world - I recently attended a seminar that was also attended by an "unfriend" who had expressed an obviously racist point of view, prompting me to delete him from my feed. I mentioned the episode to a few of the other people I was training with. The person is a disciplined budoka who is quite good at what he does; and, outside of a certain arrogance, is not a bad training partner either. But it's hard for me to have any kind of even casual relationship with him, knowing what I know. At the same time, I was not sure it was the right thing to "out" him to a couple of my colleagues. The sempai leading the seminar noted that he did not want to have a political discussion with him, but otherwise was ok teaching him. I am not. At the seminar, I was cordial and kept my distance.
My sponsor has said it's not his business to consider potential customers' points of view; even though, as a minority himself, he is not comfortable with racist remarks. I'm not comfortable either, and would prefer that any bigots lurking among my FB friends keep their opinions to themselves. But, unfortunately, the political discourse has recently made it okay for people to express their distrust of anyone not like themselves. Naively, they assume that their FB feed consists of users who think similarly. They now have one less "friend" who disagrees with them.
The most recent unfriending took place this week when a sometime student who had sent me a friend request a few months ago put up an egregiously homophobic comment. I actually liked this guy - he was a lay minister and a teacher at a charter school who was very into the idea of empowering less-advantaged children. But, like any number of "conservative Christians" (as we call them), he considers homosexuality an abomination. After I unfriended him, I told the sponsor we should take him off of our dojo discussion group, both for the remark and the fact that after a few months he had stopped coming to okeiko anyway. My sponsor agreed (without an argument, for a change), especially after he saw the post. (News flash - not all budoka are straight.)
People's social opinions are no longer private. FB and related media are treated like people's living rooms, where they seem to feel comfortable expressing opinions and ideas that once were confined to personal discourse among family and real, not virtual friends. As a kid, I was aghast (along with much of the country) at the sitcom "All in the Family" for its very revealing Archie Bunker character - the casual working-class bigot who said exactly what he thought. The show started a national conversation about who Americans were, or thought they were - one of the few times a tv show had provoked such a reaction. As the series went on, Archie found out that people not like him are not so different in attitude (including that his black neighbor did not trust white people any more than Archie trusted blacks). Ultimately, his social views began to evolve. (I once heard that the actor who played him convinced the creators of the show that Archie should be portrayed as being more complex, which he ultimately was).
The thing that really bothers me is that the people I have been unfriending are fellow budoka, because that's what my FB list mostly consists of (along with family members and the occasional old high schoolmate). And it has set me to thinking: as budo teachers, do we have ethical responsibilities when it comes to deciding who we teach, or who we consider colleagues?
This is not a new topic. About 10 years ago, a group of budoka had a yearly forum at which they presented papers that addressed issues of sexism and other ethical topics as they related to their practice. One guy presented on a teacher who used his position of authority to sexually abuse a female student (he was caught, convicted and sent to jail for a few years). In another story, an aikidoka recommended a friend to his teacher, in spite of having an "edgy" temper. A few months later the guy disappeared. Upon inquiry, the aikidoka found out the guy had been arrested for using his newly acquired skills to put his wife in the hospital. The teacher was mortified, and the aikidoka was upset that he had recommended him, but until his arrest, he had no idea the person was violent or abusive.
In my own practice, I once refused to teach a guy who was mentally at least - if not also physically - abusing his girlfriend. My sempai at the time was irritated with me, because he noted that everyone involved was "an adult," and their private behavior was not my problem. I responded that the girlfriend was a victim and I was not going to teach someone capable of behaving in that way. (He was also disrespectful to me personally for Teaching While Female. Eventually, he and the sempai had a falling out and the issue became moot in any case.)
Koryu budo is a small world - I recently attended a seminar that was also attended by an "unfriend" who had expressed an obviously racist point of view, prompting me to delete him from my feed. I mentioned the episode to a few of the other people I was training with. The person is a disciplined budoka who is quite good at what he does; and, outside of a certain arrogance, is not a bad training partner either. But it's hard for me to have any kind of even casual relationship with him, knowing what I know. At the same time, I was not sure it was the right thing to "out" him to a couple of my colleagues. The sempai leading the seminar noted that he did not want to have a political discussion with him, but otherwise was ok teaching him. I am not. At the seminar, I was cordial and kept my distance.
My sponsor has said it's not his business to consider potential customers' points of view; even though, as a minority himself, he is not comfortable with racist remarks. I'm not comfortable either, and would prefer that any bigots lurking among my FB friends keep their opinions to themselves. But, unfortunately, the political discourse has recently made it okay for people to express their distrust of anyone not like themselves. Naively, they assume that their FB feed consists of users who think similarly. They now have one less "friend" who disagrees with them.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
A dojo is not a class
So, the dog days of August are lingering into September. It's hot, it's humid,and, thanks to the wildfires in the West, it's hazy with pollution. Not much wind, and no rain to speak of - for months. Catalogs are showing up at my door with people in long sleeves, but it's 90F outside. Nice try.
It's also the week before Labor Day. People who have not taken a vacation all summer are taking one this week. This means not many people will be at okeiko tonight. Their absence is causing some angst for my sponsor.
Him: "If no one comes, we have to cancel class."
Me: "No we don't. Anyway, why don't you come to okeiko?"
Him: "Because I'll have to have the part-timer come in to manage while I'm at okeiko. I'll lose money since no one else is coming. So I will tell her not to come in and stay in the office myself."
Me: "We will not cancel. A dojo is not a class."
As basically everyone knows (though no one agrees on how quite to interpret it), the word dojo (道場) means, "a place to practice the way." And budo (武道), of course, is the "way of the warrior." Other writers (actually, many other writers) have discussed the meaning of these terms, and especially the word michi (道) at length, so let's just put it simply and say that our dojo is the place where we practice the way of the warrior. And the "way" involves historical, aesthetic, technical, spiritual and (perhaps mostly) personal aspects of a particular martial art or arts. In actuality, some aspects of the practice may be emphasized more than others, but that's okay. The goal of practice is to improve - mentally, physically, spiritually, personally - over time. Slow time. Years. A lifetime.
A dojo is not a class. It's a dojo. That means that, even if I am the only one there, there's okeiko, because I will practice on my own, no matter what. With all due respect to my sponsor - that bills need to be paid, etc., you cannot take the above paragraph and redefine it into a commercial transaction, no matter how important your motives for doing so; because once that happens, then it is no longer a dojo, and the meeting of the practitioners is no longer an okeiko.
My sponsor offers other classes. At one point he confessed to me that the other teachers are all over the map - if they are tired, no class. If they have other plans, no class. If they think no one else is coming, no class. The lack of consistency makes it difficult to build up regular attendance because the students (and prospective students) don't know from week to week whether there will be a class or not. I think it's because teaching for them is a potential means to an end (i.e., getting paid to do something that you care about deeply; though in this case, I can say that the pay issue is pretty nonexistent).
With all due respect to these teachers, teaching is an integral part of budo, which is why I don't just blow off practice based on some hunch as to how many people might be there. I used to think that teaching was just a way of giving back, of metaphorically if not literally thanking my teachers and seniors for teaching me, but now I know it is more than that. Teaching other people is not just a way of passing on knowledge, or giving back, it is part of what budo is. It's not just that the kohai ask questions that may require thought. Teaching gives depth and perspective to what you already know, or think you know. Annoyingly, it can also be a useful gauge for realizing how much you don't know.
So, yes, I would rather practice with other practitioners. While it's true that I can practice solo kata to my heart's content on my own, the difference between a monk's cell and a dojo is that there are other people around to work with. As an old sempai of mine once said, you can practice what you know (and I would say, improve up to a point) alone, but in order to learn new things, you need other people. We see evidence of this all the time, in daily life. When two old friends get together and begin to recall the same incident, their memories of the experience are enhanced as their recollections feed off of each other. While solitary thinking is excellent, it often takes more than one perspective to solve a problem. A dojo works in the same way.
So, while I am perfectly happy tonight to work alone, if that's what happens (and leave early for a change!), I hope some people are back from their wanderings (or not quite gone yet for the holiday weekend) and available to practice with me. But even if I am hitori de, my okeiko will be time well spent.
It's also the week before Labor Day. People who have not taken a vacation all summer are taking one this week. This means not many people will be at okeiko tonight. Their absence is causing some angst for my sponsor.
Him: "If no one comes, we have to cancel class."
Me: "No we don't. Anyway, why don't you come to okeiko?"
Him: "Because I'll have to have the part-timer come in to manage while I'm at okeiko. I'll lose money since no one else is coming. So I will tell her not to come in and stay in the office myself."
Me: "We will not cancel. A dojo is not a class."
As basically everyone knows (though no one agrees on how quite to interpret it), the word dojo (道場) means, "a place to practice the way." And budo (武道), of course, is the "way of the warrior." Other writers (actually, many other writers) have discussed the meaning of these terms, and especially the word michi (道) at length, so let's just put it simply and say that our dojo is the place where we practice the way of the warrior. And the "way" involves historical, aesthetic, technical, spiritual and (perhaps mostly) personal aspects of a particular martial art or arts. In actuality, some aspects of the practice may be emphasized more than others, but that's okay. The goal of practice is to improve - mentally, physically, spiritually, personally - over time. Slow time. Years. A lifetime.
A dojo is not a class. It's a dojo. That means that, even if I am the only one there, there's okeiko, because I will practice on my own, no matter what. With all due respect to my sponsor - that bills need to be paid, etc., you cannot take the above paragraph and redefine it into a commercial transaction, no matter how important your motives for doing so; because once that happens, then it is no longer a dojo, and the meeting of the practitioners is no longer an okeiko.
My sponsor offers other classes. At one point he confessed to me that the other teachers are all over the map - if they are tired, no class. If they have other plans, no class. If they think no one else is coming, no class. The lack of consistency makes it difficult to build up regular attendance because the students (and prospective students) don't know from week to week whether there will be a class or not. I think it's because teaching for them is a potential means to an end (i.e., getting paid to do something that you care about deeply; though in this case, I can say that the pay issue is pretty nonexistent).
With all due respect to these teachers, teaching is an integral part of budo, which is why I don't just blow off practice based on some hunch as to how many people might be there. I used to think that teaching was just a way of giving back, of metaphorically if not literally thanking my teachers and seniors for teaching me, but now I know it is more than that. Teaching other people is not just a way of passing on knowledge, or giving back, it is part of what budo is. It's not just that the kohai ask questions that may require thought. Teaching gives depth and perspective to what you already know, or think you know. Annoyingly, it can also be a useful gauge for realizing how much you don't know.
So, yes, I would rather practice with other practitioners. While it's true that I can practice solo kata to my heart's content on my own, the difference between a monk's cell and a dojo is that there are other people around to work with. As an old sempai of mine once said, you can practice what you know (and I would say, improve up to a point) alone, but in order to learn new things, you need other people. We see evidence of this all the time, in daily life. When two old friends get together and begin to recall the same incident, their memories of the experience are enhanced as their recollections feed off of each other. While solitary thinking is excellent, it often takes more than one perspective to solve a problem. A dojo works in the same way.
So, while I am perfectly happy tonight to work alone, if that's what happens (and leave early for a change!), I hope some people are back from their wanderings (or not quite gone yet for the holiday weekend) and available to practice with me. But even if I am hitori de, my okeiko will be time well spent.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
The New Guy
Last night was a very small class - times two. Between schedules and the overly hot weather (and the inadequate AC where I teach), much of my usual crowd took the week off. I don't mind a small class. Since it was so hot, we took it slow, and I was able to answer beginners' questions and demonstrate things that I often leave to the more senior students in the group (because *none* of the seniors were there! Ah, summer!)
We had a new student in the jodo class. I had seen the email from my sponsor warning me he was coming, but honestly, between the weather and my work schedule, I had entirely forgotten about him. He already had keikogi, hakama, and a jo, so I figured he had some past experience. Naturally, before we got started I asked him who his teacher was. He mentioned an American whose name I sort of recognized, but did not know personally, and mentioned (a) it had been years since he had practiced, and (b) he doubted the American was still teaching jodo anyway. Fine.
He had done seitei and the Koryu Omote, he said. This gentleman's kihon was a little rusty, though clearly, he had trained. He did some techniques in a decidedly Kendo Fed Jodo way. I am not being critical; but there are some differences in the kihon, which one notices. No matter. His hikiotoshi uchi was also rusty, and he tried to make up in power what he lacked in finesse. His feet were mostly incorrect; i.e., he had real trouble advancing with feet pointing straight ahead, and turned his back foot constantly (a normal condition for most people that can be corrected with some vigilant practice).
So it was me, the New Guy, and another relatively new student - a retired karateka who likes jodo and wants to stay active. It has taken him a long time to manage the rudiments of the kihon. By his own admission, it takes him a long time to understand basics. But after months of repetition, he is now getting somewhere, and he is finally beginning to follow along for the Omote kata.
The new guy picked up the Omote kata after seeing it, so clearly, he had some experience. We went at my other student's pace which was pretty slow, and given the heat, it seemed to suit everyone well enough. Except for one thing - the new guy could not stop offering corrections to my other student. Seeing as how there were only three of us, and we were all working together, his interjections were unwarranted and unwelcome. In addition, when I pointed out that his feet were misaligned, he said it was because of some other art form that he studied, as though that was a good enough explanation for poor footwork. So he felt free to offer corrections but made excuses for what he could not do himself.
One of the universals of being a female budo teacher is having some guy who hardly knows you come into your class and tell you what to do. If I had been a man, I could have told people to do cartwheels as part of the beginning of the kata, and he would have complied, in all likelihood. Even if he thought such a thing was strange, and that he might not care to come back, he would have gone through the class without comment.
I'm not the only one. Years ago, I had a grad school colleague who taught the rare Indian martial art form of Kalaripayatu. She lived in India for several years and found a guru who had only daughters, so he taught them, and her. Once she returned to the States, she set up classes. But she told me she had trouble keeping male students. Inevitably, after training with her for about four months, the guys would start telling her how to "better" run the class. She would kick them out.
It's possible the New Guy was just nervous. I know from walking into a new place for the first time that I sweat right through my underwear; however, I tend to say nothing and just try to pay attention to what's going on. The last thing I would do is correct students in front of a teacher. But, as I said, it's not the first time.
At the end of practice, my other student asked for advice on how to fold his new hakama. I showed him a unique travel fold I learned from a woman who did naginata. For once, the New Guy said nothing. "See?" my other student said to him, "She just showed you something you didn't already know." Sarcasm works.
I generally have a good group. People who don't want to be taught by a woman don't stick around, which suits me just fine. So this guy has two choices. He can come back, and shut up; or he can stop coming to class. We'll see which way it works out.
We had a new student in the jodo class. I had seen the email from my sponsor warning me he was coming, but honestly, between the weather and my work schedule, I had entirely forgotten about him. He already had keikogi, hakama, and a jo, so I figured he had some past experience. Naturally, before we got started I asked him who his teacher was. He mentioned an American whose name I sort of recognized, but did not know personally, and mentioned (a) it had been years since he had practiced, and (b) he doubted the American was still teaching jodo anyway. Fine.
He had done seitei and the Koryu Omote, he said. This gentleman's kihon was a little rusty, though clearly, he had trained. He did some techniques in a decidedly Kendo Fed Jodo way. I am not being critical; but there are some differences in the kihon, which one notices. No matter. His hikiotoshi uchi was also rusty, and he tried to make up in power what he lacked in finesse. His feet were mostly incorrect; i.e., he had real trouble advancing with feet pointing straight ahead, and turned his back foot constantly (a normal condition for most people that can be corrected with some vigilant practice).
So it was me, the New Guy, and another relatively new student - a retired karateka who likes jodo and wants to stay active. It has taken him a long time to manage the rudiments of the kihon. By his own admission, it takes him a long time to understand basics. But after months of repetition, he is now getting somewhere, and he is finally beginning to follow along for the Omote kata.
The new guy picked up the Omote kata after seeing it, so clearly, he had some experience. We went at my other student's pace which was pretty slow, and given the heat, it seemed to suit everyone well enough. Except for one thing - the new guy could not stop offering corrections to my other student. Seeing as how there were only three of us, and we were all working together, his interjections were unwarranted and unwelcome. In addition, when I pointed out that his feet were misaligned, he said it was because of some other art form that he studied, as though that was a good enough explanation for poor footwork. So he felt free to offer corrections but made excuses for what he could not do himself.
One of the universals of being a female budo teacher is having some guy who hardly knows you come into your class and tell you what to do. If I had been a man, I could have told people to do cartwheels as part of the beginning of the kata, and he would have complied, in all likelihood. Even if he thought such a thing was strange, and that he might not care to come back, he would have gone through the class without comment.
I'm not the only one. Years ago, I had a grad school colleague who taught the rare Indian martial art form of Kalaripayatu. She lived in India for several years and found a guru who had only daughters, so he taught them, and her. Once she returned to the States, she set up classes. But she told me she had trouble keeping male students. Inevitably, after training with her for about four months, the guys would start telling her how to "better" run the class. She would kick them out.
It's possible the New Guy was just nervous. I know from walking into a new place for the first time that I sweat right through my underwear; however, I tend to say nothing and just try to pay attention to what's going on. The last thing I would do is correct students in front of a teacher. But, as I said, it's not the first time.
At the end of practice, my other student asked for advice on how to fold his new hakama. I showed him a unique travel fold I learned from a woman who did naginata. For once, the New Guy said nothing. "See?" my other student said to him, "She just showed you something you didn't already know." Sarcasm works.
I generally have a good group. People who don't want to be taught by a woman don't stick around, which suits me just fine. So this guy has two choices. He can come back, and shut up; or he can stop coming to class. We'll see which way it works out.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
That's entertainment
I just turned down a chance for a demo. I don't do that much, but this time was different. My sponsor wanted me and some other instructors to perform on JULY 4, at night, at the extreme end of one of our mighty five boroughs, "some time between 6pm and midnight." It would be good publicity for our classes, he said, and might attract some students from that area.
I said no, for obvious and more personal reasons. First: family - I was not about to ask people to give up precious holiday time for a 20-minute demo in Remotest Queens. Second: logistics - public transportation is a crap shoot on weekends to begin with. Add holiday schedules and one would be lucky to reach a remote destination in less than two hours. NYC closes highways for a public fireworks display (the best way to watch this is on TV, trust me), so car transport would be iffy as well, and parking without paying a fortune to a private lot would be nonexistent. Third: I have an event on Sunday, and getting back from Queens possibly as late as 3am would make that commitment very difficult to keep.
I have done some very odd things for the sake of performing in a demo. I have driven a crowd of budoka to Long Island, in increasingly bad weather, to perform on a streaming wet stage for a dwindling crowd, after waiting for 1-1/2 hours, well behind schedule. I have braved hyperactive security guards who suddenly think they can play hero and save the community college from a middle aged, pudgy person carrying a bag of sticks. We most recently performed at a park festival where they walled us off behind two layers of plastic fencing so the audience could barely see us (the guy who built the fence explained, "We don't want a lawsuit"). I have performed on linoleum floors, grass, plain dirt, concrete, carpet, asphalt, and, occasionally, wood and tatami. High school auditoriums, gyms, college stages, hotel ballrooms, basements, conference rooms, even a TV producer's office. I only have one rule - in keeping with my teacher's standard, the space has to be specially designated and not just a place where people can walk past and ignore us ("We are not circus performers," he once said, after refusing a demo where that single criteria could not be met).
My sponsor, as well as any number of budoka I have met, somehow think that performing in demos brings in students. I can almost unqualifiedly say that they do not. I am one of only two people I have ever met who started budo practice on the basis of a demo, and I had to think about it for two years before I actually signed up. And I've been doing this for a long time - if demos attracted students we'd have a legion by now.
Why do we do it? Mostly, it's a challenge. Back in the old days, when there was some possibility that budoka might have to actually use their skills in a practical way, there were many possible variables in terms of space, and the ground on which you might have had to defend yourself (or attack someone else). A modern demo also gives us an opportunity to adapt to unforeseen circumstances - of ground, light, weather, space. A demo is also a good opportunity to concentrate and learn something new. I learned the okuden level of my style because I volunteered to perform kata at a demo that the daisempai could no longer do, but he had to teach it to me first. Under many circumstances, a demo is a great opportunity to perform and learn new things. But it is not a recruiting tool.
The audience gets to learn a few things too; including that a martial art is not all punchy-kicky, but can actually be beautiful; that women can not only learn budo, they can also teach, and that aesthetics, philosophy and history can be an integral part of the learning experience. After our fenced-in demo, the organizer apologized and invited us to come back, without the fence next time. "I had no idea," she said. She knows now.
However, on July 4, the people of Queens will have to be content with the Fireworks Spectacular.
I said no, for obvious and more personal reasons. First: family - I was not about to ask people to give up precious holiday time for a 20-minute demo in Remotest Queens. Second: logistics - public transportation is a crap shoot on weekends to begin with. Add holiday schedules and one would be lucky to reach a remote destination in less than two hours. NYC closes highways for a public fireworks display (the best way to watch this is on TV, trust me), so car transport would be iffy as well, and parking without paying a fortune to a private lot would be nonexistent. Third: I have an event on Sunday, and getting back from Queens possibly as late as 3am would make that commitment very difficult to keep.
I have done some very odd things for the sake of performing in a demo. I have driven a crowd of budoka to Long Island, in increasingly bad weather, to perform on a streaming wet stage for a dwindling crowd, after waiting for 1-1/2 hours, well behind schedule. I have braved hyperactive security guards who suddenly think they can play hero and save the community college from a middle aged, pudgy person carrying a bag of sticks. We most recently performed at a park festival where they walled us off behind two layers of plastic fencing so the audience could barely see us (the guy who built the fence explained, "We don't want a lawsuit"). I have performed on linoleum floors, grass, plain dirt, concrete, carpet, asphalt, and, occasionally, wood and tatami. High school auditoriums, gyms, college stages, hotel ballrooms, basements, conference rooms, even a TV producer's office. I only have one rule - in keeping with my teacher's standard, the space has to be specially designated and not just a place where people can walk past and ignore us ("We are not circus performers," he once said, after refusing a demo where that single criteria could not be met).
My sponsor, as well as any number of budoka I have met, somehow think that performing in demos brings in students. I can almost unqualifiedly say that they do not. I am one of only two people I have ever met who started budo practice on the basis of a demo, and I had to think about it for two years before I actually signed up. And I've been doing this for a long time - if demos attracted students we'd have a legion by now.
Why do we do it? Mostly, it's a challenge. Back in the old days, when there was some possibility that budoka might have to actually use their skills in a practical way, there were many possible variables in terms of space, and the ground on which you might have had to defend yourself (or attack someone else). A modern demo also gives us an opportunity to adapt to unforeseen circumstances - of ground, light, weather, space. A demo is also a good opportunity to concentrate and learn something new. I learned the okuden level of my style because I volunteered to perform kata at a demo that the daisempai could no longer do, but he had to teach it to me first. Under many circumstances, a demo is a great opportunity to perform and learn new things. But it is not a recruiting tool.
The audience gets to learn a few things too; including that a martial art is not all punchy-kicky, but can actually be beautiful; that women can not only learn budo, they can also teach, and that aesthetics, philosophy and history can be an integral part of the learning experience. After our fenced-in demo, the organizer apologized and invited us to come back, without the fence next time. "I had no idea," she said. She knows now.
However, on July 4, the people of Queens will have to be content with the Fireworks Spectacular.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Why I train
Over the years I have studied koryu budo, many people have asked me why I train. I never seem to have a good answer for them. I remember one American teacher's wife in particular became really impatient with my standard answer ("I don't know"). Of course, she was sort of drunk at the time, but maybe in vino veritas.
Out of curiosity, I just put "why I train" in a search of these blog posts. I got about half of all of the entries in response. This suggests that (1) there is more than one answer to the question, and (2) these answers are subtle and complicated.
Going back to the beginning of my training, one reason I have not addressed very much in my other posts comes up. I was a fencer from my college days. I enjoyed it, but having only taken it up for a few years (instead of say, from high school), I was not that good at it. I would have LOVED to have started in high school, but since I grew up in a very rural area with very limited opportunities (on, seriously, ANY level), there simply was no opportunity to emulate my TV and movie heroes - Zorro, or The Three Musketeers, or Basil Rathbone (take THAT, Errol Flynn). Instead I watched movies (when possible) and read lots of books. I was very interested, as a kid, in stories about western chivalry (information on Asian culture was as sparse as anything about fencing where I grew up).
In any case, I moved to the Big City and after about a year of finding my bearings, I began fencing at Santelli's in the West Village. This was in the early 1980's, when New York was struggling to put its financial house in order, and the mean streets were definitely meaner than they are now.
One of my colleagues at the salle had all of these books on Zen. He first lent, and eventually gave, me all of them. I read them. Some, as I found out later, were not worth much, but others were classics. There was something comforting in the idea that one had to let go of basically everything in order to find peace. In my world, at the time, where literally anything bad could happen at any moment, these were very valuable ideas. The evidence was available practically everywhere I looked - the subway platform, where someone was pushed, or jumped, in front of a train; the kid who was murdered outside the deli on Broadway while the workers inside were too afraid of the commotion to call the police. Stories from people I met about their being mugged at knife point, or beat up. Letting go, especially of the fear of everyday life in dangerous surroundings was, I felt, a key to survival.
But there was something else. It is very difficult for people, including women, nowadays, to fathom the everyday gauntlet of stuff a young woman living on her own in NYC in the 1980's had to endure. I'm talking about daily harassment - all the time. There was the old guy who ran the elevator at the office building where I worked who tried to grope me every time I was alone with him. The men I worked for would daily tell me what a "good girl" I was. One married executive tried to force his way into my apartment by way of the noble guise of offering to take me home after an office event. There was no way to complain because there was no one to complain to. Rules and laws regarding workplace harassment did not exist. Women where I worked would comfort each other - or, in time-honored fashion, they would get married and quit for what they hoped was the safety of suburbia.
In addition, complete strangers in the street called me a "monkey-faced bitch", or threatened to "fuck me up" for no particular reason - maybe they were just having a bad day? Nowadays, women launch Twitter movements because construction workers say hello to them, or, maybe ask them to smile. Seriously, people, you have no idea.
So I would go to work, go to the salle, go to the movies, go on dates, go to rehearsal (when I had one) and come home, seething with impotent rage. I mean full-on, howling rage. All of the Zen books in the world were not enough.
I took up iaido because, one night, I saw the man who would become my teacher perform a demonstration at an art movie house on Bleeker Street. It wasn't just beautiful - it was serene. All the same, I thought about it for two years, because I knew there would be huge changes in my life if I decided to pursue it. When I eventually did start training, I discovered several important things. One was that I could learn to express (at least on a crude level) the beauty that I saw in my teacher. The next was that I was learning tactics and strategies to deal with potential situations. The things I was learning in that regard had nothing to do with carrying a sword around - those lessons apply practically anywhere, as any experienced iaidoka can tell you. The third was that the sense of palpable rage that I often felt from the circumstances of my daily life at the time was somehow mitigated. Did I fantasize about decapitating some asshole whom I had never met who threatened to rape me for no particular reason? You betcha. But not as often as I was able to just let the whole thing go. It's not that I felt sympathy for someone else's anger (hell no). I was actually able to feel nothing at all.
New York is, overall, a much calmer (and duller, for that matter) place now. I am older, and so I am not nearly the target for unwanted attention that I used to be. Most happily, work culture has changed to the point where men in particular are compelled (for the most part) to be more polite. But there are still times, as when I am on a slow-moving rush hour train and someone vents their frustration, whether on me, or some other passenger, when I remember the value of what I am learning - how to have a calm mind. And seeking that sensibility is one of the most important reasons why I train.
Out of curiosity, I just put "why I train" in a search of these blog posts. I got about half of all of the entries in response. This suggests that (1) there is more than one answer to the question, and (2) these answers are subtle and complicated.
Going back to the beginning of my training, one reason I have not addressed very much in my other posts comes up. I was a fencer from my college days. I enjoyed it, but having only taken it up for a few years (instead of say, from high school), I was not that good at it. I would have LOVED to have started in high school, but since I grew up in a very rural area with very limited opportunities (on, seriously, ANY level), there simply was no opportunity to emulate my TV and movie heroes - Zorro, or The Three Musketeers, or Basil Rathbone (take THAT, Errol Flynn). Instead I watched movies (when possible) and read lots of books. I was very interested, as a kid, in stories about western chivalry (information on Asian culture was as sparse as anything about fencing where I grew up).
In any case, I moved to the Big City and after about a year of finding my bearings, I began fencing at Santelli's in the West Village. This was in the early 1980's, when New York was struggling to put its financial house in order, and the mean streets were definitely meaner than they are now.
One of my colleagues at the salle had all of these books on Zen. He first lent, and eventually gave, me all of them. I read them. Some, as I found out later, were not worth much, but others were classics. There was something comforting in the idea that one had to let go of basically everything in order to find peace. In my world, at the time, where literally anything bad could happen at any moment, these were very valuable ideas. The evidence was available practically everywhere I looked - the subway platform, where someone was pushed, or jumped, in front of a train; the kid who was murdered outside the deli on Broadway while the workers inside were too afraid of the commotion to call the police. Stories from people I met about their being mugged at knife point, or beat up. Letting go, especially of the fear of everyday life in dangerous surroundings was, I felt, a key to survival.
But there was something else. It is very difficult for people, including women, nowadays, to fathom the everyday gauntlet of stuff a young woman living on her own in NYC in the 1980's had to endure. I'm talking about daily harassment - all the time. There was the old guy who ran the elevator at the office building where I worked who tried to grope me every time I was alone with him. The men I worked for would daily tell me what a "good girl" I was. One married executive tried to force his way into my apartment by way of the noble guise of offering to take me home after an office event. There was no way to complain because there was no one to complain to. Rules and laws regarding workplace harassment did not exist. Women where I worked would comfort each other - or, in time-honored fashion, they would get married and quit for what they hoped was the safety of suburbia.
In addition, complete strangers in the street called me a "monkey-faced bitch", or threatened to "fuck me up" for no particular reason - maybe they were just having a bad day? Nowadays, women launch Twitter movements because construction workers say hello to them, or, maybe ask them to smile. Seriously, people, you have no idea.
So I would go to work, go to the salle, go to the movies, go on dates, go to rehearsal (when I had one) and come home, seething with impotent rage. I mean full-on, howling rage. All of the Zen books in the world were not enough.
I took up iaido because, one night, I saw the man who would become my teacher perform a demonstration at an art movie house on Bleeker Street. It wasn't just beautiful - it was serene. All the same, I thought about it for two years, because I knew there would be huge changes in my life if I decided to pursue it. When I eventually did start training, I discovered several important things. One was that I could learn to express (at least on a crude level) the beauty that I saw in my teacher. The next was that I was learning tactics and strategies to deal with potential situations. The things I was learning in that regard had nothing to do with carrying a sword around - those lessons apply practically anywhere, as any experienced iaidoka can tell you. The third was that the sense of palpable rage that I often felt from the circumstances of my daily life at the time was somehow mitigated. Did I fantasize about decapitating some asshole whom I had never met who threatened to rape me for no particular reason? You betcha. But not as often as I was able to just let the whole thing go. It's not that I felt sympathy for someone else's anger (hell no). I was actually able to feel nothing at all.
New York is, overall, a much calmer (and duller, for that matter) place now. I am older, and so I am not nearly the target for unwanted attention that I used to be. Most happily, work culture has changed to the point where men in particular are compelled (for the most part) to be more polite. But there are still times, as when I am on a slow-moving rush hour train and someone vents their frustration, whether on me, or some other passenger, when I remember the value of what I am learning - how to have a calm mind. And seeking that sensibility is one of the most important reasons why I train.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
The fallacy of single-minded practice
Many years ago, I was in Taipei for a conference at the National Theatre. At noontime, I would go to a nearby park to have lunch, trying to beat both the searing heat that is Taipei in July and the corresponding freezing air conditioning indoors.
The park - New Park - featured lots of outdoor activities. A couple of times during lunch I watched a kungfu group practice. Most of the students practiced in pairs or small groups, except for one American guy. He practiced alone. He did fantastic, almost crazy things - leaping into the air, landing on his shoulder or hip, spinning in the dirt. Within about 1/2 hour, his black practice outfit was brown with dust, and he dripped with sweat. I wrote to a friend of mine at the time that the guy reminded me of one of the crazier students in our home dojo. We had one dojo mate who practiced more, and harder, than anyone else. He was there during my first trip to Japan, along with another sempai. Throughout the trip, he insisted on wearing a happi coat. He tried very hard to speak Japanese, but, since he studied from books and not with an actual teacher, he frequently got things wrong. Our Japanese hosts were exceedingly polite, but they admitted they thought he was eccentric. (In private, they were probably laughing their butts off; at least, I hope they were.)
I asked someone in Taipei about the crazy kungfu practitioner. "Oh, that guy? Yeah, he practices by himself. He's sort of intense. He kept hurting his training partners, so the sifu said he could stay in the group as long as he kept to himself." My stateside dojo mate also was so intense, he kept hurting his kendo partners. He thought it was a normal part of practice. No one agreed with him, but, at the time, we had no regular teacher for kendo. We just tried to avoid him to the extent possible.
What both of these guys - the crazy kendo guy and the crazy kungfu guy - lacked, was perspective. They focused so single-mindedly on their practice that they ignored everything (and everyone) else. In the process, they became isolated from other people, and, at the same, time, did not really advance very far in their respective arts. Both this style of kungfu and (naturally) kendo needed sparring partners in order to gain skill. Since no one would train with either of them, their ability to learn was limited. Their single-mindedness made their practice more about themselves than about one of the ostensible goals of practice; that is, to continue to improve.
Single-minded devotion to budo practice (I am using kendo, a martial sport, as an example, but I could just as easily sub in some non-competitive style) to the exclusion of everything else is just as unhealthy as a colleague I knew who lived for her job to the exclusion of every other type of interaction. One needs to find balance. But what form should that balance take? And how does this problem arise in the first place?
To begin with, we should consider who these people - the crazy kendoka, the crazy kungfu practitioner, and even the crazy overworker - were. They were all Americans. I know plenty more, including a budo teacher who insists on such a high participation rate for his students that they spend all of their free time in the dojo. Their technique is really good, but then, it should be. And everyone here in the U.S. thinks this teacher is somehow superior to others, because of his demanding nature. But here's the thing. No one in Japan trains like that. And Japan is where budo originated. Even the samurai, unless they were training for some imminent conflict, were studying tea, calligraphy, dance, poetry or other art form. Their budo training was part of their job, which, by the Edo Period, also included some sort of government function. The rest of their time was their own. My old Japanese kendo teacher never practiced with us on Sundays, because that was "family time." I remember the American sempai used to blame his wife for interfering with his practice, but maybe he enjoyed that time with his kids. He wasn't crazy - they were.
I lived in Japan for a short time as a student. I was able to attend the dojo more than some of my Japanese colleagues, because I was in a relatively privileged position - no family around, and I was able to set my own schedule. I was also able to observe the other students, who simply came to okeiko whenever they were able. During breaks, they talked about their jobs and their families and whatever other things interested them. Budo was not a profession or an intense hobby, it was a part of their cultural existence; and, as such, was not the sole focus of their lives.
But Americans are different - we long so much for identity that we are happy to latch on and suck dry whatever role life offers us. You can't just be an M.D. who wants to help people; you have to be a surgeon, or at least a specialist, where the intensity and the concentration are potentially overwhelming. And we reward the specialists over the generalists with greater status and more money. The idea of integrated medicine has so far been forgotten it is being reintroduced in med schools. (It took a chiropractor who studied whole body integration to figure out my chronic headaches were originating in my shoulder. The neurologists offered me pain pills.)
It's not for nothing that the only Americans who seem really interested in "work-life balance" are women with children, and the argument keeps getting marginalized for that reason. American workers are what their jobs are; how dare anyone suggest that there needs to be a balance between your job and your life (unless, of course, it is to take on the "other" job of parenting. And the people who do so are considered less "serious" than their single-minded coworkers).* The same thing seems to apply, for some people, to their budo practice. And they disparage other people's practices as being inferior because they are not working as hard.
This single-mindedness affects the prospective students who come into my dojo. They think the students there must be making a major life commitment, and, since they already have lives, they don't sign up because they can't devote themselves entirely to okeiko (thanks, hard-assed teachers who demand lots of practice time!). I try to make them understand that none of us really do that, and it's not necessary, as long as people come as consistently as they can, but they're too American. They have no balance. All I can do is give them the most positive experience I can. I hope they change their minds at some point, but I doubt that they will.
I sometimes get apologetic students who have to drop out of practice for a shorter or longer time, whether for school, family or work reasons. I remind them that our practice has been around for about 400 years and will still be there when they get back. Sometimes I worry that they think I am being facetious, but I'm not. Do I wish they would come to okeiko more often? Of course. But as much as I enjoy practice, I limit my time there. I have other things to do.
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*Yes, yes, the Japanese sarariman's devotion to his job is legendary, but it's based on a Western model. Walk into a family-owned small business in Japan and you get a completely different idea of the work ethic.
The park - New Park - featured lots of outdoor activities. A couple of times during lunch I watched a kungfu group practice. Most of the students practiced in pairs or small groups, except for one American guy. He practiced alone. He did fantastic, almost crazy things - leaping into the air, landing on his shoulder or hip, spinning in the dirt. Within about 1/2 hour, his black practice outfit was brown with dust, and he dripped with sweat. I wrote to a friend of mine at the time that the guy reminded me of one of the crazier students in our home dojo. We had one dojo mate who practiced more, and harder, than anyone else. He was there during my first trip to Japan, along with another sempai. Throughout the trip, he insisted on wearing a happi coat. He tried very hard to speak Japanese, but, since he studied from books and not with an actual teacher, he frequently got things wrong. Our Japanese hosts were exceedingly polite, but they admitted they thought he was eccentric. (In private, they were probably laughing their butts off; at least, I hope they were.)
I asked someone in Taipei about the crazy kungfu practitioner. "Oh, that guy? Yeah, he practices by himself. He's sort of intense. He kept hurting his training partners, so the sifu said he could stay in the group as long as he kept to himself." My stateside dojo mate also was so intense, he kept hurting his kendo partners. He thought it was a normal part of practice. No one agreed with him, but, at the time, we had no regular teacher for kendo. We just tried to avoid him to the extent possible.
What both of these guys - the crazy kendo guy and the crazy kungfu guy - lacked, was perspective. They focused so single-mindedly on their practice that they ignored everything (and everyone) else. In the process, they became isolated from other people, and, at the same, time, did not really advance very far in their respective arts. Both this style of kungfu and (naturally) kendo needed sparring partners in order to gain skill. Since no one would train with either of them, their ability to learn was limited. Their single-mindedness made their practice more about themselves than about one of the ostensible goals of practice; that is, to continue to improve.
Single-minded devotion to budo practice (I am using kendo, a martial sport, as an example, but I could just as easily sub in some non-competitive style) to the exclusion of everything else is just as unhealthy as a colleague I knew who lived for her job to the exclusion of every other type of interaction. One needs to find balance. But what form should that balance take? And how does this problem arise in the first place?
To begin with, we should consider who these people - the crazy kendoka, the crazy kungfu practitioner, and even the crazy overworker - were. They were all Americans. I know plenty more, including a budo teacher who insists on such a high participation rate for his students that they spend all of their free time in the dojo. Their technique is really good, but then, it should be. And everyone here in the U.S. thinks this teacher is somehow superior to others, because of his demanding nature. But here's the thing. No one in Japan trains like that. And Japan is where budo originated. Even the samurai, unless they were training for some imminent conflict, were studying tea, calligraphy, dance, poetry or other art form. Their budo training was part of their job, which, by the Edo Period, also included some sort of government function. The rest of their time was their own. My old Japanese kendo teacher never practiced with us on Sundays, because that was "family time." I remember the American sempai used to blame his wife for interfering with his practice, but maybe he enjoyed that time with his kids. He wasn't crazy - they were.
I lived in Japan for a short time as a student. I was able to attend the dojo more than some of my Japanese colleagues, because I was in a relatively privileged position - no family around, and I was able to set my own schedule. I was also able to observe the other students, who simply came to okeiko whenever they were able. During breaks, they talked about their jobs and their families and whatever other things interested them. Budo was not a profession or an intense hobby, it was a part of their cultural existence; and, as such, was not the sole focus of their lives.
But Americans are different - we long so much for identity that we are happy to latch on and suck dry whatever role life offers us. You can't just be an M.D. who wants to help people; you have to be a surgeon, or at least a specialist, where the intensity and the concentration are potentially overwhelming. And we reward the specialists over the generalists with greater status and more money. The idea of integrated medicine has so far been forgotten it is being reintroduced in med schools. (It took a chiropractor who studied whole body integration to figure out my chronic headaches were originating in my shoulder. The neurologists offered me pain pills.)
It's not for nothing that the only Americans who seem really interested in "work-life balance" are women with children, and the argument keeps getting marginalized for that reason. American workers are what their jobs are; how dare anyone suggest that there needs to be a balance between your job and your life (unless, of course, it is to take on the "other" job of parenting. And the people who do so are considered less "serious" than their single-minded coworkers).* The same thing seems to apply, for some people, to their budo practice. And they disparage other people's practices as being inferior because they are not working as hard.
This single-mindedness affects the prospective students who come into my dojo. They think the students there must be making a major life commitment, and, since they already have lives, they don't sign up because they can't devote themselves entirely to okeiko (thanks, hard-assed teachers who demand lots of practice time!). I try to make them understand that none of us really do that, and it's not necessary, as long as people come as consistently as they can, but they're too American. They have no balance. All I can do is give them the most positive experience I can. I hope they change their minds at some point, but I doubt that they will.
I sometimes get apologetic students who have to drop out of practice for a shorter or longer time, whether for school, family or work reasons. I remind them that our practice has been around for about 400 years and will still be there when they get back. Sometimes I worry that they think I am being facetious, but I'm not. Do I wish they would come to okeiko more often? Of course. But as much as I enjoy practice, I limit my time there. I have other things to do.
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*Yes, yes, the Japanese sarariman's devotion to his job is legendary, but it's based on a Western model. Walk into a family-owned small business in Japan and you get a completely different idea of the work ethic.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Context (and the lack of it)
Yesterday, I braved the oxymoronic late March NYC chill (you would have to live here to understand that point fully) to go to a concert at Columbia University. The music on offer was not the usual fare: it was the 10th anniversary performance of a group that specializes in ancient Japanese music. The first half of the concert featured ancient music and the second half featured both modern pieces written for ancient instruments, and a modern piece inspired by ancient music (specifically, an abreviated version of John Cage's "Ryoanji"). The first half of the concert was definitely the less popular half, as evidenced by the restless audience. In the most annoying of New York fashion, people straggled in during the introductory talk; then left in the midst of the first, second or third pieces - not even waiting for the musicians to finish playing. Add in the simultaneous lighting of smartphone screens between every piece and the effect was positively maddening, especially among people who should know better.
To be sure, gagaku and hogaku - the two featured forms of Japanese ancient music - are acquired tastes. My appreciation of ancient Japanese music stems from going to a Shinto festival years ago. The festival featured almost 100 musicians playing the small, hand-held mouth organ, called a shoh, which produces a dreamy and unusual sound, sometimes rich, sometimes just a thin tone, and the hijiriki flute. The two instruments together sometimes create a disharmonized but somewhat hypnotic effect. The resulting performance was exactly what one might want for a Shinto ritual, but maybe not suitable for a cold spring afternoon on the Upper West Side.
So there I was, while everyone else was squirming, being carried back to Nara one very cold weekend in December when I enjoyed 3-1/2 days of just that type of music, only with a much larger and louder presence. I vividly remembered the ritual in the dark, when a group of chanting priests, accompanied by a large number of singers and musicians, carried a small, wooden box carrying the essence of the Shinto god from his home to a temporary shrine, there to be feted and fussed over before being lovingly returned to his usual abode, several days later. I felt both nostalgic and a little as though I was about to be drawn into a trance.
But the Columbia audience, in this case, though rude, was correct. Even my companion remarked that the second half of the concert was better than the first, and I had to agree. The context for the ancient music was all wrong. This small, but dedicated group of students, augmented by some Japanese professional musicians, did a competent, even surprisingly good, job, but the music was falling largely on uncomprehending ears. (People who don't live in NYC may wonder how something like a group formed for the appreciation of ancient Japanese music might even get off the ground, but this used to be a fairly common occurrence. I once met Isaac Asimov at a regular meeting of the Gilbert and Sullivan Society. He was conducting the sing-along - from "Patience." I mean really - who knew?)
Context is important. When I teach budo, I try to throw in what I know of the era in which a given practice evolved. Most important to me is what people wore, and how they moved generally. We can know some of this from illustrations on scrolls; but Japan is a unique place. Just as gagaku and hogaku have been passed down through centuries, movement styles have been passed down via noh, kabuki and dance. I try to get people past chambara movies and anime, and into some more realistic historical sense of how people moved and behaved. Since I study Japanese dance, I am able to convey some of this sensibility, even if in a truncated fashion. I even brought my dance teacher in one time to teach suriashi footwork.
Do I succeed? Not always. And an argument can be made in regard to what a "realistic historical sense" is. After all, kabuki lives for exaggeration at least some of the time (but I'll bet you didn't know that there are some surprisingly realistic kabuki dramas out there) and noh has evolved over time to be more stately than it once was. And the dance both echoes and bounces off of these genres, along with others. But it's the best we have; and honestly, it's much better than nothing.
And I mean that. Some years ago, I was at a seminar for tanjo - a 19th century genre consisting of partner kata which pits a defender wielding a walking stick against an attacker with a sword. The kata are fairly vigorous for both attacker and defender. About halfway through the session, someone remarked that they just could not see how someone who used a cane could handle a swordsman in the way the kata required. He was completely oblivious to the fact that 19th century gentlemen (AND ladies), both in the West and in Japan, carried walking sticks as a proper accessory. Without knowing that, the kata meant nothing to this particular student. He could dismiss them out of hand, based on his ahistorical assumption about what people wore and how they moved. In his mind, there was no difference, historically or culturally, between the people of 150 years ago, and himself.
Modern budo is adaptive, and that's fine. It was created to fit in with the shifting contemporary world. But traditional budo is a different thing altogether. And one thing I know about context - if the teacher doesn't furnish it in some way, the students will come up with a way to fill in the knowledge gap on their own. We may think, as teachers, that we are teaching organized systems of attack and defense, but really that is only the start of what we are doing; or, at least, it should only be the start. The wonderful thing about our practice is the many layers of context that can be peeled back, and the richness that lies beneath.
To be sure, gagaku and hogaku - the two featured forms of Japanese ancient music - are acquired tastes. My appreciation of ancient Japanese music stems from going to a Shinto festival years ago. The festival featured almost 100 musicians playing the small, hand-held mouth organ, called a shoh, which produces a dreamy and unusual sound, sometimes rich, sometimes just a thin tone, and the hijiriki flute. The two instruments together sometimes create a disharmonized but somewhat hypnotic effect. The resulting performance was exactly what one might want for a Shinto ritual, but maybe not suitable for a cold spring afternoon on the Upper West Side.
So there I was, while everyone else was squirming, being carried back to Nara one very cold weekend in December when I enjoyed 3-1/2 days of just that type of music, only with a much larger and louder presence. I vividly remembered the ritual in the dark, when a group of chanting priests, accompanied by a large number of singers and musicians, carried a small, wooden box carrying the essence of the Shinto god from his home to a temporary shrine, there to be feted and fussed over before being lovingly returned to his usual abode, several days later. I felt both nostalgic and a little as though I was about to be drawn into a trance.
But the Columbia audience, in this case, though rude, was correct. Even my companion remarked that the second half of the concert was better than the first, and I had to agree. The context for the ancient music was all wrong. This small, but dedicated group of students, augmented by some Japanese professional musicians, did a competent, even surprisingly good, job, but the music was falling largely on uncomprehending ears. (People who don't live in NYC may wonder how something like a group formed for the appreciation of ancient Japanese music might even get off the ground, but this used to be a fairly common occurrence. I once met Isaac Asimov at a regular meeting of the Gilbert and Sullivan Society. He was conducting the sing-along - from "Patience." I mean really - who knew?)
Context is important. When I teach budo, I try to throw in what I know of the era in which a given practice evolved. Most important to me is what people wore, and how they moved generally. We can know some of this from illustrations on scrolls; but Japan is a unique place. Just as gagaku and hogaku have been passed down through centuries, movement styles have been passed down via noh, kabuki and dance. I try to get people past chambara movies and anime, and into some more realistic historical sense of how people moved and behaved. Since I study Japanese dance, I am able to convey some of this sensibility, even if in a truncated fashion. I even brought my dance teacher in one time to teach suriashi footwork.
Do I succeed? Not always. And an argument can be made in regard to what a "realistic historical sense" is. After all, kabuki lives for exaggeration at least some of the time (but I'll bet you didn't know that there are some surprisingly realistic kabuki dramas out there) and noh has evolved over time to be more stately than it once was. And the dance both echoes and bounces off of these genres, along with others. But it's the best we have; and honestly, it's much better than nothing.
And I mean that. Some years ago, I was at a seminar for tanjo - a 19th century genre consisting of partner kata which pits a defender wielding a walking stick against an attacker with a sword. The kata are fairly vigorous for both attacker and defender. About halfway through the session, someone remarked that they just could not see how someone who used a cane could handle a swordsman in the way the kata required. He was completely oblivious to the fact that 19th century gentlemen (AND ladies), both in the West and in Japan, carried walking sticks as a proper accessory. Without knowing that, the kata meant nothing to this particular student. He could dismiss them out of hand, based on his ahistorical assumption about what people wore and how they moved. In his mind, there was no difference, historically or culturally, between the people of 150 years ago, and himself.
Modern budo is adaptive, and that's fine. It was created to fit in with the shifting contemporary world. But traditional budo is a different thing altogether. And one thing I know about context - if the teacher doesn't furnish it in some way, the students will come up with a way to fill in the knowledge gap on their own. We may think, as teachers, that we are teaching organized systems of attack and defense, but really that is only the start of what we are doing; or, at least, it should only be the start. The wonderful thing about our practice is the many layers of context that can be peeled back, and the richness that lies beneath.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
The Old Masters
Do you know an old master?
I'm not talking about someone who has trained for 30 years, or some 40-something TKD teacher who started when he was six. Hell, I've trained for almost 30 years (more if you count my western fencing training), and I know I'm not a master. Old, maybe, sorta, but a master? Nope.
The old masters I'm thinking about have trained twice as long, at least - 60, 70, years. They're in their 80's or 90's, in varying states of health. They have more understanding of technique in their little fingers than the rest of us do in our whole bodies. Even better, they understand what they are doing, and why.
Some time ago, I looked at a very old video tape of one of my first demonstrations, which was held at a small dojo in New Jersey, in the 1980's. I remember we had a hell of a time finding the place (in the days before GPS) but I don't remember what the occasion was. In looking at myself on video (something I find uncomfortable even now) I noticed that I was trying very hard to do everything correctly as I had been taught, and, as a new student, I don't look too bad. At that time, I considered the sempai, who had about 3-4 years' seniority over me, as the "big kids." They certainly talked and acted like big kids, and, since I was new to this whole koryu budo thing, I believed them.
Only my teacher did his part in the demo with quiet grace and dignity. While the guys used to talk about him with great respect, none of them seemed to know him very well. It took some time for me to get to know him as more than the man who came in to okeiko, somewhat irregularly (his job kept him very busy), who told stories and sometimes made us repeat the same waza over and over again for a half hour or longer at a time. He never seemed happy with our progress, though he would let us stop after awhile, whether it was because he got tired of our relative mediocrity or decided we had hit our training wall for the night, I was never sure. I just knew I hated to disappoint him, so I kept trying.
When I did get to know him better, I was impressed by his humility. One time I came to see him on dojo business and before I could say anything he said, "Here, watch this. You've never seen anything like this before," and started the VCR. We watched an old, grainy film-to-video transfer of Nakayama Hakudo (a cleaned-up version is available on YouTube). In the film, Hakudo Sensei, clearly around 80 years old, both demonstrates and riffs (for lack of a better word) on Muso Shinden kata. I learned more about the meaning of practice in that one video than I had by studying for 10 years with my American sempai (and I realized later that it was not really their fault - 10 years is a literal drop in the bucket where koryu budo is concerned).
There were many other times like that. Once, when I visited him in the hospital, I noticed some books by his bedside. I asked him what he was reading. He said it was an account of the Ako Ogishi story (the story of the 47 Ronin). I knew the story in general, of course, but, thanks to sensei, I learned a great deal more after that. At his request, I went to Sengakuji, the temple in Tokyo where they are buried, to pay my respects. I still go there every time I go to Japan, and I have taken any number of hapless friends and students along with me. I go to honor him, and to try to give others a sense of what he taught me. And I go because I would still hate to disappoint him even now.
When he died, I spent over an hour on the phone with one of his daughters, whom I had met once or twice but did not know well. There we were, united by our grief, telling funny stories and laughing while we cried at the same time. She told family stories, I told training stories. Sensei didn't mix the dojo and his family life, so we were each hearing the stories for the first time. But we were clearly talking about the same guy - the stern family man with the goofy sense of humor and brilliant intellect.
My teacher, and others of his generation, began their budo training in the years before the Pacific War. Though the Edo period was a distant memory in Japan by the time they were born, the extraordinary changes in Japanese society after the mid 1940's created a clear separation in how people trained in koryu budo, and what it meant to them. More western influence and especially notions of competitive sport, along with a real and understandable concern for the survival of old art forms, has changed training. I'm not judging, I'm stating a fact. Good things may have been gained, but some good things have definitely been lost.
The problem with old masters, though, is they don't stay old masters for very long. They disappear. And a little piece of the world they were a part of disappears along with them.
So if you know an old master, whether of budo or something else, pay attention. Take him/her out for dinner, have coffee, sit and talk. Ask questions, and listen to the answers. You may realize how fortunate you are. Do it while there's still time.
I'm not talking about someone who has trained for 30 years, or some 40-something TKD teacher who started when he was six. Hell, I've trained for almost 30 years (more if you count my western fencing training), and I know I'm not a master. Old, maybe, sorta, but a master? Nope.
The old masters I'm thinking about have trained twice as long, at least - 60, 70, years. They're in their 80's or 90's, in varying states of health. They have more understanding of technique in their little fingers than the rest of us do in our whole bodies. Even better, they understand what they are doing, and why.
Some time ago, I looked at a very old video tape of one of my first demonstrations, which was held at a small dojo in New Jersey, in the 1980's. I remember we had a hell of a time finding the place (in the days before GPS) but I don't remember what the occasion was. In looking at myself on video (something I find uncomfortable even now) I noticed that I was trying very hard to do everything correctly as I had been taught, and, as a new student, I don't look too bad. At that time, I considered the sempai, who had about 3-4 years' seniority over me, as the "big kids." They certainly talked and acted like big kids, and, since I was new to this whole koryu budo thing, I believed them.
Only my teacher did his part in the demo with quiet grace and dignity. While the guys used to talk about him with great respect, none of them seemed to know him very well. It took some time for me to get to know him as more than the man who came in to okeiko, somewhat irregularly (his job kept him very busy), who told stories and sometimes made us repeat the same waza over and over again for a half hour or longer at a time. He never seemed happy with our progress, though he would let us stop after awhile, whether it was because he got tired of our relative mediocrity or decided we had hit our training wall for the night, I was never sure. I just knew I hated to disappoint him, so I kept trying.
When I did get to know him better, I was impressed by his humility. One time I came to see him on dojo business and before I could say anything he said, "Here, watch this. You've never seen anything like this before," and started the VCR. We watched an old, grainy film-to-video transfer of Nakayama Hakudo (a cleaned-up version is available on YouTube). In the film, Hakudo Sensei, clearly around 80 years old, both demonstrates and riffs (for lack of a better word) on Muso Shinden kata. I learned more about the meaning of practice in that one video than I had by studying for 10 years with my American sempai (and I realized later that it was not really their fault - 10 years is a literal drop in the bucket where koryu budo is concerned).
There were many other times like that. Once, when I visited him in the hospital, I noticed some books by his bedside. I asked him what he was reading. He said it was an account of the Ako Ogishi story (the story of the 47 Ronin). I knew the story in general, of course, but, thanks to sensei, I learned a great deal more after that. At his request, I went to Sengakuji, the temple in Tokyo where they are buried, to pay my respects. I still go there every time I go to Japan, and I have taken any number of hapless friends and students along with me. I go to honor him, and to try to give others a sense of what he taught me. And I go because I would still hate to disappoint him even now.
When he died, I spent over an hour on the phone with one of his daughters, whom I had met once or twice but did not know well. There we were, united by our grief, telling funny stories and laughing while we cried at the same time. She told family stories, I told training stories. Sensei didn't mix the dojo and his family life, so we were each hearing the stories for the first time. But we were clearly talking about the same guy - the stern family man with the goofy sense of humor and brilliant intellect.
My teacher, and others of his generation, began their budo training in the years before the Pacific War. Though the Edo period was a distant memory in Japan by the time they were born, the extraordinary changes in Japanese society after the mid 1940's created a clear separation in how people trained in koryu budo, and what it meant to them. More western influence and especially notions of competitive sport, along with a real and understandable concern for the survival of old art forms, has changed training. I'm not judging, I'm stating a fact. Good things may have been gained, but some good things have definitely been lost.
The problem with old masters, though, is they don't stay old masters for very long. They disappear. And a little piece of the world they were a part of disappears along with them.
So if you know an old master, whether of budo or something else, pay attention. Take him/her out for dinner, have coffee, sit and talk. Ask questions, and listen to the answers. You may realize how fortunate you are. Do it while there's still time.
Friday, March 6, 2015
The shutdown
A couple of days ago, I put up something slightly unusual on Facebook - a rather personal rant on the state of some U.S. policy. One of my erstwhile colleagues, whom I have not even shared comments with in a long time, responded to my rhetorical query "What's wrong with us?" (meaning the country) by saying that the answer to the question was in my query; i.e., there was something wrong with me. So I attempted to clarify a little, suggesting that U.S. voters often vote against their own interests (when they vote at all). My interlocutor once again persisted that my first rhetorical question suggested again that something was wrong with me.
Okay - so I was a little clumsy in my post (it's Facebook, not a dissertation - duh). The guy is an established writer with a correspondingly large ego, so his criticism was technically apt, though his spirit was decidedly - well - grumpy. The other responders actually took my post in the spirit in which it was rendered and variously gave their opinions on the subject. Since I could not break the syntax police blockade, I told the Writer that I accepted his rhetorical point.
But what has given me pause was what happened next; or rather, what didn't happen. I did not contribute anything else to the discussion - a discussion which I started myself. I was concerned that *anything* I might have said subsequently on the thread would have been subjected to the same type of shutdown my initial post had incited. So I said nothing.
The meaning of my post was clear to everyone else; in fact, it was also clear to my critic. I could have jumped in and added more to my commentary in response to the others who joined in, but I did not. Meanwhile, the Writer went back to the lurker shadows he had come from (actually, I believe it's a coffee shop somewhere in Canada). Mission accomplished. By sidestepping the content of my post and instead attacking the way in which I stated it, he had publicly shut me down.
I'm not interested in motive here. I have not seen this person for about 10 years. He puts essays up on FB for (mostly fanboy) comment. His budo world is slightly different from mine, so I don't often read his expositions; and when I do I don't offer much comment one way or the other. Most of the comments he does get are from his students, with content like you might expect. I have a lot of respect for the guy as a writer and a teacher, and considered us colleagues, if not friends. So his comments surprised me. I was not posting on some vital aspect of our respective practices; I was not even talking about military policy; I was talking about access to healthcare, fergodssake.
We have lately heard stuff about a backlash against women's autonomy, from Gamergate to male celebs and politicians pawing women in public. A few electronic reams have been laid out about the frozen smiles from the women being pawed, and what the pawing means. With all of the hand-wringing over this boorish behavior, not one has suggested a way to make it stop. I have a way, and I have used it when some guy tries to put his hands on me: any convenient variation on the taiji roll-back-and-press technique. It works, not least because the pawer in no way expects it. And subtle it's not.
Additionally, there has been a rise in people (not all men, either) referring to grown women, once again, as "girls." This was something I had hoped had gone the way of the dodo in the '80s (thirty years ago!). But here it is again. I generally offer a firm but polite remark: "I am not a girl. Please don't refer to me as one." The response to my reply has been shock, shock, I tell you. "I didn't mean it as an insult," is the most common response, and if I say the response is common, it's because it comes up often enough. Seriously, how can it not be an insult? No one refers to a grown man as a "boy," unless it's definitely an insult. No one has yet adequately explained to me why I should consider being referred to as a child to be a compliment (which is the second-most common response).
But now here's the literary shutdown from the Writer, a you-can't-express-yourself-properly-according-to-me-so-your-opinion-has-no-value remark. I am embarrassed to say I was so surprised I didn't have an adequate comeback. And just like those smiling, pawed-on women, I affected the FB equivalent of the glassy stare and gave in, in order to make it stop. To their credit, everyone else involved ignored him, and no one missed him when he bowed out, having "won" his point. But, obviously, I am still thinking about this. And, sooner or later (I hope sooner), I will come up with an unsubtle, written, roll-back-and-press response to this too.
Okay - so I was a little clumsy in my post (it's Facebook, not a dissertation - duh). The guy is an established writer with a correspondingly large ego, so his criticism was technically apt, though his spirit was decidedly - well - grumpy. The other responders actually took my post in the spirit in which it was rendered and variously gave their opinions on the subject. Since I could not break the syntax police blockade, I told the Writer that I accepted his rhetorical point.
But what has given me pause was what happened next; or rather, what didn't happen. I did not contribute anything else to the discussion - a discussion which I started myself. I was concerned that *anything* I might have said subsequently on the thread would have been subjected to the same type of shutdown my initial post had incited. So I said nothing.
The meaning of my post was clear to everyone else; in fact, it was also clear to my critic. I could have jumped in and added more to my commentary in response to the others who joined in, but I did not. Meanwhile, the Writer went back to the lurker shadows he had come from (actually, I believe it's a coffee shop somewhere in Canada). Mission accomplished. By sidestepping the content of my post and instead attacking the way in which I stated it, he had publicly shut me down.
I'm not interested in motive here. I have not seen this person for about 10 years. He puts essays up on FB for (mostly fanboy) comment. His budo world is slightly different from mine, so I don't often read his expositions; and when I do I don't offer much comment one way or the other. Most of the comments he does get are from his students, with content like you might expect. I have a lot of respect for the guy as a writer and a teacher, and considered us colleagues, if not friends. So his comments surprised me. I was not posting on some vital aspect of our respective practices; I was not even talking about military policy; I was talking about access to healthcare, fergodssake.
We have lately heard stuff about a backlash against women's autonomy, from Gamergate to male celebs and politicians pawing women in public. A few electronic reams have been laid out about the frozen smiles from the women being pawed, and what the pawing means. With all of the hand-wringing over this boorish behavior, not one has suggested a way to make it stop. I have a way, and I have used it when some guy tries to put his hands on me: any convenient variation on the taiji roll-back-and-press technique. It works, not least because the pawer in no way expects it. And subtle it's not.
Additionally, there has been a rise in people (not all men, either) referring to grown women, once again, as "girls." This was something I had hoped had gone the way of the dodo in the '80s (thirty years ago!). But here it is again. I generally offer a firm but polite remark: "I am not a girl. Please don't refer to me as one." The response to my reply has been shock, shock, I tell you. "I didn't mean it as an insult," is the most common response, and if I say the response is common, it's because it comes up often enough. Seriously, how can it not be an insult? No one refers to a grown man as a "boy," unless it's definitely an insult. No one has yet adequately explained to me why I should consider being referred to as a child to be a compliment (which is the second-most common response).
But now here's the literary shutdown from the Writer, a you-can't-express-yourself-properly-according-to-me-so-your-opinion-has-no-value remark. I am embarrassed to say I was so surprised I didn't have an adequate comeback. And just like those smiling, pawed-on women, I affected the FB equivalent of the glassy stare and gave in, in order to make it stop. To their credit, everyone else involved ignored him, and no one missed him when he bowed out, having "won" his point. But, obviously, I am still thinking about this. And, sooner or later (I hope sooner), I will come up with an unsubtle, written, roll-back-and-press response to this too.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
More on Rei
My colleague, the Budo Bum, wrote several blog posts recently that, like many of his posts, gave me some things to think about. In one post, on the subject or Rei (礼), generally described as bowing, or etiquette more generally, he started with the dictionary definition, then elaborated on the meaning of the word and some of its significance to budoka. In his second post, on budo virtues, he brought the word up again, and included something that I thought he should have made more of: Rei as a means of self-restraint. This one aspect of Rei needs more elaboration.
To begin with, I know it's common for those of us involved in koryu budo to lament the lack of courtesy in Western (especially U.S.) culture. And we have a point. But before we get carried away by the idea that Americans are clods, let's roll it back and consider the role of courtesy in sporting events, and, more importantly, its function. Before a boxing bout, contestants, unable to shake hands, touch gloves. Sports teams line up at the beginnings and ends of games to high-five each other. Fencers salute at the beginning and end of a match. We are so used to seeing these rituals, we don't consider their meanings very much. In fact, in much of televised sports, broadcasters don't even bother to show them. But these are important gestures that have meaning that go beyond tradition.
The gestures of courtesy in Western sports don't signify that the event the players have taken part in is "just a game." Even though one can make the case that shaking hands, saluting or high-fiving shows mutual respect among opponents, and that everyone has learned something from engaging in the contest, I think there is something else at work as well, which is even more important. Those courteous gestures are mechanisms of self-restraint. They allow individuals to literally calm down after a contest. They acknowledge the mutual humanity of the players.
Most non-Japanese who study traditional budo are familiar with Rei. Rei goes beyond simple bows to opponents before and after bouts, and even showing of mutual respect to teachers and fellow students. Western-style sports teams in Japan also line up after a game to bow to their opponents in a way that would serve just as well after a kendo or judo match. Courtesy is not just tradition, and it's not just culturally-specific.
Many years ago (many, many years ago), when I first moved to NYC, I was steeped in the myth that New Yorkers were rude - to each other and everyone they encountered. Imagine my surprise when I found out that was not in any way the case. Being polite, whether it was to bank clerks, deli workers or fellow subway riders, resulted not only in the gesture being returned, but achieved better results in encounters. Even something simple like removing a pair of sunglasses signifies that you want to deal with someone as a fellow human being, and changes the tenor of an encounter. Politeness turns down the heat and results, very often, in an expression of mutual humanity.
The styles of budo I engage in are potentially very dangerous and deadly. Because these styles all involve weapons the stakes are much higher than empty-hand techniques (as dangerous as those can be). A gesture made in anger can result in something much worse than someone being knocked to a mat. It is no accident that the styles I practice are practically overwhelmed with polite gestures (at least, they seem that way to outsiders). As a teacher, I do not let students blow off Rei at the beginning and end of class. Rei at the beginning and end of an iai class in particular is meant not just to show respect, Reishiki is designed to reassure the other participants that no one in a given practice intends anyone any harm. It sets off the practice time as being special in the sense that it is a safe space in which to learn from each other. Likewise, as in other partner practices, our partner kata begins and ends with Rei. Framing a practice in that way reminds everyone that tempers must always be held in check.
Rudeness produces a shutdown. It suggests to the other person that you are hostile, and you get hostility in return. I have seen this happen often enough, including in Japan. I have more than one time seen a non-Japanese person begin shouting (shouting!) at a clerk for misunderstanding him. The response is generally a steely glare and no other response at all. While I may understand the shouter's frustration, I know, as a New Yorker if for no other reason, that rudeness will not produce a solution to the problem. At best, it will produce nothing at all. In spite of the interpretation of Hollywood, it would be impossible to run a budo practice where etiquette is not properly observed.
At its worst, rudeness can bring on violence, which is why, the more potentially dangerous a budo practice is, the more elaborate the etiquette rituals become. As my colleague the Bum pointed out, Confucius considered Rei one of the Five Constraints. As important as all of the other aspects of Rei might be, inducing self-control might be the most important.
To begin with, I know it's common for those of us involved in koryu budo to lament the lack of courtesy in Western (especially U.S.) culture. And we have a point. But before we get carried away by the idea that Americans are clods, let's roll it back and consider the role of courtesy in sporting events, and, more importantly, its function. Before a boxing bout, contestants, unable to shake hands, touch gloves. Sports teams line up at the beginnings and ends of games to high-five each other. Fencers salute at the beginning and end of a match. We are so used to seeing these rituals, we don't consider their meanings very much. In fact, in much of televised sports, broadcasters don't even bother to show them. But these are important gestures that have meaning that go beyond tradition.
The gestures of courtesy in Western sports don't signify that the event the players have taken part in is "just a game." Even though one can make the case that shaking hands, saluting or high-fiving shows mutual respect among opponents, and that everyone has learned something from engaging in the contest, I think there is something else at work as well, which is even more important. Those courteous gestures are mechanisms of self-restraint. They allow individuals to literally calm down after a contest. They acknowledge the mutual humanity of the players.
Most non-Japanese who study traditional budo are familiar with Rei. Rei goes beyond simple bows to opponents before and after bouts, and even showing of mutual respect to teachers and fellow students. Western-style sports teams in Japan also line up after a game to bow to their opponents in a way that would serve just as well after a kendo or judo match. Courtesy is not just tradition, and it's not just culturally-specific.
Many years ago (many, many years ago), when I first moved to NYC, I was steeped in the myth that New Yorkers were rude - to each other and everyone they encountered. Imagine my surprise when I found out that was not in any way the case. Being polite, whether it was to bank clerks, deli workers or fellow subway riders, resulted not only in the gesture being returned, but achieved better results in encounters. Even something simple like removing a pair of sunglasses signifies that you want to deal with someone as a fellow human being, and changes the tenor of an encounter. Politeness turns down the heat and results, very often, in an expression of mutual humanity.
The styles of budo I engage in are potentially very dangerous and deadly. Because these styles all involve weapons the stakes are much higher than empty-hand techniques (as dangerous as those can be). A gesture made in anger can result in something much worse than someone being knocked to a mat. It is no accident that the styles I practice are practically overwhelmed with polite gestures (at least, they seem that way to outsiders). As a teacher, I do not let students blow off Rei at the beginning and end of class. Rei at the beginning and end of an iai class in particular is meant not just to show respect, Reishiki is designed to reassure the other participants that no one in a given practice intends anyone any harm. It sets off the practice time as being special in the sense that it is a safe space in which to learn from each other. Likewise, as in other partner practices, our partner kata begins and ends with Rei. Framing a practice in that way reminds everyone that tempers must always be held in check.
Rudeness produces a shutdown. It suggests to the other person that you are hostile, and you get hostility in return. I have seen this happen often enough, including in Japan. I have more than one time seen a non-Japanese person begin shouting (shouting!) at a clerk for misunderstanding him. The response is generally a steely glare and no other response at all. While I may understand the shouter's frustration, I know, as a New Yorker if for no other reason, that rudeness will not produce a solution to the problem. At best, it will produce nothing at all. In spite of the interpretation of Hollywood, it would be impossible to run a budo practice where etiquette is not properly observed.
At its worst, rudeness can bring on violence, which is why, the more potentially dangerous a budo practice is, the more elaborate the etiquette rituals become. As my colleague the Bum pointed out, Confucius considered Rei one of the Five Constraints. As important as all of the other aspects of Rei might be, inducing self-control might be the most important.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Two stories
Here are two stories:
In one story, two budoka square off wearing oyoroi (Japanese period armor) in an online video. They perform some partner kata not really designed for budoka in oyoroi; i.e. the targets for the techniques are the most heavily armored areas. Real oyoroi techniques would seek to take advantage of weaknesses in the armor. Moreover, the spacing of the kata is too distant to really be effective. Members of a budo social media group puzzled over the video, but at length concluded that the it must be some form of advertising for the style. Perhaps the use of colorful armor was just intended to add some "flash" (to use the vaudevillian expression) to the presentation. Perhaps the exaggerated distance between the partners was because...? In any case, the group, made up of experienced budoka, decided to give the video a pass, seeing it as a ploy to increase attendance at a small, satellite dojo of an established style, rather than as a poor example of the style itself.
Second story - a puff piece in a small, weekly newspaper with a website. The article is about a local art gallery/cultural center that has a weekly Japanese sword class. One of the photos, which inexplicably made the cover of the issue, is of a beginner student. The article itself features a not very good photo of the instructor, in which the te no uchi (grip on the sword) looks not-entirely orthodox. One reader of the piece started in to snarking about the photos on FB, which, to his experienced eye, looked amateurish, even though he did not know the group or the instructor. He corrected himself somewhat after realizing that the photo of the beginner student was *not* a photo of the instructor, but all the same, he came just short of suggesting that the instructor must not know anything about swordsmanship. He finally backed down after some of the instructor's colleagues called him out on his rush to judgment based on a single photograph.
These two stories present a number of issues. One is certainly the race to judge based on essentially no evidence. Virtually every day, FB commenters confess they have derided a topic without reading the link to the article. Occasionally, someone even posts an article because they like the headline, not realizing the article itself is expressing a completely opposite point of view. And of course, that does not include the fake articles, fake quotes, fake photos - fake everything - designed as clickbait that makes it on to FB.
Story number one got a pass because a famous teacher of a famous style was involved in the production of the video. Story number two, featuring no one famous, needed some colleagues playing defense in order to get a basically anonymous troll to stop denigrating the people involved.
A few weeks ago, the comedian Chris Rock mentioned that some well known comics who do stand-up performances have banned smartphones at their concerts. Comedy either works or it doesn't; the only way to find out is to try out the material on a live audience. These comedians fret that jokes that backfire, videoed by audience members and posted on social media fora, could endanger their careers.
Fortunately, the audience for the snarker in story number two was limited to a small group of people, but the question remains: what if it had been larger? Instead of accomplishing its aim of increasing publicity for the class, the puffy little article could have had the opposite effect. And it would not have made any difference to the person who spoke irresponsibly. I have spoken to budo teachers who forbid photos or video of their classes. One person confided that he lives in fear that a video he made just so his students could have a reference to technique could make it to the web. Many years ago (before digi), I was taking photos of a budo demonstration by an experienced teacher. Afterwards he approached me and asked me to show him any photos before publishing them. He explained that a photo that showed any technique as being slightly "off" would reflect badly on his practice, and most importantly, might embarrass his teacher. I thought he was overly cautious, but obviously, he had a point. He was just ahead of the curve.
The point is, we all know we're not perfect, yet at least some of us are happy to rub other people's noses in their all-too-human imperfections. Even though everyone knows that judgmental voyeurism is unjust, we watch anyway. Hell, the entertainment journalism industry makes a living at it. And, with all of that support, it seems rushes to judgment are an inevitable part of online life. Our only consolation is that, somewhat like drunken bar patrons, scandals only last as long as anyone can remember them; which is to say, the memory is gone by the next trip to the bar. And being unable to remember something amid the tide of stimulus, real and fake, is the saving grace of well-meaning, but not well-done, stuff on the web.
In one story, two budoka square off wearing oyoroi (Japanese period armor) in an online video. They perform some partner kata not really designed for budoka in oyoroi; i.e. the targets for the techniques are the most heavily armored areas. Real oyoroi techniques would seek to take advantage of weaknesses in the armor. Moreover, the spacing of the kata is too distant to really be effective. Members of a budo social media group puzzled over the video, but at length concluded that the it must be some form of advertising for the style. Perhaps the use of colorful armor was just intended to add some "flash" (to use the vaudevillian expression) to the presentation. Perhaps the exaggerated distance between the partners was because...? In any case, the group, made up of experienced budoka, decided to give the video a pass, seeing it as a ploy to increase attendance at a small, satellite dojo of an established style, rather than as a poor example of the style itself.
Second story - a puff piece in a small, weekly newspaper with a website. The article is about a local art gallery/cultural center that has a weekly Japanese sword class. One of the photos, which inexplicably made the cover of the issue, is of a beginner student. The article itself features a not very good photo of the instructor, in which the te no uchi (grip on the sword) looks not-entirely orthodox. One reader of the piece started in to snarking about the photos on FB, which, to his experienced eye, looked amateurish, even though he did not know the group or the instructor. He corrected himself somewhat after realizing that the photo of the beginner student was *not* a photo of the instructor, but all the same, he came just short of suggesting that the instructor must not know anything about swordsmanship. He finally backed down after some of the instructor's colleagues called him out on his rush to judgment based on a single photograph.
These two stories present a number of issues. One is certainly the race to judge based on essentially no evidence. Virtually every day, FB commenters confess they have derided a topic without reading the link to the article. Occasionally, someone even posts an article because they like the headline, not realizing the article itself is expressing a completely opposite point of view. And of course, that does not include the fake articles, fake quotes, fake photos - fake everything - designed as clickbait that makes it on to FB.
Story number one got a pass because a famous teacher of a famous style was involved in the production of the video. Story number two, featuring no one famous, needed some colleagues playing defense in order to get a basically anonymous troll to stop denigrating the people involved.
A few weeks ago, the comedian Chris Rock mentioned that some well known comics who do stand-up performances have banned smartphones at their concerts. Comedy either works or it doesn't; the only way to find out is to try out the material on a live audience. These comedians fret that jokes that backfire, videoed by audience members and posted on social media fora, could endanger their careers.
Fortunately, the audience for the snarker in story number two was limited to a small group of people, but the question remains: what if it had been larger? Instead of accomplishing its aim of increasing publicity for the class, the puffy little article could have had the opposite effect. And it would not have made any difference to the person who spoke irresponsibly. I have spoken to budo teachers who forbid photos or video of their classes. One person confided that he lives in fear that a video he made just so his students could have a reference to technique could make it to the web. Many years ago (before digi), I was taking photos of a budo demonstration by an experienced teacher. Afterwards he approached me and asked me to show him any photos before publishing them. He explained that a photo that showed any technique as being slightly "off" would reflect badly on his practice, and most importantly, might embarrass his teacher. I thought he was overly cautious, but obviously, he had a point. He was just ahead of the curve.
The point is, we all know we're not perfect, yet at least some of us are happy to rub other people's noses in their all-too-human imperfections. Even though everyone knows that judgmental voyeurism is unjust, we watch anyway. Hell, the entertainment journalism industry makes a living at it. And, with all of that support, it seems rushes to judgment are an inevitable part of online life. Our only consolation is that, somewhat like drunken bar patrons, scandals only last as long as anyone can remember them; which is to say, the memory is gone by the next trip to the bar. And being unable to remember something amid the tide of stimulus, real and fake, is the saving grace of well-meaning, but not well-done, stuff on the web.
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