A quote: "...many people in North America assume that one can learn koryu by training at the occasional seminar. Not true. What one learns at such seminars is only physical technique (and then only in the most superficial way). Learning koryu, though, is much more encompassing than mere waza. It includes the history, the "personality" of the ryu, all the undefined little things that make each ryu different and unique."
Meik Skoss, author of the above, is someone for whom I have enormous respect, even though I don't think he likes me very much. He demands a high degree of commitment from his students, and, as a result, does not have many. But they are among the very best I have ever seen outside Japan (and do better than more than a few I have seen in Japan, for that matter). Years ago, he and I had some similar online discussions - he contended the only way to study a real koryu was in Japan, and I countered that if one had a teacher sufficiently versed in traditional culture even outside Japan, students should be able to get a more in-depth understanding of not only what they were doing, but why. Eventually, we met on this common ground, perhaps in part because he is now teaching in the US, and can't very well advocate for what he himself is doing if he insists it can't be done outside the Old Country.
What brings this subject up is something that recently took place with a teacher from Japan and my old dojo. This teacher is/was my teacher (can't really tell at this point if he is a former teacher or not). I introduced him to my old dojo, and subsequently, yadda yadda yadda. I am no longer there, and have only seen him in Japan or occasionally attempting to train outside the honbu under circumstances that could be described as constrained at best. He comes to the states once or twice a year, goes to Europe once a year, and, last I heard, is working on his debut in Brazil. The ranks of students is growing (at least, outside Japan), and I assume life is good. But what is he teaching, and what are people actually learning, from the workshops?
To address Meik's comment, we need to consider whether iai is koryu or not. The answer is both yes and no. There are some reliably old styles that include the characteristic drawing and resheathing that is part of the definition of iai as opposed to kenjutsu - Tamiya Ryu for one, Shinto Hatakage Ryu for another, as far as we can determine. Some styles are later - Muso Shinden Ryu and its cousins, for example, reliably date from the 19th century and are perhaps more post-Meiji than pre-Meiji, even though their forebears are older. Some styles, like the one the above-mentioned teacher heads up, are brand new. (Specifically, the style broke off from its main branch about 5 years ago, and even the main line had a fuzzy history in the first place.)
If a style fits into this more recent category, and is not technically "koryu," but instead only dredges up echoes of a medieval past, does cultural context matter? Or is physical understanding all that counts?
I have always considered iai in general to be a koryu practice, even if specific ryuha do not date back to the Sengoku Jidai. In that case, as I argued to Meik many years ago, I think cultural understanding of iai is imperative to understanding the practice. Groups such as the ZNKR are busy dragging iai practice into the present, with modern-designed forms and competitions based on physical expertise alone. But while one may become proficient physically (and be physically rewarded for it) one misses a great deal of what iai offers by confining oneself to this level alone. My teacher Otani Sensei understood this, and in his visits to the dojo (or my visits to him when illness prevented his active participation at okeiko) he tried to impart it. Out of respect for his teaching, I also made history and military strategy a part of my practice, as well as - yes - taking seminars in other koryu in order to gain a superficial understanding of what else was out there in the milieu of martial practices of the time.
So, it's not that you can't learn anything from a workshop - I learned a great deal, even if I did not learn that much physical technique. However, you can't learn anything much in depth. Without a competent teacher to lead students to a deeper level, there isn't much left after the master teacher goes home, except to argue technical points, like whether the angle of the sword should be 30 degrees or 35 degrees from plumb. Even a physically competent teacher is shortchanging his students if the deeper level of training is ignored. Does it matter? Obviously, it depends on what people want from their practice. In the case I noted above, "iaido lite" seems to work just fine for everyone concerned, or at least that is how it appears. It is possible that the teacher wishes the foreign students had more interest in the cultural aspects of practice, but he is still willing to teach them kata - and take the fame and recognition (and cash) - even if they don't.
Everyone who walks in my door gets a constant cultural/historical stream of information, whether they like it or not. To me, it is part of the practice as much as anything else. I like to cite the example of newbie students getting to cut makiwara for the first time. Anyone can do this with about 10 minutes of instruction. No kidding - show her the grip, position her feet so she doesn't cut her leg, put her in front of the target at the right distance and step way, way back from her. Then, let 'er fly! But to gain some real understanding of the technique - where did this come from? Aside for the cool factor, why do people still do it? What does it mean? That takes time, along with training with a teacher who gets at least a certain sense of the background of the practice and can impart it to others.
If, however, your local teacher's cultural understanding only reaches to the level of pop culture and anime (or, worse, exists in some fantasy world of his own), don't lose heart - you can always go after that deeper knowledge for yourself. After all, Otani Sensei tried, but only the people who were willing to hear him got any further than skin deep. The opposite can therefore be true. Save your bucks and go to the honbu and find out for yourself. After that, hang out with the sempai. Wander around the countryside. Visit some historic areas. Learn some of the language. Read some books. Repeat for the rest of your life. Don't simply wait for the Big Kahuna's next world tour.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Talent and (versus) Stubbornness
I have a talented student (or maybe former student - I am not sure at this point). The techniques I have taught him came to him relatively easily. He's young and strong and gifted, the kind of man who makes teachers' eyes light up. Lucky him. This past January I tested him for shodan. He was appropriately nervous, and predictably, he did well. The other judge was as impressed with him as I have been, as other teachers who have seen him in action have been.
But of course there's a problem. He's spoiled rotten. And that's where the fairy story runs out. For months he had been borrowing equipment from me, on the excuse that he was saving up for a different set of equipment (not being satisfied with what he already had). After months of lugging extra stuff around with me, especially through snow and ice, I explained that once he became shodan, he would have to get, and carry around, his own equipment. Right away, I knew we were in trouble. His eyebrows went up. Really? Yes. I'm the teacher, not a pack horse.
After that, he still continued to come to class, but without his gi, wearing gym clothes or workout clothes instead. At first he said he was too busy to do laundry, but eventually he dropped that excuse sometime after it became patently ridiculous. I teach one public class a week for college students. Under the circumstances, I cannot tell them they must dress properly, though the serious amongst them seem to want to after awhile anyway. It is obvious that this guy is talented and knows some advanced techniques, so his dress is, in a way, a sign of disrespect. In a public class, however, I cannot really ask him to dress otherwise. I have let him know through intermediaries (fellow students he has known for some time) that his dress is inappropriate given that he is a ranked student, but to no avail. At this point, the student who almost never missed a practice has been gone for about a month. One of his fellows said he complained of being bored with all of the beginners and doing basic exericises all the time. As I have mentioned in a previous post, every time I do basics (and we have done them a lot lately) I try to do them better. Iai is structured, like a lot of other budo, to be cumulative. After basics, you can learn more advanced things, but without contiuous practice of basics, your advanced practice will decline. No matter what you retain mentally, the execution of technique is what really counts. That's just how it is.
So, this person has talent, but no stubbornness, and the truth is, you need both. Talent is great, but anyone who thinks that it will open all doors is simply wrong. And the shock of realizing that talent alone will not bring you everything you want can be too much for some people.
I am not really talented. As a kid, I called myself a "spaz", as in "spastic." I wasn't really spastic, of course, but that was how it felt to me. A left-handed, chubby, awkward kid who kept going left when everyone else went right. I wanted to dance, but there was not dance studio within 45 miles of where I lived, and no public transportation to take a chubby kid where she wanted to go. Alongside my interest in dance was an interest in fencing, but that, too, was an impossibility, given where I lived.
I was 21 before I had an opportunity to begin fencing (by that time, knowing that dancers started as children, I had given up on that idea). But once I had it, I grabbed it with both hands. I was awkward and unshaped (I can't say out of shape - I had never been in shape in my life), and probably too old to have started. One thing - my left-handedness was considered an asset. I worked long hours. I did drills. I went to summer practices (in spite of being a summer Olympic sport, fencers usually knock off during hot weather). I sweated. My knees, never having had to do more than climb a few sets of stairs on any given day, complained. I ached. But, I got better. Honestly, I sucked at competition, but I had so much fun learning to do something I had always wanted to do, it almost didn't matter.
The came iai, which solved the competition question nicely - there wasn't any. But there were other obstacles, like there are with anything. But I worked on them. Actually, there are always obstacles - time, space, money, other people, death. But I worked hard. Really hard. Spent money going to Japan. Spent time - extra time, by myself, in rented studios all over NYC when I had any to spare.
And unlike my talented student, I did not give up when things did not go exactly as I expected them. One thing as you get older, and it's a good thing - you learn not to expect anything. It's fortunately true, as my old teacher used to say, that it is better to go around an object placed in your path than it is to try to go through it, and that has happened in the past few years. But, as he also said, there are many paths up the mountain. The important thing is to keep climbing.
But of course there's a problem. He's spoiled rotten. And that's where the fairy story runs out. For months he had been borrowing equipment from me, on the excuse that he was saving up for a different set of equipment (not being satisfied with what he already had). After months of lugging extra stuff around with me, especially through snow and ice, I explained that once he became shodan, he would have to get, and carry around, his own equipment. Right away, I knew we were in trouble. His eyebrows went up. Really? Yes. I'm the teacher, not a pack horse.
After that, he still continued to come to class, but without his gi, wearing gym clothes or workout clothes instead. At first he said he was too busy to do laundry, but eventually he dropped that excuse sometime after it became patently ridiculous. I teach one public class a week for college students. Under the circumstances, I cannot tell them they must dress properly, though the serious amongst them seem to want to after awhile anyway. It is obvious that this guy is talented and knows some advanced techniques, so his dress is, in a way, a sign of disrespect. In a public class, however, I cannot really ask him to dress otherwise. I have let him know through intermediaries (fellow students he has known for some time) that his dress is inappropriate given that he is a ranked student, but to no avail. At this point, the student who almost never missed a practice has been gone for about a month. One of his fellows said he complained of being bored with all of the beginners and doing basic exericises all the time. As I have mentioned in a previous post, every time I do basics (and we have done them a lot lately) I try to do them better. Iai is structured, like a lot of other budo, to be cumulative. After basics, you can learn more advanced things, but without contiuous practice of basics, your advanced practice will decline. No matter what you retain mentally, the execution of technique is what really counts. That's just how it is.
So, this person has talent, but no stubbornness, and the truth is, you need both. Talent is great, but anyone who thinks that it will open all doors is simply wrong. And the shock of realizing that talent alone will not bring you everything you want can be too much for some people.
I am not really talented. As a kid, I called myself a "spaz", as in "spastic." I wasn't really spastic, of course, but that was how it felt to me. A left-handed, chubby, awkward kid who kept going left when everyone else went right. I wanted to dance, but there was not dance studio within 45 miles of where I lived, and no public transportation to take a chubby kid where she wanted to go. Alongside my interest in dance was an interest in fencing, but that, too, was an impossibility, given where I lived.
I was 21 before I had an opportunity to begin fencing (by that time, knowing that dancers started as children, I had given up on that idea). But once I had it, I grabbed it with both hands. I was awkward and unshaped (I can't say out of shape - I had never been in shape in my life), and probably too old to have started. One thing - my left-handedness was considered an asset. I worked long hours. I did drills. I went to summer practices (in spite of being a summer Olympic sport, fencers usually knock off during hot weather). I sweated. My knees, never having had to do more than climb a few sets of stairs on any given day, complained. I ached. But, I got better. Honestly, I sucked at competition, but I had so much fun learning to do something I had always wanted to do, it almost didn't matter.
The came iai, which solved the competition question nicely - there wasn't any. But there were other obstacles, like there are with anything. But I worked on them. Actually, there are always obstacles - time, space, money, other people, death. But I worked hard. Really hard. Spent money going to Japan. Spent time - extra time, by myself, in rented studios all over NYC when I had any to spare.
And unlike my talented student, I did not give up when things did not go exactly as I expected them. One thing as you get older, and it's a good thing - you learn not to expect anything. It's fortunately true, as my old teacher used to say, that it is better to go around an object placed in your path than it is to try to go through it, and that has happened in the past few years. But, as he also said, there are many paths up the mountain. The important thing is to keep climbing.
Pensive
Country people used to say that things happened in three's. If one of us saw a snake, they'd say "There's bound to be two more of 'em around here somewhere." Actually, in rural Pennsylvania in the summer, that was a pretty safe bet to make, but it just goes to show what passed for folk wisdom when I was growing up (heavy on the "folk").
In the past week, I learned (1) that a friend's wife is nursing her brother who's dying of cancer, while her mother has just found out she has been diagnosed with the same disease; (2) another friend's father died in a terrible car accident; and (3) as the planet knows, that Steve Jobs died.
Now, do not let it be said that I am a tech-head, because I am not. Unlike some others, I came late to the Mac thing, though once I did, I was a convert. Apple products were the first tech gizmos that I did not think of as tools, but as something to be played with. However, that is not the point of this essay.
The point is, devastating things happened to people this week that only touched me tangentially, but touched me enough to make me think about stuff. I know people to whom things involving other people have happened. In the case of Jobs, of course, I did not know him, but, in a way, he knew me.
When I was in my early 30's, my best friend from college died of AIDS. He was a lovely man, and a friend to my whole family. My mother's reaction, when she heard the news was, "Have a good time, whatever you do. Don't wait, because you never know what will happen." As the planet also knows, Jobs made a similar speech to the trust fund babies who are a typical Stanford graduating class - that time was too limited to spend your life living out other people's dreams. Jobs was iconized precisely because he did live his own dream. It was so unusual for a kid from a middle-class background to have the combination of brains, stubborness, pride and self-assurance to be able to do what he did. The vast majority of people will never have that combination of personal characteristics, not to mention luck (like meeting Woz), or fate, or whatever you call it, to be able to do the same. But the kids graduating from Stanford will have to really screw up to avoid following their dreams, don'tcha think?
So what do the rest of us do? We make do, I guess. I wanted to be a teacher. I'm not one, but I teach three times a week. My job is nearly mindless, but I read Great Books on the subway ride down from the Bronx almost every day. Occasionally (if I'm really lucky that day), I engage a thinking person in a meaningful discussion. Or write something someone else finds worth reading now and then.
Oh yeah - I named my iPhone Steve. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
In the past week, I learned (1) that a friend's wife is nursing her brother who's dying of cancer, while her mother has just found out she has been diagnosed with the same disease; (2) another friend's father died in a terrible car accident; and (3) as the planet knows, that Steve Jobs died.
Now, do not let it be said that I am a tech-head, because I am not. Unlike some others, I came late to the Mac thing, though once I did, I was a convert. Apple products were the first tech gizmos that I did not think of as tools, but as something to be played with. However, that is not the point of this essay.
The point is, devastating things happened to people this week that only touched me tangentially, but touched me enough to make me think about stuff. I know people to whom things involving other people have happened. In the case of Jobs, of course, I did not know him, but, in a way, he knew me.
When I was in my early 30's, my best friend from college died of AIDS. He was a lovely man, and a friend to my whole family. My mother's reaction, when she heard the news was, "Have a good time, whatever you do. Don't wait, because you never know what will happen." As the planet also knows, Jobs made a similar speech to the trust fund babies who are a typical Stanford graduating class - that time was too limited to spend your life living out other people's dreams. Jobs was iconized precisely because he did live his own dream. It was so unusual for a kid from a middle-class background to have the combination of brains, stubborness, pride and self-assurance to be able to do what he did. The vast majority of people will never have that combination of personal characteristics, not to mention luck (like meeting Woz), or fate, or whatever you call it, to be able to do the same. But the kids graduating from Stanford will have to really screw up to avoid following their dreams, don'tcha think?
So what do the rest of us do? We make do, I guess. I wanted to be a teacher. I'm not one, but I teach three times a week. My job is nearly mindless, but I read Great Books on the subway ride down from the Bronx almost every day. Occasionally (if I'm really lucky that day), I engage a thinking person in a meaningful discussion. Or write something someone else finds worth reading now and then.
Oh yeah - I named my iPhone Steve. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
9/11 redux
So, here I am, adding my $.02 to the probably millions of posts out there regarding the big 9/11 10th anniversary. Wanna know my take on this in one word? Here it is: Gak.
Paul Krugman hit the nail painfully on the head when his 9/11 10th anniversary blog post noted the "shame" of politicians wrapping themselves in the debris of Ground Zero to aid their reelection bids, and earned a lot of disapprobation from readers, including one who interestingly said that it would have been appropriate to make the remark, just not on the actual "day." To which I wonder, why? Why should people fudge the truth on one day and tell it on another? I do that. Certainly a famous Nobel Prize winner should be able to do the same. I actually sent Krugman a keep-up-the-good-work email. I almost never do that.
This past weekend I had a good friend come to NYC for some practice and seminars. As I said in my previous post, turnout sucked (it sucked last year, in mid-December, as well, so I very much doubt that the date had anything to do with anything, except as an additional excuse). He hesitated a little, but I assured him that the date was not a problem, and it's not because I think that we should "move on" with our busy lives.
Here's why it was not a problem for me: NYers don't need special ceremonies to mark this terrible anniversary. We have enough memories of the event to last those of us who lived here for the rest of our lives. We all have our stories of where we were, what we were doing, and who we know who was directly affected, one way or another. And there are eight million of us - that's a lot of stories. As one person I spoke to at the time put it, "I didn't actually lose anyone there, but I have lived here all my life, so in a way, it was like I lost everybody." I walked around for weeks with the same physical grief reaction I had when my mom died. And for the record - it seems to me that only the commuters from New Jersey and upstate, along with newbies who just moved here, were actually scared. The rest of us just handled it, like New Yorkers always do.
Last Sunday morning, I turned off the endless coverage and switched to "Pride of the Yankees" on TCM before heading off to practice. I don't need reminders, and I don't need pundits and politicians trying to define the experience for the rest of the country who was Not There. You Were Not There. Get over it.
Here's what I will never forget - going to work and seeing gaping holes in the towers. Hearing from people standing on the steps at St. Pat's that they just saw one tower collapse, "like it was in a movie." Sitting at a bar (my office building was evacuated) that had a pay phone, unable to reach my husband and watching the second tower go down on live tv. The handful of people there, one of whom was furiously trying to email on his PDA people he and others there knew from the downtown area to see if they were okay (and getting no answers). A big one: wondering if my husband was alive or dead, and what I would do in case of the latter. The long, determined trek home on foot with thousands of other people. The smell that lasted for weeks and weeks. The relief that my husband made it out of the area okay, contrasted with knowing that other people's husbands and wives did not. Unplugging the phone at night to ward off curious relatives who, after ascertaining that we were okay, would call at all hours just to "find out what's going on." My husband's bout with PTS that lasted for years. I could go on, but the point, I think, is abundantly clear.
Sunday morning, as I was going to practice on the subway, I saw a large number of firemen in their dress uniforms, many with their wives and children. Firemen were, and are, part of the emotional backbone of the city. Those that did not lose family members were barred from the big party downtown, but even if they did not lose "anybody" they did lose everybody. And they set out to remember them on their own. I was moved by their low-key response to the slight. But I was not surprised.
I am hoping that after the big hoopla and the big opening of the big memorial downtown that people will allow New York to do what it has always done - take and absorb everything into the huge canvas that we are, neither forgetting nor grandstanding, but continuing to survive and go our own way.
Paul Krugman hit the nail painfully on the head when his 9/11 10th anniversary blog post noted the "shame" of politicians wrapping themselves in the debris of Ground Zero to aid their reelection bids, and earned a lot of disapprobation from readers, including one who interestingly said that it would have been appropriate to make the remark, just not on the actual "day." To which I wonder, why? Why should people fudge the truth on one day and tell it on another? I do that. Certainly a famous Nobel Prize winner should be able to do the same. I actually sent Krugman a keep-up-the-good-work email. I almost never do that.
This past weekend I had a good friend come to NYC for some practice and seminars. As I said in my previous post, turnout sucked (it sucked last year, in mid-December, as well, so I very much doubt that the date had anything to do with anything, except as an additional excuse). He hesitated a little, but I assured him that the date was not a problem, and it's not because I think that we should "move on" with our busy lives.
Here's why it was not a problem for me: NYers don't need special ceremonies to mark this terrible anniversary. We have enough memories of the event to last those of us who lived here for the rest of our lives. We all have our stories of where we were, what we were doing, and who we know who was directly affected, one way or another. And there are eight million of us - that's a lot of stories. As one person I spoke to at the time put it, "I didn't actually lose anyone there, but I have lived here all my life, so in a way, it was like I lost everybody." I walked around for weeks with the same physical grief reaction I had when my mom died. And for the record - it seems to me that only the commuters from New Jersey and upstate, along with newbies who just moved here, were actually scared. The rest of us just handled it, like New Yorkers always do.
Last Sunday morning, I turned off the endless coverage and switched to "Pride of the Yankees" on TCM before heading off to practice. I don't need reminders, and I don't need pundits and politicians trying to define the experience for the rest of the country who was Not There. You Were Not There. Get over it.
Here's what I will never forget - going to work and seeing gaping holes in the towers. Hearing from people standing on the steps at St. Pat's that they just saw one tower collapse, "like it was in a movie." Sitting at a bar (my office building was evacuated) that had a pay phone, unable to reach my husband and watching the second tower go down on live tv. The handful of people there, one of whom was furiously trying to email on his PDA people he and others there knew from the downtown area to see if they were okay (and getting no answers). A big one: wondering if my husband was alive or dead, and what I would do in case of the latter. The long, determined trek home on foot with thousands of other people. The smell that lasted for weeks and weeks. The relief that my husband made it out of the area okay, contrasted with knowing that other people's husbands and wives did not. Unplugging the phone at night to ward off curious relatives who, after ascertaining that we were okay, would call at all hours just to "find out what's going on." My husband's bout with PTS that lasted for years. I could go on, but the point, I think, is abundantly clear.
Sunday morning, as I was going to practice on the subway, I saw a large number of firemen in their dress uniforms, many with their wives and children. Firemen were, and are, part of the emotional backbone of the city. Those that did not lose family members were barred from the big party downtown, but even if they did not lose "anybody" they did lose everybody. And they set out to remember them on their own. I was moved by their low-key response to the slight. But I was not surprised.
I am hoping that after the big hoopla and the big opening of the big memorial downtown that people will allow New York to do what it has always done - take and absorb everything into the huge canvas that we are, neither forgetting nor grandstanding, but continuing to survive and go our own way.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Missed opportunities
This past weekend, I once again had the extreme pleasure of having one of my budo friends come to New York to teach. He's highly skilled and a great guy. We put stuff up on the Web and Facebook that the Saturday practice would be an open seminar with extremely reasonable rates for a day's practice.
It's a good thing I don't bring people here for my students' sake, or for attempting to make money (I do it for myself), because I would have been severely disappointed on both counts. Only one person came to the Saturday practice, and only one besides me took part in the Sunday morning practice. Since I was not especially surprised or disappointed, I turned my thoughts to why this happened. I should point out that this is not the first time it has happened, but the second (the first time we had a similar practice, we had four people attend).
First, let's review the excuses. In no particular order:
One group I am affiliated with was interested until they understood that my old sempai might be coming. (My old sempai, a true entrepreneur, had raided this teacher's dojo less than a year ago and walked off with half the students.) So, to a man, they declined. This was probably wise. However, when the old sempai later sent his regrets to my friend, they still declined the Saturday practice. As to the Sunday practice, the teacher stated that it was "too difficult to get everyone together on a Sunday morning" to make what would have been a 40-minute car trip (or equally-long train trip).
The students I teach at the community college gave a blank stare when I pointed out that the seminar would have an *especially reduced* student rate. Nevertheless one person said he would come, but did not.
A friend of my friend from upstate was so enthused about the event that she was even sending him messages late on the night before to get directions, etc. Another no-show. Eventually, after we wondered and worried if she had gotten lost, he sent her a note. She said she had been up too late the night before on a family matter and did not further elaborate.
So, there are two issues here. One of indifference to the event itself, and another of commitment. We should look at these in turn as well.
As to indifference to the event, my friend and I both speculated. This is my take: One of my old professors at NYU, with whom I taught an undergrad course (his first in many years) bemoaned at one point the students' contentment with lack of direct experience. He accused them of being content to feed off of others' direct experiences (in this case, his three years of living in India as a young scholar), rather than going to places to see for themselves what they were like. I do not have any current stats on the idea of a "gap year" abroad, but I have a feeling the numbers are not very large. When I was a student, people were always taking a semester (or longer) off to "go on the road." There were myriad reasons, including irritating parents or a troubled love life, but the idea of "taking off" and disappearing to the Southwest, Europe or someplace else (one guy I remember actually ran away and joined a circus that came through the town!) was not considered the novelty it was years later when I was at NYU. I imagine the lack of curiosity has been exacerbated by a number of other factors at this point, but I have little doubt that being able to see as much exotic stuff as you like on YouTube has probably not improved people's sense of adventure. Why go abroad when you can just watch? LOL.
For that matter, why spend money to go to a seminar when you can just watch the kata on your computer? This elision of virtual with actual experience is really nothing new. Many years ago, I went to my first noh performance in Japan. I had seen truncated performances at Japan Society, and I had seen a number of videos. But seeing noh on its home turf was a mindblower. First, the resonant quality of the stage, nonexistent in Western theatre stages, was a revelation of sound. I could feel my body actually vibrating with the singing of the chorus. Secondly was the audience - totally absorbed, physically and mentally, in what was taking place onstage. I later met some American theatre students and asked them if they had ever seen a noh performance. Every hand went up. "Not on video" I qualified. Every hand went down. The problem was not that they had not actually seen a performance; the problem was they thought they had.
For budo, this means, obviously, that many people, for economic reasons or lazy reasons, will not only blow off an opportunity to improve their practice, they don't know the difference. In this case, not only can they see the same kata (though not necessarily of the same quality, and how would they know?) from the comfort of their living rooms, but they assume that whatever I picked up from my friend I will be transmitting to them at the next class anyway. Leaving aside that I am poor substitute, of course, the point is that there is no substitute for direct experience, even if you think there actually is one. However, if you limit your direct experiences for whatever reason, I suppose you cannot be blamed for thinking there is no difference. You just lose out.
As for the no-shows, I believe disappointed would-be hosts since time immemorial have wondered about that one. I doubt that it has either deteriorated since the web, or improved. It just is. As we used to say when not that many people came to a dinner party - "More for us!"
It's a good thing I don't bring people here for my students' sake, or for attempting to make money (I do it for myself), because I would have been severely disappointed on both counts. Only one person came to the Saturday practice, and only one besides me took part in the Sunday morning practice. Since I was not especially surprised or disappointed, I turned my thoughts to why this happened. I should point out that this is not the first time it has happened, but the second (the first time we had a similar practice, we had four people attend).
First, let's review the excuses. In no particular order:
One group I am affiliated with was interested until they understood that my old sempai might be coming. (My old sempai, a true entrepreneur, had raided this teacher's dojo less than a year ago and walked off with half the students.) So, to a man, they declined. This was probably wise. However, when the old sempai later sent his regrets to my friend, they still declined the Saturday practice. As to the Sunday practice, the teacher stated that it was "too difficult to get everyone together on a Sunday morning" to make what would have been a 40-minute car trip (or equally-long train trip).
The students I teach at the community college gave a blank stare when I pointed out that the seminar would have an *especially reduced* student rate. Nevertheless one person said he would come, but did not.
A friend of my friend from upstate was so enthused about the event that she was even sending him messages late on the night before to get directions, etc. Another no-show. Eventually, after we wondered and worried if she had gotten lost, he sent her a note. She said she had been up too late the night before on a family matter and did not further elaborate.
So, there are two issues here. One of indifference to the event itself, and another of commitment. We should look at these in turn as well.
As to indifference to the event, my friend and I both speculated. This is my take: One of my old professors at NYU, with whom I taught an undergrad course (his first in many years) bemoaned at one point the students' contentment with lack of direct experience. He accused them of being content to feed off of others' direct experiences (in this case, his three years of living in India as a young scholar), rather than going to places to see for themselves what they were like. I do not have any current stats on the idea of a "gap year" abroad, but I have a feeling the numbers are not very large. When I was a student, people were always taking a semester (or longer) off to "go on the road." There were myriad reasons, including irritating parents or a troubled love life, but the idea of "taking off" and disappearing to the Southwest, Europe or someplace else (one guy I remember actually ran away and joined a circus that came through the town!) was not considered the novelty it was years later when I was at NYU. I imagine the lack of curiosity has been exacerbated by a number of other factors at this point, but I have little doubt that being able to see as much exotic stuff as you like on YouTube has probably not improved people's sense of adventure. Why go abroad when you can just watch? LOL.
For that matter, why spend money to go to a seminar when you can just watch the kata on your computer? This elision of virtual with actual experience is really nothing new. Many years ago, I went to my first noh performance in Japan. I had seen truncated performances at Japan Society, and I had seen a number of videos. But seeing noh on its home turf was a mindblower. First, the resonant quality of the stage, nonexistent in Western theatre stages, was a revelation of sound. I could feel my body actually vibrating with the singing of the chorus. Secondly was the audience - totally absorbed, physically and mentally, in what was taking place onstage. I later met some American theatre students and asked them if they had ever seen a noh performance. Every hand went up. "Not on video" I qualified. Every hand went down. The problem was not that they had not actually seen a performance; the problem was they thought they had.
For budo, this means, obviously, that many people, for economic reasons or lazy reasons, will not only blow off an opportunity to improve their practice, they don't know the difference. In this case, not only can they see the same kata (though not necessarily of the same quality, and how would they know?) from the comfort of their living rooms, but they assume that whatever I picked up from my friend I will be transmitting to them at the next class anyway. Leaving aside that I am poor substitute, of course, the point is that there is no substitute for direct experience, even if you think there actually is one. However, if you limit your direct experiences for whatever reason, I suppose you cannot be blamed for thinking there is no difference. You just lose out.
As for the no-shows, I believe disappointed would-be hosts since time immemorial have wondered about that one. I doubt that it has either deteriorated since the web, or improved. It just is. As we used to say when not that many people came to a dinner party - "More for us!"
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Loyalty
Well, I am not by any means the first person to consider issues of loyalty. Even though the concept has different iterations and nuances from culture to culture, and over millenia, everyone seems to know what it means for them. Since many millions of words have been written on this subject at large, I feel opinion is all I can personally contribute; and at that, only in one context (today, at least): loyalty in the dojo.
This is a very sticky issue. I got kicked out of my old place over issues of loyalty - my sometime sempai (he had started befoire me, but had absented himself for 10 years or more before returning) insisted my loyalty to him should have trumped my loyalty to my teacher, the headmaster of the style, in Japan Such loyalty meaning that I should have continued to cover for his shortcomings as I always had since his return, and then some, allowing him to teach a style he was not authorized to teach, and contributing my expertise (I was the one actually authorized to teach) in his name. Certain dojo traditions (modeled on Japanese traditions, or at least what we interpret them to be) held up his argument, but other ideas and traditions upheld my position as well. On my side, I did not feel like contributing to what would have amounted to a breach of personal ethics, perhaps even elevating to fraud in assisting someone without expertise to declare himself the premier Western practitioner of the style. My teacher, Mr, Otani, as traditional an issei as ever there was, I think would have bought the moral argument over the dojo loyalty argument. On the other hand, he would have won no matter what position he took, since it was his dojo. In many, many ways his death was the setup for all that followed, the repercussions from which are still reverberating three years down the road.
Skip to the present day: I have my own group, my own students, and I have, at least for the time being, left aside the offending style, since the old sempai is not content to have me out of the dojo - he is angling to have me quit the ryuha in whatever way he can bring it about. I have decided on the path of least resistance - stop pushing for whatever rights I might have, keep to my roots in my original style (which I have been continuing to teach all along), and...wait. My senior students are well aware of, and tired of, the political intrigues, the disses and the totally predictable mediocrity of the other group (the headmaster of the style, in Japan, stands aloof). They are all perfectly happy to pursue a curriculum that is more peaceful, and, for my part, I have plenty to do - weeks and months pass without my even thinking about the situation "over there."
All of them, except one. While acknowledging the crappiness of the situation with a depth of understanding that surprised me, one student still advocates for pursuing the other style. Several weeks ago I overheard him telling someone that he considers the headmaster in Japan to be his teacher, even though he has met the guy maybe 1/2 dozen times. I arranged for this student to attend practice at the honbu in Japan, and I have trained him for three years.
Who your teacher is can be a complicated business. For example, the current headmaster has taught me officially only since he became headmaster - my real teacher in the style was the previous headmaster, with whom I trained for over ten years. To his credit, the current head has acknowledged as much. My original teacher was Otani Sensei, and even though I have trained with other (and better known, in some cases) teachers since, I continue to claim him, even though, at this point, almost no one remembers who he was, if they ever even heard of him. My student's first teacher is a karate teacher, a man I have met and respect. If anyone should get the honor of being this guy's teacher over me, it should be him.
When I asked the (my?) student about what I had overheard, he said I misunderstood (I did not hear the whole conversation). Okay, but what he said next was discomforting: that while he "didn't mind" learning other things, he wanted to continue to practice the "forbidden" style over any other, and saw his role in the dojo as helping me to promote it. I pointed out that such a path was impossible at this time, that promoting the style was the equivalent of continuing to bind myself to a situation that I found toxic for both my students and myself, but he simply repeated what he had said already. Every opportunity he gets he flaunts his (limited) understanding of the style, in front of new students, in front of me, even though I have made it very clear that I would prefer not to have it practiced in my dojo.
So, what to do with this guy? I cannot give him what he wants, and his continued stubbornness is making trouble for me, though possibly not as much as I think it is. (On the other hand, I have consistently downplayed such situations, and have been screwed by them.) I am considering the possibility of giving permission for him to go to my old place - they have tossed out the style Otani Sensei taught and wholly devote themselves to the new one. Even though their practice is not so skilful, I think he would get a warm reception (especially since the old sempai would probably consider it a personal victory over me to have him). He would be kept informed of the doings of the honbu - information deliberately kept from us (more complications - the headmaster prefers to communicate with the larger, more established group, who then keeps the info to itself, unless it can make money off of it). If the student affiliates with my old sempai, he will have a more direct line to "his" teacher than I am currently willing or able to provide.
And I will have a more peaceful atmosphere; at least, that is my hope.
This is a very sticky issue. I got kicked out of my old place over issues of loyalty - my sometime sempai (he had started befoire me, but had absented himself for 10 years or more before returning) insisted my loyalty to him should have trumped my loyalty to my teacher, the headmaster of the style, in Japan Such loyalty meaning that I should have continued to cover for his shortcomings as I always had since his return, and then some, allowing him to teach a style he was not authorized to teach, and contributing my expertise (I was the one actually authorized to teach) in his name. Certain dojo traditions (modeled on Japanese traditions, or at least what we interpret them to be) held up his argument, but other ideas and traditions upheld my position as well. On my side, I did not feel like contributing to what would have amounted to a breach of personal ethics, perhaps even elevating to fraud in assisting someone without expertise to declare himself the premier Western practitioner of the style. My teacher, Mr, Otani, as traditional an issei as ever there was, I think would have bought the moral argument over the dojo loyalty argument. On the other hand, he would have won no matter what position he took, since it was his dojo. In many, many ways his death was the setup for all that followed, the repercussions from which are still reverberating three years down the road.
Skip to the present day: I have my own group, my own students, and I have, at least for the time being, left aside the offending style, since the old sempai is not content to have me out of the dojo - he is angling to have me quit the ryuha in whatever way he can bring it about. I have decided on the path of least resistance - stop pushing for whatever rights I might have, keep to my roots in my original style (which I have been continuing to teach all along), and...wait. My senior students are well aware of, and tired of, the political intrigues, the disses and the totally predictable mediocrity of the other group (the headmaster of the style, in Japan, stands aloof). They are all perfectly happy to pursue a curriculum that is more peaceful, and, for my part, I have plenty to do - weeks and months pass without my even thinking about the situation "over there."
All of them, except one. While acknowledging the crappiness of the situation with a depth of understanding that surprised me, one student still advocates for pursuing the other style. Several weeks ago I overheard him telling someone that he considers the headmaster in Japan to be his teacher, even though he has met the guy maybe 1/2 dozen times. I arranged for this student to attend practice at the honbu in Japan, and I have trained him for three years.
Who your teacher is can be a complicated business. For example, the current headmaster has taught me officially only since he became headmaster - my real teacher in the style was the previous headmaster, with whom I trained for over ten years. To his credit, the current head has acknowledged as much. My original teacher was Otani Sensei, and even though I have trained with other (and better known, in some cases) teachers since, I continue to claim him, even though, at this point, almost no one remembers who he was, if they ever even heard of him. My student's first teacher is a karate teacher, a man I have met and respect. If anyone should get the honor of being this guy's teacher over me, it should be him.
When I asked the (my?) student about what I had overheard, he said I misunderstood (I did not hear the whole conversation). Okay, but what he said next was discomforting: that while he "didn't mind" learning other things, he wanted to continue to practice the "forbidden" style over any other, and saw his role in the dojo as helping me to promote it. I pointed out that such a path was impossible at this time, that promoting the style was the equivalent of continuing to bind myself to a situation that I found toxic for both my students and myself, but he simply repeated what he had said already. Every opportunity he gets he flaunts his (limited) understanding of the style, in front of new students, in front of me, even though I have made it very clear that I would prefer not to have it practiced in my dojo.
So, what to do with this guy? I cannot give him what he wants, and his continued stubbornness is making trouble for me, though possibly not as much as I think it is. (On the other hand, I have consistently downplayed such situations, and have been screwed by them.) I am considering the possibility of giving permission for him to go to my old place - they have tossed out the style Otani Sensei taught and wholly devote themselves to the new one. Even though their practice is not so skilful, I think he would get a warm reception (especially since the old sempai would probably consider it a personal victory over me to have him). He would be kept informed of the doings of the honbu - information deliberately kept from us (more complications - the headmaster prefers to communicate with the larger, more established group, who then keeps the info to itself, unless it can make money off of it). If the student affiliates with my old sempai, he will have a more direct line to "his" teacher than I am currently willing or able to provide.
And I will have a more peaceful atmosphere; at least, that is my hope.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Happogiri summer
I have continued teaching iai at a local community college as a volunteer. The center where I teach is officially "closed" for the summer, with my classes the only ones on the schedule. It has been a real pleasure to walk in to a room that is reasonably clean every week, free of hair and stray Zumba beads. It's the closest I have ever gotten to having my own practice space, even if it is for only a few weeks before school starts again.
Perhaps because we are the only thing on the menu, new people have come into the class practically every week. Additionally, starting a Thursday night class at Resobox, a cultural center in Queensboro Plaza, in July, has meant that I have given practically the same lesson over and over, time after time, week after week, introducing iai to people who know next to nothing about it.
I teach an opening exercise designed by my teacher to show people the basics of handling a sword. The exercise, "happogiri" means to cut in eight directions, and that is exactly what happens. We are not, however, making the same cut in each direction (which is one interpretation of the expression); we are making different cuts in each of the different directions, as well as a thrust, to make eight. In the process, the students learn the basic stances - how to walk, and how to grip the sword properly and how to make a proper cut. Sensei designed the exercise on two levels, with advanced students given the opportunity to perform more difficult, compound cuts, changes of direction, etc. In terms of style, it's fairly generic, though more resembling our core style of Muso Shinden Ryu and its relatives rather than some more modern styles.
Even though I call it an opening exercise, and we normally do it at the beginning of class, and it is the first thing I show new students, happogiri is not a "warm up." It is kihon waza - technique practice - the cuts and kamae serving to acquaint new people in a general way with how a sword is handled, at the same time allowing more experienced students (and their teacher) an opportunity to further refine their technique.
Some people might think I would be bored to tears to be doing happogiri up to three times per week with people who start out literally not sure which side of a katana is used for cutting, but some people would be wrong. I have no problem at all showing people over and over again. When we do the exercise, I can hear Sensei's admonitions in my head - "Make a circle! Breathe! Iaido is all about circles!" Every week I see the newbies get better and better. I'd like to think Sensei can see them too.
Perhaps because we are the only thing on the menu, new people have come into the class practically every week. Additionally, starting a Thursday night class at Resobox, a cultural center in Queensboro Plaza, in July, has meant that I have given practically the same lesson over and over, time after time, week after week, introducing iai to people who know next to nothing about it.
I teach an opening exercise designed by my teacher to show people the basics of handling a sword. The exercise, "happogiri" means to cut in eight directions, and that is exactly what happens. We are not, however, making the same cut in each direction (which is one interpretation of the expression); we are making different cuts in each of the different directions, as well as a thrust, to make eight. In the process, the students learn the basic stances - how to walk, and how to grip the sword properly and how to make a proper cut. Sensei designed the exercise on two levels, with advanced students given the opportunity to perform more difficult, compound cuts, changes of direction, etc. In terms of style, it's fairly generic, though more resembling our core style of Muso Shinden Ryu and its relatives rather than some more modern styles.
Even though I call it an opening exercise, and we normally do it at the beginning of class, and it is the first thing I show new students, happogiri is not a "warm up." It is kihon waza - technique practice - the cuts and kamae serving to acquaint new people in a general way with how a sword is handled, at the same time allowing more experienced students (and their teacher) an opportunity to further refine their technique.
Some people might think I would be bored to tears to be doing happogiri up to three times per week with people who start out literally not sure which side of a katana is used for cutting, but some people would be wrong. I have no problem at all showing people over and over again. When we do the exercise, I can hear Sensei's admonitions in my head - "Make a circle! Breathe! Iaido is all about circles!" Every week I see the newbies get better and better. I'd like to think Sensei can see them too.
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