A matter of interpretation

A short while back, a student and I attended a large group training weekend. We had a lot of fun, generally speaking. I like my student, who has worked very hard and done quite well in terms of advancement, but he sometimes (as a lot of beginners seem to do), focuses on details when the big picture is more important. For example, every now and then, he will ask about the exact angle for a kamae, as though I am carrying around a protractor. At times like this I (or one of the other sempai) will make fun of him in a gentle way, and I will remind him that maintaining a flexible mind when it comes to kata is a good thing.

By flexibility, I don't mean changing the kata to suit oneself (which is not good form for koryu budo). Instead, for example, when doing a partner kata with a jodoka a foot taller than me (which happens frequently in America), if the tachi side's target for a cut is his midsection, I might cut for the upper thigh instead. Same cut, same technique in response (though perhaps a little closer to the floor). It makes more sense for me to do that than to try to cut for a target I can't reach. Most importantly (for koryu training purposes), the kata is essentially unchanged.

So - halfway through our training weekend, I had a few minutes with my student (we were at different levels and hence in different training groups), and he mentioned to me, with some distress, that one of the instructors was "changing" some aspects of the kata; and that some of the kata he was reviewing were "different." Not having much time for discussion, I assured him we could go over things the following week at our regular okeiko.

Kata are not hoary, rigid sets of movements. Neither are they free-for-alls. The first gasshuku I attended in Japan, senior, menkyo-level students would sometimes stand around in little groups, debating this or that aspect of a kata. The discussions could become very involved, until the lead teacher would show up. Someone in the group would explain the discussion. The teacher's response was always the same: "Do it like this." That would settle the argument. But only for the time being. The debate would resume at another practice, at another time.

These discussions were not subversive disagreements. The speakers, all 30-40-year practitioners, were considering interpretations of what they were doing in a given kata. The ideas were often based on aspects of timing, not of specific techniques. Do you suki tachi to push him back to keep him from attacking further? Or do you let him establish a retreating step and "help him along" with the suki to increase the distance between you? In both cases, the technique was still a suki, still occurring at the same place in the sequence of movements. The difference lay in the interpretation.

It had not occurred to my student, but we did have the same instructors for the training weekend. They were all rather admirably on the same page for the actual kata we were training in, but, not surprisingly, some of the ideas behind the techniques varied from time to time, and from person to person. Having been through this experience before, it was not difficult to handle my student's doubts about the kata when we had our next regular okeiko.

The "differences" he noted were not really different; I pointed out. The kata themselves were unchanged. What to do with the different interpretations? Absorb them, I said. When an instructor suggested a different motivation for a technique, try it out. If the next instructor had a different idea, try that one too. What he would come to find out is that neither idea was necessarily wrong (if it was, that would be a separate problem). Instead, the different interpretations add depth to the understanding of the kata. Moreover, the more we try these different interpretations under the guidance of seniors and teachers, the more we can adapt to different training partners. As weird as it seems, I do sometimes get to practice with someone close to my size. When that happens, the original target for my cut on the tachi side rematerializes. Without maintaining that flexibility of mind, I would be aiming too low for practicality in the name of blindly following the interpretation I had set for myself.

Kata are not an end in themselves, and they are not museum pieces. They are pedagogical methods that only become useful as they are applied in different situations with different training partners. Recognizing when to react one way or another when training, even in koryu kata, enriches and enlarges our practice.

At your convenience

So, I changed my schedule. Then I changed it again. I now teach only twice a week(!) and that gives me some time to pursue other things.

To be honest, it's a little weird. I have taught or taken a class on Thursday night for probably the better part of 20 or more years. But now the schedule is Tuesday and Wednesday, and I can't complain. It gives me energy to pursue some other things on Fridays that I would like to do. Not to mention I am no longer a zombie at the end of the week. But it does feel strange. I have yet to figure out what I should do on Thursdays. Maybe I will do something. Maybe I will just give myself permission to be tired. Not sure yet.

Of course, I let some of my absent students know that I would be changing the schedule. Hell, I even gave them two weeks' notice! Not everyone - I mean, people who had been absent for over a year, what responsibility did I have towards them? I changed the website at least. I think I did everything a responsible human is supposed to do. I let everyone know that they were more than welcome to join us at the new space.

And guess what? One person who has been absent for almost two years, showed up on a recent Thursday looking for me. Another guy (absent for about a year) wrote me a polite email more than month after the change, thanking me for teaching him, but noting that it's "not possible" for him to join me at the new location. Well dang.

I am sorry to lose these people. I liked them. They were nice. One even kept up his dues payments (sort of) even though he never showed his face. I appreciated that. And I told him so. But a dojo is not just a space where you pay rent (and pay dues). A dojo is made up of people. And an empty room (even one that's paid for) is just that - an empty room. An empty room that it took a long time for me to get home from.

When I was first training, we had okeiko all over town. For several years we were at this nice space in Chelsea. Then the building was sold, and we all - budoka, dancers, everyone - got kicked out and had to forage for a place to be. For awhile there, we had a phone tree (remember those? This really dates me) to inform everyone every week of where we were having okeiko. Over the Howard Johnson's in Times Square. Some 2nd floor space where our kendo keiko caused the roof tiles to rain down in the bodega below. Even an unfinished basement. Wherever. The important thing was to have okeiko.

While I was getting a complement of 4-5 people at the remote location, I was happy to be there. I didn't mind the longer schlep as long as there were people to teach and practice with (okay, there was that one night when it was 10 degrees out and the train shut down and I had forgotten my wallet and had to walk 20 blocks to the bus, but that was exceptional). But people's work schedules change. So did mine.

So I get an email that having to travel an additional 15-20 minutes on the train to come to okeiko is "not possible." I lived in an outer borough for years. I would come to okeiko and it would take two hours (sometimes more) to get home. It was the '90s, when a woman traveling by herself in the middle of the night put up with physical danger that most young women now thankfully don't have to think about. But I went. Because I valued what I was learning and the people I was learning it from.

Now, I am the first to admit that having over 30 years of experience does not put me on the same level as my original teacher, or the people I train with in Japan. But I am pretty sure it puts me in front of most of the people around HERE. And people I have taught tell me I do a pretty good job. I needed to teach in a place that was easier to get to, so I got one. If this is just an auxiliary practice that you were attending when you felt like it, then yeah, it's not convenient for you. But if it's important, I think the effort will be worth it.

The everyday walk

My old sempai used to (sort of) quote Musashi by saying "The martial arts walk is the everyday walk." By that he meant that you should be yourself; that you should not have to adapt too much to effectively move if a dangerous situation should arise. In his way of thinking, one should practice until one "owns" the kata; after which your ordinary movement and that of any given technique should become one and the same. (I think the reverse is more true, but that is a topic for another post.)

I never said anything to contradict him; but the truth is, I never agreed with him. While the martial arts walk may ideally be the everyday walk, most people's everyday walks do not stack up in any way.

I once took a class (okay, it was in the theatre department) in which we had to walk around campus and (from a subtle distance) follow three different people around until we could more or less imitate their gait. Then we had to present what we had found about the way different people walked. I really liked this little exercise (which is more than I could say about the program as a whole) because it gave me a sense of how differently people handled moving through space. Age, weight, physical condition, footwear, cultural expectations - all of these factors influence how people move. And most people are not really aware of just how individually they walk. While my teacher was expecting us to pick up some idea of character development for some future acting role, I found the exercise fascinating simply for its own sake.

All of this uniqueness is wonderful, but it's not always effective. To note a very obvious example, walking while looking at your smartphone is not very smart. A number of people have done so with injurious (or even, occasionally, fatal) results. Then there is the sense that some people have of putting as little effort into moving about as possible. As one of my teachers once said, "If you are alive, then you should be lively." The natural counter to this argument is that we are all too tired to feel lively, but that's not really true. Putting energy and good alignment into your "everyday walk" is energizing. When I am very tired (usually around every Thursday morning), I take special care to put energy into my everyday movement. I save the look of exhaustion for when I get home, if then.

So I tell my budo students that they have to work on their footwork not just for their kata and waza when they are in the dojo; they have to work on it on the outside as well. Nothing drives me and my colleagues quite so crazy as watching a student do reasonably good footwork while performing a kata or technique, then plodding back to the line and slumping into a poor resemblance of seiza when they are finished. Outside of the idea that it is good to be lively even when he is not at okeiko, I have found that if a student only corrects his footwork during a given technique or kata, the moment a new set of techniques is introduced, the student has to learn his "kata walk" all over again. If an instructor introduces some hypothetical variation even to a familiar technique, the student whose martial arts walk does not coincide with her everyday walk will have trouble understanding it. Without the proper foundation of good footwork the variation in technique will feel alien to her.

Every teacher involved in movement training, whether dance or budo, has emphasized footwork. As I started to get better at these practices I began to notice that I could judge someone's experience and skill simply by how they walked. Any competent teacher can tell you that as the feet are set, so is the koshi (the area of the lower abdomen, hips and lower back). And as the koshi is set, so is whatever technique, whether in budo, in dance or in walking down a subway platform or crossing a street.

A number of my colleagues have noted that in practicing koryu budo, you adapt yourself to the art, rather than the art to yourself. In that case, if the martial arts walk is truly the everyday walk, then we must adapt our everyday walk to bring it in line with our practice, not the other way around.

On not making students into beggars

A colleague of mine recently passed along some advice his teacher gave him many years ago: "Don't make people into beggars." He then went on to explain (because I truly did not understand what this meant) that if a student asks you for something (in the same way a beggar will ask for money), you should not necessarily give it to her. (In fact, it might be better for both of you, if you don't give her anything she asks for at all!) He went on to say that he thought I had done just that in the past, but it might be better if I didn't do it in the future.

I had to think about this for awhile before I began to understand it; and now that I do understand the idea somewhat, I would have to say that I agree with him. I have made beggars out of some people by giving them what they asked for. And I have decided, even though it's a hard habit to break, to stop.

I don't think I always had this problem. It seems to me that, long ago, before I began teaching on my own, I was pretty hard-assed. If someone asked me a question that I figured he knew the answer to, I refused to answer him again. Or I would answer his question with another one. A previous post of mine paraphrased a saying of Confucius: that the teacher gives a student "one corner" and the student must come up with the "other three." In other words, the teacher's job is not to spoon-feed knowledge to a student, it's to point him in the right direction and then expect him to deepen his understanding himself.

I always thought this was a good idea (thanks, Confucius). After all, a student will own her understanding of an aspect of budo training, and in fact value it more, if she has to arrive at that insight herself. To use a well-worn example, a Zen teacher gives a student a koan and the student has to come up with the answer himself, even if it takes years to attain. Budo is a somewhat more practical (and not as deep) type of training, but the point still holds.

However, somewhere along the way, I lost this aspect of my teaching. When a student asked for more training time, about a year ago, I demurred, saying he should practice more on his own. I was already at capacity, time-wise, and, while more training is generally good, quality counts more than quantity. Nevertheless, like the person you see on the subway day after day (and even year after year), asking for money, this student would not give up. So, eventually, I gave in, and added another day of okeiko.

At first, there were several people attending the extra day, and, though I was exhausted by the end of each week, teaching is energizing, especially when the response is enthusiastic. Was I a zombie at the end of the week? Yes. Yes I was. Multiple days of five hours of sleep or less took its toll on other parts of my life, too. Nevertheless, I rationalized it that while I was young enough, and healthy enough, I should practice as much as I could.

Three days in a row of teaching for multiple hours at a time seemed to be great for some of my students. However, I soon noticed that I was the ONLY one coming to okeiko three days a week! Everyone else came one day, or two days at the most. The person who begged for the extra day managed to come three times in a week a couple of times, and he was a wreck by day 3. And he lived closer, and got more sleep generally, than I did.

Teaching is exhausting. When I as an adjunct professor, I made sure to get more sleep the nights before I taught class. It wasn't that the students were smarter than me - they were faster. I needed more energy to keep up with them than they needed to outdo me (and we're talking English Composition here). Even though I was standing in front of a blackboard or sitting in an office chair, I sweated through my underwear every single class. I bristle every time I hear some bureaucrat opine that teachers are lazy people who only work nine months out of the year but get paid for 12. In the first place, teachers do work all year round. In the second place, the good ones work harder than almost anyone else.

Nevertheless, I can say that the collapse was slow. Sort of like how pain drops a veil over you and you don't even realize your diminishing capacity until it becomes really obvious to you and everyone else. I was functioning, but barely. I was forgetting things. Not the important stuff of everyday life, but the things that enrich that life. I have several hobbies (believe it or not) that involve collecting materials. I would buy materials while on vacation, for example, then forget entirely where I put them. Not that I had time to make use of them anyway. Other things that I enjoyed simply went away altogether (like regularly writing this blog). My dojo schedule didn't just take over my life, it became my life.

And my students, for whom I was sacrificing all of that time? Several of them dropped out, as people do from time to time. Relocation, work schedules, etc. etc. Normal things. The one who begged for the extra time is still around, but I think he learned just as well whether he spent extra time with me as not. In fact, I have come back to subscribing to old Confucius - he's better off searching out those other three corners on his own. My providing the other corners did not make him a better budoka. Instead, it made him more dependent on me for things he should have been figuring out on his own.

Just like the collapse, recovery has also been slow. I have kept three days of practice, but one of them is short, and for me alone. Soon there will be a "course correction" so that I will be teaching closer to home, the purpose being that I can indulge in the idea of more sleep just like my students do. I reorganized my hobby materials so I can actually find things when I want them (a never-ending process, but at least now I know where stuff is). Just in time for gardening season. Just in time for maybe sitting outdoors on a nice evening with a beer and just looking at the plants growing. It's a start.

Being a Student v. Being a Deshi

One of my colleagues, the Budo Bum, wrote recently about the differences between training in Japan and in the US. His major point was that Japanese budo students have a culturally-learned sense of discipline that they bring to their practice. While he does not state it specifically, the strong suggestion is that US students do not.

This point has lately been on my mind, as well. I find the difference rather stark; like the difference between someone being a student, and being a deshi (弟子). Most American budoka would consider themselves students. In the current climate, a student is someone who pays a teacher or an institution (like a college or trade school) in order to access knowledge. While the definition of deshi is a little harder to pin down, one of the attributes is to not only be a paying and passive learner, but to also take some responsibility for the health of the group as a whole. This sense of responsibility could mean helping to take care of the dojo space or assisting the teacher, not just on the dojo floor, but at other group activities as well.

In former generations in the US, being a student might have been closer to being a deshi, entailing a more personal relationship to a teacher. My parents, when I was a young child, would sometimes drop by to see an old university professor of theirs (I don't remember his name; I remember both of them referring to him, affectionately, as "prof"). They visited and corresponded with him until his death, and considered him a big influence on their subsequent life and work. Former students of my father, in turn, would come visit him occasionally, just to say hello.

Nowadays, however, college students are treated to a more consumer-based experience. They pay tuition and the teachers deliver information which will hopefully allow them to graduate into good jobs. As an adjunct professor many years ago, I experienced the beginning of this phenomenon. Typically, students would sometimes plead for passing grades for doing almost no work. More surprisingly, I recall a former student who actually launched an investigation (on his own, but involving the university) because he got an A- from me and thought he deserved an A. As a consumer, he felt he was being ripped off. Silly me - I thought he was there to learn.

Budo dojo in the US face a similar quandary, in a way. The budo teachers who strive to give as authentic an experience as possible find themselves up against a pay-for-services environment. The students pay a fee, and, in return, feel they are entitled to the knowledge (and sometimes even the remembered experiences) possessed by the teacher. While some US dojo have adapted a consumerist line, with varying degrees of success, the more traditional places find themselves a little out of step with the times.

When I was first training in the US, the consumerist model had not quite caught on yet. My original teacher was Japanese, and, though he emigrated shortly after the Pacific War and had lived in NYC for many years, he was nevertheless a fairly traditional guy. The sempai who was dojocho at the time was a very uptight person who seemed to me to perpetually have a pencil stuck up his butt. However, he taught us newbies something invaluable - how to behave in the dojo, and how to behave around Sensei all of the time.

"Sensei will never tell you when you're being rude," he once said, "but he will remember everything that you do." As I said, the dojocho was a real stickler, but a good teacher of the types of protocols that would be expected of kohai in the dojo. One thing he did consistently was assign a deshi to assist Sensei whenever we had a public demonstration. That person helped carry our teacher's equipment and keikogi, made sure his zouri were turned around for when he left the demo stage so he could easily step into them, and made sure he had water or food or anything else he needed. Eventually that job became mine more or less the whole time, and expanded to include duties as dojocho after the original person moved on.

Eventually, as I became a teacher on my own, I was impressed that even Japanese students in the US had no interest in modeling behavior more in tune with a deshi rather than a student-consumer. I don't know if it was because they did not have a more traditional upbringing or if it was because they simply got used to the American way of doing things. One time, I was late for okeiko and gave instructions for it to start without me. Upon entering the room, I was gratified to see the students diligently practicing, but disappointed that no one acknowledged that I was there. When I mentioned it to my Japanese student (who, as a senior, should have called the group to attention), he simply said, "Yes, but this is America." I responded that it was America, yes, but also the dojo.

I have, in my experience, met good students who were bad deshi. Good students are attentive at okeiko, and pay their fees on time, but are much less likely to pitch in when help is needed, whether taking care of equipment or planning a demo. I have seen students simply observe a senior or a teacher struggling with a heavy suitcase or equipment bag and do nothing to help. I have also seen guest teachers from Japan left alone after teaching a seminar, somehow expected to manage on their own in a strange environment by the host dojo once practice is over. I have stepped in on at least one of these occasions, and was surprised, when I asked the host dojo, that no one had even considered the possibility that someone who speaks no English in a foreign environment might actually be in need of assistance.

Mostly, though, I have seen passivity when it comes to the life of the dojo - students come to okeiko, but the relative health of the group doesn't seem to matter. It's as though, as long as they pay their class fees, there should be a practice to attend. I have met teachers who will shell out the difference between fees and studio rents from their own pockets when the number of dojo members drops through attrition, and no one notices. Instead of the sense that the teacher might be imparting valuable knowledge, the students feel that since they paid, they are entitled to a "product" in return.

I may sound like I am whining, but as one of my old sempai used to say, this is basic. My original teacher would have written me off ages ago for such indifferent behavior. Instead, because I paid attention to my hardassed sempai, my relationship with my original teacher was much closer. He arranged for me to homestay (and saved a starving grad student a lot of money) during visits to Japan. He also arranged for me to study with teachers there. Was it sometimes exhausting? Yes, of course - all those extra hours schlepping out to his home in Queens, getting to events early so that I could help him, snapping to when he was on the other end of a phone line and asking how I could be of assistance. However, my practice, and, in fact, my life, would have been much less rich without his help and advice.

One of my non-budo friends has pointed out that Americans do not necessarily know traditional protocol. That's true, but I responded that he himself assists older or disabled people who need help on the street. He even carries extra bandaids with him in case he comes across someone who needs one. While specific protocols have to be learned, courtesy, or supporting the welfare of a community, is not that culturally-specific. My dilemma now is how to teach my budoka-in-training what they should know already - that they should give a damn.

Why I don't write

The very small number of people who have read this blog with some regularity have probably noticed that there hasn't been much here lately. There are many reasons why, but I thought I would articulate a few (and bear with me: writing is like exercise. If you don't do it much, you don't do it as well).

It seems fitting, this week, to bring up this particular reason: I am tired of writing an anonymous blog. But, it is the only blog I can write. Ergo, if I can only write anonymously, but I am tired of being anonymous, the irresistible force is meeting the immovable object.

Why anonymous? Why not just come out and say who I am? I'll tell you, specifically. For the past 10+ years, I have been cyberstalked by a very persistent guy (he has no problem not concealing his identity, unlike myself). Many years ago, I published one of my first articles. It took awhile, but an online journal editor contacted me and said he was going to publish a rebuttal to my theoretical article, and did I want to respond? I thought this was sort of amusing, at the time. I mean, it was a theoretical article, sort of an exploratory piece. How does one rebut someone's theory? Certainly counter with one of your own; feel free. But a rebuttal?

So, I said, sure, bring it on. The author made some reasonable points, and did posit a theory of his own, but something about the tone of his article bothered me. I could feel the undertone - how dare I, a female, take on this subject? In the midst of attempting to pick apart my theoretical take, there was a sense that I was not really supposed to be writing about this subject at all. But I did my best, in my response, to note that alternative theories were certainly welcome. However, I could not resist pointing out that at least one source he said I had "neglected" to consult had not been published until after my original article appeared. I tried to keep things cordial, if a little cheeky, because that was sort of a goofy mistake on his part, let's face it. The author immediately wanted to publish yet another "rebuttal" further articulating why the premise of my article was "wrong," as he put it in the email the editor received. Maybe sensing trouble, the online editor declined, and suggested alternative possibilities for publication. This prompted a slightly menacing email wherein the author suggested I was a poor scholar who was being "protected" by my "friends" and he was being prevented from pointing out my true lack of merit, or something like that. (For what it's worth, other people disagree. To date, it is the only article I ever published that has been anthologized several times.)

In subsequent years, I blocked him from my Facebook feed, once he found me. Most recently (as in this year) I made the mistake of commenting, very briefly, in an email forum and got a prompt email from him, slightly mellower now, but still suggesting that we "engage in discussion" of his point of view. I deleted the email. And I will not comment in that forum again.

Unlike some other writers who are sometimes physically threatened for daring to write about subjects not considered sufficiently "female", I have not been physically threatened. This person lives a good distance away from me. Mostly I'm just tired. Because I know that if I engage him, I will never be free of him. There is no argument to be won; there would just be endless back and forth about how I am somehow "wrong," and he is somehow "right." Of course, ironically, I do not even buy all of the theoretical arguments I made in that piece years ago, though I still agree with the core of it. And I have not published *any* scholarly writing in a very long time, alas.

One of my colleagues is about to publish a collection of his blog posts as a "for real" book. His posts always bring comment: some trolling, some stupid, but much of it complimentary. He can use his real name. He has enhanced his reputation. I am sure people will buy his book. (I won't. Having helped edit most of the posts, I expect a free copy.) Anyone who does not think that misogyny holds back scholarship, or independent thought, can just read the above story again.

I prefer the word "misogyny", which means hatred of women, as opposed to "sexism," which sort of sounds like a minor problem, not to be taken seriously. In the wake of this week's election, I am fascinated by the commentariat asking our new prez-elect to renounce racism, while his misogyny is once more swept under the rug, except for the keening by a few female columnists. But that is probably fodder or another column that I will not be writing here.

There are other reasons; one of the big ones being I don't think people are really interested in what I have to say. And/or maybe I don't have as much to say as I used to. I don't lately seem to have a burning desire to send my thoughts out into the ether. I used to just do it for myself, and not worry about whether people read it or not. But lately, I do seem to care, and I have nothing to say.

So, for those people who have read these little posts - thanks. Sometimes it felt great to get stuff off of my chest, and if it created some entertainment, I'm happy. Maybe some people learned something. That's nice too. I am not going to delete the blog - it can stay here. Maybe I'll make a contribution again at some point. But there's nothing more to see here for now.

I'm not mad, it's just my RBF (resting budo face)

A couple of weeks back, I attended a gasshuku (usually translated, literally, as a "training camp," it might more acceptably be called a "weekend intensive"). I am pleased to report that approximately 20% of the attendees were female. In my many years of seminars, this was the most women I've ever seen at an event like this in the U.S.; and it was most gratifying.

It could be because of the sheer number of women, but the organizers did not seem to be quite so pandering, either. There was no discussion (that I overheard) of whether it was "proper" for a woman to not put one knee down in certain squatting positions (a remark I have never heard a Japanese teacher make, but I have certainly heard it in the U.S.). And no one expected us to be "nice" or to "smile," not even for the group photo. It was a budo seminar, after all, where the object of the techniques we were learning was to badly hurt, or kill, an opponent. Come to think of it, smiling might have been considered a little creepy in this context.

I have been going to events like this in the U.S. for a very long time - about thirty years. Much of the time I was the only female; or one of two or three at most. (Inevitably, one or more of the other women would be married to a male participant). It was not that long ago that I was observing for a day at one event and was accosted by a woman (a non-participant) who was married to one of the attendees. She went on for entirely too long about some academic research she was involved in. I expect it was for several reasons: 1) a way to call attention to the fact that she was involved in something important; and 2) a way to keep occupied, because, truly, she was bored out of her skull. Somehow, I doubt very much that her husband trailed her to any academic conferences on her work. Then there were the "Who are you?" looks I would get at the ubiquitous Saturday night banquet, when wives and girlfriends would join us. There I was, no man in tow, actually taking part in the training and talking with their boyfriends and husbands as colleagues. The looks sometimes regarded me as a threat, or dismissed me as a woman who had nothing better to do than to be involved in this silly stuff, which they tolerated in their men, but considered a distraction from precious family time.

At the gasshuku, the women ranged from relative beginners to teachers in other art forms with varying degrees of experience in this one. The youngest person was about 14 and the eldest in her 80's someplace. Some had intimate connections to the male attendees (daughter, wife, girlfriend) but others did not. In a typical setup for budo, we were in a mixed group - young, old, different sizes, male and female, and we rotated down the line, trying the various kata with people of all sizes and relative strengths. It has been said before, but weapons are great equalizers. There was no nonsense of a tiny person somehow taking out someone large enough to simply pick her up and carry her over his shoulder. A sharp-bladed sickle, or a sword, in the hands of a small person forces the respect of her partner no matter his size.

It was not all awesomeness, however. One student with more experience suggested to a male participant a way in which he could improve his kamae and was rebuffed. She immediately retreated to a "Well, I could be wrong, I suppose, but that's how I do it," position. I have watched this young woman at events like this, since she started. Unlike myself, who has limited access to qualified teachers, she has had the benefit of twice-weekly training with well-qualified people. She has developed enviable abilities in a three-year time period. I had to step in. "Don't say that," I said. "I usually say, 'I do it like this, and no one has yet told me I'm wrong.'" (Translation: I'm right.) Women are bringing up the number of participants at last. It's really important, now that we are here, that we don't sell ourselves short.

The weekend that was

[Readers who (may?) have been looking for regular posts on this site have probably been disappointed lately, as have I, actually. Too much stuff happening. I have also been experiencing the most annoying of episodes for a writer - I think of things to say when I am no where near a keyboard or other means of writing; and when I do have the means, I discover I don't really have much to say after all!]

In the original sense of what a blog is (that is, a journal of some sort, not a commercial enterprise, or something I hope will turn into a book some day) I am pondering the meaning of a get-together with some fellow budoka that was held a few weeks ago. In true journal fashion, I am writing down thoughts in an effort to wrap my head around that weekend's events, and my reaction to them.

Even though, in a journal, background is not necessary, I will include a few sentences for context, in the event that, at some point, I don't remember what the hell I was writing about. One of my budo friends, whom I've known for about 20 years, invited me and one of my students to a weekend of training, along with about a dozen or so of his closest budo friends. I was reluctant to accept the invitation, and did not even confirm my acceptance until about a month out. I suppose the first thing to consider is my initial ambivalence.

I should remind myself that I have spent many hours training with this friend, both in the US and Japan. After getting kicked out of my old group, he was one of the few people who believed my version of events. More than any single individual, he has been instrumental in helping me rebuild my practice, starting at a time when I was mentally strung out and considering quitting altogether. In that sense, I certainly owe him a debt I can probably never repay.

But that was not the reason for my reluctance. Here's where I insult a whole group of budo practitioners: The most enthusiastic acceptances for the weekend event came from aikidoka. I certainly have no problem with aikido in itself, and I have met some very good practitioners. Nope (or at least, not really). My problem was that aikidoka enjoy a practice that involves a lot of falling down. I study weapons systems that involve very little of that type of movement; and, being of a "certain age" and with what my chiropractor calls "an interesting back," I decided that this was not the weekend for me. So, not long after the happily affirmative chorus ensued, I asked my friend if we would indeed be doing any of the sort of practice I might find useful or fun.

"I'm sure we'll do something," he (kind of) assured me. So, I am supposed to spend hundreds of dollars on an air ticket for what might well only be a weekend-long party. In spite of my affection for my friend, and for some of the colleagues who were already on board with the event, that was not a good answer. Instead of an opportunity to work on some new material with people who knew better than me, I would instead stand next to the mat and watch other people throw each other around. Call me grumpy, or old, or both if you like. If it had been a short car ride away, I may well have thought better of the idea; instead, I was reluctant.

My ambivalence was complicated by the fact that a separate invitation was given to one of my students. I like this person - he has been the one guy I have worked with lately who has put his budo money where his mouth is. And I'm not ashamed to say that sometimes an energetic, young newbie can kick a teacher's butt up a few notches. I took him around the first time, but after that, his excitement was so contagious with my friend and his colleagues that he has earned invitations all on his own ever since. He is so well-liked by my friend that one confused individual once asked me whose student he actually was. The fact that he accepted his invitation immediately, and with enthusiasm roughly on a par with that of the aikidoka, made me wonder a little as well.

So many weird things.

Then there were the women. There were four on the first day, and five on the second. Needless to say (or at least it should be needless), I am a great supporter of women in budo, and having one-third of the attendees being female was a very cool thing. I have spent a certain amount of time writing in this space, as well as in other spaces, about the dearth of women in US budo circles. Every now and then, I come across an article touting the meritocracy of budo practice in the US only to think, "What about the rest of us?"

However, one of the downsides of the small number of US women practitioners is an innate, and IMO erroneous sense of competition among women budoka here. We are so used to being "the only woman" that we almost resent the presence of others as an intrusion (as in, there can only be one queen). Add to that the sensibility that we feel like we have to constantly prove that we deserve a place at the table and what you get is a weekend-long exercise in one-upmanship. I find it interesting that, in my experience, if women budoka are together working on something, there is usually a great spirit of cooperation; however, introduce guys into the mix and the atmosphere changes. (In fact, I don't think the behavior is exclusive to budo.) Not everyone reacted the same way, but it was enough. I have certainly done my share of story-telling, but one person so dominated the conversation throughout the entire weekend that there was nothing to do but retreat. My student suggested that such dominance was perhaps what was needed to be a successful onna budoka. If that is the case, I am doomed to obscurity, and with pleasure.

As to the curriculum, I was mostly right. Except for a session I taught myself (which I did not know I was supposed to teach until a short time beforehand), there was no formal weapons training. By insisting among some of my colleagues, we did manage a little informal work, for which I was very grateful.

As to socializing, I can sum things up in one story: I was sitting with a group of people, none of whom lived in NYC, who began to relate where they were when the World Trade Center attacks took place. Person after person remembered where they were and what they were doing, and when it got to the point where I might tell a relevant story, someone started a different topic. I live in NYC. My husband nearly got caught in the collapse of one of the towers. But never mind, moving on.

My student had a boffo time. *Everyone* loved him. One person extolled his loyalty to me (it's not that I didn't agree; it's that I know that loyalty is one of those things that shifts with life forces). Another colleague chided me for not showing him more affection (I am not affectionate with students. It's difficult enough for me, emotionally, just to teach them). After feeling a little like the skunk at the garden party, I realized that I was the only person to come from out of town who even had a student willing to do likewise, so I took some consolation in that.

All the attendees have expressed their enjoyment of the weekend. They got to try different styles of empty-hand, and even some real-world application of technique. But I am still (as you can see) sorting out my feelings on the event. I care about my friend, and some of the others, and I wonder if I should publish this post. I don't want any hurt feelings. More importantly, I am wrestling with wanting to be included, though at the same time, I keep thinking I don't belong. I wonder what I should do about next year if the event takes place again. Insist on some more relevant training, or decline to take part? I hate making time and expense a factor in whether I think going to a party is worthwhile, but for me, for now, it is. My friend has written about how happy he is (and I'm glad). He expressed how pleased he was that there was so little "ego" on display. True for him, maybe, but I am still grappling (empty-handed even) with mine.

For the love of Wednesdays

Last night, I made it to NJ dojo, after 1/2 hour of dodging trucks, cars, and heedless pedestrians. My commute always seems to include at least a few drivers who want to kill themselves and take as many people as possible with them. I hate this type of driving, whether on Route 80 or dodging everyone and everything on Broadway on the way to the George Washington Bridge. Add to that the kind of week I have had so far, and it's small wonder I got to the dojo parking lot and heaved a big sigh of relief.

However, within moments of being inside, where the last few minutes of the combination Daito ryu and Shinri classes were taking place, I was laughing as loudly as anyone as I went to change my clothes. I'm not sure how to explain what was so funny in a way that readers would get it - let's just say that one partner attempted a spectacular throw, an errant foot landed off target, and two people ended up curled into fetal positions on the floor, followed first by giggling, then by fits of laughter by them, and then by everyone in the room.

Clearly a mistake had been made. "Do that again," I said, "I missed it the first time."

The two men tried again, made the same mistake, and landed on the floor again in the same positions, followed by more laughter. This is what serious practice among adults can look like here.

And no one is doubting that seriousness. As I've written here before, the instructor makes the potential danger of the techniques apparent over and over again, and last night was no exception. But for the moment, the seriousness gave way to peals of laughter among students who trust both the instructor and each other. By the end of the practice, the problem still had not been totally resolved, but enough progress had been made that both students and instructor felt slightly more reassured that somehow, someday, they would learn the throw.

Of necessity, the iaido practice is generally both more formal and more dignified. As dangerous as Daito techniques and Shinri throws can be, swords are dangerous objects by their nature. You don't need another person to cause injury; you can get hurt all by yourself. And yet, a certain amount of good humor and wit often accompanies this practice too. For an hour and a half, until 10:30pm, we worked together through a set of kata, trading ideas, theories and analogies to pull the best possible technique out of each other. It was the NJ instructor's class, but sometimes I was able to contribute a thought or analogy that helped out the others. We have worked on this set of kata for awhile, but, typically for iaido, there is always some other principle, some other small detail that hadn't come up before, to add to the mix.

I have tried to get some of my NYC students to come to NJ. Nothing doing. New JERSEY? No way. But what's not to like? We stay late. I get home later. Sometimes I can't sleep once I do get home, tired as I am, my head filled with ideas - for training, for teaching, for DOING. Getting up the next morning, faced with work and a schlep to my other dojo and another late night, is a bear. My spouse thinks I'm crazy, though, at the same time, he's become resigned. I think he's become resigned to Wednesday night madness because it's obvious I have so much fun (at least, I hope that's what he thinks). I go to my Thursday practice and I often bring relevant ideas to my NYC students that were forged off the highway, in a low-ceilinged TKD space, in suburbia.

By Friday, I'm a zombie. Training three nights in a row is exhausting. I'm crazy, yes (I must be). But it's worth it.

Second class Budoka, or, just because I'm nice doesn't mean I'm weak

Been awhile. Too many other commitments (including at least one other blog I write for under my "real" name). Plus another (self-financed) night of okeiko each week.

A couple of weeks ago I dumped a student. Under the circumstances, it was an easy call. The person was very happy to claim me as a teacher in the publicity for his commercial karate-and-whatever-else-I-can-claim dojo, but he never came to okeiko unless it suited his ultra-busy schedule. This, in itself is no reason to burn a bridge, but he was publicizing himself as a teacher of jodo, which he was presumably studying with me. The thing is, I teach that class as a workshop. While I have been studying jodo off and on (lately, over the past four years - on), I do not have formal rank. I have permission from my teachers to teach what I know; but it would be the height of hubris for me to call myself a teacher of the art form, which would require a teaching license. The subtlety of actually being qualified was lost on this particular person. Eventually, he pushed a little too far, and I told him (in a nice way) to fuck off.

As one of my colleagues to whom I related the story put it - "why is this always happening to you?"

I would dispute the "always" part, but yeah, as readers of this space know, there have been times when I have had to dismiss someone whom I thought was unsuitable. I have written at other times that koryu budo is not for everyone, though, at the same time, it is for anyone who is interested in sincerely pursuing it. Unlike some of my colleagues, I do not believe that studying koryu can transform someone into a better person (whatever that is). I believe, as in this case, and in some others, that koryu practice can be revealing of character instead. Students may be transformed through their own efforts, not because of something in the nature of koryu itself. As someone who works with a sponsor, I am in the unenviable position of not being able to screen newbies as much as I would like; though, after the last dustup, some guidelines for prospective students have been put in place (or I would have walked out on the sponsor, and he knew it).

But back to the main point. The dumpee (I like that) earned my displeasure by going behind my back to register for a ranking test with a national organization. Some of the organizers he contacted were people I had known in the past. I am fairly certain they thought it was strange for one of my students to appear out of the blue and schedule his own ranking test. When I confronted him, my "student" said he simply "forgot" to tell me (not getting that he should have *asked* me, if in fact I was his teacher, and that teachers normally recommend students for rank). I called bullshit on his poor memory too.

Now, take a moment to think about this: if I were a man, do we think any of this would have happened in this way? Do we really think a student would simply (a) act on his own and (b) not bother to involve me in the discussion? Really? And this is not the first time a (male) student went around/over my head/behind my back/otherwise used my expertise and connections to pursue his own agenda.

Why is this [always] happening to me?

I find myself in pretty good company, actually. My teacher (a guy) was used in a similar way by an erstwhile student at least once. He was also a pretty nice man, unless riled. Once riled, you really wanted to get as far away from his temper as possible. I can say for myself that I am also pretty slow to anger, but, similarly, once pushed, no fun to be around.

Which is what happened. The good thing about being slow to anger is that once you get there, it feels really justified. A swirl of indignant emails and angry phone calls later, I had gotten rid of the problem person for good. To top it all off, I emailed my sponsor and told him after all was settled that the guy was no longer to attend my okeiko. No more arguments; no more he-seemed-like-a- nice-guy-to-me crap. I decided, and he had to accept the decision.

But yes, that just-because-I'm-nice-doesn't-mean-I'm-weak thing. As I said, it doesn't just apply to women, though in this case the problem student was good-looking, and I expect I am the first woman in his life who simply said No. No, I'm not good with the idea that you went behind my back. No, you can no longer claim me as your "teacher." No, I will not come to your dojo because you are "too busy" to come to my okeiko. No.

When I was an adjunct professor, students who misinterpreted my enthusiasm for my subject and willingness to help people with finding resources for the class, etc., were (to a man, I may say) nonplussed when I gave my first exam. My exams reflected whatever material I said would be covered, and they were difficult. Not impossible, and bearable for those who actually studied. But there was always a handful who figured differently, and paid the price for it (I also had a system for tamping down cheating, in case anyone was so foolish as to try). These students were not only shocked that the "nice" teacher had given them a difficult test, they were floored when their appeals for a better grade were brushed aside. After all, I would explain, the students who had actually studied had done so much better - it wasn't exactly fair to them if I arbitrarily passed the lazy ones, now was it? Some people subsequently pulled their act together and improved, and some did not. C'est la vie.

But the problem remains: my old sempai, as he was kicking me out of my old dojo, told me I was the most "ungenerous" teacher he had ever met; meaning, in effect, that I was not "nice" (I was more overtly hardassed then). Women, I discovered, are supposed to be "nice," while men who are hardassed disciplinarians command respect; at least that is how it seems to work in U.S. dojo. As "nice" women, we are supposed to be helpful. We are not supposed to mind if our expertise is exploited to serve our students' self-interests. I have decided that, like the Buddha, I can take the middle path. I can be nice, and I can also be a hardass.

A dojo is not a class - part II

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.