By now, much of the dust from last week's first presidential debate (a misnomer, actually, since only one person was a president, but I digress) has settled. While some people gave Obama a thumbs-up on substance, most pundits gave Romney the win on his performance. This has naturally left Obama supporters sputtering about how the GOP candidate lied, prevaricated and flipflopped his way through the debate. At one point Romney even said he was proud of the Massachusetts health care law that he had been backing away from for the past year, and the camera got a reaction from Obama that seemed to express shock - shock - at the backpedalling.
Alas, we have been here before. All I could think of watching the whole thing was - Jimmy Carter. Carter, who did not have a lying bone in his entire body, losing to the glib, polished performance of Ronald Reagan. Reagan (a better actor than I ever gave him credit for) could say anything - and did - and made it sound sincere. His administration also routinely cut people off from social security and medicare in a kind of "rolling blackout" style (people would get legitimately re-enrolled, but it would take another month or two for the re-enrollment to take effect) in order to save money. He also said libraries were not important, because he never had access to one growing up and he got to be president of the US anyway. And, most importantly, he began I think (in modern times at least) the trend that said the civil rights era is over; it's okay to be a rich privileged white guy and stick it to everyone else. Ah.
The reason I am bringing this up is that this week, Obama is trying to come back from his lackluster, if honest, performance and respond to Romney's lies in a way that does not make him sound like a whiner, or a bitter person. To make a comeback while being also presidential. I sympathize with him greatly here, because I have been in a similar, though much less significant, situation, and I didn't do too well.
When I got kicked out of my old practice group, I later realized that the guy who took over had planned my exit for a very long time. It could be seen in an old video from the first teacher visit from Japan (which I had initiated and arranged). I was showing some techniques with the teacher, and the sempai's facial expression was very, very dark. He was not so much paying attention to the technique being shown as that I was the one demonstrating it with the visiting instructor. Things got worse from there - basically a whole campaign of lies and deceit (I say this stuff now somewhat philosophically, since I don't care much at this point - I am trying to make a larger point here). When the situation blew up finally, I knew my nemesis was lying through his teeth to everyone - to the remaining students, to the teacher in Japan - in order to solidify his position. I know some of the stories specifically, and I can guess the rest - I did know him pretty well, after all - and realized eventually that the lies probably started much further back in the past than I had realized, even before I had come to train, which was many, many years ago. But people believe him, owing to the time-worn (and generally true) idea that people don't lie in a dojo. The heck they don't, but Americans especially have bought into the idea that the "way place" has some kind of inherent integrity. A simple look around should convince people otherwise, but it does not.
The more I tried to alleviate the situation, the somehow worse it made me look. It is very hard to call out an injustice, and yes, it made me look whiney and bitter, even though I was right. It convinced no one, and made people uncomfortable. In the first place, no one could believe that I had been badly treated, or that they had been lied to (see above paragraph). And I was seriously no fun to be around, even for me. The final round took place - at last - only recently, with an email exchange with the teacher in Japan, who made it clear that his loyalties now lie with the old sempai, and, while I am welcome to still train, he made it pretty obvious that I will not be given the respect that is due me as the person who introduced him in the US and elsewhere and made all these things happen for him. And since one can't demand respect (or, you can demand it, it just won't do you any good), that is where things have been left.
Unlike Mr. Obama, though, the fate of the nation is not riding on my decision to walk away from this toxic situation at last. I can, and did walk away, because I needed to, and because I could.
For everyone's sake, including the people who don't like him, I hope Mr. Obama is reelected. Hang in there, Mr. President.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Friday, October 5, 2012
More on teachers and students
Teachers and students, and what our relationships should be with regard to both roles are part of what it means to be involved in traditional budo. Like a classical dancer, we continue to train all our performing lives (and as lucky budoka, we can go much longer than a ballerina). Even as we gain permission from our teachers to teach, the idea that someone can "look over our shoulder" and suggest improvements in our training is an endless, and beneficial, process.
So, as usual, especially after okeiko, I turn over issues in my mind as I go home, based on what happened in class and whatever else is going on. Last night, I was changing trains, when I ran into one of my old students on the platform. I always liked this guy. He was not particularly ambitious for rank, he enjoyed training, and was kind of a mellow, teddy bear type. When I was kicked out of my old group he was not involved, though, like most of the rest of them, he decided to stay there rather than follow me into the great beyond of No Dojo. But that was the only fault I could ever find with him.
We had a pleasant, brief conversation. He asked me if I was still teaching MSR. I said yes, I was, and he said he thought so because he had seen something about it. Still at the community college? Yes, and elsewhere on Thursdays. He remarked that he had just come from okeiko himself, and that my old sempai had complained that he did not come to class often enough, which was true, since he worked alot. Still, he said, he missed MSR, since "they don't teach it anymore."
"I know," I said.
We chatted a little more, about how he would like to do MSR again, but wanted to stay with his current style as well. I remarked that I had tried to do the same for a little while, but in the end decided to take a different path, mostly for political reasons. I didn't lay it on too thickly; a lot of time has passed, plus I had just had a great practice and, happily, it's really difficult to be negative after a great practice.
Just before his train pulled in, he asked if he could come some time and do some MSR. I told him the community college class was not as much fun as the Thursday class, but, a little taken aback, did not say yes or no. After we parted, I of course started thinking about it.
If this guy came to my class, what would I do? If he, or any of my old students (depending on their role in the coup, though I doubt any of the actual conspirators would make an appearance) came to the community college class, I would probably have to accept them, since it's basically a public class. Unless someone is truly poorly behaved, I don't exactly have a choice. If he came to the Thursday night class, I might be torn - it's a private class, so theoretically I have some discretion, but the sponsor needs to make money, and one of the prime ways he makes it right now is by students coming to my class. Turning away someone otherwise ok to take part would be literally taking rent money away from the sponsor, which I would be loathe to do.
More importantly, if he came to either of my classes, would I be generous enough to refrain from bitter remarks about my exile in Queens, while my old place is still functioning, largely because of the framework I built for it? Or (more likely), refrain from making snide remarks about his current style because of its flash and general impracticality, as compared to what I currently teach? These are some of the thoughts that preoccupied me on the rest of the way home. I was happy to see him, and yet, even though the water has passed 'way under the bridge, he reminded me of a former life that I thought was pretty sincere but which turned out not to be.
I would like to think I would do neither of those things, and simply treat him as a guest student;, someone I already know as opposed to the leagues of weekly strangers coming into the community college movement studio. This has been a very mixed bag, lately, and not totally in a good way, but that's the subject for another post.
As he got on his train, he turned to me and said, "Goodnight, Sensei." That stuck with me for a long time, and it occurred to me he might be the only person left at the old place who still thought that way. Still, I am not sure what I would do. I guess I will wait and see if he ever shows up (which, if history is any guide is unlikely - nothing personal, it's just that people rarely seem to do what they say they will do). Then decide if the "host and guest" metaphor would work in this situation.
So, as usual, especially after okeiko, I turn over issues in my mind as I go home, based on what happened in class and whatever else is going on. Last night, I was changing trains, when I ran into one of my old students on the platform. I always liked this guy. He was not particularly ambitious for rank, he enjoyed training, and was kind of a mellow, teddy bear type. When I was kicked out of my old group he was not involved, though, like most of the rest of them, he decided to stay there rather than follow me into the great beyond of No Dojo. But that was the only fault I could ever find with him.
We had a pleasant, brief conversation. He asked me if I was still teaching MSR. I said yes, I was, and he said he thought so because he had seen something about it. Still at the community college? Yes, and elsewhere on Thursdays. He remarked that he had just come from okeiko himself, and that my old sempai had complained that he did not come to class often enough, which was true, since he worked alot. Still, he said, he missed MSR, since "they don't teach it anymore."
"I know," I said.
We chatted a little more, about how he would like to do MSR again, but wanted to stay with his current style as well. I remarked that I had tried to do the same for a little while, but in the end decided to take a different path, mostly for political reasons. I didn't lay it on too thickly; a lot of time has passed, plus I had just had a great practice and, happily, it's really difficult to be negative after a great practice.
Just before his train pulled in, he asked if he could come some time and do some MSR. I told him the community college class was not as much fun as the Thursday class, but, a little taken aback, did not say yes or no. After we parted, I of course started thinking about it.
If this guy came to my class, what would I do? If he, or any of my old students (depending on their role in the coup, though I doubt any of the actual conspirators would make an appearance) came to the community college class, I would probably have to accept them, since it's basically a public class. Unless someone is truly poorly behaved, I don't exactly have a choice. If he came to the Thursday night class, I might be torn - it's a private class, so theoretically I have some discretion, but the sponsor needs to make money, and one of the prime ways he makes it right now is by students coming to my class. Turning away someone otherwise ok to take part would be literally taking rent money away from the sponsor, which I would be loathe to do.
More importantly, if he came to either of my classes, would I be generous enough to refrain from bitter remarks about my exile in Queens, while my old place is still functioning, largely because of the framework I built for it? Or (more likely), refrain from making snide remarks about his current style because of its flash and general impracticality, as compared to what I currently teach? These are some of the thoughts that preoccupied me on the rest of the way home. I was happy to see him, and yet, even though the water has passed 'way under the bridge, he reminded me of a former life that I thought was pretty sincere but which turned out not to be.
I would like to think I would do neither of those things, and simply treat him as a guest student;, someone I already know as opposed to the leagues of weekly strangers coming into the community college movement studio. This has been a very mixed bag, lately, and not totally in a good way, but that's the subject for another post.
As he got on his train, he turned to me and said, "Goodnight, Sensei." That stuck with me for a long time, and it occurred to me he might be the only person left at the old place who still thought that way. Still, I am not sure what I would do. I guess I will wait and see if he ever shows up (which, if history is any guide is unlikely - nothing personal, it's just that people rarely seem to do what they say they will do). Then decide if the "host and guest" metaphor would work in this situation.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Sempai versus Sensei
This is one of those "eat crow" moments, but the realization below cleared up so much crap for me, I can't really complain.
I had a superb weekend of training a week ago with a jodo sempai. He has trained with the uber-sensei in Japan for nearly 20 years, but at the beginning, he was introduced to the dojo by someone senior to him. That senior subsequently had a falling out with the Japanese teacher, but this guy continued. He said of the man who introduced him, "He was my sempai, but he wasn't my teacher." I thought this was a profound distinction to make and I have been thinking about it ever since.
I used to think that when a traditional teacher retired or died that, as long as the place was well-run and the lines of succession were clear, there should be no problem in a place continuing on, under "new management;" i.e., that the daisempai would succeed and everyone would continue to train as before. I used to think, when I saw dojo fall apart after the death of the founder, that the chaos was a result of ego, overweening ambition, or just poor management. As I collected stories, I found all kinds of nuance. For example, one famous sword dojo in Japan, after the death of the founder, continued, with his widow's permission, to use the dojo space which was part of his home. While students began aligning themselves with one senior student or another, no one wanted to disturb detante by stepping forward as a successor (he did not name one). Instead, the senior students installed the founder's chair at the front of the room to remind everyone of the founder's presence. I did not follow up on this, but, conceivably this arrangement continued until the widow passed away. I doubt it went on much longer than that.
In another case, the named successor was not considered sufficiently competent to continue as the teacher, resulting in a defection of students to someone more qualified, or to someone in a new art form altogether. In yet another case, there were challengers for succession. Factions formed, resulting in this case in a three-way split of a traditional ryuha.
And it's not just budo - there have been stories with traditional dance groups as well, and I am assuming that other traditional Japanese art forms often suffer the same fate. A charismatic teacher (especially, I think, the rapidly vanishing group that trained before the Pacific War) passes on, and things fall apart. They then reconstitute if the style is a strong one, but sometimes in a very different way from how they were before - whether in fragments or branches or in some other dimished state. Eventually, the new situation stabilizes and becomes the "new normal."
I used to think this was a tragedy, and that if only people had communicated more, trained together better, etc. that it did not need to happen. But there it is - a sempai is not a teacher. The sempai who took over my group after my teacher died, in spite of some honorary rankings, was not really qualified to teach much of what he had inherited, though he was canny enough to maintain a connection with a teacher in Japan in the style he preferred, which makes him sort of a study-group leader rather than a teacher. My job, if I had decided to stay, would have been as the de facto teacher, guiding from the rear at best. Maybe, if I had held on long enough, I might have come to inherit the group myself. But it did not work out that way.
But here's the thing - maybe things should fall apart. Maybe a founding teacher dying is the spiritual equivalent of getting kicked out of the nest. The jodo sempai I mentioned above founded his own group and maintained and strengthened his relationship with the original teacher in Japan. As the instructor in my own group, I am in the process of forging new relationships with teachers and colleagues, even as I leave the old connections to my old group, along with my expertise in that particular style, which I no longer teach. And the jodo instructor's remark, along with my experience, suggests this is not a bad thing. A headmasterless style, like SMR or MSR iai should be able to tolerate multiple teachers, as long as people are qualified to teach (and I realize that is the rub). Each of us who become teachers has a tradition to uphold, rather than just one or two individuals. As long as we are consciencious, we should get a long fine, both with our students and with each other.
As I said, it feels weird after four years of soul-searching to figure out that this is probably how things were supposed to turn out anyway, not that I have wasted all that much time. It feels good, finally, to have a chance remark clear up a lot of fog. It's about time.
I had a superb weekend of training a week ago with a jodo sempai. He has trained with the uber-sensei in Japan for nearly 20 years, but at the beginning, he was introduced to the dojo by someone senior to him. That senior subsequently had a falling out with the Japanese teacher, but this guy continued. He said of the man who introduced him, "He was my sempai, but he wasn't my teacher." I thought this was a profound distinction to make and I have been thinking about it ever since.
I used to think that when a traditional teacher retired or died that, as long as the place was well-run and the lines of succession were clear, there should be no problem in a place continuing on, under "new management;" i.e., that the daisempai would succeed and everyone would continue to train as before. I used to think, when I saw dojo fall apart after the death of the founder, that the chaos was a result of ego, overweening ambition, or just poor management. As I collected stories, I found all kinds of nuance. For example, one famous sword dojo in Japan, after the death of the founder, continued, with his widow's permission, to use the dojo space which was part of his home. While students began aligning themselves with one senior student or another, no one wanted to disturb detante by stepping forward as a successor (he did not name one). Instead, the senior students installed the founder's chair at the front of the room to remind everyone of the founder's presence. I did not follow up on this, but, conceivably this arrangement continued until the widow passed away. I doubt it went on much longer than that.
In another case, the named successor was not considered sufficiently competent to continue as the teacher, resulting in a defection of students to someone more qualified, or to someone in a new art form altogether. In yet another case, there were challengers for succession. Factions formed, resulting in this case in a three-way split of a traditional ryuha.
And it's not just budo - there have been stories with traditional dance groups as well, and I am assuming that other traditional Japanese art forms often suffer the same fate. A charismatic teacher (especially, I think, the rapidly vanishing group that trained before the Pacific War) passes on, and things fall apart. They then reconstitute if the style is a strong one, but sometimes in a very different way from how they were before - whether in fragments or branches or in some other dimished state. Eventually, the new situation stabilizes and becomes the "new normal."
I used to think this was a tragedy, and that if only people had communicated more, trained together better, etc. that it did not need to happen. But there it is - a sempai is not a teacher. The sempai who took over my group after my teacher died, in spite of some honorary rankings, was not really qualified to teach much of what he had inherited, though he was canny enough to maintain a connection with a teacher in Japan in the style he preferred, which makes him sort of a study-group leader rather than a teacher. My job, if I had decided to stay, would have been as the de facto teacher, guiding from the rear at best. Maybe, if I had held on long enough, I might have come to inherit the group myself. But it did not work out that way.
But here's the thing - maybe things should fall apart. Maybe a founding teacher dying is the spiritual equivalent of getting kicked out of the nest. The jodo sempai I mentioned above founded his own group and maintained and strengthened his relationship with the original teacher in Japan. As the instructor in my own group, I am in the process of forging new relationships with teachers and colleagues, even as I leave the old connections to my old group, along with my expertise in that particular style, which I no longer teach. And the jodo instructor's remark, along with my experience, suggests this is not a bad thing. A headmasterless style, like SMR or MSR iai should be able to tolerate multiple teachers, as long as people are qualified to teach (and I realize that is the rub). Each of us who become teachers has a tradition to uphold, rather than just one or two individuals. As long as we are consciencious, we should get a long fine, both with our students and with each other.
As I said, it feels weird after four years of soul-searching to figure out that this is probably how things were supposed to turn out anyway, not that I have wasted all that much time. It feels good, finally, to have a chance remark clear up a lot of fog. It's about time.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Hitch again
Christopher Hitchens died approximately a year ago, and Slate, among other places, has been running a number of articles in tribute to him, as well as a brief, annotated section of his posthumous book, Mortality, which I believe is coming out in a few weeks. The most moving piece was written by his wife, saying that as she reread the notes he left around their home for her, or read any of his writings, she could hear his voice. She could hear his voice, but could not see her husband anymore. She noted that he never expected, really until the last minute, that his cancer would actually kill him. I don't totally agree, having read some of his last columns. One thing for sure, and Katie Riophe, reviewing Mortality today, pointed it out - Hitch looked at his impending end with an unflinching honesty. I would like to read the book, but I am not sure I can.
I'm not sure I can. Not because I have a problem with either crying, or laughing over the book (the reviewer says there is ample opportunity to do both), but because, like many middle-aged people, I feel myself Almost There. Both of my parents are gone, and though I wasn't there at the very last moment for either of them, I was there for the illness, the decline, the shows of strength, the fadeout. A couple of weeks ago at a funeral (see previous post) I saw people I had known years ago changed by time, and life. I saw my older sister last week - she looks great, but we are all at the point where none of us looks (or feels) like we once did. We're Almost There.
Hitch did not think that, in facing his illness, he was doing anything particularly courageous, apparently feeling that courage should be reserved to those who volunteer to do good in dangerous circumstances. I concur, actually. Like my mother, Hitch was struggling to stay alive. There really isn't any alternative. It's not bravery - it's necessity.
But, I think he was brave in his everyday life and writing. Living on his own terms in spite of any tut-tutters (and they were legion). I rarely feel like I have that choice - too many compromises - to work, to other people. Sometimes it really sucks.
The tourists flocking around NYC at this time of year seem to think everyone who lives here faces endless excitement (sometimes we do, and sometimes it's not the good kind), but the truth is that many of us go home at night from our not-very-interesting jobs, make dinner, watch tv and go to bed, and the next day we do the same thing again.
David Plotz, in his commentary about Hitch this week, pointed out that the way it at least feels like one is living a long life (regardless of the length in years) is to create lasting memories. Everyday routine is thoughtless and does not create anything worth remembering, but the frequent occurrence of significant events creates impressions that fill up your life experience. He suggested that Hitch did something of the sort every day. Even though the number of days he lived was cruelly short, when it came to experiences, he lived a long life indeed.
While adventures are way cool, and I try to have them as often as possible, I really envy the people who make everyday life an adventure. There aren't many of them, and it sounds like Hitch was one (and his wife too, and I hope she continues) - there have been many stories floating around in the past week about raucous dinner parties, shouting children, sharp witticisms over drinks, and the like. I tend to be a quiet person, and I am not sure I could sustain that much noise, but there can also be adventure in introspection, at least I would like to think so. In any case, we should all value our time, and our friends. That is one thing it is obvious that Hitch took seriously.
I'm not sure I can. Not because I have a problem with either crying, or laughing over the book (the reviewer says there is ample opportunity to do both), but because, like many middle-aged people, I feel myself Almost There. Both of my parents are gone, and though I wasn't there at the very last moment for either of them, I was there for the illness, the decline, the shows of strength, the fadeout. A couple of weeks ago at a funeral (see previous post) I saw people I had known years ago changed by time, and life. I saw my older sister last week - she looks great, but we are all at the point where none of us looks (or feels) like we once did. We're Almost There.
Hitch did not think that, in facing his illness, he was doing anything particularly courageous, apparently feeling that courage should be reserved to those who volunteer to do good in dangerous circumstances. I concur, actually. Like my mother, Hitch was struggling to stay alive. There really isn't any alternative. It's not bravery - it's necessity.
But, I think he was brave in his everyday life and writing. Living on his own terms in spite of any tut-tutters (and they were legion). I rarely feel like I have that choice - too many compromises - to work, to other people. Sometimes it really sucks.
The tourists flocking around NYC at this time of year seem to think everyone who lives here faces endless excitement (sometimes we do, and sometimes it's not the good kind), but the truth is that many of us go home at night from our not-very-interesting jobs, make dinner, watch tv and go to bed, and the next day we do the same thing again.
David Plotz, in his commentary about Hitch this week, pointed out that the way it at least feels like one is living a long life (regardless of the length in years) is to create lasting memories. Everyday routine is thoughtless and does not create anything worth remembering, but the frequent occurrence of significant events creates impressions that fill up your life experience. He suggested that Hitch did something of the sort every day. Even though the number of days he lived was cruelly short, when it came to experiences, he lived a long life indeed.
While adventures are way cool, and I try to have them as often as possible, I really envy the people who make everyday life an adventure. There aren't many of them, and it sounds like Hitch was one (and his wife too, and I hope she continues) - there have been many stories floating around in the past week about raucous dinner parties, shouting children, sharp witticisms over drinks, and the like. I tend to be a quiet person, and I am not sure I could sustain that much noise, but there can also be adventure in introspection, at least I would like to think so. In any case, we should all value our time, and our friends. That is one thing it is obvious that Hitch took seriously.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
For Mrs. B.
A couple of weeks ago, I got a terse email from the husband of one of my college friends that his mother's graveside service was to be held the following Saturday in New Jersey, not far from NYC. I did not even know she had died (truth to tell, I thought maybe she had gone some time ago already). Later emails with my friend filled in a few more details. I had been looking forward to an unstructured weekend, but I decided to go.
As might be expected (and it is, I fear, a cliche') anticipating the service shot me right back to college days 35 years ago. Late nights working in the college theatre and parties, parties, parties. Nicknames like Skipper, Gumbo, Big George, Space Cowboy, Churl and Chucky-Bird. Subsequent days of hanging out in NYC and upstate at their home before they moved to PA. Thanksgivings and Christmases up in sometimes-snowy Lake Peekskill. And of course, we were all younger. And thinner.
No one knew me at the service except my friend, her husband, and some friends of theirs from the NY area. And the husband's brother's wife. Though I had met both of them long ago, Brother did not remember me at all. The MIL would have remembered me maybe, as I met her numerous times. She was opinionated and loud - Bayonne born and bred. She once said of Bayonne, "I was born in Bayonne and I'll die in Bayonne. They'll have to carry me out." This was not strictly true, as she moved to PA with her son and daughter-in-law in the late 80's, but in spirit she was absolutely correct. My friend said the nursing home staff members were devastated - how many loud, opinionated Bayonne natives end up in quiet Western PA? She was the life of their workday party. The gravesite included a very handsome portait of her cat (now residing, I understand, at my freind's house), and her urn draped in her dimestore pearl necklace - who could possibly argue with that?
I thought my friend and her husband looked pretty good, considering the time that had passed. I wondered if I looked as good, considering the same. We had lunch at a real new Jersey diner and the handful of us yakked together along with my friend's almost-adult daughters (whom I had not seen since they were babies). Except that we could not talk about Mother (because her sons would have burst into tears if we had), it was more like a reunion than a funeral. The other attendees tried to keep the occasion relatively somber, but happily they did not really succeed.
I never knew Emily well enough to know whether she enjoyed a drink, but here's to her anyway. She lived life fully, thanks to her two boys, who took her on trips to Vegas and to the first Arthur Treacher's in New Jersey. And finally, she furnished the occasion for a group of old (and getting older) friends to get together, to talk, to discover, and to still recognize each other after all this time.
As might be expected (and it is, I fear, a cliche') anticipating the service shot me right back to college days 35 years ago. Late nights working in the college theatre and parties, parties, parties. Nicknames like Skipper, Gumbo, Big George, Space Cowboy, Churl and Chucky-Bird. Subsequent days of hanging out in NYC and upstate at their home before they moved to PA. Thanksgivings and Christmases up in sometimes-snowy Lake Peekskill. And of course, we were all younger. And thinner.
No one knew me at the service except my friend, her husband, and some friends of theirs from the NY area. And the husband's brother's wife. Though I had met both of them long ago, Brother did not remember me at all. The MIL would have remembered me maybe, as I met her numerous times. She was opinionated and loud - Bayonne born and bred. She once said of Bayonne, "I was born in Bayonne and I'll die in Bayonne. They'll have to carry me out." This was not strictly true, as she moved to PA with her son and daughter-in-law in the late 80's, but in spirit she was absolutely correct. My friend said the nursing home staff members were devastated - how many loud, opinionated Bayonne natives end up in quiet Western PA? She was the life of their workday party. The gravesite included a very handsome portait of her cat (now residing, I understand, at my freind's house), and her urn draped in her dimestore pearl necklace - who could possibly argue with that?
I thought my friend and her husband looked pretty good, considering the time that had passed. I wondered if I looked as good, considering the same. We had lunch at a real new Jersey diner and the handful of us yakked together along with my friend's almost-adult daughters (whom I had not seen since they were babies). Except that we could not talk about Mother (because her sons would have burst into tears if we had), it was more like a reunion than a funeral. The other attendees tried to keep the occasion relatively somber, but happily they did not really succeed.
I never knew Emily well enough to know whether she enjoyed a drink, but here's to her anyway. She lived life fully, thanks to her two boys, who took her on trips to Vegas and to the first Arthur Treacher's in New Jersey. And finally, she furnished the occasion for a group of old (and getting older) friends to get together, to talk, to discover, and to still recognize each other after all this time.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
The beginnings of classicism?
One of the more interesting presentations last week was from our own panel. A young grad student presented on a Uigur folk dance ritual. He had some nice field video of extended members of a family whom he knew dancing together while local musicians played. Uigurs are Muslim, and here in the US we have this idea that Muslim women are barred from even semi-public participation, but the video showed men and women dancing at the same time, if not always together. The evening ends with dancers spinning to the music in a contest - the one left standing is declared the winner (in this video a youngster and a young man spun for so long that the musicians stopped and declared them both winners). It was a really charming and interesting glimpse of a culture that not many people know about (which was, in fact, the theme of the panel).
The presentation went on to note that China, which controls the Uigur Autonomous Region, has variously enacted prohibitions against the Uigur language as well as folk dance celebrations like this one. Lately, however, they have changed tactics, and have begun allowing very public dance performances with the idea that it would strengthen Uigur "identity" - or, at least, what China would like for the Uigurs to consider their identity. (I hope, if he reads this, the presentor will bear with me here - this is a real capsulization of his presentation). To that end, productions have been staged in large theatres and broadcast on TV. Many, many groups vie with each other using flashy costumes, lighting and stage effects, and putting large numbers of people onstage, doing theatricalized choreography of the actual folk dances. The presentor noticed that the Uigur audiences are happy with the presentations, since it represents some positive acceptance of their customs, however dramatized, and that some elements of flash have begun to show up in local rituals. Meanwhile, some of the hominess of family celebrations, as well as local idiosyncrasies, are being lost.
Though the presentor was trying for some neutrality, he thankfully did not hide the fact that he thought this might mean the end of the local folkdance rituals, and he expressed both distrust of the official acceptance of public performances and some sorrow that elements of flash were showing up locally. I understood his point - China, after all, is very, very big, and has been dominating all of the areas around it, not just, as is fashionably understood, Tibet. But the presentation did get me thinking.
For one thing, folk rituals all over the world have gone the way of the dodo with the avalanche of media. It happened long ago in the US (I remember first noticing in the early 1980's that a mall worker in rural PA looked like an MTV video jock, and suddenly realized that the reason was that, via cable - everyone was able to watch MTV! - A facile example, but you see my point). So we don't notice here anymore how national rituals - like the Superbowl - have taken over for more local events as a means of underscoring our collective identity. So the Chinese are busy doing in their autonomous reagions what we have already done to ourselves.
There was no time at our panel for discussion, unfortunately; no time to discuss things like colonialism, post-colonialism, and that the preservation of indigenous cultures often hinges on depriving people of things like plumbing and electricity that the rest of us already enjoy, and that the advent of these things almost by default means that everyone joins the hive collective.
But what really got me thinking was something different; i.e. how classical dance is formed. Is the destruction of local culture a necessary prelude to national culture? Is the absorption of folk movement into public choreography part of a transformation to a national artisitic expression?
I started thinking about the evolution of ballet. It has been awhile since I read about this, but ballet started as a "gentlemen's entertainment" held in cigar smoke-filled theatres where an exclusively male audience ogled the bare arms, lower legs and half-revealed bosoms of female dancers doing, essentially, folk dances. From those somewhat salacious beginnings we have the artistry and athletcisim (and, yes, the sensuality) of modern ballet, while the folk traditions that helped spawn it have all but died away.
So the Uigur dance transformation from local tradition to a more uniform public one is underway. It may well be the death of the local, but is it also evolving on the road to classical dance?
The presentation went on to note that China, which controls the Uigur Autonomous Region, has variously enacted prohibitions against the Uigur language as well as folk dance celebrations like this one. Lately, however, they have changed tactics, and have begun allowing very public dance performances with the idea that it would strengthen Uigur "identity" - or, at least, what China would like for the Uigurs to consider their identity. (I hope, if he reads this, the presentor will bear with me here - this is a real capsulization of his presentation). To that end, productions have been staged in large theatres and broadcast on TV. Many, many groups vie with each other using flashy costumes, lighting and stage effects, and putting large numbers of people onstage, doing theatricalized choreography of the actual folk dances. The presentor noticed that the Uigur audiences are happy with the presentations, since it represents some positive acceptance of their customs, however dramatized, and that some elements of flash have begun to show up in local rituals. Meanwhile, some of the hominess of family celebrations, as well as local idiosyncrasies, are being lost.
Though the presentor was trying for some neutrality, he thankfully did not hide the fact that he thought this might mean the end of the local folkdance rituals, and he expressed both distrust of the official acceptance of public performances and some sorrow that elements of flash were showing up locally. I understood his point - China, after all, is very, very big, and has been dominating all of the areas around it, not just, as is fashionably understood, Tibet. But the presentation did get me thinking.
For one thing, folk rituals all over the world have gone the way of the dodo with the avalanche of media. It happened long ago in the US (I remember first noticing in the early 1980's that a mall worker in rural PA looked like an MTV video jock, and suddenly realized that the reason was that, via cable - everyone was able to watch MTV! - A facile example, but you see my point). So we don't notice here anymore how national rituals - like the Superbowl - have taken over for more local events as a means of underscoring our collective identity. So the Chinese are busy doing in their autonomous reagions what we have already done to ourselves.
There was no time at our panel for discussion, unfortunately; no time to discuss things like colonialism, post-colonialism, and that the preservation of indigenous cultures often hinges on depriving people of things like plumbing and electricity that the rest of us already enjoy, and that the advent of these things almost by default means that everyone joins the hive collective.
But what really got me thinking was something different; i.e. how classical dance is formed. Is the destruction of local culture a necessary prelude to national culture? Is the absorption of folk movement into public choreography part of a transformation to a national artisitic expression?
I started thinking about the evolution of ballet. It has been awhile since I read about this, but ballet started as a "gentlemen's entertainment" held in cigar smoke-filled theatres where an exclusively male audience ogled the bare arms, lower legs and half-revealed bosoms of female dancers doing, essentially, folk dances. From those somewhat salacious beginnings we have the artistry and athletcisim (and, yes, the sensuality) of modern ballet, while the folk traditions that helped spawn it have all but died away.
So the Uigur dance transformation from local tradition to a more uniform public one is underway. It may well be the death of the local, but is it also evolving on the road to classical dance?
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Burnout Day
I just finished a long run of activity, culminating in Crazy Week - last Monday in Philadelphia, Tuesday going to DC (it sort of does take all day to get there), gave a paper on Wednesday (went more or less ok), Thursday-Saturday helping a friend with her project in DC, Sunday - getting up at 5am to come back to NYC. Monday - back to work. All the while editing galley proofs of a friend's soon-to-be published book celebrating 20 years of publishing a martial arts journal (full disclosure - I have an article in it, too).
Philly was great -we did a swordsmanship demo/lecture/hands-on workshop for a kids' camp. The feedback was great - it's nice that every now and then someone likes seeing what we do. I heard that one of the kids even wrote a haiku ode to his sword - now that's tradition! I mean, of all the weird things that I've done, I've never done that.
The DC experience was more of a mixed bag. It was nice to see some people I had not seen in awhile, and some of the sessions were good at midweek. Good discussions on Chinese "Classical Dance" (or lack thereof) and my own paper about kenbu. Stuff like that always stirs the brain, which is a good thing, because my brain frequently does not get the kind of workout I think it deserves. The very best part was that James Brandon, a towering figure in the study of Japanese theatre, gave a lecture, and all of the scholars sat there like undergrads with their notebooks and pens. And of course, one of the (planned) conclusions he addressed was: what makes kabuki? My response to that question may make it here, or somewhere else, in the near future.
What did I learn in DC? A few things: (1) No one really likes shingeki (look it up). (2) The Shochiku company really did perform short propagandistic "democracy" plays during the US occupation at the "suggestion" of the various cultural review boards (that they showed them from around 1895-1945 on some level or other favoring the other side should go without saying). Thanks, as always, Dr. Brandon! (3) Don't listen to Jonah (you know who you are!). (4) Get my own room again for conferences - it is worth the money (no offense guys, but I am really a loner). (5) To avoid aggravation, make sure the next time I help someone with a project that it somehow furthers some of my own projects, not just creating an opportunity to review galleys for someone else's book at the same time. (6) You really can beat beach traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike if you lose enough sleep. There's probably other stuff but I will have to remember it later.
I am burnt out and this post is not as polished as some of the other ones - editing, writing my own paper, writing the book contribution, creating my powerpoint presentation (the best part), all in the past month or so. Obviously I have the writing bug today, but am too tired to do anything coherent (not that today should be all that different). Gak.
I just finished the galleys today and sent them off. I think the book will be a smash, inasmuch as books of that sort ever are. More about that later. More about a bunch of stuff later.
Philly was great -we did a swordsmanship demo/lecture/hands-on workshop for a kids' camp. The feedback was great - it's nice that every now and then someone likes seeing what we do. I heard that one of the kids even wrote a haiku ode to his sword - now that's tradition! I mean, of all the weird things that I've done, I've never done that.
The DC experience was more of a mixed bag. It was nice to see some people I had not seen in awhile, and some of the sessions were good at midweek. Good discussions on Chinese "Classical Dance" (or lack thereof) and my own paper about kenbu. Stuff like that always stirs the brain, which is a good thing, because my brain frequently does not get the kind of workout I think it deserves. The very best part was that James Brandon, a towering figure in the study of Japanese theatre, gave a lecture, and all of the scholars sat there like undergrads with their notebooks and pens. And of course, one of the (planned) conclusions he addressed was: what makes kabuki? My response to that question may make it here, or somewhere else, in the near future.
What did I learn in DC? A few things: (1) No one really likes shingeki (look it up). (2) The Shochiku company really did perform short propagandistic "democracy" plays during the US occupation at the "suggestion" of the various cultural review boards (that they showed them from around 1895-1945 on some level or other favoring the other side should go without saying). Thanks, as always, Dr. Brandon! (3) Don't listen to Jonah (you know who you are!). (4) Get my own room again for conferences - it is worth the money (no offense guys, but I am really a loner). (5) To avoid aggravation, make sure the next time I help someone with a project that it somehow furthers some of my own projects, not just creating an opportunity to review galleys for someone else's book at the same time. (6) You really can beat beach traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike if you lose enough sleep. There's probably other stuff but I will have to remember it later.
I am burnt out and this post is not as polished as some of the other ones - editing, writing my own paper, writing the book contribution, creating my powerpoint presentation (the best part), all in the past month or so. Obviously I have the writing bug today, but am too tired to do anything coherent (not that today should be all that different). Gak.
I just finished the galleys today and sent them off. I think the book will be a smash, inasmuch as books of that sort ever are. More about that later. More about a bunch of stuff later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)