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.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Why I train
Over the years I have studied koryu budo, many people have asked me why I train. I never seem to have a good answer for them. I remember one American teacher's wife in particular became really impatient with my standard answer ("I don't know"). Of course, she was sort of drunk at the time, but maybe in vino veritas.
Out of curiosity, I just put "why I train" in a search of these blog posts. I got about half of all of the entries in response. This suggests that (1) there is more than one answer to the question, and (2) these answers are subtle and complicated.
Going back to the beginning of my training, one reason I have not addressed very much in my other posts comes up. I was a fencer from my college days. I enjoyed it, but having only taken it up for a few years (instead of say, from high school), I was not that good at it. I would have LOVED to have started in high school, but since I grew up in a very rural area with very limited opportunities (on, seriously, ANY level), there simply was no opportunity to emulate my TV and movie heroes - Zorro, or The Three Musketeers, or Basil Rathbone (take THAT, Errol Flynn). Instead I watched movies (when possible) and read lots of books. I was very interested, as a kid, in stories about western chivalry (information on Asian culture was as sparse as anything about fencing where I grew up).
In any case, I moved to the Big City and after about a year of finding my bearings, I began fencing at Santelli's in the West Village. This was in the early 1980's, when New York was struggling to put its financial house in order, and the mean streets were definitely meaner than they are now.
One of my colleagues at the salle had all of these books on Zen. He first lent, and eventually gave, me all of them. I read them. Some, as I found out later, were not worth much, but others were classics. There was something comforting in the idea that one had to let go of basically everything in order to find peace. In my world, at the time, where literally anything bad could happen at any moment, these were very valuable ideas. The evidence was available practically everywhere I looked - the subway platform, where someone was pushed, or jumped, in front of a train; the kid who was murdered outside the deli on Broadway while the workers inside were too afraid of the commotion to call the police. Stories from people I met about their being mugged at knife point, or beat up. Letting go, especially of the fear of everyday life in dangerous surroundings was, I felt, a key to survival.
But there was something else. It is very difficult for people, including women, nowadays, to fathom the everyday gauntlet of stuff a young woman living on her own in NYC in the 1980's had to endure. I'm talking about daily harassment - all the time. There was the old guy who ran the elevator at the office building where I worked who tried to grope me every time I was alone with him. The men I worked for would daily tell me what a "good girl" I was. One married executive tried to force his way into my apartment by way of the noble guise of offering to take me home after an office event. There was no way to complain because there was no one to complain to. Rules and laws regarding workplace harassment did not exist. Women where I worked would comfort each other - or, in time-honored fashion, they would get married and quit for what they hoped was the safety of suburbia.
In addition, complete strangers in the street called me a "monkey-faced bitch", or threatened to "fuck me up" for no particular reason - maybe they were just having a bad day? Nowadays, women launch Twitter movements because construction workers say hello to them, or, maybe ask them to smile. Seriously, people, you have no idea.
So I would go to work, go to the salle, go to the movies, go on dates, go to rehearsal (when I had one) and come home, seething with impotent rage. I mean full-on, howling rage. All of the Zen books in the world were not enough.
I took up iaido because, one night, I saw the man who would become my teacher perform a demonstration at an art movie house on Bleeker Street. It wasn't just beautiful - it was serene. All the same, I thought about it for two years, because I knew there would be huge changes in my life if I decided to pursue it. When I eventually did start training, I discovered several important things. One was that I could learn to express (at least on a crude level) the beauty that I saw in my teacher. The next was that I was learning tactics and strategies to deal with potential situations. The things I was learning in that regard had nothing to do with carrying a sword around - those lessons apply practically anywhere, as any experienced iaidoka can tell you. The third was that the sense of palpable rage that I often felt from the circumstances of my daily life at the time was somehow mitigated. Did I fantasize about decapitating some asshole whom I had never met who threatened to rape me for no particular reason? You betcha. But not as often as I was able to just let the whole thing go. It's not that I felt sympathy for someone else's anger (hell no). I was actually able to feel nothing at all.
New York is, overall, a much calmer (and duller, for that matter) place now. I am older, and so I am not nearly the target for unwanted attention that I used to be. Most happily, work culture has changed to the point where men in particular are compelled (for the most part) to be more polite. But there are still times, as when I am on a slow-moving rush hour train and someone vents their frustration, whether on me, or some other passenger, when I remember the value of what I am learning - how to have a calm mind. And seeking that sensibility is one of the most important reasons why I train.
Out of curiosity, I just put "why I train" in a search of these blog posts. I got about half of all of the entries in response. This suggests that (1) there is more than one answer to the question, and (2) these answers are subtle and complicated.
Going back to the beginning of my training, one reason I have not addressed very much in my other posts comes up. I was a fencer from my college days. I enjoyed it, but having only taken it up for a few years (instead of say, from high school), I was not that good at it. I would have LOVED to have started in high school, but since I grew up in a very rural area with very limited opportunities (on, seriously, ANY level), there simply was no opportunity to emulate my TV and movie heroes - Zorro, or The Three Musketeers, or Basil Rathbone (take THAT, Errol Flynn). Instead I watched movies (when possible) and read lots of books. I was very interested, as a kid, in stories about western chivalry (information on Asian culture was as sparse as anything about fencing where I grew up).
In any case, I moved to the Big City and after about a year of finding my bearings, I began fencing at Santelli's in the West Village. This was in the early 1980's, when New York was struggling to put its financial house in order, and the mean streets were definitely meaner than they are now.
One of my colleagues at the salle had all of these books on Zen. He first lent, and eventually gave, me all of them. I read them. Some, as I found out later, were not worth much, but others were classics. There was something comforting in the idea that one had to let go of basically everything in order to find peace. In my world, at the time, where literally anything bad could happen at any moment, these were very valuable ideas. The evidence was available practically everywhere I looked - the subway platform, where someone was pushed, or jumped, in front of a train; the kid who was murdered outside the deli on Broadway while the workers inside were too afraid of the commotion to call the police. Stories from people I met about their being mugged at knife point, or beat up. Letting go, especially of the fear of everyday life in dangerous surroundings was, I felt, a key to survival.
But there was something else. It is very difficult for people, including women, nowadays, to fathom the everyday gauntlet of stuff a young woman living on her own in NYC in the 1980's had to endure. I'm talking about daily harassment - all the time. There was the old guy who ran the elevator at the office building where I worked who tried to grope me every time I was alone with him. The men I worked for would daily tell me what a "good girl" I was. One married executive tried to force his way into my apartment by way of the noble guise of offering to take me home after an office event. There was no way to complain because there was no one to complain to. Rules and laws regarding workplace harassment did not exist. Women where I worked would comfort each other - or, in time-honored fashion, they would get married and quit for what they hoped was the safety of suburbia.
In addition, complete strangers in the street called me a "monkey-faced bitch", or threatened to "fuck me up" for no particular reason - maybe they were just having a bad day? Nowadays, women launch Twitter movements because construction workers say hello to them, or, maybe ask them to smile. Seriously, people, you have no idea.
So I would go to work, go to the salle, go to the movies, go on dates, go to rehearsal (when I had one) and come home, seething with impotent rage. I mean full-on, howling rage. All of the Zen books in the world were not enough.
I took up iaido because, one night, I saw the man who would become my teacher perform a demonstration at an art movie house on Bleeker Street. It wasn't just beautiful - it was serene. All the same, I thought about it for two years, because I knew there would be huge changes in my life if I decided to pursue it. When I eventually did start training, I discovered several important things. One was that I could learn to express (at least on a crude level) the beauty that I saw in my teacher. The next was that I was learning tactics and strategies to deal with potential situations. The things I was learning in that regard had nothing to do with carrying a sword around - those lessons apply practically anywhere, as any experienced iaidoka can tell you. The third was that the sense of palpable rage that I often felt from the circumstances of my daily life at the time was somehow mitigated. Did I fantasize about decapitating some asshole whom I had never met who threatened to rape me for no particular reason? You betcha. But not as often as I was able to just let the whole thing go. It's not that I felt sympathy for someone else's anger (hell no). I was actually able to feel nothing at all.
New York is, overall, a much calmer (and duller, for that matter) place now. I am older, and so I am not nearly the target for unwanted attention that I used to be. Most happily, work culture has changed to the point where men in particular are compelled (for the most part) to be more polite. But there are still times, as when I am on a slow-moving rush hour train and someone vents their frustration, whether on me, or some other passenger, when I remember the value of what I am learning - how to have a calm mind. And seeking that sensibility is one of the most important reasons why I train.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
The fallacy of single-minded practice
Many years ago, I was in Taipei for a conference at the National Theatre. At noontime, I would go to a nearby park to have lunch, trying to beat both the searing heat that is Taipei in July and the corresponding freezing air conditioning indoors.
The park - New Park - featured lots of outdoor activities. A couple of times during lunch I watched a kungfu group practice. Most of the students practiced in pairs or small groups, except for one American guy. He practiced alone. He did fantastic, almost crazy things - leaping into the air, landing on his shoulder or hip, spinning in the dirt. Within about 1/2 hour, his black practice outfit was brown with dust, and he dripped with sweat. I wrote to a friend of mine at the time that the guy reminded me of one of the crazier students in our home dojo. We had one dojo mate who practiced more, and harder, than anyone else. He was there during my first trip to Japan, along with another sempai. Throughout the trip, he insisted on wearing a happi coat. He tried very hard to speak Japanese, but, since he studied from books and not with an actual teacher, he frequently got things wrong. Our Japanese hosts were exceedingly polite, but they admitted they thought he was eccentric. (In private, they were probably laughing their butts off; at least, I hope they were.)
I asked someone in Taipei about the crazy kungfu practitioner. "Oh, that guy? Yeah, he practices by himself. He's sort of intense. He kept hurting his training partners, so the sifu said he could stay in the group as long as he kept to himself." My stateside dojo mate also was so intense, he kept hurting his kendo partners. He thought it was a normal part of practice. No one agreed with him, but, at the time, we had no regular teacher for kendo. We just tried to avoid him to the extent possible.
What both of these guys - the crazy kendo guy and the crazy kungfu guy - lacked, was perspective. They focused so single-mindedly on their practice that they ignored everything (and everyone) else. In the process, they became isolated from other people, and, at the same, time, did not really advance very far in their respective arts. Both this style of kungfu and (naturally) kendo needed sparring partners in order to gain skill. Since no one would train with either of them, their ability to learn was limited. Their single-mindedness made their practice more about themselves than about one of the ostensible goals of practice; that is, to continue to improve.
Single-minded devotion to budo practice (I am using kendo, a martial sport, as an example, but I could just as easily sub in some non-competitive style) to the exclusion of everything else is just as unhealthy as a colleague I knew who lived for her job to the exclusion of every other type of interaction. One needs to find balance. But what form should that balance take? And how does this problem arise in the first place?
To begin with, we should consider who these people - the crazy kendoka, the crazy kungfu practitioner, and even the crazy overworker - were. They were all Americans. I know plenty more, including a budo teacher who insists on such a high participation rate for his students that they spend all of their free time in the dojo. Their technique is really good, but then, it should be. And everyone here in the U.S. thinks this teacher is somehow superior to others, because of his demanding nature. But here's the thing. No one in Japan trains like that. And Japan is where budo originated. Even the samurai, unless they were training for some imminent conflict, were studying tea, calligraphy, dance, poetry or other art form. Their budo training was part of their job, which, by the Edo Period, also included some sort of government function. The rest of their time was their own. My old Japanese kendo teacher never practiced with us on Sundays, because that was "family time." I remember the American sempai used to blame his wife for interfering with his practice, but maybe he enjoyed that time with his kids. He wasn't crazy - they were.
I lived in Japan for a short time as a student. I was able to attend the dojo more than some of my Japanese colleagues, because I was in a relatively privileged position - no family around, and I was able to set my own schedule. I was also able to observe the other students, who simply came to okeiko whenever they were able. During breaks, they talked about their jobs and their families and whatever other things interested them. Budo was not a profession or an intense hobby, it was a part of their cultural existence; and, as such, was not the sole focus of their lives.
But Americans are different - we long so much for identity that we are happy to latch on and suck dry whatever role life offers us. You can't just be an M.D. who wants to help people; you have to be a surgeon, or at least a specialist, where the intensity and the concentration are potentially overwhelming. And we reward the specialists over the generalists with greater status and more money. The idea of integrated medicine has so far been forgotten it is being reintroduced in med schools. (It took a chiropractor who studied whole body integration to figure out my chronic headaches were originating in my shoulder. The neurologists offered me pain pills.)
It's not for nothing that the only Americans who seem really interested in "work-life balance" are women with children, and the argument keeps getting marginalized for that reason. American workers are what their jobs are; how dare anyone suggest that there needs to be a balance between your job and your life (unless, of course, it is to take on the "other" job of parenting. And the people who do so are considered less "serious" than their single-minded coworkers).* The same thing seems to apply, for some people, to their budo practice. And they disparage other people's practices as being inferior because they are not working as hard.
This single-mindedness affects the prospective students who come into my dojo. They think the students there must be making a major life commitment, and, since they already have lives, they don't sign up because they can't devote themselves entirely to okeiko (thanks, hard-assed teachers who demand lots of practice time!). I try to make them understand that none of us really do that, and it's not necessary, as long as people come as consistently as they can, but they're too American. They have no balance. All I can do is give them the most positive experience I can. I hope they change their minds at some point, but I doubt that they will.
I sometimes get apologetic students who have to drop out of practice for a shorter or longer time, whether for school, family or work reasons. I remind them that our practice has been around for about 400 years and will still be there when they get back. Sometimes I worry that they think I am being facetious, but I'm not. Do I wish they would come to okeiko more often? Of course. But as much as I enjoy practice, I limit my time there. I have other things to do.
-----------------
*Yes, yes, the Japanese sarariman's devotion to his job is legendary, but it's based on a Western model. Walk into a family-owned small business in Japan and you get a completely different idea of the work ethic.
The park - New Park - featured lots of outdoor activities. A couple of times during lunch I watched a kungfu group practice. Most of the students practiced in pairs or small groups, except for one American guy. He practiced alone. He did fantastic, almost crazy things - leaping into the air, landing on his shoulder or hip, spinning in the dirt. Within about 1/2 hour, his black practice outfit was brown with dust, and he dripped with sweat. I wrote to a friend of mine at the time that the guy reminded me of one of the crazier students in our home dojo. We had one dojo mate who practiced more, and harder, than anyone else. He was there during my first trip to Japan, along with another sempai. Throughout the trip, he insisted on wearing a happi coat. He tried very hard to speak Japanese, but, since he studied from books and not with an actual teacher, he frequently got things wrong. Our Japanese hosts were exceedingly polite, but they admitted they thought he was eccentric. (In private, they were probably laughing their butts off; at least, I hope they were.)
I asked someone in Taipei about the crazy kungfu practitioner. "Oh, that guy? Yeah, he practices by himself. He's sort of intense. He kept hurting his training partners, so the sifu said he could stay in the group as long as he kept to himself." My stateside dojo mate also was so intense, he kept hurting his kendo partners. He thought it was a normal part of practice. No one agreed with him, but, at the time, we had no regular teacher for kendo. We just tried to avoid him to the extent possible.
What both of these guys - the crazy kendo guy and the crazy kungfu guy - lacked, was perspective. They focused so single-mindedly on their practice that they ignored everything (and everyone) else. In the process, they became isolated from other people, and, at the same, time, did not really advance very far in their respective arts. Both this style of kungfu and (naturally) kendo needed sparring partners in order to gain skill. Since no one would train with either of them, their ability to learn was limited. Their single-mindedness made their practice more about themselves than about one of the ostensible goals of practice; that is, to continue to improve.
Single-minded devotion to budo practice (I am using kendo, a martial sport, as an example, but I could just as easily sub in some non-competitive style) to the exclusion of everything else is just as unhealthy as a colleague I knew who lived for her job to the exclusion of every other type of interaction. One needs to find balance. But what form should that balance take? And how does this problem arise in the first place?
To begin with, we should consider who these people - the crazy kendoka, the crazy kungfu practitioner, and even the crazy overworker - were. They were all Americans. I know plenty more, including a budo teacher who insists on such a high participation rate for his students that they spend all of their free time in the dojo. Their technique is really good, but then, it should be. And everyone here in the U.S. thinks this teacher is somehow superior to others, because of his demanding nature. But here's the thing. No one in Japan trains like that. And Japan is where budo originated. Even the samurai, unless they were training for some imminent conflict, were studying tea, calligraphy, dance, poetry or other art form. Their budo training was part of their job, which, by the Edo Period, also included some sort of government function. The rest of their time was their own. My old Japanese kendo teacher never practiced with us on Sundays, because that was "family time." I remember the American sempai used to blame his wife for interfering with his practice, but maybe he enjoyed that time with his kids. He wasn't crazy - they were.
I lived in Japan for a short time as a student. I was able to attend the dojo more than some of my Japanese colleagues, because I was in a relatively privileged position - no family around, and I was able to set my own schedule. I was also able to observe the other students, who simply came to okeiko whenever they were able. During breaks, they talked about their jobs and their families and whatever other things interested them. Budo was not a profession or an intense hobby, it was a part of their cultural existence; and, as such, was not the sole focus of their lives.
But Americans are different - we long so much for identity that we are happy to latch on and suck dry whatever role life offers us. You can't just be an M.D. who wants to help people; you have to be a surgeon, or at least a specialist, where the intensity and the concentration are potentially overwhelming. And we reward the specialists over the generalists with greater status and more money. The idea of integrated medicine has so far been forgotten it is being reintroduced in med schools. (It took a chiropractor who studied whole body integration to figure out my chronic headaches were originating in my shoulder. The neurologists offered me pain pills.)
It's not for nothing that the only Americans who seem really interested in "work-life balance" are women with children, and the argument keeps getting marginalized for that reason. American workers are what their jobs are; how dare anyone suggest that there needs to be a balance between your job and your life (unless, of course, it is to take on the "other" job of parenting. And the people who do so are considered less "serious" than their single-minded coworkers).* The same thing seems to apply, for some people, to their budo practice. And they disparage other people's practices as being inferior because they are not working as hard.
This single-mindedness affects the prospective students who come into my dojo. They think the students there must be making a major life commitment, and, since they already have lives, they don't sign up because they can't devote themselves entirely to okeiko (thanks, hard-assed teachers who demand lots of practice time!). I try to make them understand that none of us really do that, and it's not necessary, as long as people come as consistently as they can, but they're too American. They have no balance. All I can do is give them the most positive experience I can. I hope they change their minds at some point, but I doubt that they will.
I sometimes get apologetic students who have to drop out of practice for a shorter or longer time, whether for school, family or work reasons. I remind them that our practice has been around for about 400 years and will still be there when they get back. Sometimes I worry that they think I am being facetious, but I'm not. Do I wish they would come to okeiko more often? Of course. But as much as I enjoy practice, I limit my time there. I have other things to do.
-----------------
*Yes, yes, the Japanese sarariman's devotion to his job is legendary, but it's based on a Western model. Walk into a family-owned small business in Japan and you get a completely different idea of the work ethic.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Context (and the lack of it)
Yesterday, I braved the oxymoronic late March NYC chill (you would have to live here to understand that point fully) to go to a concert at Columbia University. The music on offer was not the usual fare: it was the 10th anniversary performance of a group that specializes in ancient Japanese music. The first half of the concert featured ancient music and the second half featured both modern pieces written for ancient instruments, and a modern piece inspired by ancient music (specifically, an abreviated version of John Cage's "Ryoanji"). The first half of the concert was definitely the less popular half, as evidenced by the restless audience. In the most annoying of New York fashion, people straggled in during the introductory talk; then left in the midst of the first, second or third pieces - not even waiting for the musicians to finish playing. Add in the simultaneous lighting of smartphone screens between every piece and the effect was positively maddening, especially among people who should know better.
To be sure, gagaku and hogaku - the two featured forms of Japanese ancient music - are acquired tastes. My appreciation of ancient Japanese music stems from going to a Shinto festival years ago. The festival featured almost 100 musicians playing the small, hand-held mouth organ, called a shoh, which produces a dreamy and unusual sound, sometimes rich, sometimes just a thin tone, and the hijiriki flute. The two instruments together sometimes create a disharmonized but somewhat hypnotic effect. The resulting performance was exactly what one might want for a Shinto ritual, but maybe not suitable for a cold spring afternoon on the Upper West Side.
So there I was, while everyone else was squirming, being carried back to Nara one very cold weekend in December when I enjoyed 3-1/2 days of just that type of music, only with a much larger and louder presence. I vividly remembered the ritual in the dark, when a group of chanting priests, accompanied by a large number of singers and musicians, carried a small, wooden box carrying the essence of the Shinto god from his home to a temporary shrine, there to be feted and fussed over before being lovingly returned to his usual abode, several days later. I felt both nostalgic and a little as though I was about to be drawn into a trance.
But the Columbia audience, in this case, though rude, was correct. Even my companion remarked that the second half of the concert was better than the first, and I had to agree. The context for the ancient music was all wrong. This small, but dedicated group of students, augmented by some Japanese professional musicians, did a competent, even surprisingly good, job, but the music was falling largely on uncomprehending ears. (People who don't live in NYC may wonder how something like a group formed for the appreciation of ancient Japanese music might even get off the ground, but this used to be a fairly common occurrence. I once met Isaac Asimov at a regular meeting of the Gilbert and Sullivan Society. He was conducting the sing-along - from "Patience." I mean really - who knew?)
Context is important. When I teach budo, I try to throw in what I know of the era in which a given practice evolved. Most important to me is what people wore, and how they moved generally. We can know some of this from illustrations on scrolls; but Japan is a unique place. Just as gagaku and hogaku have been passed down through centuries, movement styles have been passed down via noh, kabuki and dance. I try to get people past chambara movies and anime, and into some more realistic historical sense of how people moved and behaved. Since I study Japanese dance, I am able to convey some of this sensibility, even if in a truncated fashion. I even brought my dance teacher in one time to teach suriashi footwork.
Do I succeed? Not always. And an argument can be made in regard to what a "realistic historical sense" is. After all, kabuki lives for exaggeration at least some of the time (but I'll bet you didn't know that there are some surprisingly realistic kabuki dramas out there) and noh has evolved over time to be more stately than it once was. And the dance both echoes and bounces off of these genres, along with others. But it's the best we have; and honestly, it's much better than nothing.
And I mean that. Some years ago, I was at a seminar for tanjo - a 19th century genre consisting of partner kata which pits a defender wielding a walking stick against an attacker with a sword. The kata are fairly vigorous for both attacker and defender. About halfway through the session, someone remarked that they just could not see how someone who used a cane could handle a swordsman in the way the kata required. He was completely oblivious to the fact that 19th century gentlemen (AND ladies), both in the West and in Japan, carried walking sticks as a proper accessory. Without knowing that, the kata meant nothing to this particular student. He could dismiss them out of hand, based on his ahistorical assumption about what people wore and how they moved. In his mind, there was no difference, historically or culturally, between the people of 150 years ago, and himself.
Modern budo is adaptive, and that's fine. It was created to fit in with the shifting contemporary world. But traditional budo is a different thing altogether. And one thing I know about context - if the teacher doesn't furnish it in some way, the students will come up with a way to fill in the knowledge gap on their own. We may think, as teachers, that we are teaching organized systems of attack and defense, but really that is only the start of what we are doing; or, at least, it should only be the start. The wonderful thing about our practice is the many layers of context that can be peeled back, and the richness that lies beneath.
To be sure, gagaku and hogaku - the two featured forms of Japanese ancient music - are acquired tastes. My appreciation of ancient Japanese music stems from going to a Shinto festival years ago. The festival featured almost 100 musicians playing the small, hand-held mouth organ, called a shoh, which produces a dreamy and unusual sound, sometimes rich, sometimes just a thin tone, and the hijiriki flute. The two instruments together sometimes create a disharmonized but somewhat hypnotic effect. The resulting performance was exactly what one might want for a Shinto ritual, but maybe not suitable for a cold spring afternoon on the Upper West Side.
So there I was, while everyone else was squirming, being carried back to Nara one very cold weekend in December when I enjoyed 3-1/2 days of just that type of music, only with a much larger and louder presence. I vividly remembered the ritual in the dark, when a group of chanting priests, accompanied by a large number of singers and musicians, carried a small, wooden box carrying the essence of the Shinto god from his home to a temporary shrine, there to be feted and fussed over before being lovingly returned to his usual abode, several days later. I felt both nostalgic and a little as though I was about to be drawn into a trance.
But the Columbia audience, in this case, though rude, was correct. Even my companion remarked that the second half of the concert was better than the first, and I had to agree. The context for the ancient music was all wrong. This small, but dedicated group of students, augmented by some Japanese professional musicians, did a competent, even surprisingly good, job, but the music was falling largely on uncomprehending ears. (People who don't live in NYC may wonder how something like a group formed for the appreciation of ancient Japanese music might even get off the ground, but this used to be a fairly common occurrence. I once met Isaac Asimov at a regular meeting of the Gilbert and Sullivan Society. He was conducting the sing-along - from "Patience." I mean really - who knew?)
Context is important. When I teach budo, I try to throw in what I know of the era in which a given practice evolved. Most important to me is what people wore, and how they moved generally. We can know some of this from illustrations on scrolls; but Japan is a unique place. Just as gagaku and hogaku have been passed down through centuries, movement styles have been passed down via noh, kabuki and dance. I try to get people past chambara movies and anime, and into some more realistic historical sense of how people moved and behaved. Since I study Japanese dance, I am able to convey some of this sensibility, even if in a truncated fashion. I even brought my dance teacher in one time to teach suriashi footwork.
Do I succeed? Not always. And an argument can be made in regard to what a "realistic historical sense" is. After all, kabuki lives for exaggeration at least some of the time (but I'll bet you didn't know that there are some surprisingly realistic kabuki dramas out there) and noh has evolved over time to be more stately than it once was. And the dance both echoes and bounces off of these genres, along with others. But it's the best we have; and honestly, it's much better than nothing.
And I mean that. Some years ago, I was at a seminar for tanjo - a 19th century genre consisting of partner kata which pits a defender wielding a walking stick against an attacker with a sword. The kata are fairly vigorous for both attacker and defender. About halfway through the session, someone remarked that they just could not see how someone who used a cane could handle a swordsman in the way the kata required. He was completely oblivious to the fact that 19th century gentlemen (AND ladies), both in the West and in Japan, carried walking sticks as a proper accessory. Without knowing that, the kata meant nothing to this particular student. He could dismiss them out of hand, based on his ahistorical assumption about what people wore and how they moved. In his mind, there was no difference, historically or culturally, between the people of 150 years ago, and himself.
Modern budo is adaptive, and that's fine. It was created to fit in with the shifting contemporary world. But traditional budo is a different thing altogether. And one thing I know about context - if the teacher doesn't furnish it in some way, the students will come up with a way to fill in the knowledge gap on their own. We may think, as teachers, that we are teaching organized systems of attack and defense, but really that is only the start of what we are doing; or, at least, it should only be the start. The wonderful thing about our practice is the many layers of context that can be peeled back, and the richness that lies beneath.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
The Old Masters
Do you know an old master?
I'm not talking about someone who has trained for 30 years, or some 40-something TKD teacher who started when he was six. Hell, I've trained for almost 30 years (more if you count my western fencing training), and I know I'm not a master. Old, maybe, sorta, but a master? Nope.
The old masters I'm thinking about have trained twice as long, at least - 60, 70, years. They're in their 80's or 90's, in varying states of health. They have more understanding of technique in their little fingers than the rest of us do in our whole bodies. Even better, they understand what they are doing, and why.
Some time ago, I looked at a very old video tape of one of my first demonstrations, which was held at a small dojo in New Jersey, in the 1980's. I remember we had a hell of a time finding the place (in the days before GPS) but I don't remember what the occasion was. In looking at myself on video (something I find uncomfortable even now) I noticed that I was trying very hard to do everything correctly as I had been taught, and, as a new student, I don't look too bad. At that time, I considered the sempai, who had about 3-4 years' seniority over me, as the "big kids." They certainly talked and acted like big kids, and, since I was new to this whole koryu budo thing, I believed them.
Only my teacher did his part in the demo with quiet grace and dignity. While the guys used to talk about him with great respect, none of them seemed to know him very well. It took some time for me to get to know him as more than the man who came in to okeiko, somewhat irregularly (his job kept him very busy), who told stories and sometimes made us repeat the same waza over and over again for a half hour or longer at a time. He never seemed happy with our progress, though he would let us stop after awhile, whether it was because he got tired of our relative mediocrity or decided we had hit our training wall for the night, I was never sure. I just knew I hated to disappoint him, so I kept trying.
When I did get to know him better, I was impressed by his humility. One time I came to see him on dojo business and before I could say anything he said, "Here, watch this. You've never seen anything like this before," and started the VCR. We watched an old, grainy film-to-video transfer of Nakayama Hakudo (a cleaned-up version is available on YouTube). In the film, Hakudo Sensei, clearly around 80 years old, both demonstrates and riffs (for lack of a better word) on Muso Shinden kata. I learned more about the meaning of practice in that one video than I had by studying for 10 years with my American sempai (and I realized later that it was not really their fault - 10 years is a literal drop in the bucket where koryu budo is concerned).
There were many other times like that. Once, when I visited him in the hospital, I noticed some books by his bedside. I asked him what he was reading. He said it was an account of the Ako Ogishi story (the story of the 47 Ronin). I knew the story in general, of course, but, thanks to sensei, I learned a great deal more after that. At his request, I went to Sengakuji, the temple in Tokyo where they are buried, to pay my respects. I still go there every time I go to Japan, and I have taken any number of hapless friends and students along with me. I go to honor him, and to try to give others a sense of what he taught me. And I go because I would still hate to disappoint him even now.
When he died, I spent over an hour on the phone with one of his daughters, whom I had met once or twice but did not know well. There we were, united by our grief, telling funny stories and laughing while we cried at the same time. She told family stories, I told training stories. Sensei didn't mix the dojo and his family life, so we were each hearing the stories for the first time. But we were clearly talking about the same guy - the stern family man with the goofy sense of humor and brilliant intellect.
My teacher, and others of his generation, began their budo training in the years before the Pacific War. Though the Edo period was a distant memory in Japan by the time they were born, the extraordinary changes in Japanese society after the mid 1940's created a clear separation in how people trained in koryu budo, and what it meant to them. More western influence and especially notions of competitive sport, along with a real and understandable concern for the survival of old art forms, has changed training. I'm not judging, I'm stating a fact. Good things may have been gained, but some good things have definitely been lost.
The problem with old masters, though, is they don't stay old masters for very long. They disappear. And a little piece of the world they were a part of disappears along with them.
So if you know an old master, whether of budo or something else, pay attention. Take him/her out for dinner, have coffee, sit and talk. Ask questions, and listen to the answers. You may realize how fortunate you are. Do it while there's still time.
I'm not talking about someone who has trained for 30 years, or some 40-something TKD teacher who started when he was six. Hell, I've trained for almost 30 years (more if you count my western fencing training), and I know I'm not a master. Old, maybe, sorta, but a master? Nope.
The old masters I'm thinking about have trained twice as long, at least - 60, 70, years. They're in their 80's or 90's, in varying states of health. They have more understanding of technique in their little fingers than the rest of us do in our whole bodies. Even better, they understand what they are doing, and why.
Some time ago, I looked at a very old video tape of one of my first demonstrations, which was held at a small dojo in New Jersey, in the 1980's. I remember we had a hell of a time finding the place (in the days before GPS) but I don't remember what the occasion was. In looking at myself on video (something I find uncomfortable even now) I noticed that I was trying very hard to do everything correctly as I had been taught, and, as a new student, I don't look too bad. At that time, I considered the sempai, who had about 3-4 years' seniority over me, as the "big kids." They certainly talked and acted like big kids, and, since I was new to this whole koryu budo thing, I believed them.
Only my teacher did his part in the demo with quiet grace and dignity. While the guys used to talk about him with great respect, none of them seemed to know him very well. It took some time for me to get to know him as more than the man who came in to okeiko, somewhat irregularly (his job kept him very busy), who told stories and sometimes made us repeat the same waza over and over again for a half hour or longer at a time. He never seemed happy with our progress, though he would let us stop after awhile, whether it was because he got tired of our relative mediocrity or decided we had hit our training wall for the night, I was never sure. I just knew I hated to disappoint him, so I kept trying.
When I did get to know him better, I was impressed by his humility. One time I came to see him on dojo business and before I could say anything he said, "Here, watch this. You've never seen anything like this before," and started the VCR. We watched an old, grainy film-to-video transfer of Nakayama Hakudo (a cleaned-up version is available on YouTube). In the film, Hakudo Sensei, clearly around 80 years old, both demonstrates and riffs (for lack of a better word) on Muso Shinden kata. I learned more about the meaning of practice in that one video than I had by studying for 10 years with my American sempai (and I realized later that it was not really their fault - 10 years is a literal drop in the bucket where koryu budo is concerned).
There were many other times like that. Once, when I visited him in the hospital, I noticed some books by his bedside. I asked him what he was reading. He said it was an account of the Ako Ogishi story (the story of the 47 Ronin). I knew the story in general, of course, but, thanks to sensei, I learned a great deal more after that. At his request, I went to Sengakuji, the temple in Tokyo where they are buried, to pay my respects. I still go there every time I go to Japan, and I have taken any number of hapless friends and students along with me. I go to honor him, and to try to give others a sense of what he taught me. And I go because I would still hate to disappoint him even now.
When he died, I spent over an hour on the phone with one of his daughters, whom I had met once or twice but did not know well. There we were, united by our grief, telling funny stories and laughing while we cried at the same time. She told family stories, I told training stories. Sensei didn't mix the dojo and his family life, so we were each hearing the stories for the first time. But we were clearly talking about the same guy - the stern family man with the goofy sense of humor and brilliant intellect.
My teacher, and others of his generation, began their budo training in the years before the Pacific War. Though the Edo period was a distant memory in Japan by the time they were born, the extraordinary changes in Japanese society after the mid 1940's created a clear separation in how people trained in koryu budo, and what it meant to them. More western influence and especially notions of competitive sport, along with a real and understandable concern for the survival of old art forms, has changed training. I'm not judging, I'm stating a fact. Good things may have been gained, but some good things have definitely been lost.
The problem with old masters, though, is they don't stay old masters for very long. They disappear. And a little piece of the world they were a part of disappears along with them.
So if you know an old master, whether of budo or something else, pay attention. Take him/her out for dinner, have coffee, sit and talk. Ask questions, and listen to the answers. You may realize how fortunate you are. Do it while there's still time.
Friday, March 6, 2015
The shutdown
A couple of days ago, I put up something slightly unusual on Facebook - a rather personal rant on the state of some U.S. policy. One of my erstwhile colleagues, whom I have not even shared comments with in a long time, responded to my rhetorical query "What's wrong with us?" (meaning the country) by saying that the answer to the question was in my query; i.e., there was something wrong with me. So I attempted to clarify a little, suggesting that U.S. voters often vote against their own interests (when they vote at all). My interlocutor once again persisted that my first rhetorical question suggested again that something was wrong with me.
Okay - so I was a little clumsy in my post (it's Facebook, not a dissertation - duh). The guy is an established writer with a correspondingly large ego, so his criticism was technically apt, though his spirit was decidedly - well - grumpy. The other responders actually took my post in the spirit in which it was rendered and variously gave their opinions on the subject. Since I could not break the syntax police blockade, I told the Writer that I accepted his rhetorical point.
But what has given me pause was what happened next; or rather, what didn't happen. I did not contribute anything else to the discussion - a discussion which I started myself. I was concerned that *anything* I might have said subsequently on the thread would have been subjected to the same type of shutdown my initial post had incited. So I said nothing.
The meaning of my post was clear to everyone else; in fact, it was also clear to my critic. I could have jumped in and added more to my commentary in response to the others who joined in, but I did not. Meanwhile, the Writer went back to the lurker shadows he had come from (actually, I believe it's a coffee shop somewhere in Canada). Mission accomplished. By sidestepping the content of my post and instead attacking the way in which I stated it, he had publicly shut me down.
I'm not interested in motive here. I have not seen this person for about 10 years. He puts essays up on FB for (mostly fanboy) comment. His budo world is slightly different from mine, so I don't often read his expositions; and when I do I don't offer much comment one way or the other. Most of the comments he does get are from his students, with content like you might expect. I have a lot of respect for the guy as a writer and a teacher, and considered us colleagues, if not friends. So his comments surprised me. I was not posting on some vital aspect of our respective practices; I was not even talking about military policy; I was talking about access to healthcare, fergodssake.
We have lately heard stuff about a backlash against women's autonomy, from Gamergate to male celebs and politicians pawing women in public. A few electronic reams have been laid out about the frozen smiles from the women being pawed, and what the pawing means. With all of the hand-wringing over this boorish behavior, not one has suggested a way to make it stop. I have a way, and I have used it when some guy tries to put his hands on me: any convenient variation on the taiji roll-back-and-press technique. It works, not least because the pawer in no way expects it. And subtle it's not.
Additionally, there has been a rise in people (not all men, either) referring to grown women, once again, as "girls." This was something I had hoped had gone the way of the dodo in the '80s (thirty years ago!). But here it is again. I generally offer a firm but polite remark: "I am not a girl. Please don't refer to me as one." The response to my reply has been shock, shock, I tell you. "I didn't mean it as an insult," is the most common response, and if I say the response is common, it's because it comes up often enough. Seriously, how can it not be an insult? No one refers to a grown man as a "boy," unless it's definitely an insult. No one has yet adequately explained to me why I should consider being referred to as a child to be a compliment (which is the second-most common response).
But now here's the literary shutdown from the Writer, a you-can't-express-yourself-properly-according-to-me-so-your-opinion-has-no-value remark. I am embarrassed to say I was so surprised I didn't have an adequate comeback. And just like those smiling, pawed-on women, I affected the FB equivalent of the glassy stare and gave in, in order to make it stop. To their credit, everyone else involved ignored him, and no one missed him when he bowed out, having "won" his point. But, obviously, I am still thinking about this. And, sooner or later (I hope sooner), I will come up with an unsubtle, written, roll-back-and-press response to this too.
Okay - so I was a little clumsy in my post (it's Facebook, not a dissertation - duh). The guy is an established writer with a correspondingly large ego, so his criticism was technically apt, though his spirit was decidedly - well - grumpy. The other responders actually took my post in the spirit in which it was rendered and variously gave their opinions on the subject. Since I could not break the syntax police blockade, I told the Writer that I accepted his rhetorical point.
But what has given me pause was what happened next; or rather, what didn't happen. I did not contribute anything else to the discussion - a discussion which I started myself. I was concerned that *anything* I might have said subsequently on the thread would have been subjected to the same type of shutdown my initial post had incited. So I said nothing.
The meaning of my post was clear to everyone else; in fact, it was also clear to my critic. I could have jumped in and added more to my commentary in response to the others who joined in, but I did not. Meanwhile, the Writer went back to the lurker shadows he had come from (actually, I believe it's a coffee shop somewhere in Canada). Mission accomplished. By sidestepping the content of my post and instead attacking the way in which I stated it, he had publicly shut me down.
I'm not interested in motive here. I have not seen this person for about 10 years. He puts essays up on FB for (mostly fanboy) comment. His budo world is slightly different from mine, so I don't often read his expositions; and when I do I don't offer much comment one way or the other. Most of the comments he does get are from his students, with content like you might expect. I have a lot of respect for the guy as a writer and a teacher, and considered us colleagues, if not friends. So his comments surprised me. I was not posting on some vital aspect of our respective practices; I was not even talking about military policy; I was talking about access to healthcare, fergodssake.
We have lately heard stuff about a backlash against women's autonomy, from Gamergate to male celebs and politicians pawing women in public. A few electronic reams have been laid out about the frozen smiles from the women being pawed, and what the pawing means. With all of the hand-wringing over this boorish behavior, not one has suggested a way to make it stop. I have a way, and I have used it when some guy tries to put his hands on me: any convenient variation on the taiji roll-back-and-press technique. It works, not least because the pawer in no way expects it. And subtle it's not.
Additionally, there has been a rise in people (not all men, either) referring to grown women, once again, as "girls." This was something I had hoped had gone the way of the dodo in the '80s (thirty years ago!). But here it is again. I generally offer a firm but polite remark: "I am not a girl. Please don't refer to me as one." The response to my reply has been shock, shock, I tell you. "I didn't mean it as an insult," is the most common response, and if I say the response is common, it's because it comes up often enough. Seriously, how can it not be an insult? No one refers to a grown man as a "boy," unless it's definitely an insult. No one has yet adequately explained to me why I should consider being referred to as a child to be a compliment (which is the second-most common response).
But now here's the literary shutdown from the Writer, a you-can't-express-yourself-properly-according-to-me-so-your-opinion-has-no-value remark. I am embarrassed to say I was so surprised I didn't have an adequate comeback. And just like those smiling, pawed-on women, I affected the FB equivalent of the glassy stare and gave in, in order to make it stop. To their credit, everyone else involved ignored him, and no one missed him when he bowed out, having "won" his point. But, obviously, I am still thinking about this. And, sooner or later (I hope sooner), I will come up with an unsubtle, written, roll-back-and-press response to this too.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
More on Rei
My colleague, the Budo Bum, wrote several blog posts recently that, like many of his posts, gave me some things to think about. In one post, on the subject or Rei (礼), generally described as bowing, or etiquette more generally, he started with the dictionary definition, then elaborated on the meaning of the word and some of its significance to budoka. In his second post, on budo virtues, he brought the word up again, and included something that I thought he should have made more of: Rei as a means of self-restraint. This one aspect of Rei needs more elaboration.
To begin with, I know it's common for those of us involved in koryu budo to lament the lack of courtesy in Western (especially U.S.) culture. And we have a point. But before we get carried away by the idea that Americans are clods, let's roll it back and consider the role of courtesy in sporting events, and, more importantly, its function. Before a boxing bout, contestants, unable to shake hands, touch gloves. Sports teams line up at the beginnings and ends of games to high-five each other. Fencers salute at the beginning and end of a match. We are so used to seeing these rituals, we don't consider their meanings very much. In fact, in much of televised sports, broadcasters don't even bother to show them. But these are important gestures that have meaning that go beyond tradition.
The gestures of courtesy in Western sports don't signify that the event the players have taken part in is "just a game." Even though one can make the case that shaking hands, saluting or high-fiving shows mutual respect among opponents, and that everyone has learned something from engaging in the contest, I think there is something else at work as well, which is even more important. Those courteous gestures are mechanisms of self-restraint. They allow individuals to literally calm down after a contest. They acknowledge the mutual humanity of the players.
Most non-Japanese who study traditional budo are familiar with Rei. Rei goes beyond simple bows to opponents before and after bouts, and even showing of mutual respect to teachers and fellow students. Western-style sports teams in Japan also line up after a game to bow to their opponents in a way that would serve just as well after a kendo or judo match. Courtesy is not just tradition, and it's not just culturally-specific.
Many years ago (many, many years ago), when I first moved to NYC, I was steeped in the myth that New Yorkers were rude - to each other and everyone they encountered. Imagine my surprise when I found out that was not in any way the case. Being polite, whether it was to bank clerks, deli workers or fellow subway riders, resulted not only in the gesture being returned, but achieved better results in encounters. Even something simple like removing a pair of sunglasses signifies that you want to deal with someone as a fellow human being, and changes the tenor of an encounter. Politeness turns down the heat and results, very often, in an expression of mutual humanity.
The styles of budo I engage in are potentially very dangerous and deadly. Because these styles all involve weapons the stakes are much higher than empty-hand techniques (as dangerous as those can be). A gesture made in anger can result in something much worse than someone being knocked to a mat. It is no accident that the styles I practice are practically overwhelmed with polite gestures (at least, they seem that way to outsiders). As a teacher, I do not let students blow off Rei at the beginning and end of class. Rei at the beginning and end of an iai class in particular is meant not just to show respect, Reishiki is designed to reassure the other participants that no one in a given practice intends anyone any harm. It sets off the practice time as being special in the sense that it is a safe space in which to learn from each other. Likewise, as in other partner practices, our partner kata begins and ends with Rei. Framing a practice in that way reminds everyone that tempers must always be held in check.
Rudeness produces a shutdown. It suggests to the other person that you are hostile, and you get hostility in return. I have seen this happen often enough, including in Japan. I have more than one time seen a non-Japanese person begin shouting (shouting!) at a clerk for misunderstanding him. The response is generally a steely glare and no other response at all. While I may understand the shouter's frustration, I know, as a New Yorker if for no other reason, that rudeness will not produce a solution to the problem. At best, it will produce nothing at all. In spite of the interpretation of Hollywood, it would be impossible to run a budo practice where etiquette is not properly observed.
At its worst, rudeness can bring on violence, which is why, the more potentially dangerous a budo practice is, the more elaborate the etiquette rituals become. As my colleague the Bum pointed out, Confucius considered Rei one of the Five Constraints. As important as all of the other aspects of Rei might be, inducing self-control might be the most important.
To begin with, I know it's common for those of us involved in koryu budo to lament the lack of courtesy in Western (especially U.S.) culture. And we have a point. But before we get carried away by the idea that Americans are clods, let's roll it back and consider the role of courtesy in sporting events, and, more importantly, its function. Before a boxing bout, contestants, unable to shake hands, touch gloves. Sports teams line up at the beginnings and ends of games to high-five each other. Fencers salute at the beginning and end of a match. We are so used to seeing these rituals, we don't consider their meanings very much. In fact, in much of televised sports, broadcasters don't even bother to show them. But these are important gestures that have meaning that go beyond tradition.
The gestures of courtesy in Western sports don't signify that the event the players have taken part in is "just a game." Even though one can make the case that shaking hands, saluting or high-fiving shows mutual respect among opponents, and that everyone has learned something from engaging in the contest, I think there is something else at work as well, which is even more important. Those courteous gestures are mechanisms of self-restraint. They allow individuals to literally calm down after a contest. They acknowledge the mutual humanity of the players.
Most non-Japanese who study traditional budo are familiar with Rei. Rei goes beyond simple bows to opponents before and after bouts, and even showing of mutual respect to teachers and fellow students. Western-style sports teams in Japan also line up after a game to bow to their opponents in a way that would serve just as well after a kendo or judo match. Courtesy is not just tradition, and it's not just culturally-specific.
Many years ago (many, many years ago), when I first moved to NYC, I was steeped in the myth that New Yorkers were rude - to each other and everyone they encountered. Imagine my surprise when I found out that was not in any way the case. Being polite, whether it was to bank clerks, deli workers or fellow subway riders, resulted not only in the gesture being returned, but achieved better results in encounters. Even something simple like removing a pair of sunglasses signifies that you want to deal with someone as a fellow human being, and changes the tenor of an encounter. Politeness turns down the heat and results, very often, in an expression of mutual humanity.
The styles of budo I engage in are potentially very dangerous and deadly. Because these styles all involve weapons the stakes are much higher than empty-hand techniques (as dangerous as those can be). A gesture made in anger can result in something much worse than someone being knocked to a mat. It is no accident that the styles I practice are practically overwhelmed with polite gestures (at least, they seem that way to outsiders). As a teacher, I do not let students blow off Rei at the beginning and end of class. Rei at the beginning and end of an iai class in particular is meant not just to show respect, Reishiki is designed to reassure the other participants that no one in a given practice intends anyone any harm. It sets off the practice time as being special in the sense that it is a safe space in which to learn from each other. Likewise, as in other partner practices, our partner kata begins and ends with Rei. Framing a practice in that way reminds everyone that tempers must always be held in check.
Rudeness produces a shutdown. It suggests to the other person that you are hostile, and you get hostility in return. I have seen this happen often enough, including in Japan. I have more than one time seen a non-Japanese person begin shouting (shouting!) at a clerk for misunderstanding him. The response is generally a steely glare and no other response at all. While I may understand the shouter's frustration, I know, as a New Yorker if for no other reason, that rudeness will not produce a solution to the problem. At best, it will produce nothing at all. In spite of the interpretation of Hollywood, it would be impossible to run a budo practice where etiquette is not properly observed.
At its worst, rudeness can bring on violence, which is why, the more potentially dangerous a budo practice is, the more elaborate the etiquette rituals become. As my colleague the Bum pointed out, Confucius considered Rei one of the Five Constraints. As important as all of the other aspects of Rei might be, inducing self-control might be the most important.
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