Writers are storytellers. I am no exception. Even though I am not happy to revisit this episode, the nine or so followers among the readers of this blog might like to know how the story of the New Guy ended.
The following jodo okeiko was huge, at least in our terms. All of the upper level people were there, and the New Guy sort of faded into the mix. Good, I thought. Maybe he was just nervous and is now finding his groove. Fine.
Or not. The following week found only three of us again, and again he could not keep his mouth shut. When I explained a slight difference in bunkai that differed from how he had been given to understand it (or how he thought he understood it), he rolled his eyes in exasperation. He was also incorrect in his assumption for why his way of doing the kata was somehow "better." I am the first person to admit my limited knowledge of jodo but I do know what I know. I am pretty good at learning things and above everything else, I trust my teachers and sempai. The sempai, to be honest, may miss on occasion, but never in a way that would seriously mislead. And I train with some of the top teachers on the planet. I decided to have a chat with him at the next okeiko - either shut up and get with the program or find some other group to train with.
In the interim I considered how I should talk to him. Ordinarily one would settle differences outside the room. That was the approach I decided to take. However, the next okeiko was also small, and again, he began "correcting" the student who was training with us. We blew him off until after the closing reishiki, at which point I began to tell him, in front of the other (by this time, very affronted) student, that we were studying a particular tradition of jodo. I was going to say that it may be slightly at odds with his experience, etc., but that he should get with the program if he wanted to continue, etc., but I did not get that far. No sooner did I get the above 1/2 sentence out then he went completely off. He began shouting at me. Among other things, he shouted that he was NOT trying to "take over the class," but "when I see a mistake, I'm going to correct it. After all, I've been doing this for a long time."
"So. Have. I." I hissed. Meanwhile thinking, oh buddy, you are so out of here...
He stormed out. Afterwards, my student remarked that he was unlikely to come back. I said, "You know what? I'm going to make sure." The next day, I fired off a short email to the sponsor (who is, by the way, also a student). I told him, briefly, what happened, and said, very clearly, that even though he was the sponsor I was only telling him the New Guy was not welcome and that I was not interested in his opinion. Budo training needs to be extremely polite or else things become very dangerous very quickly. I had always reserved the right to not teach someone I thought was unsuitable. We needed to get in touch with him and tell him.
To my complete surprise, the sponsor went completely "bro" on me (sorry, guys, but I'm not sure how else to put it). He said, "He didn't seem that bad to me."
I believe people near me when I read that saw the steam jetting out of my ears. I AM THIS GUY'S TEACHER, AND HE'S GOING TO ARGUE WITH ME. I understood that, as the sponsor, he was unhappy losing an additional class fee, but he totally forgot that he was also a student and his only proper response would be to trust my judgment and agree, even if reluctantly.
Incredibly, an email exchange between myself, my student/sponsor, and eventually a jodo sempai whom I brought in to back me up (not that I ever, ever should have needed him) went on all day. Finally, the sempai, who knew the New Guy's previous teacher, agreed to contact him to see if we could find out anything further about the New Guy's history. But here's the thing: I know from experience (see the first post on this subject) that violent, rude, abusive people are only that way with those whom they consider targets. With virtually everyone else, they can be perfectly well-behaved. "I don't care if this guy was a prince with his old teacher," I said. "He goes. That's it."
The effects of a rude, impolite student go beyond just aggravating the instructor. Two of the offended students were already making excuses for why they could not come, or could not stay, for jodo okeiko. If the sponsor thought he was going to lose one class fee for bouncing someone who was not appropriate, he was going to find out that losing an entire class would be a lot more fiscally painful. And the disintegration can come about very quickly. I needed to resolve this right away.
The response from the previous (or, as the person himself put it FORMER) teacher, was swift. The New Guy was so unsuitable, he had actually forbidden him to come to his okeiko. "Please extend my apologies to [the instructor]," he wrote, expressing some serious mortification. Vindication; though, as I said, it should not have been necessary at all.
Naturally, I was the one who had to let New Guy know he should look for another class. Maybe he has found one. I don't know. But, if previous experience is any guide, I tend to keep looking over my shoulder. He would not be the first person to come after me to personally express his frustration, let's say. And his former teacher mentioned his persistence. So I am careful not to leave the dojo by myself after okeiko, for now. The two students whom he let loose on were grateful to see him gone, and are back in class. Aside from questioning myself regarding the wisdom of having a sponsor, I have decided to let the issue go for now, since (I hope) it has been taken care of.
I have met many wonderful people, mostly gentlemen, given the one-sided nature of budo in the U.S., and many more excellent people in Japan through my practice. Unfortunately, there are some bad students out there, no matter where, and it is the responsibility of instructors to keep them out of their dojo. They owe it to their students as well as to themselves.
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
Friday, September 11, 2015
The bigots among us
Over the past year or so, I've unfriended FBers who expressed sexist, racist or homophobic opinions. Being aware that some pundits suggest we are limiting our exposure to others' opinions, I have done my best to be tolerant; but, eventually, inevitably, someone posts something that sets me off and - - I delete them from my feed, I hope forever.
The most recent unfriending took place this week when a sometime student who had sent me a friend request a few months ago put up an egregiously homophobic comment. I actually liked this guy - he was a lay minister and a teacher at a charter school who was very into the idea of empowering less-advantaged children. But, like any number of "conservative Christians" (as we call them), he considers homosexuality an abomination. After I unfriended him, I told the sponsor we should take him off of our dojo discussion group, both for the remark and the fact that after a few months he had stopped coming to okeiko anyway. My sponsor agreed (without an argument, for a change), especially after he saw the post. (News flash - not all budoka are straight.)
People's social opinions are no longer private. FB and related media are treated like people's living rooms, where they seem to feel comfortable expressing opinions and ideas that once were confined to personal discourse among family and real, not virtual friends. As a kid, I was aghast (along with much of the country) at the sitcom "All in the Family" for its very revealing Archie Bunker character - the casual working-class bigot who said exactly what he thought. The show started a national conversation about who Americans were, or thought they were - one of the few times a tv show had provoked such a reaction. As the series went on, Archie found out that people not like him are not so different in attitude (including that his black neighbor did not trust white people any more than Archie trusted blacks). Ultimately, his social views began to evolve. (I once heard that the actor who played him convinced the creators of the show that Archie should be portrayed as being more complex, which he ultimately was).
The thing that really bothers me is that the people I have been unfriending are fellow budoka, because that's what my FB list mostly consists of (along with family members and the occasional old high schoolmate). And it has set me to thinking: as budo teachers, do we have ethical responsibilities when it comes to deciding who we teach, or who we consider colleagues?
This is not a new topic. About 10 years ago, a group of budoka had a yearly forum at which they presented papers that addressed issues of sexism and other ethical topics as they related to their practice. One guy presented on a teacher who used his position of authority to sexually abuse a female student (he was caught, convicted and sent to jail for a few years). In another story, an aikidoka recommended a friend to his teacher, in spite of having an "edgy" temper. A few months later the guy disappeared. Upon inquiry, the aikidoka found out the guy had been arrested for using his newly acquired skills to put his wife in the hospital. The teacher was mortified, and the aikidoka was upset that he had recommended him, but until his arrest, he had no idea the person was violent or abusive.
In my own practice, I once refused to teach a guy who was mentally at least - if not also physically - abusing his girlfriend. My sempai at the time was irritated with me, because he noted that everyone involved was "an adult," and their private behavior was not my problem. I responded that the girlfriend was a victim and I was not going to teach someone capable of behaving in that way. (He was also disrespectful to me personally for Teaching While Female. Eventually, he and the sempai had a falling out and the issue became moot in any case.)
Koryu budo is a small world - I recently attended a seminar that was also attended by an "unfriend" who had expressed an obviously racist point of view, prompting me to delete him from my feed. I mentioned the episode to a few of the other people I was training with. The person is a disciplined budoka who is quite good at what he does; and, outside of a certain arrogance, is not a bad training partner either. But it's hard for me to have any kind of even casual relationship with him, knowing what I know. At the same time, I was not sure it was the right thing to "out" him to a couple of my colleagues. The sempai leading the seminar noted that he did not want to have a political discussion with him, but otherwise was ok teaching him. I am not. At the seminar, I was cordial and kept my distance.
My sponsor has said it's not his business to consider potential customers' points of view; even though, as a minority himself, he is not comfortable with racist remarks. I'm not comfortable either, and would prefer that any bigots lurking among my FB friends keep their opinions to themselves. But, unfortunately, the political discourse has recently made it okay for people to express their distrust of anyone not like themselves. Naively, they assume that their FB feed consists of users who think similarly. They now have one less "friend" who disagrees with them.
The most recent unfriending took place this week when a sometime student who had sent me a friend request a few months ago put up an egregiously homophobic comment. I actually liked this guy - he was a lay minister and a teacher at a charter school who was very into the idea of empowering less-advantaged children. But, like any number of "conservative Christians" (as we call them), he considers homosexuality an abomination. After I unfriended him, I told the sponsor we should take him off of our dojo discussion group, both for the remark and the fact that after a few months he had stopped coming to okeiko anyway. My sponsor agreed (without an argument, for a change), especially after he saw the post. (News flash - not all budoka are straight.)
People's social opinions are no longer private. FB and related media are treated like people's living rooms, where they seem to feel comfortable expressing opinions and ideas that once were confined to personal discourse among family and real, not virtual friends. As a kid, I was aghast (along with much of the country) at the sitcom "All in the Family" for its very revealing Archie Bunker character - the casual working-class bigot who said exactly what he thought. The show started a national conversation about who Americans were, or thought they were - one of the few times a tv show had provoked such a reaction. As the series went on, Archie found out that people not like him are not so different in attitude (including that his black neighbor did not trust white people any more than Archie trusted blacks). Ultimately, his social views began to evolve. (I once heard that the actor who played him convinced the creators of the show that Archie should be portrayed as being more complex, which he ultimately was).
The thing that really bothers me is that the people I have been unfriending are fellow budoka, because that's what my FB list mostly consists of (along with family members and the occasional old high schoolmate). And it has set me to thinking: as budo teachers, do we have ethical responsibilities when it comes to deciding who we teach, or who we consider colleagues?
This is not a new topic. About 10 years ago, a group of budoka had a yearly forum at which they presented papers that addressed issues of sexism and other ethical topics as they related to their practice. One guy presented on a teacher who used his position of authority to sexually abuse a female student (he was caught, convicted and sent to jail for a few years). In another story, an aikidoka recommended a friend to his teacher, in spite of having an "edgy" temper. A few months later the guy disappeared. Upon inquiry, the aikidoka found out the guy had been arrested for using his newly acquired skills to put his wife in the hospital. The teacher was mortified, and the aikidoka was upset that he had recommended him, but until his arrest, he had no idea the person was violent or abusive.
In my own practice, I once refused to teach a guy who was mentally at least - if not also physically - abusing his girlfriend. My sempai at the time was irritated with me, because he noted that everyone involved was "an adult," and their private behavior was not my problem. I responded that the girlfriend was a victim and I was not going to teach someone capable of behaving in that way. (He was also disrespectful to me personally for Teaching While Female. Eventually, he and the sempai had a falling out and the issue became moot in any case.)
Koryu budo is a small world - I recently attended a seminar that was also attended by an "unfriend" who had expressed an obviously racist point of view, prompting me to delete him from my feed. I mentioned the episode to a few of the other people I was training with. The person is a disciplined budoka who is quite good at what he does; and, outside of a certain arrogance, is not a bad training partner either. But it's hard for me to have any kind of even casual relationship with him, knowing what I know. At the same time, I was not sure it was the right thing to "out" him to a couple of my colleagues. The sempai leading the seminar noted that he did not want to have a political discussion with him, but otherwise was ok teaching him. I am not. At the seminar, I was cordial and kept my distance.
My sponsor has said it's not his business to consider potential customers' points of view; even though, as a minority himself, he is not comfortable with racist remarks. I'm not comfortable either, and would prefer that any bigots lurking among my FB friends keep their opinions to themselves. But, unfortunately, the political discourse has recently made it okay for people to express their distrust of anyone not like themselves. Naively, they assume that their FB feed consists of users who think similarly. They now have one less "friend" who disagrees with them.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
A dojo is not a class
So, the dog days of August are lingering into September. It's hot, it's humid,and, thanks to the wildfires in the West, it's hazy with pollution. Not much wind, and no rain to speak of - for months. Catalogs are showing up at my door with people in long sleeves, but it's 90F outside. Nice try.
It's also the week before Labor Day. People who have not taken a vacation all summer are taking one this week. This means not many people will be at okeiko tonight. Their absence is causing some angst for my sponsor.
Him: "If no one comes, we have to cancel class."
Me: "No we don't. Anyway, why don't you come to okeiko?"
Him: "Because I'll have to have the part-timer come in to manage while I'm at okeiko. I'll lose money since no one else is coming. So I will tell her not to come in and stay in the office myself."
Me: "We will not cancel. A dojo is not a class."
As basically everyone knows (though no one agrees on how quite to interpret it), the word dojo (道場) means, "a place to practice the way." And budo (武道), of course, is the "way of the warrior." Other writers (actually, many other writers) have discussed the meaning of these terms, and especially the word michi (道) at length, so let's just put it simply and say that our dojo is the place where we practice the way of the warrior. And the "way" involves historical, aesthetic, technical, spiritual and (perhaps mostly) personal aspects of a particular martial art or arts. In actuality, some aspects of the practice may be emphasized more than others, but that's okay. The goal of practice is to improve - mentally, physically, spiritually, personally - over time. Slow time. Years. A lifetime.
A dojo is not a class. It's a dojo. That means that, even if I am the only one there, there's okeiko, because I will practice on my own, no matter what. With all due respect to my sponsor - that bills need to be paid, etc., you cannot take the above paragraph and redefine it into a commercial transaction, no matter how important your motives for doing so; because once that happens, then it is no longer a dojo, and the meeting of the practitioners is no longer an okeiko.
My sponsor offers other classes. At one point he confessed to me that the other teachers are all over the map - if they are tired, no class. If they have other plans, no class. If they think no one else is coming, no class. The lack of consistency makes it difficult to build up regular attendance because the students (and prospective students) don't know from week to week whether there will be a class or not. I think it's because teaching for them is a potential means to an end (i.e., getting paid to do something that you care about deeply; though in this case, I can say that the pay issue is pretty nonexistent).
With all due respect to these teachers, teaching is an integral part of budo, which is why I don't just blow off practice based on some hunch as to how many people might be there. I used to think that teaching was just a way of giving back, of metaphorically if not literally thanking my teachers and seniors for teaching me, but now I know it is more than that. Teaching other people is not just a way of passing on knowledge, or giving back, it is part of what budo is. It's not just that the kohai ask questions that may require thought. Teaching gives depth and perspective to what you already know, or think you know. Annoyingly, it can also be a useful gauge for realizing how much you don't know.
So, yes, I would rather practice with other practitioners. While it's true that I can practice solo kata to my heart's content on my own, the difference between a monk's cell and a dojo is that there are other people around to work with. As an old sempai of mine once said, you can practice what you know (and I would say, improve up to a point) alone, but in order to learn new things, you need other people. We see evidence of this all the time, in daily life. When two old friends get together and begin to recall the same incident, their memories of the experience are enhanced as their recollections feed off of each other. While solitary thinking is excellent, it often takes more than one perspective to solve a problem. A dojo works in the same way.
So, while I am perfectly happy tonight to work alone, if that's what happens (and leave early for a change!), I hope some people are back from their wanderings (or not quite gone yet for the holiday weekend) and available to practice with me. But even if I am hitori de, my okeiko will be time well spent.
It's also the week before Labor Day. People who have not taken a vacation all summer are taking one this week. This means not many people will be at okeiko tonight. Their absence is causing some angst for my sponsor.
Him: "If no one comes, we have to cancel class."
Me: "No we don't. Anyway, why don't you come to okeiko?"
Him: "Because I'll have to have the part-timer come in to manage while I'm at okeiko. I'll lose money since no one else is coming. So I will tell her not to come in and stay in the office myself."
Me: "We will not cancel. A dojo is not a class."
As basically everyone knows (though no one agrees on how quite to interpret it), the word dojo (道場) means, "a place to practice the way." And budo (武道), of course, is the "way of the warrior." Other writers (actually, many other writers) have discussed the meaning of these terms, and especially the word michi (道) at length, so let's just put it simply and say that our dojo is the place where we practice the way of the warrior. And the "way" involves historical, aesthetic, technical, spiritual and (perhaps mostly) personal aspects of a particular martial art or arts. In actuality, some aspects of the practice may be emphasized more than others, but that's okay. The goal of practice is to improve - mentally, physically, spiritually, personally - over time. Slow time. Years. A lifetime.
A dojo is not a class. It's a dojo. That means that, even if I am the only one there, there's okeiko, because I will practice on my own, no matter what. With all due respect to my sponsor - that bills need to be paid, etc., you cannot take the above paragraph and redefine it into a commercial transaction, no matter how important your motives for doing so; because once that happens, then it is no longer a dojo, and the meeting of the practitioners is no longer an okeiko.
My sponsor offers other classes. At one point he confessed to me that the other teachers are all over the map - if they are tired, no class. If they have other plans, no class. If they think no one else is coming, no class. The lack of consistency makes it difficult to build up regular attendance because the students (and prospective students) don't know from week to week whether there will be a class or not. I think it's because teaching for them is a potential means to an end (i.e., getting paid to do something that you care about deeply; though in this case, I can say that the pay issue is pretty nonexistent).
With all due respect to these teachers, teaching is an integral part of budo, which is why I don't just blow off practice based on some hunch as to how many people might be there. I used to think that teaching was just a way of giving back, of metaphorically if not literally thanking my teachers and seniors for teaching me, but now I know it is more than that. Teaching other people is not just a way of passing on knowledge, or giving back, it is part of what budo is. It's not just that the kohai ask questions that may require thought. Teaching gives depth and perspective to what you already know, or think you know. Annoyingly, it can also be a useful gauge for realizing how much you don't know.
So, yes, I would rather practice with other practitioners. While it's true that I can practice solo kata to my heart's content on my own, the difference between a monk's cell and a dojo is that there are other people around to work with. As an old sempai of mine once said, you can practice what you know (and I would say, improve up to a point) alone, but in order to learn new things, you need other people. We see evidence of this all the time, in daily life. When two old friends get together and begin to recall the same incident, their memories of the experience are enhanced as their recollections feed off of each other. While solitary thinking is excellent, it often takes more than one perspective to solve a problem. A dojo works in the same way.
So, while I am perfectly happy tonight to work alone, if that's what happens (and leave early for a change!), I hope some people are back from their wanderings (or not quite gone yet for the holiday weekend) and available to practice with me. But even if I am hitori de, my okeiko will be time well spent.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
The New Guy
Last night was a very small class - times two. Between schedules and the overly hot weather (and the inadequate AC where I teach), much of my usual crowd took the week off. I don't mind a small class. Since it was so hot, we took it slow, and I was able to answer beginners' questions and demonstrate things that I often leave to the more senior students in the group (because *none* of the seniors were there! Ah, summer!)
We had a new student in the jodo class. I had seen the email from my sponsor warning me he was coming, but honestly, between the weather and my work schedule, I had entirely forgotten about him. He already had keikogi, hakama, and a jo, so I figured he had some past experience. Naturally, before we got started I asked him who his teacher was. He mentioned an American whose name I sort of recognized, but did not know personally, and mentioned (a) it had been years since he had practiced, and (b) he doubted the American was still teaching jodo anyway. Fine.
He had done seitei and the Koryu Omote, he said. This gentleman's kihon was a little rusty, though clearly, he had trained. He did some techniques in a decidedly Kendo Fed Jodo way. I am not being critical; but there are some differences in the kihon, which one notices. No matter. His hikiotoshi uchi was also rusty, and he tried to make up in power what he lacked in finesse. His feet were mostly incorrect; i.e., he had real trouble advancing with feet pointing straight ahead, and turned his back foot constantly (a normal condition for most people that can be corrected with some vigilant practice).
So it was me, the New Guy, and another relatively new student - a retired karateka who likes jodo and wants to stay active. It has taken him a long time to manage the rudiments of the kihon. By his own admission, it takes him a long time to understand basics. But after months of repetition, he is now getting somewhere, and he is finally beginning to follow along for the Omote kata.
The new guy picked up the Omote kata after seeing it, so clearly, he had some experience. We went at my other student's pace which was pretty slow, and given the heat, it seemed to suit everyone well enough. Except for one thing - the new guy could not stop offering corrections to my other student. Seeing as how there were only three of us, and we were all working together, his interjections were unwarranted and unwelcome. In addition, when I pointed out that his feet were misaligned, he said it was because of some other art form that he studied, as though that was a good enough explanation for poor footwork. So he felt free to offer corrections but made excuses for what he could not do himself.
One of the universals of being a female budo teacher is having some guy who hardly knows you come into your class and tell you what to do. If I had been a man, I could have told people to do cartwheels as part of the beginning of the kata, and he would have complied, in all likelihood. Even if he thought such a thing was strange, and that he might not care to come back, he would have gone through the class without comment.
I'm not the only one. Years ago, I had a grad school colleague who taught the rare Indian martial art form of Kalaripayatu. She lived in India for several years and found a guru who had only daughters, so he taught them, and her. Once she returned to the States, she set up classes. But she told me she had trouble keeping male students. Inevitably, after training with her for about four months, the guys would start telling her how to "better" run the class. She would kick them out.
It's possible the New Guy was just nervous. I know from walking into a new place for the first time that I sweat right through my underwear; however, I tend to say nothing and just try to pay attention to what's going on. The last thing I would do is correct students in front of a teacher. But, as I said, it's not the first time.
At the end of practice, my other student asked for advice on how to fold his new hakama. I showed him a unique travel fold I learned from a woman who did naginata. For once, the New Guy said nothing. "See?" my other student said to him, "She just showed you something you didn't already know." Sarcasm works.
I generally have a good group. People who don't want to be taught by a woman don't stick around, which suits me just fine. So this guy has two choices. He can come back, and shut up; or he can stop coming to class. We'll see which way it works out.
We had a new student in the jodo class. I had seen the email from my sponsor warning me he was coming, but honestly, between the weather and my work schedule, I had entirely forgotten about him. He already had keikogi, hakama, and a jo, so I figured he had some past experience. Naturally, before we got started I asked him who his teacher was. He mentioned an American whose name I sort of recognized, but did not know personally, and mentioned (a) it had been years since he had practiced, and (b) he doubted the American was still teaching jodo anyway. Fine.
He had done seitei and the Koryu Omote, he said. This gentleman's kihon was a little rusty, though clearly, he had trained. He did some techniques in a decidedly Kendo Fed Jodo way. I am not being critical; but there are some differences in the kihon, which one notices. No matter. His hikiotoshi uchi was also rusty, and he tried to make up in power what he lacked in finesse. His feet were mostly incorrect; i.e., he had real trouble advancing with feet pointing straight ahead, and turned his back foot constantly (a normal condition for most people that can be corrected with some vigilant practice).
So it was me, the New Guy, and another relatively new student - a retired karateka who likes jodo and wants to stay active. It has taken him a long time to manage the rudiments of the kihon. By his own admission, it takes him a long time to understand basics. But after months of repetition, he is now getting somewhere, and he is finally beginning to follow along for the Omote kata.
The new guy picked up the Omote kata after seeing it, so clearly, he had some experience. We went at my other student's pace which was pretty slow, and given the heat, it seemed to suit everyone well enough. Except for one thing - the new guy could not stop offering corrections to my other student. Seeing as how there were only three of us, and we were all working together, his interjections were unwarranted and unwelcome. In addition, when I pointed out that his feet were misaligned, he said it was because of some other art form that he studied, as though that was a good enough explanation for poor footwork. So he felt free to offer corrections but made excuses for what he could not do himself.
One of the universals of being a female budo teacher is having some guy who hardly knows you come into your class and tell you what to do. If I had been a man, I could have told people to do cartwheels as part of the beginning of the kata, and he would have complied, in all likelihood. Even if he thought such a thing was strange, and that he might not care to come back, he would have gone through the class without comment.
I'm not the only one. Years ago, I had a grad school colleague who taught the rare Indian martial art form of Kalaripayatu. She lived in India for several years and found a guru who had only daughters, so he taught them, and her. Once she returned to the States, she set up classes. But she told me she had trouble keeping male students. Inevitably, after training with her for about four months, the guys would start telling her how to "better" run the class. She would kick them out.
It's possible the New Guy was just nervous. I know from walking into a new place for the first time that I sweat right through my underwear; however, I tend to say nothing and just try to pay attention to what's going on. The last thing I would do is correct students in front of a teacher. But, as I said, it's not the first time.
At the end of practice, my other student asked for advice on how to fold his new hakama. I showed him a unique travel fold I learned from a woman who did naginata. For once, the New Guy said nothing. "See?" my other student said to him, "She just showed you something you didn't already know." Sarcasm works.
I generally have a good group. People who don't want to be taught by a woman don't stick around, which suits me just fine. So this guy has two choices. He can come back, and shut up; or he can stop coming to class. We'll see which way it works out.
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
That's entertainment
I just turned down a chance for a demo. I don't do that much, but this time was different. My sponsor wanted me and some other instructors to perform on JULY 4, at night, at the extreme end of one of our mighty five boroughs, "some time between 6pm and midnight." It would be good publicity for our classes, he said, and might attract some students from that area.
I said no, for obvious and more personal reasons. First: family - I was not about to ask people to give up precious holiday time for a 20-minute demo in Remotest Queens. Second: logistics - public transportation is a crap shoot on weekends to begin with. Add holiday schedules and one would be lucky to reach a remote destination in less than two hours. NYC closes highways for a public fireworks display (the best way to watch this is on TV, trust me), so car transport would be iffy as well, and parking without paying a fortune to a private lot would be nonexistent. Third: I have an event on Sunday, and getting back from Queens possibly as late as 3am would make that commitment very difficult to keep.
I have done some very odd things for the sake of performing in a demo. I have driven a crowd of budoka to Long Island, in increasingly bad weather, to perform on a streaming wet stage for a dwindling crowd, after waiting for 1-1/2 hours, well behind schedule. I have braved hyperactive security guards who suddenly think they can play hero and save the community college from a middle aged, pudgy person carrying a bag of sticks. We most recently performed at a park festival where they walled us off behind two layers of plastic fencing so the audience could barely see us (the guy who built the fence explained, "We don't want a lawsuit"). I have performed on linoleum floors, grass, plain dirt, concrete, carpet, asphalt, and, occasionally, wood and tatami. High school auditoriums, gyms, college stages, hotel ballrooms, basements, conference rooms, even a TV producer's office. I only have one rule - in keeping with my teacher's standard, the space has to be specially designated and not just a place where people can walk past and ignore us ("We are not circus performers," he once said, after refusing a demo where that single criteria could not be met).
My sponsor, as well as any number of budoka I have met, somehow think that performing in demos brings in students. I can almost unqualifiedly say that they do not. I am one of only two people I have ever met who started budo practice on the basis of a demo, and I had to think about it for two years before I actually signed up. And I've been doing this for a long time - if demos attracted students we'd have a legion by now.
Why do we do it? Mostly, it's a challenge. Back in the old days, when there was some possibility that budoka might have to actually use their skills in a practical way, there were many possible variables in terms of space, and the ground on which you might have had to defend yourself (or attack someone else). A modern demo also gives us an opportunity to adapt to unforeseen circumstances - of ground, light, weather, space. A demo is also a good opportunity to concentrate and learn something new. I learned the okuden level of my style because I volunteered to perform kata at a demo that the daisempai could no longer do, but he had to teach it to me first. Under many circumstances, a demo is a great opportunity to perform and learn new things. But it is not a recruiting tool.
The audience gets to learn a few things too; including that a martial art is not all punchy-kicky, but can actually be beautiful; that women can not only learn budo, they can also teach, and that aesthetics, philosophy and history can be an integral part of the learning experience. After our fenced-in demo, the organizer apologized and invited us to come back, without the fence next time. "I had no idea," she said. She knows now.
However, on July 4, the people of Queens will have to be content with the Fireworks Spectacular.
I said no, for obvious and more personal reasons. First: family - I was not about to ask people to give up precious holiday time for a 20-minute demo in Remotest Queens. Second: logistics - public transportation is a crap shoot on weekends to begin with. Add holiday schedules and one would be lucky to reach a remote destination in less than two hours. NYC closes highways for a public fireworks display (the best way to watch this is on TV, trust me), so car transport would be iffy as well, and parking without paying a fortune to a private lot would be nonexistent. Third: I have an event on Sunday, and getting back from Queens possibly as late as 3am would make that commitment very difficult to keep.
I have done some very odd things for the sake of performing in a demo. I have driven a crowd of budoka to Long Island, in increasingly bad weather, to perform on a streaming wet stage for a dwindling crowd, after waiting for 1-1/2 hours, well behind schedule. I have braved hyperactive security guards who suddenly think they can play hero and save the community college from a middle aged, pudgy person carrying a bag of sticks. We most recently performed at a park festival where they walled us off behind two layers of plastic fencing so the audience could barely see us (the guy who built the fence explained, "We don't want a lawsuit"). I have performed on linoleum floors, grass, plain dirt, concrete, carpet, asphalt, and, occasionally, wood and tatami. High school auditoriums, gyms, college stages, hotel ballrooms, basements, conference rooms, even a TV producer's office. I only have one rule - in keeping with my teacher's standard, the space has to be specially designated and not just a place where people can walk past and ignore us ("We are not circus performers," he once said, after refusing a demo where that single criteria could not be met).
My sponsor, as well as any number of budoka I have met, somehow think that performing in demos brings in students. I can almost unqualifiedly say that they do not. I am one of only two people I have ever met who started budo practice on the basis of a demo, and I had to think about it for two years before I actually signed up. And I've been doing this for a long time - if demos attracted students we'd have a legion by now.
Why do we do it? Mostly, it's a challenge. Back in the old days, when there was some possibility that budoka might have to actually use their skills in a practical way, there were many possible variables in terms of space, and the ground on which you might have had to defend yourself (or attack someone else). A modern demo also gives us an opportunity to adapt to unforeseen circumstances - of ground, light, weather, space. A demo is also a good opportunity to concentrate and learn something new. I learned the okuden level of my style because I volunteered to perform kata at a demo that the daisempai could no longer do, but he had to teach it to me first. Under many circumstances, a demo is a great opportunity to perform and learn new things. But it is not a recruiting tool.
The audience gets to learn a few things too; including that a martial art is not all punchy-kicky, but can actually be beautiful; that women can not only learn budo, they can also teach, and that aesthetics, philosophy and history can be an integral part of the learning experience. After our fenced-in demo, the organizer apologized and invited us to come back, without the fence next time. "I had no idea," she said. She knows now.
However, on July 4, the people of Queens will have to be content with the Fireworks Spectacular.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Why I train
Over the years I have studied koryu budo, many people have asked me why I train. I never seem to have a good answer for them. I remember one American teacher's wife in particular became really impatient with my standard answer ("I don't know"). Of course, she was sort of drunk at the time, but maybe in vino veritas.
Out of curiosity, I just put "why I train" in a search of these blog posts. I got about half of all of the entries in response. This suggests that (1) there is more than one answer to the question, and (2) these answers are subtle and complicated.
Going back to the beginning of my training, one reason I have not addressed very much in my other posts comes up. I was a fencer from my college days. I enjoyed it, but having only taken it up for a few years (instead of say, from high school), I was not that good at it. I would have LOVED to have started in high school, but since I grew up in a very rural area with very limited opportunities (on, seriously, ANY level), there simply was no opportunity to emulate my TV and movie heroes - Zorro, or The Three Musketeers, or Basil Rathbone (take THAT, Errol Flynn). Instead I watched movies (when possible) and read lots of books. I was very interested, as a kid, in stories about western chivalry (information on Asian culture was as sparse as anything about fencing where I grew up).
In any case, I moved to the Big City and after about a year of finding my bearings, I began fencing at Santelli's in the West Village. This was in the early 1980's, when New York was struggling to put its financial house in order, and the mean streets were definitely meaner than they are now.
One of my colleagues at the salle had all of these books on Zen. He first lent, and eventually gave, me all of them. I read them. Some, as I found out later, were not worth much, but others were classics. There was something comforting in the idea that one had to let go of basically everything in order to find peace. In my world, at the time, where literally anything bad could happen at any moment, these were very valuable ideas. The evidence was available practically everywhere I looked - the subway platform, where someone was pushed, or jumped, in front of a train; the kid who was murdered outside the deli on Broadway while the workers inside were too afraid of the commotion to call the police. Stories from people I met about their being mugged at knife point, or beat up. Letting go, especially of the fear of everyday life in dangerous surroundings was, I felt, a key to survival.
But there was something else. It is very difficult for people, including women, nowadays, to fathom the everyday gauntlet of stuff a young woman living on her own in NYC in the 1980's had to endure. I'm talking about daily harassment - all the time. There was the old guy who ran the elevator at the office building where I worked who tried to grope me every time I was alone with him. The men I worked for would daily tell me what a "good girl" I was. One married executive tried to force his way into my apartment by way of the noble guise of offering to take me home after an office event. There was no way to complain because there was no one to complain to. Rules and laws regarding workplace harassment did not exist. Women where I worked would comfort each other - or, in time-honored fashion, they would get married and quit for what they hoped was the safety of suburbia.
In addition, complete strangers in the street called me a "monkey-faced bitch", or threatened to "fuck me up" for no particular reason - maybe they were just having a bad day? Nowadays, women launch Twitter movements because construction workers say hello to them, or, maybe ask them to smile. Seriously, people, you have no idea.
So I would go to work, go to the salle, go to the movies, go on dates, go to rehearsal (when I had one) and come home, seething with impotent rage. I mean full-on, howling rage. All of the Zen books in the world were not enough.
I took up iaido because, one night, I saw the man who would become my teacher perform a demonstration at an art movie house on Bleeker Street. It wasn't just beautiful - it was serene. All the same, I thought about it for two years, because I knew there would be huge changes in my life if I decided to pursue it. When I eventually did start training, I discovered several important things. One was that I could learn to express (at least on a crude level) the beauty that I saw in my teacher. The next was that I was learning tactics and strategies to deal with potential situations. The things I was learning in that regard had nothing to do with carrying a sword around - those lessons apply practically anywhere, as any experienced iaidoka can tell you. The third was that the sense of palpable rage that I often felt from the circumstances of my daily life at the time was somehow mitigated. Did I fantasize about decapitating some asshole whom I had never met who threatened to rape me for no particular reason? You betcha. But not as often as I was able to just let the whole thing go. It's not that I felt sympathy for someone else's anger (hell no). I was actually able to feel nothing at all.
New York is, overall, a much calmer (and duller, for that matter) place now. I am older, and so I am not nearly the target for unwanted attention that I used to be. Most happily, work culture has changed to the point where men in particular are compelled (for the most part) to be more polite. But there are still times, as when I am on a slow-moving rush hour train and someone vents their frustration, whether on me, or some other passenger, when I remember the value of what I am learning - how to have a calm mind. And seeking that sensibility is one of the most important reasons why I train.
Out of curiosity, I just put "why I train" in a search of these blog posts. I got about half of all of the entries in response. This suggests that (1) there is more than one answer to the question, and (2) these answers are subtle and complicated.
Going back to the beginning of my training, one reason I have not addressed very much in my other posts comes up. I was a fencer from my college days. I enjoyed it, but having only taken it up for a few years (instead of say, from high school), I was not that good at it. I would have LOVED to have started in high school, but since I grew up in a very rural area with very limited opportunities (on, seriously, ANY level), there simply was no opportunity to emulate my TV and movie heroes - Zorro, or The Three Musketeers, or Basil Rathbone (take THAT, Errol Flynn). Instead I watched movies (when possible) and read lots of books. I was very interested, as a kid, in stories about western chivalry (information on Asian culture was as sparse as anything about fencing where I grew up).
In any case, I moved to the Big City and after about a year of finding my bearings, I began fencing at Santelli's in the West Village. This was in the early 1980's, when New York was struggling to put its financial house in order, and the mean streets were definitely meaner than they are now.
One of my colleagues at the salle had all of these books on Zen. He first lent, and eventually gave, me all of them. I read them. Some, as I found out later, were not worth much, but others were classics. There was something comforting in the idea that one had to let go of basically everything in order to find peace. In my world, at the time, where literally anything bad could happen at any moment, these were very valuable ideas. The evidence was available practically everywhere I looked - the subway platform, where someone was pushed, or jumped, in front of a train; the kid who was murdered outside the deli on Broadway while the workers inside were too afraid of the commotion to call the police. Stories from people I met about their being mugged at knife point, or beat up. Letting go, especially of the fear of everyday life in dangerous surroundings was, I felt, a key to survival.
But there was something else. It is very difficult for people, including women, nowadays, to fathom the everyday gauntlet of stuff a young woman living on her own in NYC in the 1980's had to endure. I'm talking about daily harassment - all the time. There was the old guy who ran the elevator at the office building where I worked who tried to grope me every time I was alone with him. The men I worked for would daily tell me what a "good girl" I was. One married executive tried to force his way into my apartment by way of the noble guise of offering to take me home after an office event. There was no way to complain because there was no one to complain to. Rules and laws regarding workplace harassment did not exist. Women where I worked would comfort each other - or, in time-honored fashion, they would get married and quit for what they hoped was the safety of suburbia.
In addition, complete strangers in the street called me a "monkey-faced bitch", or threatened to "fuck me up" for no particular reason - maybe they were just having a bad day? Nowadays, women launch Twitter movements because construction workers say hello to them, or, maybe ask them to smile. Seriously, people, you have no idea.
So I would go to work, go to the salle, go to the movies, go on dates, go to rehearsal (when I had one) and come home, seething with impotent rage. I mean full-on, howling rage. All of the Zen books in the world were not enough.
I took up iaido because, one night, I saw the man who would become my teacher perform a demonstration at an art movie house on Bleeker Street. It wasn't just beautiful - it was serene. All the same, I thought about it for two years, because I knew there would be huge changes in my life if I decided to pursue it. When I eventually did start training, I discovered several important things. One was that I could learn to express (at least on a crude level) the beauty that I saw in my teacher. The next was that I was learning tactics and strategies to deal with potential situations. The things I was learning in that regard had nothing to do with carrying a sword around - those lessons apply practically anywhere, as any experienced iaidoka can tell you. The third was that the sense of palpable rage that I often felt from the circumstances of my daily life at the time was somehow mitigated. Did I fantasize about decapitating some asshole whom I had never met who threatened to rape me for no particular reason? You betcha. But not as often as I was able to just let the whole thing go. It's not that I felt sympathy for someone else's anger (hell no). I was actually able to feel nothing at all.
New York is, overall, a much calmer (and duller, for that matter) place now. I am older, and so I am not nearly the target for unwanted attention that I used to be. Most happily, work culture has changed to the point where men in particular are compelled (for the most part) to be more polite. But there are still times, as when I am on a slow-moving rush hour train and someone vents their frustration, whether on me, or some other passenger, when I remember the value of what I am learning - how to have a calm mind. And seeking that sensibility is one of the most important reasons why I train.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
The fallacy of single-minded practice
Many years ago, I was in Taipei for a conference at the National Theatre. At noontime, I would go to a nearby park to have lunch, trying to beat both the searing heat that is Taipei in July and the corresponding freezing air conditioning indoors.
The park - New Park - featured lots of outdoor activities. A couple of times during lunch I watched a kungfu group practice. Most of the students practiced in pairs or small groups, except for one American guy. He practiced alone. He did fantastic, almost crazy things - leaping into the air, landing on his shoulder or hip, spinning in the dirt. Within about 1/2 hour, his black practice outfit was brown with dust, and he dripped with sweat. I wrote to a friend of mine at the time that the guy reminded me of one of the crazier students in our home dojo. We had one dojo mate who practiced more, and harder, than anyone else. He was there during my first trip to Japan, along with another sempai. Throughout the trip, he insisted on wearing a happi coat. He tried very hard to speak Japanese, but, since he studied from books and not with an actual teacher, he frequently got things wrong. Our Japanese hosts were exceedingly polite, but they admitted they thought he was eccentric. (In private, they were probably laughing their butts off; at least, I hope they were.)
I asked someone in Taipei about the crazy kungfu practitioner. "Oh, that guy? Yeah, he practices by himself. He's sort of intense. He kept hurting his training partners, so the sifu said he could stay in the group as long as he kept to himself." My stateside dojo mate also was so intense, he kept hurting his kendo partners. He thought it was a normal part of practice. No one agreed with him, but, at the time, we had no regular teacher for kendo. We just tried to avoid him to the extent possible.
What both of these guys - the crazy kendo guy and the crazy kungfu guy - lacked, was perspective. They focused so single-mindedly on their practice that they ignored everything (and everyone) else. In the process, they became isolated from other people, and, at the same, time, did not really advance very far in their respective arts. Both this style of kungfu and (naturally) kendo needed sparring partners in order to gain skill. Since no one would train with either of them, their ability to learn was limited. Their single-mindedness made their practice more about themselves than about one of the ostensible goals of practice; that is, to continue to improve.
Single-minded devotion to budo practice (I am using kendo, a martial sport, as an example, but I could just as easily sub in some non-competitive style) to the exclusion of everything else is just as unhealthy as a colleague I knew who lived for her job to the exclusion of every other type of interaction. One needs to find balance. But what form should that balance take? And how does this problem arise in the first place?
To begin with, we should consider who these people - the crazy kendoka, the crazy kungfu practitioner, and even the crazy overworker - were. They were all Americans. I know plenty more, including a budo teacher who insists on such a high participation rate for his students that they spend all of their free time in the dojo. Their technique is really good, but then, it should be. And everyone here in the U.S. thinks this teacher is somehow superior to others, because of his demanding nature. But here's the thing. No one in Japan trains like that. And Japan is where budo originated. Even the samurai, unless they were training for some imminent conflict, were studying tea, calligraphy, dance, poetry or other art form. Their budo training was part of their job, which, by the Edo Period, also included some sort of government function. The rest of their time was their own. My old Japanese kendo teacher never practiced with us on Sundays, because that was "family time." I remember the American sempai used to blame his wife for interfering with his practice, but maybe he enjoyed that time with his kids. He wasn't crazy - they were.
I lived in Japan for a short time as a student. I was able to attend the dojo more than some of my Japanese colleagues, because I was in a relatively privileged position - no family around, and I was able to set my own schedule. I was also able to observe the other students, who simply came to okeiko whenever they were able. During breaks, they talked about their jobs and their families and whatever other things interested them. Budo was not a profession or an intense hobby, it was a part of their cultural existence; and, as such, was not the sole focus of their lives.
But Americans are different - we long so much for identity that we are happy to latch on and suck dry whatever role life offers us. You can't just be an M.D. who wants to help people; you have to be a surgeon, or at least a specialist, where the intensity and the concentration are potentially overwhelming. And we reward the specialists over the generalists with greater status and more money. The idea of integrated medicine has so far been forgotten it is being reintroduced in med schools. (It took a chiropractor who studied whole body integration to figure out my chronic headaches were originating in my shoulder. The neurologists offered me pain pills.)
It's not for nothing that the only Americans who seem really interested in "work-life balance" are women with children, and the argument keeps getting marginalized for that reason. American workers are what their jobs are; how dare anyone suggest that there needs to be a balance between your job and your life (unless, of course, it is to take on the "other" job of parenting. And the people who do so are considered less "serious" than their single-minded coworkers).* The same thing seems to apply, for some people, to their budo practice. And they disparage other people's practices as being inferior because they are not working as hard.
This single-mindedness affects the prospective students who come into my dojo. They think the students there must be making a major life commitment, and, since they already have lives, they don't sign up because they can't devote themselves entirely to okeiko (thanks, hard-assed teachers who demand lots of practice time!). I try to make them understand that none of us really do that, and it's not necessary, as long as people come as consistently as they can, but they're too American. They have no balance. All I can do is give them the most positive experience I can. I hope they change their minds at some point, but I doubt that they will.
I sometimes get apologetic students who have to drop out of practice for a shorter or longer time, whether for school, family or work reasons. I remind them that our practice has been around for about 400 years and will still be there when they get back. Sometimes I worry that they think I am being facetious, but I'm not. Do I wish they would come to okeiko more often? Of course. But as much as I enjoy practice, I limit my time there. I have other things to do.
-----------------
*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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)