Just before the class ended, Sensei mentioned that there was a karate seminar that weekend in Hamilton. His sensei's sensei, from California, would be teaching. Anyone interested in attending could talk to Sensei about it after class.
I was surprised that I was the only person in the dojo who was interested. Sensei and I discussed it. He decided that I would meet him in a parking lot at the university. I would leave my car there and he would drive us both. I was grateful for that because I'd never been to Hamilton before.
I met Sensei early on Saturday morning. The car ride felt a little awkward at first because I'd never had a long conversation with him. Before that, any dialogue we had consisted of my asking a question at the dojo, and his answering it. As the drive continued, conversations flowed.
I asked a lot of questions about the man who would be teaching, and if there was anything I needed to know before we arrived. I'm curious by nature, and I like to be prepared for new situations. The sensei's name was Richard Kim. He was the founder of the organization we belonged to. The protocols and procedures would be the same as in our dojo.
It was almost forty years ago, so I don't remember the specific techniques or kata that were taught. What does stand out in my mind was the teaching style of Sensei Kim. It was different from anything I had experienced in a dojo.
Rather than standing at the front of the class to demonstrate, he would say 'come around'. The students would form a circle around him. Those at the front would sit, while others stood behind. That made it easier for everyone to see what he was doing.
He not only demonstrated techniques, but he also explained them clearly. He showed the how and gave the why. He also said what not to do, and the reason for it. This required more than just practicing the physical techniques. It required thinking. I liked that.
After the training session, we changed into our regular clothes and went back into the room. There were chairs set up in rows. We sat and listened while Sensei Kim gave a lecture. That was the first time I'd experienced that in the martial arts.
I was intrigued by the topics he talked about. I didn't understand everything because it was new information. He talked about the history and philosophy of the martial arts. And this man was lecturing at the level of a university professor.
One thing I remember was his saying that karate was 70% physical, and 30% mental and emotional. That caught my attention. The degree I was working on was in psychology. When I heard those words, two important areas in my life converged, my university studies and my martial arts training.
I had hoped to attend future seminars and lectures taught by Sensei Kim, but my sensei never made mention of them again. My focus was on my studies. I continued to train at the dojo throughout my time at the university. It gave me the physical and mental stress release I needed. Over time, I forgot about the man I thought of as 'The Professor'.
I had no way of knowing then that, in the years to come, I would become one of Sensei Kim's students. He was the most influential martial arts teacher in my life, and the last.
© Debra J. Bilton. All rights reserved.
As usual, I arrived early at the dojo. I looked around and was surprised that Sensei wasn't there. That was unusual. He was always there. I hoped he was running late.
As the start time for class approached, I realized he wasn't coming. The senior black belt on the floor was in charge. He told us to line up, which we did. After the formal class opening, we spread apart on the dojo floor, ready for the warm-up exercises.
The senior black belt stood at the front of the room, facing us. Rather than start the class, he took it upon himself to share an opinion that he felt strongly about. He said, "Women don't belong in a dojo. They belong at home, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen."
At first, I thought I hadn't heard him right. Then I thought he might be joking. His body language said otherwise. His clenched fists were firmly planted on his hips. His shoulders were hunched up just below his ears. His scowling face was beet red as he glared at me.
Since I was the only woman in the dojo, it was clear that his message was meant for me. There was dead silence in the room. You could have heard a pin drop.
Before I continue with what happened, let me share a bit of my backstory. I grew up with two brothers, in a neighborhood full of boys. The worst insult you could give someone was, "You're acting like a girl!" I hurled that insult as often and as loudly as anyone else did. It was a sink or swim situation. I learned to swim.
When I was in high school, I thought it would be useful to take the automobile mechanics course as an elective. Although I wasn't driving yet, one day I would, and having a basic understanding of how a car works made sense. When I told my father I was taking the course, he laughed and said, "Girls can't take auto mechanics."
So, I registered for the class. Including myself, there were three young women in the class. I was the only one who completed the course, with the second-highest mark in the class. To my father's credit, he never again told me I couldn't do something because I was a 'girl'.
As an aside, the auto mechanics teacher declared a competition during one class. He was always doing things like that, where you could earn extra marks. During this particular class, we each had to dismantle and then reassemble a differential. All we had to go by was a picture of one that was dismantled and labeled.
As I took it apart, I laid it out exactly as it was in the picture. I finished and put my hand up. The teacher came over, looked at what I'd done, and verified that the differential was dismantled. As I reassembled it, I kept visually referring to the picture. When I was done, I put my hand up again. The teacher came over and verified that I had properly reassembled it.
I had been focusing on the task at hand and ignored what everyone else was doing. Now I looked around and saw a room filled with chaos and mayhem. There were parts strewn everywhere. Some had their parts mixed up with other people's parts. And to make matters worse, the teacher had a rule that if you used profane language, he deducted marks. A lot of marks were deducted that day. And, I was the second person in the class who completed the task.
Back to the dojo. The senior black belt stood glaring at me. I'd dealt with his old world view, of women and their place in society, many times in the past. Like water on a duck's back, his words rolled off me. Besides, I wasn't there for him. I was there for me.
I'm not sure what he expected me to do. Cry? Breakdown and run out of the room? There was a fat chance of that happening. Instead, I stood still and calmly stared him in the eyes. That seemed to fuel his anger.
It was a staring stand-off. I could wait him out. If need be, I'd stand there for the entire class. Besides, at some point, he had a class to teach. The onus was on him. After what felt like an eternity, and was probably only ten to fifteen seconds, he broke his stare and looked away. The class resumed.
I put a little more energy into my workout that night. His behavior had the opposite of his intended effect. I was more determined than ever to continue training in that dojo.
I never said a word to anyone about that night, not even to the sensei. I saw it as one more challenge in life that I had to meet head-on and overcome. I was a member of that dojo for three and a half years. Over time, the senior black belt was civil to me. I guess he accepted that I wasn't going away. I was always as polite and respectful to him as I needed to be. Nothing more and nothing less.
That was over thirty-five years ago. I am still a member of the same martial arts organization, and I belong in the dojo.
I'm also a good cook in the kitchen.
© Debra J. Bilton. All rights reserved.
It was grading night at the dojo, for the kyu belt ranks only. All the dojos I've belonged to have used the Judo kyu/dan system. There are six kyu levels or ranks before the dan or black belt levels. The kyu belt colors, in order of lowest to the highest rank, are white, yellow, orange, green, blue, and brown.
I was looking forward to my first grading. I'd practiced the techniques and the kata (form, pattern of movements) required for my grading. I was ready. I knew the material so well that other students would ask me to practice with them before class, just to review the kata. I was happy to oblige. The more practice, the better.
Those who were grading performed the basics as a group. For the katas, each person was to demonstrate that alone. I sat on the floor at the edge of the dojo, waiting for my turn. Sensei called me up. I walked to the place on the floor where I was to start from. I bowed and announced the name of the kata. Sensei nodded his head to indicate that I begin.
I moved into yoi (ready) position and then started moving through the kata. A few moves in, my mind went blank. My brain, and subsequently my body, froze. As hard as I tried, I couldn't retrieve the next move from my memory. Sensei told me to start again. I did, and the same thing happened. The third time didn't go any better. Sensei told me to sit down.
I was frustrated with myself. I had never experienced stage fright before. Then again, I'd never physically performed as an individual in public. I'd only done so as part of a group. I wasn't used to being the center of attention, and it made me feel uncomfortable.
After the grading was over, Sensei called me over to him. He asked what had gone wrong. I told him I didn't know. He said that he knew that I knew the kata. He had watched me do it many times. He told me that he was promoting me to the next rank this time, and if I ever did that again, he would fail me. I thanked him. Although Sensei promoted me to the next kyu belt level, I knew I had failed.
Years later, I was to be interviewed for television about the Tai Chi classes I taught. Before it started, the reporter asked me a few questions to set up the interview. I was calm and relaxed until the interview began.
As soon as the first question left her mouth, I was wide-eyed with a deadpan expression on my face. My voice was robotic and stilted. The woman kept asking questions in the attempt to help me loosen up and talk more freely, to no avail.
To make matters worse, the footage was aired on the newscast that night. It was painful to watch. Yes, it was as bad as I thought it would be.
A few years ago, I was traveling with our martial arts organization in Los Angeles. In addition to attending martial arts events, we went to the Magic Castle. It's a private magicians' club. The head of our organization is a member, and he wanted us to experience this venue.
We arrived at the club, dressed in our finery. After we ate a splendid meal, we toured around looking at the different displays that recounted the history of magic. Then we went to an auditorium where a magician was to perform a magic show.
I'd never been to a live show, so I was pretty excited to be in the audience. I was enjoying the show until 'it' happened. The magician stated that he needed an assistant to help him with the next part of his act. He asked if the lady in the red dress would come on stage to help him.
I wanted to emphatically shake my head no to decline, but my body was frozen. I could hear some members of our group loudly encouraging me to get on the stage. Why did I wear the red dress??? It singled me out. I could feel my mind going blank.
And then something new happened. I decided to not give into the stage fright. I had to look at what I was experiencing differently than I had in the past.
First, I needed to reframe it in my mind. I said to myself, "This is probably the only opportunity you will ever have to stand on a stage with a magician." Next, I needed to think of someone with a good stage presence to emulate. I saw a picture of her in my mind. Then I said to myself, "I am channeling my inner Vanna White."
I stood up and confidently walked up the stairs and onto the stage. I focused all of my attention on the magician and followed his instructions. I lived in the moment. It also helped that the stage lights were so bright that I couldn't see the audience.
Getting off the stage was another problem. The lights were so bright, I couldn't see the stairs to walk down them. I paused, trying to visually discern the location of the first step. Fortunately, the magician was good at reading body language (as I'm sure they all are). He walked over to me, held my left hand, and guided me down the stairs. Thank goodness chivalry was not dead.
Although my stage fright initially led me to failure, it taught me lessons over time:
1) I learned how to turn a weakness into a strength, by challenging my belief system.
2) When you live in the moment, fully present, there is no fear.
3) Being a magician's assistant was fun.
3) The red dress was the best apparel purchase I've ever made,
The most important lesson I've learned in the martial arts is that many of the battles you fight in life are within yourself.
Addendum: After reading this post, one of my students asked if I had passed my next grading. The answer is yes.
Next week: I Belong Here
© Debra J. Bilton. All rights reserved.
I knew I wanted to continue studying the martial arts while I was attending university. It would bring a balance to my academic studies and help me to manage stress. Ju-Jitsu wasn't taught on campus, and I'd tried Aikido for a semester, but it wasn't a good fit for me.
So I went back to the list of extra-curricular activities offered at the athletic center. Let's see....karate. I knew it involved kicking and punching. We'd done some of that at the Ju-jitsu dojo. What the heck, I'd give that a try.
The first night, I arrived early. The sensei was already there, along with some black belt students. I watched as the rest of the class filtered in. Then the sensei began the class by telling us to line up.
We lined up in order of rank. The person with the highest rank is at the far right. Everyone else stands to the left of the person who is of a higher rank. Being my first night in attendance, I stood at the end of the line, wearing a white belt.
Although I had a higher rank in Ju-jitsu, I chose to wear a white belt because I was new to this martial art. I had read that this was proper etiquette. To do otherwise would have been disrespectful. You only get one chance to make a good first impression. I didn't want to blow that on the first night.
After the formal opening of the class, we did the warm-up and stretching exercises. This was followed by the repetitive practice of basic techniques. It was so much better than I'd imagined it would be. In addition to the kicks and punches, there were blocks and strikes and proper stances.
The class was challenging. It tested my endurance physically, mentally, and emotionally. Learning the new movements felt awkward and right at the same time. Karate felt like a form of exercise with meaning and purpose. There was a reason for every movement you executed, and you needed to learn how to do each one correctly. I knew this was an environment where I could thrive.
After the class ended, the sensei called me over to him and asked what my previous training had been. After I told him, he said that I could wear the colored belt of my rank in Ju-jitsu. I respectfully declined and requested his permission to begin as a white belt and earn my way through the ranks. He agreed.
I went back to the next class, and the class after that. I enjoyed everything about karate. You trained as an individual, with a partner, and within a group. There was no competition. Everyone gave their best and worked together.
The structure, discipline, and etiquette helped to ground me throughout my time at the university. When I was in the dojo, I always knew what was expected of me. There was never any uncertainty or awkwardness, as there is in some social settings. It was always consistent and reliable.
Out of the three martial arts I had studied up to that point, karate was the one that felt the most comfortable to me. I'm glad I kept looking for the right one. The third time was a charm.
Next week: Learning from Failure
© Debra J. Bilton. All rights reserved.
I began studying the martial arts to learn how to defend myself, prior to moving to Toronto to attend college. As it turned out, I didn't go to college. Instead, I went to the University of Guelph. Writing about the reason for this seemed more fitting in my Dog Blog. I wrote about it in these two posts, Part 1 and Part 2.
I started midway through the academic year, and I drove back and forth from home every day. I continued my training in Ju-jitsu during that time and the following summer. From my second semester onward, I lived in Guelph.
I wanted to continue my martial arts training. Ju-jitsu was not offered as an extra-curricular activity on campus. I looked at what was offered, and Aikido seemed to be the most similar.
I was the newest member of the Aikido class. Classes were held on two nights during the week. Shortly after I joined, a guest sensei from Boston came to teach a Saturday morning seminar. He was an older Japanese man. A few of his black belt students were with him. One was a petite, Japanese woman, in her mid to late twenties.
When practicing with a partner, you rei (bow) to each other before and after your practice. You move your left leg beside your right, bring your hands to your sides, and bow from the waist. There's an unspoken level of trust in this. You each bow before the practice, to indicate you will do your best and will not intentionally hurt your partner. You bow after to show gratitude to each other.
I can't remember the specific technique being taught during the seminar. All I can remember is that when you applied it to your partner, he or she flew over your shoulder and landed on their back. I also don't remember my doing the technique. I think I was given the option of watching, given my lack of experience.
The guest sensei taught and demonstrated the technique. Next, one person was designated to apply the technique. Another person stood facing him or her. This was to be the attacker. The other students stood in a line behind the attacker, awaiting their turn.
The person at the head of the line would attack, and the recipient would use the technique to defend themselves. When done, the person attacking would get up and go to the back of the line. The next person would attack, and so on, until everyone in the line had attacked.
The person who had responded with the technique would then walk to the back of the line. The first person would then walk forward, turn to face the line, and prepare for the attack. This continued until everyone had the opportunity to stand at the front and execute the technique to each person in line.
The person now facing the front of the line was from our dojo. He was big and brawny. He did the technique with the first few men who played the attacker role. The next person at the front of the line was the Japanese woman. He responded to her approach with brute force. He slammed her hard onto the mat. Everyone knew he had done it intentionally.
The room was quiet as she quickly got up off the mat. She faced him, smiled sweetly, and bowed to him. I was impressed with her composure.
Eventually, it was her turn to face the line. I watched her closely. Her execution of the technique was flawless. It looked effortless. I realized she was the best student on the floor.
Big and brawny was now standing at the front of the line. His body language was tense. I knew he would do everything he could to make this difficult for her. He lunged towards her, using all his strength, and using his weight to increase his momentum. I held my breath, concerned for her.
I was surprised that a human body that size could be airborne at that height, and travel that distance. His body hit the ground half way across the dojo floor. It was not a graceful landing. It was a loud splat. He didn't move at first. I think he had the wind knocked out of him. Then, he turned and looked at her with a shocked expression on his face.
She waited until he picked himself up off the ground, and walked to stand in front of her. She smiled sweetly, and bowed to him. Then, she turned to face the next person in line. He was the only one she did that to.
Here are the lessons I learned from that seminar:
1) If you choose to behave like a jerk, you will always get your comeuppance. Sometimes sooner than you'd expected.
2) A visiting sensei usually brings his/her most advanced students. It's best to be polite and respectful to guests in your dojo.
3) Don't judge a book (or a petite Japanese woman) by its cover.
4) Proper technique is always more effective than physical strength. It requires the least effort.
I only stayed for one semester in that dojo. It wasn't a good fit for me. It was too different from what I'd known. I decided to look for another martial art.
Next week: Third Time's a Charm
© Debra J. Bilton. All rights reserved.