M. has learned martial arts. I have not. In point of fact, it’s not even a realm of activity in which I have ever considered participating. The fighting arts lie somewhere between spelunking and coloratura soprano in my world, which is nowhere.
Until I met M. I hadn’t realized that there’s a whole lot of worlds in the world of martial arts. How the breakdown translates in my head (and i’m sure I’m missing an esoteric nite or nuance about which M. will correct me) is that there’s your spiritual, intense, disciplined, quasi-religious stuff and then there’s fighting. Except that’s not right, because it’s all fighting.
It could be that it really breaks down as hypocrisy versus honesty.
The above is a long-winded introduction to the adventure of M. signing us up to check out a class in kendo, the way of the sword, the modern Japanese art of stick fighting. We watched as three sensei (senseis?) and some veteran warriors led various levels of students through drills, rituals, some fighting and a lot of bowing.
My favorite part of the evening was imagining what brought everyone to that gym. Like the overweight, bald white guy with the scruffy, but intentional, goatee and the other white guy with the modified prince valiant hair in a shiny silver flow and fashion glasses. Each of them threw themselves with concentration into the repetitive exercises. Each of them looked like a greater than 100 percent chance that they participate in some kind of sub-cultural activity or lifestyle. Ren faire maybe or “live action role playing” or maybe just bondage and discipline.
One squirmy little guy, maybe 8 or 9, looked like there were a dozen places he would rather be doing a dozen other things. Drill after drill involved slipping feet across the gym floor in a controlled glide. He snuck in extra skips with random hops whenever the senseis weren’t looking and often when they were. He had a drummer inside his head that was playing his own song, and his wooden sword waggled in it’s own, non-warrior orbit.
The backstory for him in my head was that given his apparent mixed heritage, someone in the family decided maybe he could get some much needed discipline while basking in his Japanese history.
He was in marked contrast to the other little boy in line with him for the drills. Lower to the ground, maybe a couple of years younger at an age when a boy starts looking like a boy not a baby, the second little guy was battle ready. Every drill he maintained the dead-eye, stone stare of a warrior. His movements were controlled, precise. I imagine his parents have always wanted a Navy Seal or other Special Ops in the family.
He scared me.
An earnest but not soldier strong blond girl kept looking up at the ceiling to a sensei’s admonishment that there were no ninjas there ready to jump her from above. For her, I think maybe she’s adding some activities to her youthful resume to entice college admission to her well-rounded soul.
We, M. and I, were both drawn to an older gentleman, the aforementioned ninja-evoking sensei. He was Mr. Miyagi in a gym of chest puffed arrogance. To be able to watch, M. had gotten emailed permission from one sensei who was probably about our age, maybe a little older. After a few minutes of watching it was clear that he’s a complete dick.
The old guy, the Mr. Miyagi figure, was different. He had the skills, knew the traditions, the sensei title AND had a fucking sense of humor. He invited us back next week, told me I had a strong kendo build, intimated that women needed stick fighting to keep men in line and wanted us to spontaneously join the exercises.
The dick sensei, on the other hand, snapped at a clear newcomer as he crossed the gym floor that he should say excuse me. I didn’t get it, but think it was just because he had dared walk in the shadow of the great sensei himself. Power trip much?
We spent an hour or two watching exercises to promote muscle memory in the heat of fighting, stick drills, foot work, warm ups, and finally two-person interactions that looked like choreographed smacks to the armor and bashes to the helmeted head. We also watched repeated cycles of bowing and prostration along with identical movements for everything from sitting to wrapping s rag around your head.
It was exactly too formal for our go with the flow selves. I think some martial arts to me would be like AA meetings are to people I know who don’t believe in a higher power. Too much emphasis on bullshit.
I would gladly show respect to the older gentleman full of ninja jokes and samurai sword skills. Bowing to the cranky, testosterone laden sensei and paying him ritualized homage would get fucking old extremely fast.
The quest for a joint activity moves on, despite my desire for a teacher-sanctioned or encouraged stick beat down for M. by me sooner rather than later.