Traditions. Dave Lowry
loves him, and considers his advice priceless and undebatable. This is exactly how it has always been and how it should be. If one of my own sensei told me that I could only improve my technique by practicing underwater, you can believe I’d start looking for a sale on aqualungs. But if my sensei told me to invest all my savings in the nuclear-powered lawn mower industry, you can also rest assured that I would consult with stockbrokers and other financial analysts before I sunk my money into such a venture. Unfortunately, too many traditionalists fail to make this distinction. They prefer to perceive their teacher as a father figure, infallible in every situation and with absolute answers to everything from how to dress to whom one should marry.
The sensei, most of them Japanese, cannot be blamed for this. From the moment they landed here to introduce the martial arts to the West, they have been treated like royalty. They were never questioned when appointing themselves head of each major budo organization, and since their students showed little inclination to do things on their own, the Japanese masters were quick to establish themselves as administrators, governing every facet of these organizations. One Caucasian karateman recalls how the national meetings of a prominent karate group were held back in the sixties. “We’d have an open table discussion with a lot of good, contrasting ideas presented by knowledgeable members, and we’d vote. It was all very democratic. Sensei would listen to it all, then he’d tell us what was going to be done.”
By analogy, imagine what would happen if a prima donna ballet dancer were to appear at a meeting of the board of directors of a dance company, telling them how the company’s funds were to be allocated, how they should conduct business, and so on. The prima donna might be a peerless dancer. Her performing and instructing are wonderful assets for the dance company. Yet no one assumes that she is automatically also a brilliant administrator. The same holds true for the martial arts masters. They are unbelievably, awesomely skilled; in terms of the budo they are a priceless source of information. We here in the West are most fortunate to have them teaching us. But to have them running national budo organizations where thousands of members and millions of dollars are involved, especially when some of those members are experts in financial and business management and have their skills go unused, is a waste. It allows for decisions to be made on the basis of old college rivalries back in Japan, on philosophical evaluations that do not enter into business interests, and on a whole system of management that’s more like that of a feudal ryu than a modern organization supposedly bent on improving and spreading a budo. Western martial artists should strive always to show respect for their sensei. They should see to it that the sensei is paid well, in accordance with his high position and profession. And they should have no qualms whatsoever about assuming control of their organizations in an equally professional way. In addition to being a big step in the maturation of the senior American budoka, this is quite probably the only course by which the martial Ways can survive and grow on a widespread basis in the West.
Traditionalists do not need me to point out these specific problems, nor should they be upset at having them made public. Because they have been taught so well, they can seek out their own weaknesses. Since their art is strong, they need not fear having their shortcomings brought out for others to see. In fact, they should welcome the opportunity to reflect in the honored traditions of ryomi, just as masters like Kofujita Kangejuzaemon of the Yuishin Itto ryu did. Ryomi is a process as grueling as any physical training, and one just as important in the education of the traditional budoka.
A Puppy Dog’ s Bark
The date: around 1630 probably. The place: a little nomiya, a rustic shack of a restaurant that served travelers in that rural corner of central Japan. The afternoon’s business: slow. Heat oozed in from off the dusty highway outside. The greasy noren (a split length of cloth serving as an informal doorway) was unruffled by even the faintest breeze. Inside, except for the flies droning, the only customers were a pair of itinerant barbers and a swordsman. The latter sat near the window, watching the empty highway with a sleepy sort of disinterest and sucking noisy mouthfuls of cold noodles from a cheap bowl. Because he smelled and looked more than a little in need of a bath and scratched most distastefully with the blunt ends of his chopsticks at the scruffy patch of eczema on his forehead, the barbers did their best to ignore him.
Presently, the noren parted. Three young ronin ambled in, dusty and blinking in the darkness of the nomiya, their eyes still accustomed to the bright sun outside. They gave their orders in curt, tired voices to the proprietor who in turn snapped irritably at his assistant. Only after they had slumped wearily onto the floor matting and been served tea did they notice the swordsman by the window. Perhaps it was because they were shamed by the quality of the swords they carried. Ronin were men of samurai rank who, for one reason or another, were not in the service of a lord. They tended to be an uncouth lot. Looking at the fine weapon of the other diner, perhaps they felt a need to display their toughness. Probably, however, the young ronin were just hot and tired and ill-tempered, and the odd-looking swordsman was an easy target for their teasing.
One of the ronin began slurping his tea loudly, mocking the swordsman, who continued to slurp his noodles. The others laughed, and another of them grabbed at the hair above his own forehead and mussed it wildly, mocking the swordsman’s unsightly skin condition, while the third rolled his eyes.
“Whew,” he growled, “that one smells like a wild pig.”
Neither of the two barbers who were also eating in the nomiya had ever so much as held a sword. But with all the caution of master warriors they watched the swordsman. No one of his rank, they knew, would allow these kinds of insults to pass unheeded. Though they remained quiet, eating with mechanical slowness, they were ready to leap for the doorway at the first sign of a fight lest they become caught in the melee sure to ensue.
By now each of the three ronin had casually touched the swords beside them, with the pretense of adjusting their position slightly. Actually, each had pushed the collar of his sword free from the scabbard by an inch or two, freeing the blades for the fastest use possible. Ready now, they waited.
The flies buzzed in lazy loops, scouting the noodles below.
“Hey, ugly,” barked one of the ronin. “Wouldn’t you be better off out in back with the other—” his jest was cut off by the movement of the swordsman, who looked up from his bowl for the first time. His head swiveled. His eyes followed the droning flies. Then, like some kind of mantis, he struck.
“Click . . . Click, click.” Between the pincers of his chopsticks three flies were crushed with a speed that did not seem real.
A long stillness filled the air of the nomiya. Finally, there were three more clicks. It was the sound of the ronin carefully snapping their swords back into their scabbards. They finished their own meals with the politest of silences. The swordsman, the son of a Harima Province constable and known as Miyamoto Musashi, continued to slurp his cold noodles.
The famous story of Musashi and the three ronin is, disappointingly, more a legend than anything like a documented event. Like many of the other stories of his life, it may not ever have happened. But if it did, it is a good example of what martial artists have always respected as one of the aims of the budo. What Musashi understood in the threat of the ronin at the nomiya was the distinction between two kinds of attacks that martial artists (as well as the rest of the population, for that matter) should always be aware of. This distinction might be more aptly demonstrated in a contemporary setting.
A young Japanese karate exponent and his wife were visiting New York City a few years ago. They’d met some friends at a Manhattan restaurant for dinner and after eating they left the restaurant in search of a taxi to take them back to their hotel. Standing on a street corner in many parts of Manhattan can be an unnerving experience at any time, of course. But when it is nearly midnight and your hometown is on the other side of the earth, it can be particularly trying. The couple had nearly reached the conclusion that every taxi driver in that part of the city was extracting revenge for Japan’s sin of having produced a fuel efficient car. At least half a dozen of them breezed past without so much as a glance in their direction. Abruptly, the couple’s problem was compounded.