Portrait in Linen

I’ve been initiated into the world of free sparring.

A lot of people think that karate and free sparring go hand-in-hand. I tend to disagree. One practices karate to ultimately avoid “sparring” in the classical sense, to avoid hand-to-hand combat. I was taught, the essence of karate-dō is to be able to defend oneself with the aim of inflicting minimal injury, only the force that’s needed to halt an attack. In training, I’m learning techniques that are designed to ideally stop an attack with one or two offensive executions.

A lot of people study karate so that they may free spar. In all my experience in martial arts, free sparring has been THE aspect of training that I have loathed with every atom of my being. I hated it when I was younger, I’ve hated it in memory, and I hated it until about 12:20 PM on Saturday afternoon.

With ten minutes left in class, Senpai Kūnane paired us up and announced, “Okay. Free sparring. Medium speed.”

I felt the horror flush through my face. I’m sure my eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. “Sparring,” to me, has always meant “pain and humiliation.” Almost every single time I was ever forced to fight, I got the wind knocked out of me. EVERY…SINGLE…TIME. And every single bout ended with me crying and getting yelled at.

Getting the wind knocked out of me, crying, and getting yelled at was one thing to endure as a child. But as an adult, the pain and humiliation would be nicely rounded out with a generous dose of sheer embarrassment. How many times have I envisioned my thirty-something self, doubled over in a corner, gasping for breath like a fish out of water and tears flying from my eyes.

The biggest difference would be, I’m sure no one would dare yell at me, but the silence would actually be worse. Certainly, one or two instructors would jump to the task of holding my arms out at my sides, crouching down beside me, telling me in that low, controlled voice, “Breathe…breathe…deep breaths…slow…inhale, exhale….”

I think very much I’d really rather die.

So Senpai Kūnane gave the direction to free spar. I looked at my partner–”Dr. Sensei”–and said, “I have NO idea what I’m doing here.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said. “We’ll take it slow. All you need to do is look for a target. Use the techniques we’ve been practicing in class. Don’t worry, you’ll be all right. Just take it slow.”

I took a deep breath, got into fighting stance, and hoped for the best.

We started out in a slow circle. Dr. Sensei allowed me a few seconds to get used to moving around, and then she put out a leisurely, much-anticipated punch. It was the most basic offensive technique, and I blocked it with the most natural defensive technique I know–a simple parry.

That was painless. She threw another punch, and I reacted in the same way, parry and move.

A minute or so passed. I realized I hadn’t been waylaid yet, hadn’t been knocked to the floor, hadn’t had her fist lodged between my lungs. I gained a little confidence and added in some counter-attacks.

Dr. Sensei picked up the pace, began to beef up her offense just enough to offer me a bit of a challenge to counter with a more varied defense.

Strangely enough, I began to enjoy the exercise. It wasn’t the simulated combat that I enjoyed (like so many other martial arts enthusiasts); it was the challenge to the reflexes. Kind of like playing a video game. Once it was clear there was no chance of injury, I felt safe enough to engage in the exercise and focus on what I was supposed to be doing.

I’m not so naive to think free sparring will always be so controlled and “safe.” Dr. Sensei–and Professor Sensei, after her–were both purposefully controlled, knowing this was my first trip around the block. And they’ve seen me train for several months, so they know what I’ve been exposed to and what I haven’t. They met me according to what they know to be my skill level.

But not everyone approaches sparring a beginner the same way. There are many, many people who are not very aware of what is appropriate in such a situation, and many who don’t care what’s appropriate in such a situation. It’s been my experience that sparring often brings out an ugly side of people; there is something to prove, an opportunity to yet again establish themselves as stronger, faster, fiercer.

I can remember quite a few people who I truly enjoyed before I either faced them in the ring, or watched them face someone else in the ring. It’s what I saw in their eyes, the expressions on their faces. Almost like hate. Blood-lust. Violence. A raw desire to hurt someone.

The perverse thing about it is, a lot of those eyes and faces belonged to kids.

I remember one tournament…I must’ve been ten or so. Through most of the first half of the tournament, I sat beside this kid I’ll call “Billy.” He was my age, same rank. We competed against each other quite a bit, so we were familiar.

Billy was the prodigy of his dōjō. I think his parents were senseis, too. Whenever he competed, dozens of people from his school gathered around the ring to cheer him on. “Get ‘em, Billy!” “That’s the way ta do it, Billy!”

He was good, and he always left with a handful of trophies.

That day, Billy and I ended up sitting beside each other through the first two competitions. Though we were competing against each other, the main challenge was to impress the judges. There was no one-on-one competition. Each person had a turn to go before the panel and exhibit his best.

The line was long, so Billy and I had a lot of time to chat. We talked about our dōjōs, our parents, school, what we did for fun, what our friends were like. It was kind of fun, getting the chance to get to know a kid I’d seen over and over again but never really spoke to. It felt good to make a friend who I shared so much in common with, who understood the pressures of being a young competitor.

That good feeling lasted all day. Even when we were herded together for the final competition–sparring–I was happy. Of course, I was plagued by the usual nervousness that went along with gearing up and drawing numbers so the judges could pair us up with our opponents, but the fear was diluted a little with the contentment I had at finding a new friend.

Unfortunately, my number matched Billy’s. The two of us would face each other in the ring.

Being the optimistic little girl I was, I thought Billy and I would hang out until it was our turn, just like we had all day. But instead, Billy’s dad pulled him away to a far corner and began coaching him and warming him up.

I thought, “Well, maybe today won’t be so bad. Billy knows I hate fighting. He won’t go out of his way to hurt me, and everything will be okay.” My nervousness all but disappeared. Even when they called my name to take my place in the ring, I wasn’t scared.

Imagine my shock when I stepped to the line and saw Billy was not the Billy I’d been talking to all day. He was stiff; he glared at me through two narrowed eyes that bunched up into a mean scowl. He gnawed on his mouth-guard and breathed like a crazed bulldog at the end of a chain.

I was so taken aback by the change in Billy that I didn’t even notice the referee give the command to begin. Before I could even blink, Billy was across the ring and on me, flailing away at my head, my stomach, my ribs.

So began the same old dance: my opponent beating me with every limb, and me bruised, crying, and trying desperately to suck some air back into my jolted lungs. And who was the hurt-ER? Billy. Billy My Friend. Billy with whom I had so much in common. Billy who understood me. Billy who would show compassion and control.

Billy took first place in sparring that day. After it was all over, he dragged his trophy over to his father, went back to his fold, a champion. As most kids did after the work was done, he changed into his street clothes and went to run with the other kids.

I was far too hurt and confused. I bought some nachos and a Coke from the concession stand and spent the rest of the time sticking close to Mom, trying to figure out what happened, who Billy really was, what I’d done wrong, why I felt such an injustice, and if I were justified in what I felt.

I don’t think I ever trusted another kid I hung out with before the sparring competition. From that day on, it was always in the back of my mind that this person might be an animal under all that human-kid.

And you know, that suspicion and expectation has followed me even to today. Granted, I do have the reassurance that I will never let anyone force me to spar, so I’ll never find myself in that exact situation again. But I’ve also made up my mind that I will not give up. Sparring goes with the territory of training; it’s natural in the progression.

I don’t loathe sparring on the whole the way I did when I was a kid. I enjoy watching matches and seeing the application of all I’m learning. I find it intensely interesting to see that expected metamorphosis that happens when one faces an actual opponent. It’s exhilarating, intriguing, quite a study of personality.

But it’s also frightening. I’m most afraid of looking upon the countenance of my dear instructors and seeing that same terrible animalism I saw in Billy so many years ago. From that moment, I know I couldn’t help but view them in a different light.

What ease, to snuff the light from the woman’s eyes, to tarnish the gleam on her lowered lash, to dull the glow on her shoulder and pull the shine from each of a million burnt-bark strands.

To break the bow of her lips, white-wash the heat from her cheeks and leave her flesh as cold as old wax.

To bind her ribs, her hips, her calves, to fell the arch of her foot and level the curve of every ivory finger.

How ardently you love the girl, how lovely she is all rooted and reaching to you as you alone are the sustaining sun.

I did exactly as I said I would,
Purchased the book Evangeline
From the local B&N
With an educator’s discount card.

Surprise! I did not recognize
That the title I had bought
Was not what I’d initially thought,
But a Longfellow anthology!

Not only will I now enjoy
The ode to Evangeline and Gabriel,
But also thirty-six additional poems and tales,
All for five dollars and fourteen cents!

Though I’m thrilled with my new find
And the many literary perks
That come in reading Longfellow’s selected works,
There is a downside I can’t help.

Like that derned cell phone ringtone,
Or that infernal chipmunk song,
I’m sentenced for an undetermined time
To think and speak in meter and rhyme.

And this is why I generally
Make it my strict policy
To stay away from formal verse,
Lest I fall victim to “The Dr. Seuss Curse.”

—

Interestingly, a reader directed me to the “UL library special collections.” I was told to dig up “Joel Lafayette Fletcher’s speech written in late in 1940’s, The Acadians in Louisiana Today,” if–says the reader–I want some inspiration on Evangeline and the Acadian people.

Now how cool is that? Almost like a treasure hunt, with obstacles and risks and all the like…. I’m not, after all, a student of UL, so there’s the possibility I may meet some resistance when trying to gain admission to the college library special collections.

Then, I may have to seek special permission, or–even more exciting–I may have to contact my anonymous reader and request his personal aid in accessing the facility. Maybe with a skeleton key left in an envelope in the bottom of a potted plant, or a forged document stuck between the pages of a certain obscure book shelved in the wrong section…. Maybe I’ll have to hide in the library bathroom until the doors are locked, then climb through the ventilation system, drop down into the special collections room, tethered to the end of a black nylon rope….

Then again, it may just be a matter of asking.

Reality is at times so much less enthralling.

—

On Longfellow’s Burial of the Minnisink

(Read full text of poem at hwlongfellow.org.)

First of all, I had to ask myself…What is a Minnisink?

The best answer I could find in reference is, the Minnisink (also “Minisink” according to other resources) are(were?) a Native American tribe who occupied areas in the North American northeast (New Jersey? New York?).

Longfellow’s poem, Burial of the Minnisink, describes the laying to rest of one Minnisink warrior chief.

The poem begins with an image…

On sunny slope and beechen swell,
The shadowed light of evening fell;
And, where the maple’s leaf was brown,
With soft and silent lapse came down,
The glory, that the wood receives,
At sunset, in its golden leaves.

…which I thought was so precise and illuminated. At this point, I still didn’t know what a “Minnisink” was, so I just enjoyed the images of the coast and the forest.

Later, Longfellow introduces the human characters, and then, I understood a “Minnisink” is a who. And how noble a who he is.

An image of the silver lakes,
By which the Indian’s soul awakes.

But soon a funeral hymn was heard
Where the soft breath of evening stirred
The tall, gray forest; and a band
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand,
Came winding down beside the wave,
To lay the red chief in his grave.

The remainder of the poem describes the brief life of the chief and his untimely passing; funerary details, including the putting away of personal items and the procession; and lastly, the leading in of the riderless horse.

Not one to spoil a good story for anyone else, I’ll withhold the climax of the tale. But I must comment: The ending lines brought genuine tears to my eyes. It was entirely unexpected. Maybe such things are common knowledge to most other people, but it wasn’t to me. I was actually grateful for my ignorance; I felt I was able to experience the full impact of the poem, both the language and the story.

—

The Riderless Horse

I remembered a recent CNN headline, “Riderless horse adds poignancy to military burials.” In reading Longfellow’s Burial of the Minnisink, I began to wonder where the riderless horse custom began.

Reads the CNN article: “The tradition dates ‘to Roman times, or Genghis Khan,’ Nielsen said, ‘as a high honor bestowed on high-ranking fallen warriors.’”

It seems the custom predates Native American practice.

The article also mentions the riderless horse (also “comparisoned horse,” or “cap horse”) in the funerary procession of JFK in 1963, how the image is iconic for the millions of Americans who recall the day.

I’ve been told a visit to Arlington National Cemetery is a profoundly humbling experience one will never forget. Burial of the Minnisink raises my anticipation of our visit in September. I’m quite mindful of the marked contrast between the earthy intimacy of the Native American burial and the white-gloved for