Portrait in Linen

Didn’t cry at the airport this time. That’s an improvement. He left for three weeks the last time, and the girls and I were there at the security check, bawling like a buncha babies. That’s a lot for a 15-year-old to handle, but it goes with the territory of being a blended-family kid. He tolerates his mother’s instability phenomenally well.

Let the girls listen to the Lilo & Stitch CD on the way home (to deter obnoxiousness). They do love Elvis. They asked what the Kalākaua song was all about, and why “that man says something at the end it.” I explained how, often, Hawaiian songs were chants before they were ever set to music, and that the chants were written in honor of one noble figure or another. In this case, the chant was written for King Kalākaua, so at the end of it, the chanter–Mark Ho’omalu–calls an ending kāhea (chanted phrase), “He inoa nō Kalākaua!”…”A name chant for Kalākaua!” (as in, The King of Hawai’i; not “The King” of Rock ‘n’ Roll, whose songs comprise 75% or more of the other tracks.)

That led me to bust out the old hālau CDs, and after listening to Kumu Chang sing and chant and “He inoa nō (name of famous monarch/diety here)!”, they gained a full understanding of what a name chant is, and the purpose of the ending kāhea.

It’s been more or less a year since I listened to any hula music at all. Driving home, I couldn’t help but dance in my head and recall how wonderful it felt to express such beautiful poetry in that way.

The girls continued to ask questions, pressed me to translate what I could of the songs they heard. They’re obviously ready and willing to learn hula again. The only reason I haven’t actively taught them is because of my own hang-ups, and I think I’m over them.

More than a few times, I’ve stood on the nice polished wood flooring at the dōjō, admired the mirrored walls, noted the arrangements are perfect for hula practice. I’ve never gotten up the courage to ask, but maybe it’s about that time.

‘A’a i ka hula, e waiho i ka hilahila ma ka hale!

Dare to dance, leave bashfulness at home!

So much for “Guilt-Free.”  I wouldn’t take L’Auberge buffet for a “best-push-up-bra and strappy heels” kinda place, to hear about it, but Josie confirmed–it is.  I don’t own one skirt above the knee, and certainly no bust-plunging tops.  And even if I did, I wouldn’t wear that to lunch.  What does it matter anyway?  Why is everything so complicated?

And why am I even dealing with this?

—

Karate class was not easy tonight.  I think my stamina is improving a tiny bit, but there is still so much to be desired.  Had another light-headed episode, but thankfully, it didn’t set in until the very end of class.  This time, I did have to lie down on the bench in the dressing room to recover.

I felt so bad for Sensei Sweet (female instructor who has welcomed me with open arms from the very beginning).  I think I scared her.  She encouraged me to step outside to get some fresh air, but again, shame was paralyzing, so even though I knew it would probably be good for me, I refused and just lay there being miserable, waiting for the icky heat-blech to pass.

And it did.  Drank some lukewarm water I had in my bag, took a deep breath, and took a seat to observe the second class.

“The Second Class”–which is for Intermediate/Advanced karateka–is a dilemma in and of itself.  Some time ago, Senpai Kūnane (previously referred to as “Sensei Kūnane,” but he instructed me to call him “Senpai” (senior student) in class, and just “Kūnane” outside of the dōjō) encouraged me to begin to train through the second class, too.

It was an honor to be invited to participate.  I’m under the impression attending the second class is the thing to do if one would like optimum preparation for the next round of belt testings.  And each class holds something new.  Always something else to learn; I certainly wouldn’t want to miss out on that.  But, I knew without even thinking about it that I wasn’t ready to take part in a second hour of training, and I’m still not.

So, I’ve compromised.  The second class is the perfect opportunity for me to listen, write things down, hear the corrections, watch the way the higher ranking students move, get a solid visual of what to do and what not to do.  It really helps.

When we were preparing for Merrie Monarch year before last and I couldn’t get to Houston or Dallas as often as everyone else, I had to compensate.  The rest of the haumāna got twice as much practice, twice as much correction, had the opportunity to watch and study the senior dancers’ movements, and were able to work on emulating them as closely as possible.

Since I didn’t have the same opportunity, I watched Merrie Monarch DVDs from previous years.  I studied the winning hālaus, watched how the dancers’ feet moved across the floor, studied how they held their shoulders, the angle of their hands, the expressions on their faces.  I studied every single detail and practiced in the mirror, trying to get my body to move exactly like theirs.

And it helped.  Noe (one of the hālau leaders) told me, “You’ve improved by leaps and bounds.”  That was so rewarding, and it proved there are alternate means of honing skill for those of us who can’t practice or train along with everyone else all the time.

Maybe I’ll recognize it when the time has come that I can handle participating in “The Second Class.”  I guess the first sign will be, at the end of an especially challenging class, I don’t feel like I’m about to hurl my cookies all over the place or do a Scarlett O’Hara swoon in the middle of the floor.
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Thinking about Dad so much lately.  I would be afraid of diving into another episode, but I just can’t cry these days.  That bothers me.

Therapist said I need to give myself permission to be angry, to not let go of the logical, justified bad feelings that come along with the conflict, or I risk invalidating my standards.  That’s so easy to do when it seems like life would be easier, return to normal if we just let bygones be bygones and start over.

But I know that’s a ruse and a time bomb.  I know it’s absolutely necessary I accept the anger, own it, then deal with it appropriately.  The thing is, I naturally react to my own anger with guilt for being angry.  I always feel like I must be pitching a fit or blowing things out of proportion or projecting my anger at myself onto someone else.  I never feel justified.  Why is that???  Why has it felt like anger is off-limits to me?  How can a person maintain a healthy psyche with certain emotions entirely omitted???

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Too tired for art or study tonight.  But I need to concentrate on writing anyway.  Will do a couple more proofs of the parenting article I have on the plate, then it’s off to the mom-mag editor.  Hopefully in time for July’s issue.

Also want to put together another article for the online paper.  Last week, it was “Love Affair with Lafayette.”  So far, inspiration has eluded me as to what the next one might entail, but I know it won’t be about politics.

It’s been a long while since I spent any time in deep thought over the decision to cut my hair. Once the decision was made, I did it, and I really haven’t looked back. I know there is a well of regret there, should I break the ground and start digging; God knows my heart can’t withstand anymore of that. So, I’ve kept my eyes forward and stored away my affection and reverence for kapu with all the other sacred things of hula.

Tonight’s reading of Funakoshi’s Karate-Dō brought many feelings about the hair kapu back to the surface.

He writes of the “topknot furor” in Okinawa (c. 1892), about twenty-five years into the Meiji Restoration. The “Obstinate Party” of traditionalists still had not caved to the government ban of the topknot hairstyle, but changes in the primary schools’ regulations required every student be “shorn.”

At the time, Funakoshi was an instructor, and one of his duties was to see to it the more resistant students be subdued and their topknots cut off. He recalls…

…the sight of pupils, captured after a lively scuffle, submitting to the odious shears with tears in their eyes and their fists tightly clenched as though they would like nothing better than to annihilate the despoilers of those tokens of manhood.

A scene from The Last Samurai (2003) comes to mind. The character Nobutada is a young samurai who finds himself surrounded by Imperial Guards threatening to cut off his topknot in the street.

Watching the scene for the first time was heartbreaking. If I didn’t cry throughout the entire agonizing movie (which I did, perhaps every other scene), I bawled like a baby during this one awful exchange.

Reading Funakoshi’s experience in the schools completely reminded me Nobutada, and I have to wonder if the actual events were so dramatic. I can almost imagine myself as one of the young men, held down in a chair by several teachers while someone who was not my family took the scissors to my hair.

Many things would run through my mind then. Mostly, I’d want my mom and dad there, to defend me, to protect me, and if they couldn’t, to at least be with me through the process. I’d be filled with an acute anger that is exclusive to the experience of violating oppression. I would feel as though I were at the very vertex of a great collision of good and evil, with evil dominating. And when it was all over, I’d feel shamed and naked and raped of my identity–my identity reaching all the way back through time to my ancestors.

Was it so dramatic?

Funakoshi writes of the time as if it were rather trivial.

…aware of the tremendous reforms that were changing virtually every aspect of Japanese life, I could not but regard the matter as of little importance.

He admits some lack of sympathy at this time in his life. I wonder if his perspective on the “topknot furor” ever changed over the years. The fact he includes this anecdote early in the book leads me to believe he’ll return to it later on, and I’m hoping–as a reader cheering for the hero in the height of his conflict–he comes to embrace the ideals of the common, individual man.

What does this have to do with me?

In hālau, we were all under kapu–expressly forbidden to cut our hair. In Hawaiian tradition, the dancers in the old days were under the hair kapu (among other kapu), and that rule was strictly enforced. Kumu made it very clear we were to observe the rule in the same way.

I never did learn exactly why dancers weren’t allowed to cut their hair, if it was on account of a spiritual connection to divine inspiration, or if it was considered vulgar and unclean to do so, or if it was simply a distinguishing mark of a hula dancer. But we never questioned Kumu, and I didn’t cut my hair.

As burdening as it was to care for the length, my hair became a part of my identity, a physical extension of my love and dedication to hula and Hawaiian tradition. The difficulty of maintenance, the lack of understanding and approval of those around me who didn’t understand, the lack of style options…none of that mattered at all.

What mattered was the sanctity and the promise. Even after I had to leave the hālau, I still observed kapu. Maybe my days with the hālau were done, but my love for hula wasn’t. Keeping my hair was like marking off a sacred ground inside, and I guarded it for a long time.

Of course, that didn’t last. Grief and the sense of loss turned to anger, which eventually turned to denial. That was when I packed everything away and decided to just not think of it all anymore. As more time passed, the distance between me and that feeling of belonging grew and grew until one day, I felt like a complete outsider. I suppose that’s when I decided keeping my hair was futile, and maybe on some level, I felt I didn’t deserve to observe kapu anymore.

So, I chose to cut it.

I chose to cut it.

If I’d allowed pressure or frustration to defeat me at any earlier point in time, the experience of cutting my hair would’ve been dramatic–shameful, humiliating, perverse even. I would’ve felt just like those young men in Okinawa a hundred years ago.

untitled sketch 5-12

I believe this is the first time ever I’ve attempted a departure from the “precision” method of drawing. Normally, I lay down the charcoal like dust, then blend until the shade transitions are imperceptible. Outlines are usually faint but sharp.

Don’t know what the inspiration was tonight to try my hand at the more ambiguous, broad-sweeping strokes; shading with more haphazard, less attentive contours. I like the softness, though. I like the “natural” feeling it gives, as opposed to the strained tension of previous works.

I think the textures work pretty well toward an impression of realism, but I can tell I reverted back to old ways on the hair.

Still, I’m really satisfied with the fingers. And the lighting.

—

Read more of Gichin Funakoshi’s autobiography–this time, about the demeanor of his instructor, Master Azato.

He describes Azato as something of an “old oak” (comparison mine)–rooted in tradition, socially established, well respected, set in his ways.

But what intrigued and amused me was what he says about how Master Azato taught him in the early years.

Although considerably advanced