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.

Class in Review
To use one of Bunny’s phrases, “My arms and legs are all wiggly.”

I did it. Made it through two classes tonight. And I didn’t even get sick.

At the last class I attended two weeks ago, Senpai Kunāne introduced a series of techniques that occur in the next form we’d learn. I was really excited about that, really anticipating learning a new kata (form), since I’d been working on the first one since summer began. I practiced the new techniques at home, hoping I’d have them down pat by the time we put them together into a pattern, but then, the trips began, so I never got back to class to learn the form.

I figured everyone else had already moved on without me, everyone else would know the new kata by the time I returned, and I would be “that student” who would need to either be taken aside to catch up, or shove her brain into high gear in order to absorb the information as quickly as possible so as not to hold up the rest of the class.

Thankfully, I saw neither scenario. We picked up right where we left off, and now, I’ve learned the new kata. Yay!!!

—

Couple changes in the weeks of my absence.

1. Sensei Sunshine got a haircut. One of those short, classy-sassy layered ‘dos, like Meg Ryan’s shag (right), only Sunshine’s style doesn’t come off as “tousled,” but rather chic. And Sunshine’s not blonde; she’s a green-eyed brunette, and the cut looks absolutely fabulous on her.

2. The only other female beginner in the class hasn’t been back since before I left, which means I’m alone again in my rookie-ladyness. Bummed about that.

I was told many students who join the dōjō don’t stay beyond the initial three months. They don’t expect training to be so difficult and demanding, so they drop out.

It’s frustrating for the staff, because they want students to succeed, but encouragement can only go so far. At some point, a student chooses either to push past the fear and pain, or not to. The senseis can’t make that choice for us.

So, permanent membership is modest. But, the good thing is that–if a student sticks it out, then that’s evidence she’s dedicated and won’t give up on account of hard work or the few inevitable setbacks. Dedicated students means a dedicated dōjō, and that’s the stuff of a school’s longevity. At least that’s what I think.

—

Masatoshi Nakayama’s Best Karate Series

Sensei Sweet tipped me off about Nakayama’s series of books, Best Karate. I believe the entire collection of (at least) eleven volumes is–in Nakayama’s own words–”Dedicated to my teacher GICHIN FUNAKOSHI.” I think that’s beautiful and fitting.

Purchased:

• Best Karate 1: Fundamentals
• Best Karate 2: Comprehensive
• Best Karate 5: Heian, Tekki (basic forms)

The covers of each Best Karate book feature a black and white photograph of the Master Nakayama.

It’s really interesting to me to see relatively modern depictions of these founders.  I guess in my mind, I’ve thought of the founding fathers as rare and elusive, like the photographs of Dad that I know exist, but cannot place.  I guess I overlooked the fact Master Nakayama was alive and still very much active in my own lifetime.  I was thirteen years old when he passed.

I aim to finish reading all three books by the end of the month.  Another really cool thing about getting my hands on the Nakayama books at this particular time–I’ll be studying Nakayama’s biography as I read his written works, so in a sense, it will feel like he’s teaching me from his place in the past.

I’ve gotten the same sense when reading Funakoshi’s Karate-Dō, like Master Funakoshi is sitting with me in the same room, reaching way back into memory and recalling pivotal experiences of his youth.

Speaking of which, I still haven’t finished Karate-Dō.  I planned to read some tonight, but I had to WILL myself to stay awake long enough to record my thoughts from the day.  Still don’t feel like I’ve sufficiently expressed myself.

Writing
So the CNN publication opportunity was barely a blip on my CV radar. I might be able to eke out a credit on technicality, but it’s hardly substantial. Still, something about the coffee essay grabbed their attention, or they wouldn’t have contacted me in the first place. That’s something to feel good about.

(Note: The coffee article was not excerpted on the aired version nor the printed version of the story, but a fragment of a line can be found on the “Interactive” tab under “‘Ailina” (the six-letter version of the name).)

Haven’t gotten a ping on the parenting article submission, but that may be on account I sent it to the editor’s outdated email address. Tried again today, so hopefully, I’ll hear something soon. If not, I’ve got a few more local publications that accept unsolicited queries. Will go to Plan B in a couple weeks if nothing pans out.

What to work on in the meantime? I promised myself I’d write a parenting article on the virtues of camping (natural disasters aside), but the inspiration just isn’t there. I’m sure I could throw something tog