Origins

Silva Screen Media, © 2014

Introduction

After speaking with a few different people, I have finally decided to share my personal journey back into my childhood dojo (karate school). Be warned that this is very personal piece that will address my initial reservations along with long-term aspirations for why I have decided to return to this art form. 

Why write this now? First, this has been much more of an emotional journey, more than I expected it to be and there is minimal literature and resources to help karateka (karate students) on their journey back into the dojo after a long hiatus. And it is just that that, a journey, both emotionally and physically. Second, I know that in my dojo, there are many former students that have expressed interest in returning, but have yet to follow through, for various reasons. Balancing work, school and family is difficult enough on its own never mind adding in a class 2-3 nights a week. Trust me, I’ve been there. I also suspect that there are particular hesitations that many adult karateka hold. I was reluctant to share these very personal hesitations initially, but than I thought, “maybe I am not the only one with these insecurities? Maybe if others knew that they were not alone in their fears they could take that first step back onto the dojo floor.” So at the risk of full transparency and vulnerability, I will write a series of articles for other adult karateka, and teachers, who may hope to return their martial arts training.

Be forewarned of the following before reading on:

1. I use a lot of Japanese terms, which I try to define as I go to loop in a broader audience. These items are in bold. This is the lingo used in the dojo, and its like second nature for me to use it. I apologize for those of you who are unfamiliar with this world; there may be a slight learning curve if you decide to read on.
2. There are no real definitive conclusions here. The objective is to share my experiences, as this is a journey I am currently pursing.
3. I have changed the names of the people in this article to protect their privacy. Though if you are a member of my dojo, you guys are probably going to figure out who is who pretty quickly since there are only a handful of us (sorry).
4. I was extremely hesitant to write this piece; however, when I do something I do it all the way, so some of these topics will be very personal and sentimental.
5. There will be a lot of 90s nostalgia in here, what can I say? I love the 90s. 

Origins

For this first post, I will provide my background in the martial arts to set the context of my story. Bear with my nostalgia, if you dare, but also feel free to skip this post and wait for the pending “Return” section, which will be posted later in the week (if you want to skip the sentimental backstory). So without another hesitation, here we go.

I began studying Okinawan Shorie-Ryu karate-do (the way of the empty hand) at the age of eight. I was originally a gymnast, who suffered from scoliosis. How does this work you ask? It doesn’t! In short, I would never be capable of advancing in gymnastics due to the inflexibility in my back. In fact, I loathed the sport. I was an overly shy and anxious child participating in a sport I would never be capable of gaining confidence in, due to this physical limitation. For any child, this is a nightmare.

Side note, my Father hated the sport more than I did and had mini panic attacks every time my petite little body went flying up into the air, which as you can guess was quite often. My Mother insisted I stay with it since my childhood best friend did it (and thrived by the way), I think you see the logic here. Although my coaches were wonderfully supportive and nurturing, this sport was just not for me. Luckily for me, one of the assistant gymnastics coaches, Sensei I, noticed my frustration and had an alternative option for me in mind. He had recently started a Karate program in the evenings at that very same gym.

He pulled my Mother aside and explained to her, and later to me, that I was very limited in gymnastics due to the inflexibility in back, but that I was immensely coordinated, strong and fast. He offered the martial arts as an alternative; he truly believed I would flourish in this art form. My Mother was hesitant due to the misconceived notion that this sport was violent in nature. Luckily for me, Sensei I was not just a Sensei (karate teacher), but also a man of the cloth. He won over my Catholic Mother by letting her observe a few classes, which coincidentally ended in the Lord’s Prayer. My fate was sealed, and as a brazen Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (TMNT) fan, as every eight-year-old kid was in those days, I was stoked. I was going to be a ninja for real! “Kowabunga dude!”

The excitement quickly transitioned into apprehension. Before my first class I was beyond nervous. It was ironic, I had been doing gymnastics in that same exact gym since I was three years old, but suddenly this setting was beyond foreign to me. As I watched all the other kids in their ghis (karate uniform) with all their different colored belts, as they responded to commands in a foreign language (which was soon explained to be to be Japanese) I second guessed this decision thinking “maybe the Ninja Turtles aren’t that cool” (oh the mind of an eight year old). Sensei, the only familiar face, came over to me and explained that my first class or two may be strange for the many reasons I just listed above, and he further assured me that I was going to catch on in no time. As usual, he was right.

I was a quick learner; according to Sensei I was one of the fastest promotions from white to yellow belt that he had seen (at that time). We began every class with basics, which I loved because as an asthmatic, to warm up with basics helped me to pace my breathing. Of course throwing front punches and sidekicks to the, now, comforting sound of Japanese counting made me feel like a TMNT all the more. Clearly my priorities were in order, gotta look “cool.” Also, coming right off of gymnastics I was immensely flexible so many of the movements came very natural to me. My kicks were naturally high, my strikes were swift and my stances were deeper than even the higher ranks. Sensei even kept me after every class to keep working on my backhand-springs to continue some of my gymnastics training. For the first time in my life, he made me feel that I was good at something. For the first time in my life, I was one of the best. For the first time in my life I experienced this wonderful sensation called confidence. Not to be confused with arrogance, such a trait was not allowed in the dojo. “Karate is my secret,” is a creed I still hold onto with the utmost respect. We were not to spar outside of class, we were not to boast or brag, we were to bow both in and out of the dojo as well as to all belt ranks that were higher than our own. These traditions are now fading away in many western schools, but to me, they are traditions that I will forever practice (and teach) because as Sensei always taught us, “Karate begins and ends with respect.”

Fast forward eight years and five instructors. Sensei I had moved out of state years earlier, and throughout the years that followed his move, the program went through many different instructors. Ultimately my former gymnastics coach, Sensei II took over the karate program along with a newly promoted black belt, Sensei III.

It was the summer going into my junior year of high school. I was three-sport athlete, not including Karate. If it were up to me (and it wasn’t) I would have focused all of my energy on only karate. It fulfilled my mind, body and soul. With the bar set this high, all other sports appeared glib. If you asked me to tell you a story about soccer or basketball, I don’t really have any to tell, at least not any that weren’t related to karate. Before soccer games my teammates had me perform karate routines (called kata) to get everyone pumped up. I was a goalie, so my downtime in the net consisted of extra karate practice during games where our offense dominated. The story which I am about to summarize, however, materialized into an eight page college essay, which is the reason (I am convinced) why I got into every school I applied to, to my surprise. 

There were five of us that bound together that summer going into my junior year (one woman, two teenage girls [including myself] and two teenage boys). We were training for our brown belts, a huge step in our martial arts training. We each had different strengths and weaknesses, which enabled us to help each other grow as both martial artists and people. These karateka had the strength of dragons, laced with the grace of cranes. There was no competition between us, though there easily could have been. There were no egos, just positivity and unconditional support of each other. Individually we were each great, together we were exceptional. To this day I don’t think any of them know how close I truly hold this experience to my heart. I saw the best side of humanity in each and every one of these individuals, at a time where this positive energy was the most needed in my life. I watched us all exceed our own physical limitations and on that wickedly hot August day in 2001 we ushered in our new rank with the utmost refinement, and fatigue, with only minimal blood shed (that’s a fun story for another time).

Unlike the promotions to the lower ranks, this promotion was meant to demonstrate our cumulative knowledge to that point in our training. We demonstrated every kata (forms/routines), every basic, articulated every bunkai (interpretation), expressed all Japanese terminology and demonstrated every self-defense technique we knew. All of this was completed without any prompt from the instructors; this was a regurgitation of all we had learned over those past years, from white belt to brown belt. There was also the continuous sparring and timed conditioning drills which demonstrated our strength and perseverance. It was one of the most difficult challenges I’d ever faced physically.

The children who came to observe looked at us like heroes, our families looked upon us in awe, and our instructors looked upon us with pride. To make our teachers proud, that was the true reward. Sensei II and Sensei III had large shoes to fill when Sensei I left. Lucky for me, Sensei II was the same gymnastics coach who had been coaching me since I was three years old. He knew my way of learning, my strengths and weaknesses, and knew how to push me to the brink of greatness. Sensei III, who had the most diverse marital arts background, fed off our energy pushing us further to greatness by introducing advanced techniques that wouldn’t have usually been presented to us (by traditional teaching standards). This was a wonderful cycle to be a part of. To see their grins at the end of that ceremony was a truly a great moment for us all. The class following the promotion they told us, "We want to get you guys straight to shodan (first degree black belt). There are three stages of brown, so its not that we would "skip" those ranks, just train all of them at once instead of going one rank at a time. This was not only a huge honor, it was an ambitious endeavor, one that three out of the five us agreed to.

At that point in my karate training, both teachers had me running the children’s class solo. It was my first “job,” really. I taught the kids class, which paid my dues for the adult class. This opportunity brought me more fulfillment than any other job, to this day. I am a teacher at heart, always have been, and probably always will be. I often find myself in the tutor and mentor role, which is no doubt a result of my role in the dojo as a young adult.

When a former adult student returned to the dojo that summer (after being away at college), he watched me with the children’s class. On break, between the children and adult’s classes, he said to me, “Your confidence with the kids has really improved since just last year. You have a wonderful balance with them, you are firm but patient and anything but condescending and to be honest, many young teachers let the responsibility go to their heads.” The term Sempai, literally translates to “the one who comes before” and is used in our dojo as a title for an assistant instructor. This adult karateka had been one of my Sempais through the years. To hear such praise from a Sempai of mine was again a moment of fulfillment for me. To make my school and teachers proud truly brought me not only elation, but also trust in myself. I was a reflection of my teachers and the school and now my students were going to be a reflection of me and the future of our school. As the great Gichin Funakoshi said "The ultimate aim of the art of karate lies not in victory or defeat, but in the perfection of the characters of its participants." My goal was to carry on the traditions I had been taught. We were not (and are not) a school who produced groups of black belts who suffer from Bruce Lee syndrome (this is a term used to describe overly confident and downright cocky students, usually tied to their abilities or tournament records); we were a school who molded young karateka into respectful, confident and capable beings. To this day, I attribute all of my successes to this martial arts mentality.

I had big plans my junior year, so the three of us from the promotion started training immediately for our black belts under the guidance of Sensei II. Two of us planned on opening a dojo together after college. We were at our peak. I was winning tournaments, I was the fittest I had ever been, and overall I was secure in my role within the dojo. The day following our promotion we wore our new crisp black ghis (black ghis can only be worn by brown belts and above at our dojo) and demonstrated board and brick breaking for the children’s class. The kids then got to break their own boards; seeing a student break a board for the first time can only be explained as pure second hand bliss. They are always so surprised, excited, and amped up, which in turn gets the teachers amped up. The students would ask each of us to “sign” their boards, and we did. Autographing boards was a surreal experience. They looked up to us, as we looked up to our instructors and senior students. Now, we were the senior students. Next to Sensei II and Sensei III we were the highest ranks in the class, we had a responsibility. Ironically, to this day, despite my twelve year absence, the two of us from the brown belt promotion that are still active out of the original five, are technically still the highest ranked students under Sensei III. This baffled me upon my return, but also reminded me that our promotion experience that summer was special and currently unrivaled.

I gradually stopped attending class mid-way through my junior year of high school for a variety of reasons. Mostly, I was experiencing a lot of problems at home. Also, there is a natural progression for teenage karateka, which is when you start attending class less and less the more you rev-up for college. The applications, the SATs, etc. were all so time-consuming. I know for me personally, I never drank or tried drugs in high school, which is a statistical anomaly in this day in age. I attribute this to the martial arts also, the discipline, the focus, the idea of respect. However, the last two years of high school are what I refer to as my “dark” period. Though I did not indulge in substances, my emotional stability rapidly unraveled under the pressures at home, leaving me more anxious and depressed as ever. Grades slipped, as did my attendance. Rumors began flying, and I no longer felt like I was that good example I had been a year prior. This view of myself partially prevented me from walking back onto the dojo floor, but, I often wonder what would have happened if I had stayed in the dojo that last year and a half of high school.

So it’s twelve years later.  I am overweight and out of shape as a result acquiring degree after degree while working full time and building a career. Working and going to school are the two most common reasons for “leaving” the martial arts. Though, I never really “left” in mind, my presence just dwindled as a result of life, which is what usually happens to the teenage students, as I mentioned. There was no defining moment where I thought, or said, “I quit.” It just, happened.

Within that twelve years I ran into Sensei III numerous times, always telling him how I wanted to return. Though I never did. There was always a reason, “I just need to finish my Masters degree…I can’t afford it… well I just got this promotion at work… I don’t really have the time...” But what were the real reasons? I was always very fit and athletic, but after age twenty-five my health depreciated significantly and quickly. I had become the typical workaholic, working all the time and not taking care of myself. I had to have three surgeries as a result of “stress” according to the doctors. For years I tried hitting the gym and “dieting” but nothing was sustainable (not while working full-time and in school). I didn’t want to walk back into that dojo and fail, especially at something I used to thrive at. Failing terrifies me.

After receiving my M.A. I tried the Insanity program paired with Shakeology, and I lost twenty-two lbs. This was huge. I was feeling energized, lighter and super pumped up. But even after losing all that weight, to me, I wasn’t even close to where I wanted to be. I am still not where I want to be. I want my “fighter” body back. The strength, the speed, the stamina. In short, I wanted “Karate Mal” back and there is only one way to get it.

So here I am, back in my childhood dojo after twelve years, eclipsed by the memory of my former self. With such a long hiatus there are many emotional, mental, and physical factors at play. I will explore all of these factors in future posts. I encourage you all to ask me anything and/or share your own experiences as well. This is meant to be a supportive forum for individuals pursuing (or thinking of pursuing) a similar path. For tonight, Sayonara.