108 Superenpei?

On February 5^th, 2014 I boarded a plane – well, to be accurate, three planes – and headed for Okinawa.  I left my house at 8:00 am on a Wednesday morning and arrived, jet-lagged and tired, at 6:00pm on Thursday evening.  By 8:00pm I had checked into my apartment and arrived at the IOGFK international headquarters in Naha.

This year I celebrate my 40^th year of karate training.  I’ve challenged myself to do 40 speaking engagements and/or special classes to share what I’ve learned and to express my gratitude for being given the tools with which to study. 

I had already had three speaking engagements in Israel and hoped to find at least one more in Okinawa.  But my main purpose was to re-experience being a student and only a student and to celebrate and renew my commitment to striving for excellence.  In other words, to improve my kata.

That first class I was pounced upon by Senseis Uehara and Kuramoto.  I made it to the second move in the first kata before I was corrected.  “Jodan punch should be eye level.”  Well, yea, I knew that.  However, knowing that something should be so doesn’t make it happen.  My punch was too low.  I put it up.  Now it was too high. 

Uh-oh, my heel came up when I stepped.  My fist was crooked in gedan uke.  We are now on the third move of the first kata.  By the end of the evening my ego had been flattened like a cola can run over by a semi and I did, indeed, feel like a student again. 

Higaonna Sensei appeared and mesmerized me, and a group of 15 Russians, for the next three weeks.  I guess he felt sorry for me when he saw me valiantly struggling, and losing the battle, to do kaki-e (pushing hands) with the larger and much, much, much stronger Kuramoto Sensei.  He saved me from futility by taking me as his partner.  “This is “ju” kaki-e,” he explained, as he rolled me around the dojo effortlessly, with the slightest movements, making me stumble and fall and trip over my feet and feel – yes, like a student. 

In the 40 years that I’ve been on the mat I’ve never seen or felt anything like Higaonna Sensei’s hands.  They are the size of baseball mitts and feel like sandpaper.  His energy, and command of it, is like a waterfall, a cyclone and wave - harnessed. 

At one point I was privileged to speak with Higaonna Sensei and I told him that on my birthday I did 56 kata to celebrate 56 years on earth.  He told me that he once did kata Superenpei 108 times.  (The name of the kata means 108.)  “It took me six hours,” he reported, matter-of-factly. 

This is the highest and longest Goju-Ryu kata.  The most consecutive times I’ve performed the kata, I am ashamed to admit, was five?  Six?  Maybe ten times at a gasshuku. 

And now I am thinking:  Can I do it?  Will I?  Will I work up to it?  Do it alone or with a partner?  Do I want witnesses, or should this be a private challenge?  Apparently it can be done.  But should it?  Maybe on my birthday… 

Old students occasionally contact me and ask if I remember them.  I always do.  But I remember some better than others.

There was one kid who started training with me when he about 11.  We’ll call him Larry.  His parents signed him up for my karate class at the Newton, Massachusetts JCC because he was being bullied in school.

Larry was a really sweet kid, smart, kind.  For some reason he didn’t fit in at the local public school, so his parents gave him a geographical cure and enrolled him in a snobby prep school.    

As a martial arts instructor I’m supposed to tell the kids that they are forbidden to “use it” unless their lives are endangered.  Conflicts should be solved by words, not fists.  It’s an ART, not meant for solving social discomfort.

However, in Larry’s case, I was hoping that he would haul off and whack the next kid who bothered him.  His opportunity came on the first day of Jr. High.   Standing in line in the cafeteria, waiting for the inevitable inedible lunch, he found himself being verbally abused by the large school bully.

Larry then used the little known karate “tray technique.”  He told me this story about 30 years ago.  I don’t remember the exact words he used, but I do remember the look of triumph on his face as he flipped back the hair that covered one eye and said, “And then I dumped my whole tray over his head.”

“With the food on it?” I asked.  He grinned.  Of course the bully challenged him to fight.  After the final bell they met outside and duked it out.  Larry used some of the better known punches and kicks; the bully backed off, and Larry was never victimized again.  His goal had been achieved, but he continued training and went as high as brown belt.

Some years later Larry called me to tell me to say he’d become a psychologist who worked with children.  I wonder if he works with kids who are bullied, and if so, if he suggests the tray technique.  It certainly led to good things for him. 

Won the Battle, Lost the War

The wheels of justice turn slowly, and it became clear that by the time we went to court it would be very close the date of the world championships.  Meanwhile, 30 young attorneys worked hundreds of hours, pro bono, on my behalf.  And, for the principles which the case represented to them.

On the morning of the trial there was a confrontation between Alan Dershowitz, who had been consulted about the case, and Boston attorney George Abrams, who had attended every meeting and been highly involved in writing the brief.  Dershowitz, who wouldn’t deny that he enjoys publicity, wanted to represent me in court.  Abrams was fuming.  He’d “done all the hard work” and wasn’t about to let Alan steal the limelight.  Abrams won.

I sat with George on a hard, worn wooden bench in the federal courthouse and faced Judge Rya Zobel.  Sitting across from us were two Jewish lawyers from New Jersey who’d been hired by the AAU.  After both sides argued the case a compromise was reached.  I’d get my karate trial and if I won, I’d compete, but I’d have to fly to Taiwan; the referees couldn’t be gathered on such short notice.

After the gavel fell the two lawyers from New Jersey shook my hand and smiled.  “Way to go,” they said.  Then George tapped me on the shoulder.  “The judge wants to speak to you in chambers.”  I had that horrible sinking feeling that you get when the principal want you in his office.  I’d done something wrong, and now I was going to be punished.

Rya Zobel, who was married to a Jew, had a large picture of Golda Meir hanging on her wall.  She smiled and held out her hand.  “I just wanted to meet you,” she said.  Boy, was I relieved!  And surprised. 

Later, there was a press conference.  Flashbulbs went off and the reporters asked questions, all of which were easy to answer.  Until a reporter from the Boston Herald, an older guy, crusty, (turned out he was Jewish or he never would have come up with the question), should have been smoking a cigar, said, “Are you an Orthodox Jew?”  I shook my head, no.  “Then why didn’t ‘ya just go and compete?”

I could hear Lenny Zakim draw in his breath.  The truth was that it had never occurred to me to “just go and compete.”  Not for a second.  It was one of those major life decisions made without any cognitive effort.  But that wasn’t something you’d say to the press.

“Anti-Semitism is increasing in the world.  I thought it was important to stand up and say, ‘I’m a Jew, and I’m proud of being Jewish.’”  Lenny breathed.  More flashbulbs went off.   My story made newspapers all over the world, including the Jerusalem Post.  My competitive career had just ended, but I didn’t realize that yet.     

Don't Get Mad, Get a Lawyer

At twenty I was having problems in my personal life.  I felt depressed. A wise man by the name of Bob Burns said to me:  Pray.  But Bob, I protested, I don’t believe in G-d.  “I didn’t say ya had to believe in Him, I just said ya had to pray to Him.”

I had nothing to lose.  I started talking to G-d and indeed, I felt better.  Wanting to make sure I was praying the right way I went out and bought a Jewish prayer book, written in Hebrew.  I started going to synagogue on Friday nights.  Saturdays I worked out.

Looking out the window of my Brooklyn, Massachusetts apartment I saw families dressed in Sabbath finery, women and girls in pretty dresses, the men and boys in black pants and white shirts.  They looked happy.  They knew where they were going.  I wanted what they had.

I stopped working on the Sabbath (but continued driving my car and turning the lights on and off, and shopping – acts prohibited by Jewish law).  I decided to keep kosher. 

So when Jerry Thomson told me that I needed to compete on Rosh Hashanah I knew I couldn’t.  That was my holiday.  My holy day.  I would be in synagogue.

I called Alex Sternberg who was quite upset.  His student, Lea Sukenik, was an orthodox Jew who also had a spot on the team. He was on the coaching staff.

When Jerry insisted I had to be there or I’d lose my spot on the team I called the Anti-Defamation League of the B’nei Brith in Boston.  I reached a young, charismatic leader named Lenny Zakim, z”l.  (Today there is a bridge in Boston named after him, and when I go back to visit I am always stricken by traffic reports, “The Zakim bridge is backed up…”)

I sat in Lenny’s office and told him the story.  Later he would tell me that he had a policy to never take his work home, but he was so moved by my tale that he told his wife the entire story when he got home that night.

Lenny called Jerry Thomson, Jerry spoke to his committee members and they reached a compromise:  The team trials would go on as scheduled but Lea and I, and Marla Cohen of Illinois, would be given a separate tryout soon after.

At the September 18^th trials the committee met and voted not to give us a separate trial.  I was devastated.  Lenny was incensed. Alex Sternberg, Lea Sukenik and Marla Cohen were all furious.  We had been duped.

Lenny picked up the phone and called Sheila Decter of the American Jewish Congress, an organization which included a battery of lawyers who met once a week to discuss politics, policies – a legal think tank of sorts.  My first sensei (when I’d get punched in the face and react emotionally) used to say, “Don’t get mad, get even.”  Lenny Zakim and Sheila Decter said, “Let’s sue.”

A Black Belt Rabbi?

I asked Jerry Thomson, “When are the team trials?” and he answered, “September 18^th and 19^th.”  I flipped the pages of my appointment book and said, without any thought process whatsoever, “Hey, you can’t have the trials that weekend, that’s Rosh Hashanah.”

I can’t continue with this story without explaining what my relationship with Judaism was at this point.  And it isn’t so simple to explain.  My parents sent me to Hebrew school at Temple Emunah in Lexington, Massachusetts, a Conservative synagogue. 

I was one of the few children in the large building who actually enjoyed this thrice-weekly experience.  I loved learning Hebrew, hearing Bible stories and singing in the chorus – where they let me sing even though I couldn’t carry a tune. 

Around age 11 I found myself cross-examining my parents as to their religious beliefs.  They had a habit of taking us out for lobster dinners which was prohibited by the Jewish dietary laws we had learned about in Hebrew school.  “If G-d is everywhere, can’t He see what we’re eating here?”

Each, separately, admitted to not actually believing in G-d.  Around this time I was kicked out of the men’s section of my grandfather’s orthodox shul for being female.  My parents’ hypocrisy disappointed me and the sex-segregation enraged me so I quit Hebrew school and resigned from organized religion.  Judaism was old-fashioned, irrelevant and meaningless.

At age 19 I attended a national karate tournament which took place over a weekend.  On Friday afternoon I saw a man wearing a yarmulke walking around the gym after the competition had ended.  And then he was headed toward me.

“I’m having a Kiddush in my hotel room tonight, and you’re welcome to come to it.”  How does he know I’m Jewish?  And who is this guy?    

There were five or six competitors who showed up for the Kiddish.  Alex Sternberg was a black belt in Shotokan karate (I believe he was a 4^th dan at the time), a teacher, a coach, a judge – and an orthodox rabbi. 

He made Kiddish with a bottle of wine he’d brought from Brooklyn, New York, where he lived and taught and then served kosher salami with crackers. 

I was stunned.  Alex Sternberg made being Jewish cool.    

  

Turning Point

In August, 1982, I won two gold medals at the USAAU National Championships.  At that time there were two divisions for advanced women’s kata: Open and Mandatory.

In the open division one could perform a kata from any style or even a kata that you had made up yourself.  The mandatory division provided a list of kata, four from each of the major styles (Goju-Ryu, Shotokan, Uechi-Ryu and Shorin-Ryu – if I remember correctly).  Saifa, Saiunchin, Sei Pei and Superunpai were my four choices.  Styles like Shito-Ryu and Kyokushinkai, which derive from Goju-Ryu and Shotokan, found their kata named on this list, also.

I had been training for almost eight years at this point.  I was a nidan, a second degree black belt.  I weighed 93 pounds and was 4’11” tall – with my shoes on.  Theoretically, size doesn’t matter for kata.  Once, a kata judge from Long Island named Joyce Santamaria told me, “Your kata wasn’t really better than her’s [the second-place winner].  It just looks better when you do it, because you’re so tiny.”  

1982 was a special tournament for me for several reasons.  The first reason was the two gold medals.  The second was that it took place in Champaign, Illinois.  My cousin Chuck, who lived near Chicago, came to watch. 

I never, ever allowed a family member to watch me compete.  I was so nervous before each competition that I couldn’t sleep the night before; I had a very hard time eating on the same day and spent much of the time allotted for warming up in the bathroom.  The thought of a family member being there added so much pressure I couldn’t bear it.

I had told Chuck to come, but to sit way back in the bleachers and not to talk to me, wave, or make contact with me in any way.  He followed directions, and managed not to jinx me.  Medals in my hand I found him and was taken to Winetka for a meal with my aunt and uncle. 

When I got back to Boston I called Jerry Thomson, who was the president of the USAAU Karate federation to find out when the team trials for the upcoming world championships would take place.  I was already a member of the team, but rules are rules, and despite my recent victory I had to try out for the team just like anyone else.  As I dialed Jerry’s New Jersey phone number I had no idea that my life was about to take a dramatic turn.

Nice Jewish Girls Don't Do Karate!

My paternal grandmother was an artist, and she was my biggest fan.  Hours of my childhood were spent on her lap being hugged and told over and over, in Yiddish, what a beautiful girl I was and what a sweet forehead I had, “A shayne meidle, a ziss kepela.”

Grammy paid for my art and music lessons and saved every painting, drawing and sculpture I did from the time I began scribbling until my interest shifted from the material arts to the martial arts.  And that’s when I fell from grace.  “A nice Jewish girl doesn’t do karate.”  She actually said this!

One holiday afternoon in 1975, Grammy and Aunt Estelle ganged up on me and insisted I find a more feminine outlet for my artistic side.  I took them to task for contempt prior to investigation.  “Have you ever seen a kata?” I asked.  No.  “How can you disapprove of something you’ve never seen?”

 On her oriental rug, next to the baby grand piano and a large vase full of pussy willows, I performed Gekisai Dai Ichi; the first kata and the one that requires the least amount of space. 

When I finished I looked at them, expecting applause and beaming smiles.  Instead they looked grim, distressed.  “It’s so ugly,” said Aunt Estelle.  “Why don’t you take up ballet, instead?”  Grammy nodded.  “Yes, ballet is nice.  Or perhaps modern dance?” 

  A few months later my grandparents came to visit my father, who lived next door.  They stopped in to say hello to me.  When my grandmother came to the entrance of my studio apartment she stopped and stared.

Hanging over my desk was a gigantic poster of Bruce Lee.  But that’s not what caught her eye.  She stared at the top shelf of my bookshelf where I had lined up all my trophies and medals.  Some of the trophies were quite large.  The medals, which were from the Massachusetts Regional AAU competitions, meant more to me because these tournaments were the first step leading up to the WUKO world championships, but to the untrained, the trophies were much more impressive.

Now Grammy was beaming.  She walked over to the shelf and examined each symbol of victory as if it were a diamond.  Then she turned to me and said, “My grand-daughter, the karate expert.”  There couldn’t have been more pride in her voice if the last two words had been ‘doctor’ or ‘lawyer.’  My biggest fan had returned. 

(Aunt Estelle never gave up on the ballet idea, but she and Uncle Louis contributed generously to my travelling fund when I went to Spain in 1980 for the WUKO world champions.  So I felt loved, if not understood.)