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.) 

What is Wa?

‘Wa is the humility to honor another’s personality.’  The Japanese symbol for ‘wa’ and this saying was printed on the back of the first t-shirt I bought at the Netanya IOGKF headquarters.   I wondered why Sensei Pantanowitz chose this particular saying for the shirts, but never asked him about it.  It was the first time I’d encountered this word, but far from the first time I’d encountered Japanese thought in the karate world.

The first Japanese saying I remember learning was mizu no koro.  Mind like water.  As a white belt I understood the general drift.  Like the ‘ju’ in Goju-Ryu, one should flow, one should yield.  Yielding is more effective in defense, and in life, than meeting force head on.  The latter tends to lead to pain and isn’t usually successful. 

Understanding this expression was one thing, utilizing it was another. 

As a beginner I was totally enamored of all things Japanese.  I loved Samurai movies, especially the series, ‘Zato-ichi, the Blind Swordsman.’  I loved Japanese food, especially sushi and miso soup. 

I began studying at UMass Boston in the winter of 1979.  I approached Professor Watanabe to get special permission to sign up for Japanese Language 102.  The prerequisite, 101, had begun in September, and the professor didn’t want to let me into 102.

“But I already speak a lot of Japanese,” I implored.  I said “mai geri” and did a front kick.  He smiled.  I continued, “sokuto geri” and did a side kick.  He was duly impressed.  I went through the names of the all the blocks, punches and kicks I knew.  When he still didn’t look totally convinced, I broke into an imitation of Zato-ichi and his concubine.  That did it.

I studied Japanese language, art and literature at UMass.  It gave me a basis for understanding the culture that had produced Goju-Ryu karate.  A culture that was so different than the world I grew up in, the world that shaped me.

Coming back to the t-shirt and the spirit of wa: it took me a while to realize what I was meant to learn by this.  Most teachers, including myself, have a tendency to try to shape the student in their image.  They view the student through the lens of ‘me.’ 

Students naturally imitate their teachers and want to be just like them. It is comical to see students do kata with the exact same body language and facial grimaces as their teachers.  This is complimentary to the teacher, but I realized I have to fight against this tendency.  As a teacher I need humility to encourage my students become more like themselves, and not more like me.
http://www.karateisrael.co.il/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=10%3Ajerusalem-club&catid=5&Itemid=22&lang=en

There Are No Bad Students

In 1979 I found myself teaching karate three nights a week for my teacher, Bob Sparks, who had recently opened a clothing store and wasn’t available to teach karate.  I didn’t blame him for looking for another source of income; teaching karate is like being a nun: you take a vow of poverty.

I really enjoyed teaching, although I can’t say I was a great teacher from the start.  My students frequently looked at the clock on the wall as if to say, ‘When can I get out of here?’  I complained about them to my great-grand-sensei, a wonderful, deeply kind man from Staten Island, New York, Chris DeBaisse.

“I have bad students,” I said, “they’re always looking at the clock.  I think I’ll take it off the wall.”

He urged me to leave it up there.  “When they stop looking at the clock you’ll know that you’ve improved as a teacher,” he explained.  “There are no bad students; only bad teachers.” 

Around this time I was approached by a group of radical lesbian feminists who wanted to learn karate in a women’s-only environment.  They weren’t interested in training with me at Sensei Spark’s dojo in the suburbs.  They wanted a place in the city.  They wanted a place just for women.

I approached Sensei Sparks and asked permission to open an all-women’s club in Boston.  He said no.  I tried to convince him, saying that I’d continue to teach for him at the present salary (which was zero) but he wouldn’t hear of it.

I drove five hours to Staten Island to meet with Sensei DeBaisse because of all the martial artists whom I knew, he was the wisest.  “What should I do?” I asked.

“The acorn can’t grow in the shade of the tall oak tree,” he said.  I turned around and drove home.  I had my answer.

When I told Sensei Sparks that I was going ahead with my plans he threw me out of the dojo.  I won’t repeat all of what he said.  He found some colorful words to disparage my religion, my gender and my sexual identity (he was wrong about the last one!) and then said, “Get the @#*# out of my dojo.”  Today I understand why he was so angry.  Today I realize that he did me a favor.  At the time I felt bereft.  I was a student without a teacher. 

I opened my dojo in the South End of Boston on the second floor of an old warehouse above a bank in a building filled with artists’ studios.  I polished the hardwood floors, hung up a heavy bag and a speed bag and put a sign in the window.  On the first night there were twenty students – 19 radical lesbian feminists and one token heterosexual woman.  I was in business.