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.
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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. 

The Karate Mommy Track

In December of 2003, when Sensei Pantanovitz officially accepted me as a student, he invited me to join the International Okinawan Goju-Ryu Karate Federation (IOGKF).  Membership would allow me to participate in training camps and take exams for the next level of black belt.  His wife Norma looked up from her desk where she presided over administrative matters and said, “Oh, but you’re not interested in grading, are you?”

Sensei looked at me and I raised my eyebrows.  “Well, uh…”  One of the tenets of the martial arts is that you don’t chase after honor and recognition.  So it might not be modest for me to say out loud what I was thinking, which was ‘Geez, I haven’t been promoted since 1989.  It would be nice, someday…’   That was 14 years ago!

Sensei understood from the look on my face that, yes, I was indeed interested in attaining the next rank.  So he broke into a story.  “When I joined the IOGKF I was a 5^th dan.  I trained for several years with Sensei Higaonna before he recognized my 5^th dan and it was many more years before I was tested for 6^th dan.”  I fully understood the point.  Don’t expect to be promoted anytime soon.  Honestly, that was fine with me.  I just wanted to keep progressing and learning.  For now, the excitement of the training was enough.

“What rank are you, anyway?” Sensei asked. 

“Sandan.”  Third degree.  Sensei looked surprised, then the grasped my bicep. 

“Okay, we’ll start you training for your 4^th dan.”  I think he expected me to say 5^th or 6^th dan.  Given that I had begun training in 1974 – 29 years - that would have made sense.  He didn’t realize that I was on the “Mommy Track.” 

Mid-Life Karate Crisis Solved

In 1996 I moved to Israel, first to an absorption center in Mevesseret Zion and six months later to Tekoa.  I contacted Sensei Pantanovitz and told him that I wanted to compete in the upcoming Maccabea Games – but this time for the Israeli team.  It was my dream to win a medal for Israel.

I tried out for the team and was on the way to being accepted when I realized that I was pregnant with my fourth child.  The next few years I was busy with her and with #5 who followed not long after.

I trained while I was pregnant and was teaching also but I never made it to Netanya to the IOGKF headquarters to train.  It was so far away; I didn’t have a car; I was breast-feeding and couldn’t leave my baby.  Etc. 

In July of 2003 I called Sensei Pantanovitz and told him I was having a crisis. I was too old to compete.  Perhaps I should become a judge?  Sensei Chinen lived in Spokane, Washington and I hadn’t seen him for in eight years.  Eight years without a karate lesson!  Maybe I was making all sorts of mistakes and didn’t know it?  I went on and on. 

I spoke for twenty minutes without taking a breath and Sensei Pantanovitz just listened.  When I was done talking he spoke.  “The answer is in the training,” he said.  That’s all he said.  He invited me to Netanya and I agreed to go, but due to summer plans on my part and his we agreed to meet in September. 

The first Wednesday in September I drove to Netanya.  I had never been there before and driving on the coastal highway in rush hour traffic was traumatic.  I arrived in time for the 7pm black belt class.

The people weren’t particularly friendly.  But the class was heaven.  I was astounded by Sensei’s teaching skills.  I realized I was in the presence of a master – and I do not use the word lightly.  By the end of the class I was energized and excited.  “I’ll come back,” I thought, “but I won’t change the way I do my kata.  I’ll keep doing it the way I was taught by Sensei Chinen.”

I decided I would train there once a month.  When I tried to pay for the class Sensei Pantanovitz wouldn’t hear of it.  “If it becomes a regular thing you can pay me,” he said.  I’ll show him, I thought!  I’ll make him take my money!

The following Wednesday I sat at home and wondered, “What are they learning now?”  It drove me crazy.  I decided I would go every other week, and the next week I went back. 

However, the following week I went nuts sitting at home and I decided to travel to Netanya every week.  By November the guys had started saying hello to me when I walked in and in the beginning of December Sensei said, “You can pay now if you want.”  I was in!  

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