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.)