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.) 

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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Anger, Splits and a Key to the Dojo

At the USAAU National Karate Championships in July, 1975 I was 17-years-old.  My sensei and his sensei had a long discussion about which division I should compete in.  They reasoned that I would do better with a group of my peers - other 17-year-old girls.  They were wrong.

I was only a green belt.  I had been training less than a year.  Some of the girls in this division had been training since pre-school and were black belts.  After getting my butt kicked in kata and kumite I went over to watch the adult women's green belt division.  The competition was much less fierce.  I may have stood a chance there. 

As I walked away I saw something I will never forget.  A teenage girl about my age was doing a complete split and looking very satisfied with herself.  I became furious.  Not only had I not won any medals at all but she could do a split and I couldn't!  I vowed that the next time we met up, I would be doing a split, too.

It took me six months.  In addition to doing endless kata, hitting the heavy bag and makiwara, I stretched and did splits every time I was in the dojo.  And I was in the dojo four nights a week and Saturdays.  By the time I was a brown belt I was doing splits - both ways - and today, 36 years later, I am still doing them.

Anger motivated me.  I was very angry about many things.  Largely, I was unconscious of the exact reasons for my anger, but I felt it in my body and my soul.  The punching bag became the outlet of this angry energy.

One night, after class, I started hitting the heavy bag.  I punched it, I kicked it, I pushed it, then I punched it again.  I saw no one.  I heard no one.  It was only me and the bag and the strikes: front hand punches and back hand punches; elbow strikes; round kicks, side kicks and front kicks.  There was no end to my anger and no end to the energy which was absorbed into that Everlast bag.

All the other students had changed clothes, chatted and left.  I didn't notice.  Sensei tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention and I looked at him.  He was dangling a key.  "Lock up when you're done," he said, and left me there with my anger. 

It was a long time before I was too exhausted to continue.  When I got there early the next night the punching bag was waiting for me.  So was the anger.

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Five Years Have Passed Since Sensei Pantanovitz Left this World

Today was the yahrtzeit - the anniversary of the death of - Sensei Leon (Yehuda) Pantonovitz, one of the great martial artists of the 20th century.  I've been writing my karate story in order but today I will deviate from this plan to tell you about this great man and the influence he had on my life.

I met Sensei Pantanovitz at the WUKO (World Union of Karate Organizations) World Championships in Madrid, Spain in November of 1980.  He was sitting with the Israeli team, being their coach, wearing a traditional Jewish yarmulke and sporting a wild beard.  Being Jewish and being interested in Israel it was only natural that I spotted the team, went over, introduced myself and spent most of the rest of the tournament - when I wasn't competing - sitting with them.

Sensei Pantonovitz was very friendly.  He invited me out for dinner and we went to a Chinese restaurant.  I was, at the time, a vegetarian and when my host insisted I order I chose only vegetable and tofu dishes.  The food came, it looked great, but Sensei didn't take a bite.  Unbeknownst to me, he kept kosher and since the restaurant wasn't under kosher supervision he wouldn't eat even a vegetable.  It was a struggle, but I managed to finish most of the food.

I looked forward to seeing him and the guys at the WUKO World Championships in Taiwan in 1982 - especially since I had quite a story to tell him - but he wasn't there.  The entire Israeli team had been denied visas.  I wanted to be Israeli, too!  It wasn't fair that as an American Jew I was permitted to enter Taiwan when my Israeli counterparts were forbidden.

The next time we met up was the Maccabea Games in 1985 in Israel.  This time Sensei was a judge and not a coach.  He was on the panel for the women's kata competition.  He played a part in a story that would last almost 20 years.

I took a silver medal in kata at that competition.  I lost to a woman named Kathy Jones, a former professional ballerina who took up Shito-Ryu karate and quickly became an excellent kata performer.  After Kathy's kata the judges conferred quickly before giving her score.  She beat me by a very slight margin - I believe it was 2/10ths of a point - but she got the gold.

I was very upset by this loss for reasons I won't go into - but will become clear later.  I left the gym quickly and hid under a bush where I sobbed for about 20 minutes.   I had lost other tournaments and quickly forgot about them but this one stuck with me and from time to time, every few years, something would remind me of it and the hurt came stinging back.

In 2003 I was sitting in a Netanya coffee shop with Sensei Pantanovitz and a few of his black belts when the subject of this tournament arose.  I admitted somewhat sheepishly how I'd never forgotten losing that day and how it still bothered me.  It was then that Sensei revealed what went on during that judges' conference.

Kathy Jones had learned her winning kata, Superenpei, from her teacher, Julius Thiry, who, in turn, had learned it from Sensei Pantanovitz.  It's the highest kata in the Goju-Ryu system and apparently none of Sensei Thiry's teachers had been willing to teach it to him.  Thiry's Shito-Ryu dojo was on the west coast of the US, the two men didn't meet often and somewhere along the line Kathy had gotten the idea that a certain move which was performed to the north, east, south and west was to be done to the angels, north-east, north-west, etc.

At the end of her kata - which was lovely, a truly beautiful kata - Sensei Pantanovitz moved to disqualify her because of the mix-up in angles.  The other judges out-voted him and she went on to win.  "You won that tournament," he said.  If, in his eyes I had won, there was no doubt in my mind and heart that I truly had, and 18 years of disappointment and hurt melted away as if they had never been.  That's how important to me his opinion was.

Sensei Pantanovitz was honest, a man of integrity, highly principled, loving, kind, a phenominal teacher, an amazingly talented martial artist, intelligent, diligent and one of the most special people I've ever known.  I was privileged to be his student for almost four years.  They were four of the best years of my life.

Sara-Rivka Yekutiel
http://www.karateisrael.co.il/

Introduction to Women's Self-Defense

Three months into my karate training I noticed a profound change in my life: I was no longer being whistled at by construction workers, followed by strange men and harassed while waiting for the bus.  The fear of being assaulted had left me.  I looked different, walked differently and thought different thoughts.

Before, if I thought a man was following me I’d panic.  What should I do?  Where can I seek safety?  Now I thought, “Make my day.” 

Okay, that movie hadn’t come out yet.  My thoughts were along the lines of, “Get any closer and I’ll ram my fist down your throat.”  Men sensed this and they stayed clear of me. 

One day two women came into the dojo and introduced themselves as students of Py Bateman from the West Coast.  They were touring the USA, visiting karate schools in each city.  My sensei, for some reason, was rude to them.  I apologized.

“You’re not responsible for his behavior,” they told me.  I found that statement interesting.

They gave me a large packet of women’s self-defense materials – statistics, myths vs. realities, safety tips and strategies.  It was my introduction into the world of feminist self-defense theory.  I don’t remember their names, but I’ve never forgotten the gift I received from them that day.

When I read the packet my theory about why I was no longer being harassed by men was confirmed.  Women who are fearful, particularly if they are survivors of sexual assault or an abusive home, radiate fear via their body language.  Rapists and abusers are experts at reading body language and choose these women for their victims.  The tougher you look, the less you are picked on.  It was many years before I would be the target of an attempted assault again.     

Karate Competition and Tequilla; They Don't Mix

My first karate tournament was not a great experience.  The day before my boyfriend (yes, the same one who had forced me to choose between him and karate) and I broke up once again.  I dealt with this painful experience the way I thought best.  I drank four shots of tequilla and passed out.

I awoke in the morning with an awful  hangover.  Unable to eat due to nerves (a problem that would plague me for years) I arrived at the tournament - I believe there was a two-hour drive involved - and sat with 20 other nervous white belts. 

After much waiting I stood up and managed to get through the kata, "Taikioko #1," without throwing up.  Not only didn't I win, I didn't even come close.  I was mad.

Sensei had a saying, "Don't get mad, get even."  I had already been training hard.  Now I stared training harder.  Not only did I attack the heavy bag in the dojo, I also kicked the oak tree at the bus stop where I waited up to 20 minutes every day.  And I did the kata many, many times.

The next tournament was in Connecticut, also a long drive - but this time with no hangover.  I performed "Taikioko #3.  I did it strongly.  I did it with a loud kiai and a mean facial expression.  I ended up facing backwards and improvised an extra move because even though none of the judges were from Goju-Ryu Karate I knew that they knew that there isn't a style in the world that ends up facing the opposite direction from which it starts.

And that was good enough for a large, shiny third-place trophy.  I hugged it all the way home. 

To read about my tournament record see:

http://www.karateisrael.co.il/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=38:2010-08-06-05-47-32&catid=1&Itemid=35&lang=en

It's Either Me or Karate!

After two months of intensive karate training Sensei Sparks said, "You can stay for the advanced class if you'd like."  This was the first of the five compliments he would give me in the five years I trained with him.  I don't know if he hadn't heard of the term 'positive reinforcement' or he simply didn't believe in it.

I was thrilled.  I had learned the basic blocks, punches and kicks.  I had attended classes five times a week, joking that I was paying by the month and I wanted to get my money's worth.  And now I was being invited to join the advanced class!

In my reverie I had forgotten that my boyfriend was due to pick me up after the beginners' class.  He honked his horn and I ran outside to tell him the good news.  He wasn't impressed.  "All you do is talk about karate, practice karate and come to these classes.  I'm sick of it.  What about me?  You have to decide, either me or karate!"

I didn't need to think about it.  I just turned my back and went back into the dojo for another hour and a half of training.  I didn't need a boyfriend.  Not when I had a punching bag, a makiwara and a new kata.  Not even close.

My First Night in the Dojo

I was seventeen when I walked into Bob Sparks Goju-Ryu Karate Dojo.  My reason for going there: My boss told me to.  He said, "A buddy of mine just got back from Okinawa and he opened a karate school.  Why don't you go sign up? 

I was enrolled at a school-without-walls which enabled me to take any sport for college credit.  At the time I was swimming and I found it incredibly boring.  Back and forth, back and forth.  I felt lonely in the pool.  So I went to try a karate class.

When I got there I was told I had to sit and watch.  After 20 minutes I got up and left.  I literally could not sit there and watch.  I had to do it! 

The next night I officially enrolled.  My first teacher was Linda Sparks, Sensei's wife, who was then a brown belt.  She taught me Jodan Age Uke, the upper rising block, and explained that karate is only for self-defense; everything starts and ends with blocking.  I was enthralled.

Later that night I walked into my father's apartment and said, "I am going to do karate every day for the rest of my life."  He laughed.  I guess when a seventeen-year-old speaks of eternity it's hard to take seriously.  Other than two-three weeks off after the birth of each of my children, religious holidays, short illnesses and injuries - I have made good on my prediction.  Thirty-seven years later I'm still punching and kicking.

Karate is Not Just What I Do; It's Who I am

They tried to make me take ballet but I refused.  I was only six-years old but I categorically rejected the pink tutu.  It just wasn't me.

I enjoyed gymnastics, swimming and neighborhood games like, "Mother May I?"  There were no karate classes in my neighborhood then, back in the early 1960's, and very few in the Boston area.  I also liked reading and writing.

When I was fifteen I wrote a long story about a woman spy who did karate.  Two years later I walked into the dojo and I've never left. 

What I didn't know was that 10,000 kilometers away, in Jerusalem, which is now my home, there was a young man who found karate lessons when he was fourteen, and angry.  His Jerusalem karate class folded after a few years but it was in his blood.  Years later, after I made aliya, he would become my student - and my teacher - as every student teaches me while I'm teaching him or her.

Sara-Rivka Yekutiel
http://www.karateisrael.co.il/