There are events, places, people that made me who I am both as a human and as an author. Despite my professed love of writing, it takes many attempts to get my point across and this post is a decade in the making.
At 14, I was a surly and sarcastic little thing with strong ankles. After being ripped from Germany with a tear that was heard halfway ‘round the world, I was not ready to be in the United States again. For all my adolescent posturing, Germany was my home (as close as an Army Brat could ever get to home, rather), and I left behind a gaggle of friends who had been parts of the quilt that would become me. Where better to move than the most ‘Merrican part of ‘Murrica? Texas.
The grass was brown. There were no trees. I was surrounded by construction and Spanish, the latter of which was not inherently horrible but was different than the guttural German I could still taste at the base of my tongue when anyone asked me where I was from. And did I mention the heat? The climate was trying to crowd me out of the state and I would’ve gladly placed my ass on any plane out of Texas after the wilting August that brought with it my freshman year of high school.
I won’t say I had a typical life in Texas, though I had friends who are now family, my sisters, and a boyfriend who would later prove to be a lesson that left bruises, I had a life. I was still struggling to find my footing in a country that was the reason for my awkward definition of home. Everywhere I turned bore a huge neon light flashing the words YOU DO NOT BELONG HERE with bulbs that burst every few minutes only to be replaced by brighter ones. Anger festered in me like a neglected gash and I refused to dress it cleanly.
How the idea entered her head, I’ll never know (asking her only earned me a shrug and the idunno noise), but however it got there my little sister, Amanda, asked our parents to enroll us in karate. It’s odd that it didn’t happen sooner, after all, our father had been teaching us self defense since before my memories began forming. At this point, any of the three of us had it in us to escape those situations that might otherwise incapacitate girls our age.
“Try it for three months. If you don’t like it you can quit, but you have to give it a fair chance.” I glanced at Sara, the oldest of us, and we shared a look- one of those uh-huh looks- and promised our father we’d try it.
The first class was, predictably, god awful. We were in the children’s class and gawky in our not-yet-broken-in gi. The floor was red and blue foam matting that we were forced to clean our sweat off of with soapy washcloths at the end of the class. Remember that scene from Spirited Away where Sen has to run up and down the length of the room before the bath house opens? Yeah. That was us.
My body ached, my feet were throbbing, and I swore I’d quit after 89 more days.
Then I met someone. He was in his 40s- maybe his 50s, Japanese men age beautifully- and he was the founder of our dojo. He spoke very little English and with his hands. His voice was deep, the kind of voice that could carry over mountains and reach you with little effort. His name was Kohama-sensei, and from the first moment I saw him I respected him. I stood a little straighter. I kicked a little higher, a little more precisely. My punches were crisp and true.
He evaluated each of us during our group exercises, his dark eyes looking for some way to tell us to widen our stance without the use of words. When he got to me he flashed me a smile and a thumbs up. At that moment, I knew I wouldn’t be quitting karate in the week-and-a-half I had left.
Kohama-sensei was there when I tested from white belt to yellow belt (easy stuff) and from yellow to orange. Some time between the two tests he’d asked me to join the team that would be heading to Japan that summer. Of course, he asked via a translator, but I would’ve understood without her.
“You will be one of the first Americans to participate in this tournament. It is a big honor,” she said in stilted and musical English. “It is team kata. You will meet your teammates shortly.”
Shortly meant in the next month, after he’d already gone back to Japan. Regina and Rohan were their names, and I’ll admit I felt a little out of place with them, not only were they brown belt and green belt respectively- and thus much higher in ranking than me- they also both had ‘R’ names. Regina was our team lead and Rohan and I were her support, as it were. Our goal between when I got my orange belt and when we were set to perform our kata- a series of choreographed movements that increase in difficulty as you rank up- in August (a mere 4 months away) was to get in sync with each other.
The three of us, ages 14–16, spent our Spring Break in training. When we weren’t at the dojo practicing, we were watching videos of the kata we were supposed to learn. That is to say, three decidedly not-black belts were expected to know a black belt kata well enough to make a bunch of professionals believe were in fact black belts. I can’t speak for how Rohan and Regina felt when we boarded the plane to Japan, but I was scared shitless.
We landed at Narita Airport a day ahead and a world away from the brittle grass lawns of Texas. It must have been late-as-fuck o’clock when we arrived, because I had been expecting a bustling hub of life but aside from the American team and Kohama-sensei’s team, we were the only people there, though it is entirely possible that I didn’t notice the small city population in the airport due to my jetlag.
Kohama-sensei and Sato-sensei (another man I respected at first sight), herded us into a massive bus that shuttled us from the god-defying heights of Tokyo to the serene depths of the mountains of Atsugi. I fell into my futon that night and slept like death was the answer that night. The next morning was the only morning I was awoken after the sun for the duration of my stay in Japan. We had a breakfast that in my American/European sensibilities was more lunch than breakfast. I don’t know what any of the dishes I ate were called, just that they were full of fish and veggies, and of course rice.
That first day, Kohama-sensei and Sato-sensei took us around downtown Atsugi. We saw girls in kimono decorated with bright white and orange koi, swooping cranes, and hard geometric patterns. There was a festival that night we’d be attending, one filled with pyrotechnics and viewed from the roof of one of Kohama-sensei’s dojos. We were given freedom within the city with a tour guide for each small group that formed. I had two disposable cameras which I had to make last 9 days (lesson learned), and a small fortune with which to do some damage.
Regina, Rohan, and I went in and out of every kind of shop we could- kimono shops, grocery stores, bookstores, everything. I believe the three of us knew that would be the extent of our freedom until we performed for the judges, so we made use of it. That night, we watched enormous fireworks bloom with our backs against the roof and ice cream dripping down our chins.
The next morning, and I use the term generously as there was no sun to be seen for several hours, we were woken up, fed and loaded into a van headed for a dojo deeper in the mountains. This was was open, spacious, with a blooming tree behind it that was probably older than our home country. When the other students went to sit in the shade of that ancient pink tree, the three of us sequestered ourselves in one corner of the dojo and critiqued each other’s stances and micro (im)perfections.
This was more or less how the next 6 days went, except we were allowed to wander the city at night with our usual guides. One night the three of us stayed the night at another student’s house. Her name was Akari and she taught us about proper Japanese eating customs. She also gifted us with small paper geisha she made herself.
At some point, the three of us were stumbling over each other, our feet somehow not turning all the way, our arms colliding despite how much we’d drilled our kata into our muscles. It must have been the night before our trip back into Tokyo for the tournament, the jitters causing us to bicker and blame.
Kohama-sensei waved his arms, told us to stop-stop-stop. He drew a circle between the three of us, “Forget him, forget her,” he said to Regina. “Forget him, forget her,” he said to me. “Forget her, forget her,” he said to Rohan. “Get here,” he tapped his temple. “Remember the kata is here.”
I inhaled the mountain air, the trees and compacted soil filling my head as thoughts of my teammates rushed out on the exhale. The movements were smoother without them in my peripherals. My arms, my legs, my feet, hands, torso, everything remembered kanku dai, and even now there are times where I have to get up from whatever I’m doing to perform this kata- 10 years after the fact.
When we gave our final bow, Kohama-sensei clapped his hands together and bowed to us. Once the formality had passed he gripped our shoulders one at a time and smiled at us. As we had reached passive awareness of each other, he deemed us ready. Not that we had much choice, the tournament was in the morning and we had to perform, ready or not.
I was given a canned coffee and a bottle of water before I was fully aware of the bustling world. Get dressed, someone said as I blinked at them. Next thing I knew, Kohama-sensei was standing beside me on the train showing me how to shoot alien spacecrafts down on his cellphone. I was in my street clothes, my formal gi folded up neatly in the backpack strapped to me.
There was a lot of chaos involved in getting us signed in, with out decidedly American names, and getting us into our uniforms, and of course in finding us three black belts, but somehow we managed to get it all done before the three of us were set to perform. When the coffee finally hit my system and I was looking down at the stadium, I remember not feeling nervous. I knew this kata in every part of me. Everything had led me to that moment, it only had to happen.
Then, the three of us frauds performed kanku dai. Their feet hit the mat in time with mine. Their voices rang with mine. We were one team, our awareness spread between us three so that our arms raised on beat and our kicks reached the same height. I can’t recall our score- it must have been pretty good, Kohama-sensei and Sato-sensei were cheering when we returned to our seats- and it really didn’t matter, not then and not now.
I’d gone to Japan at the request of Kohama-sensei, only knowing I’d be expected to perform kata, but what I’d gained from it was less concrete. There’d been moments of exhaustion so deeply woven into my body and mind that I wanted to pass out on the spot, but there is a point in the bone deep exhaustion where you’re no longer tired, where you forget pain and sleep and you’re forced to see yourself bare of those weaknesses. I’d learned I wasn’t made of twigs, but that I was made of steel. Every second in the fire fortified me.
Though it has taken me a long time to take ownership of those lessons, and of my own memories, they’re part of what makes me who I am. I still own the orange belt Kohama-sense signed in a move that said “She is my student”; it is one of my proudest possessions. When I find myself wavering I pull it out and wrap it around my waist, I remember how much sweat I spent to earn that belt, how many aches and callouses it cost me to get his name on my belt.
And I remember- I am so much stronger than this.
Thanks for sticking it out this long. For those of you interested, this was the kata I had to learn.
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