Related to this sort of dramatic fantasy is the literary and cinematic device of the martial arts hero tossing aside his weapon to confront his enemy empty-handed. Besides being a phenomenally stupid strategy, this is a classic example of cross-cultural confusion.
There are other inaccuracies in the paperback ryu’s view of martial arts in general and in their depictions of swordplay in particular. Katana frequently triumph over automatic firearms, for instance. I assume most of my readers know that wouldn’t happen too often in real life. Blades cleave bodies neatly at impossible trajectories. The reality is that, given the weight distribution and cross-section shape of a Japanese sword, clean cuts are very difficult; bloody, messy hacking is often the result. Swordsmen don’t have regular jobs but are instead living like warrior-monks in mist-shrouded dojo or plotting world domination according to the mystical precepts of bushido. Well, of course, this is absolutely correct.
Okay, so what’s my point? These are fiction, after all. If you want accurate information about Japanese swordsmanship, you can read scholarly texts on the subject, right? Well, there are two flaws in that argument. One, very, very few books are available in English that provide that accurate information. For every good one, there are at least a dozen that are more like fiction, full of errors, distortions, and pure fantasy. Two, the average reader of these novels rarely pursues a more scholarly look. For every reader who devours well-written factual accounts, how many more will there be who glean all their knowledge from Shogun?
Popular fiction plays a big part in shaping opinion and interest. Every kendoka can tell you about the guy who shows up because he’s read one of these novels and wants to learn techniques like “the interlacing cross” or “returning swallow stroke.” Budoka need to know that paperback novels to some degree have inspired many newcomers to the dojo. Public opinion in general about budo is influenced by these books. Less than reputable dojo have cashed in on this: look at the teachers who have hinted about their experiences battling elements of the Japanese underworld or of the murky connections they have with international law agencies. As usual, honest dojo will be explaining that the fictional martial artist and his real life counterpart are quite different. It isn’t easy, or always successful, and it’s too bad we’re forced to fight such battles to maintain the integrity of our arts. But what else can one do, other than assume that first attack position and carry on?
I’m Sorry . . . You Okay?
I had not been training in karate for too long when Mr. Yanagi, a friend of my sensei, came for a visit. Mr. Yanagi was a gem buyer from Naha, Okinawa, when he was not practicing karate. He was an expert in pearls, and over dinner, he explained to me how pearls are cultured and how they can be “fixed” to make them look better than they are. I learned how a tincture of Merthiolate can give a substandard pearl a pinkish luster, or how pearls that have a sickly yellowish cast about them can be bleached. I was later able to use a lot of what he told me to impress girlfriends when we were visiting jewelry stores.
Yanagi-san did not look like a gem buyer. He was short and thick and powerful. At my sensei’s suggestion, after dinner our visitor took me into our dojo to work with me on basics. Against my oi-zuki (stepping-in punch), he shifted like he was on ball bearings and countered with various techniques. We’d been at this for about an hour, gradually increasing our pace. I was still not posing any great threat to him, but Yanagi-san was having to move just a bit faster to avoid my attack. That is when he miscalculated, just fractionally. He pivoted and snapped out his fist as I moved in—and he caught me squarely on my nose with the back of his knuckles. There was no kime, no focus, to the blow. If there had been, my head would have come off. The strike was more just a kind of slap. But Mr. Yanagi’s timing was perfect, even if there was no force behind it.
Even though he barely grazed my nose, tears squirted into my eyes. My feet and legs, still driving forward, were way ahead of the rest of me. I went down like I’d been sledgehammered. The back of my head smacked against the wooden floor. I laid there a second. I knew nothing was seriously hurt, and that I should be leaping back up quickly so as not to put myself at risk of a follow-up attack. But I wasn’t sure where “up” was. All I could see were starbursts.
“Sumimasen,” Yanagi-san said, “Daijobu desu ka?” “My fault. You okay?”
I’m not sure how I expected Mr. Yanagi to react to the accident. Over the years of my training that have followed, however, I have heard that phrase many more times. I have, due to my own clumsiness and ineptitude, had occasion to use it myself. Ask anyone who has practiced with me much at all. And I have come to realize since that afternoon in the dojo, that what Yanagisan said to me is really all one can say in a situation like that. More importantly, in the context of the budo, it is all one should say.
It is quite an awful feeling to hurt someone under almost any circumstances, obviously. This is especially so in the dojo where one’s accidental victim is likely to be a friend or a training partner and one feels towards that person almost as if they were a brother or sister. If it is a senior that you have clobbered, you feel terrible because you’ve repaid the kindness of his instructing you by battering him. If it is a junior, you feel worse: a junior in the dojo is dependent upon you for his progress, not for abuse. The initial response to causing an accident in the dojo—the unconditioned response of the untrained budoka—is to abandon instantly whatever exercise it is, to rush forward, apologizing profusely and checking for damage.
The dojo, however, is not a place for unconditioned responses. The budoka who go there to practice must be willing to give a great deal of their lives over to the crafting and shaping of very highly conditioned responses. They are seeking to respond correctly to every contingency, in a wide variety of situations. Among those contingencies is the possibility of an accident. The budoka must realize there is a chance, a risk involved, every time he trains. When you allow me, for the purposes of our learning, to uncork punches at your face, or to twist your wrists to nearly the point of injury, or strike at you with a weapon, you are accepting the possibility I might miss, go a bit too far. I assume the same; that I may injure you. We have voluntarily accepted what insurance companies call “assumed risk.” Like mountain climbers, big wave surfers, and ski racers, budoka would be idiots if they thought the martial Ways were risk-free. That is simply not the nature of these Ways.
If we have trained properly and we exercise care for our partner, we can (and absolutely must) cut the odds of an accident or injury. But we can never entirely eliminate risk. So when in the dojo an accident does happen, we should not be too surprised. We should not indulge in a lot of pointless blather then. We should admit it if it was our fault, and inquire if the injury is serious enough to warrant attention. If it is serious, we’d better be calling an ambulance or rendering first aid. These require coolness and a presence of mind. There is no time, and no reason to engage in excessive apologizing which, while it might make us feel better, won’t do a lot of good for our injured friend.
This attitude may seem heartless. But remember. Yanagi-san’s first words to me were “my fault.” He accepted the blame for the accident, simply and honestly. Then he asked if I was all right, in a way that was straightforward yet not condescending, respectful of my dignity.
Simply and honestly; straightforward and respectful. This is the best way for the budoka to behave when he has been responsible for an accident in the dojo. He will also find that it is an excellent way of meeting a number of other situations as well.