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Witnessing Kendo

Once my offending shoes were slipped off my feet and placed in the proper cubby, I was led down the green hallway to the polished wood room where the high school Kendo club was finishing up their practice. I sat with my young students, one of whom offered me a folding chair.

My students knelt down and touched their foreheads to the floor. I watched as they tied handkerchiefs over the tops of their heads then slipped on their metal grilled masks. This is not a sports practice for gym shorts and sneakers. Even for practice, they wear the whole get-up; loose pants that flare when they pound their bare feet across the floor, big padded gloves that reach to their elbows, chest guards of leather wrapped over jackets of heavy cloth, more thick cloth hanging off their hips. They take the floor fully equipped.

The room was full of yelling and pounding feet. Imitated death cries. I can think of no better way for my students to release tension after a long day at junior high. The kids held staffs of bamboo sticks, loosely bound so that they clapped loudly when struck against an opponent. They raised their arms up, yelled and charged, striking the top of the metal grill masks of their peers. The vibrations shook the room, shook the folding chair when I sat with embarrassed poise. I felt out of place in my business attire and crossed legs.

My teachering partner (and the kids’ coach) was even better dressed than I was. He was easy to spot in his dress shirt and suit pants when he walked into the crowd to adjust the grip of a student’s hands on his pole, or else to demonstrate a raging charge, his sweater vest stretched across his chest.

The room was cold. I imagine I would have judged it steaming if I were in the layers of padded clothes, running, pounding, striking, retreating. These kids made me feel like an old maid, so I folded up my chair and leaned it against the wall. If you kids can run non-stop like this all evening, then I can stand and watch for 20 minutes.

I noticed the walls didn’t quite reach the ceiling, so I walked next door to see what sports teams had to endure the deafening racket of the kendo practice. A league of ping pongers hopped and swung a mere 15 feet away. I admired their short shorts for a moment, and then moved to the next room. Two pairs of boys were practicing Judo, throwing each other down in turn on the padded floor. I watched them struggle and punch for a minute, then moved back to my boys. The noise had subsided. I found them kneeling and removing some of their gear.

I knelt down behind them and waited for the watches to begin. The kids put on a good show, but I was distracted by the pain in my legs. Only the Japanese can turn a pleasant activity like sitting into a test of endurance and fortitude. The proper way to sit in on your knees with your feet tucked under your bottom and your back straight. Sitting on my ankles for so long, I actually look forward to my feet and legs falling asleep so that the pain would dull.

My teaching partner took the floor and stood like a mountain while the small students charged at him and bounced off his body. He urged them on with a growling roar. The students would reply with a high-pitched yell, then dash forward again. They batted at him unsuccessfully for a while, and then he dropped his arms and shoulders so that they could whack the top of his mask a couple of times with their full strength just for the fun of it.

How strange and beautiful it was to watch the transformation. That man, these kids, who spend their days in passive submission, quiet and blended with the swarm, become twirling, raging demons in the sanctuary of the kendo room. There is no place for hesitation here. You must offer your voice as loud as possible, to the fray, or else be judged the loser. The kids have such confidence in their actions, their movements. But only here. In the classrooms they sit so still as if their very presence may offend.

After a while, I had to stand to relieve the pain in my ankles. That was a mistake. The blood rushed back into my aching limbs and the pricked pain intensified ten times. One must learn how to rise after kneeling for so long. To stand as usual would mean staggering on your blood starved legs and possibly tumbling over front ways. Not pretty. You must first lean over and place your fingertips on the floor, then push off using your hands for counter balance.

After the matches came the closing ceremonies. The students took off their masks and head scarves, then knelt in a line across the room. My teaching partner, their honorable sensei, knelt facing then and said something that I couldn’t hear. The students bowed low once, then twice. Then they stood and rubbed their eyes and waited for me to turn away to allow them a moment of modesty to change out of their costumes.

I walked home in the dark, breathing in the cool autumn air. Images of dancing feet play over and over in my mind and I could still hear the urgent cries of the boys becoming men.

posted by Scribbler @ Tuesday, November 23, 2004