Monday, June 3, 2013

Watch, and Do

"We are going to help you succeed. And if you don't succeed we're going to make you succeed until you succeed!" -Sensei Tony

Higaonna-Sensei has said in many a documentary that we are not fighting opponents, but rather, ourselves. Such is absolutely true. We are fighting our own frustration with ourselves, with our limitations, with the world around us, and our own ability to stick with it regardless of the pain. The pain can be physical or emotional, or a little bit of both, but the most important thing is to remember to have fun.

It happened again where I couldn't hear to keep up. I did my best but even though I stood in the front of the room so I could read instructor's lips I couldn't make out a word that was being said, and at the front and center of the room I had a nice clear view in the mirror of the fact that everyone else was doing something that I didn't understand. Neither was able to adapt the drills and exercises that I couldn't do because I didn't know what was being done.

Several times I asked the instructor to slow down or to repeat himself but it was no use for me. I struggled to understand, or at least to tune out. I thought for several minutes about this being what life is like not only for the hard of hearing but for anyone who does not speak a language that's being spoken in room, while others are perfectly able to understand. No instructor wants this to be the case and I could never fault anyone filled with such love and enthusiasm that it is hard for them to remember to slow down. Karate is exciting stuff and there is much to learn! But he is such a good instructor that I didn't want to miss it.

I finally noticed myself choking on the frustration and took myself to the bench, thinking maybe I could learn what he was talking about if I were just watching. It occurred to me that it might be less distracting for the other students if I just left but if I hid myself from sight because my differences are too hard for me to handle it sets a precedent that we are better off out of sight. Watching did not help. In fact I had so exhausted myself with frustration that I had nothing left to concentrate with.

Sensei came to check on me and I could barely even speak. It has been ages since I have been unable to speak due to something this commonplace in my life. "What's going on?" He asked.
"I can't hear and I can't do half of the stuff they're doing, I don't understand what is going on so I can't adapt it, I am so frustrated," I whimpered, as strongly as I could.
"Get back in there," he said, "watch and do."
"But I can't even--"
"Watch and do. Even if it's wrong, do it. Watch and do."

He was right, as usual. The biggest obstacle we face in karate is ourselves. We have to face ourselves in the mirror during drills, and during kata the invisible opponent is ourselves. I would be stronger by learning to face my frustration when I can't hear.

Sensei doesn't take no for an answer, especially when he knows he is right about something that will help another person grow. Moreover, he is my teacher, and I will always respect his instructions. He won't set me up for anything I can't do. And if it is too hard he will stay on me with support and positivity until I find my own way to succeed.

Back to the mats. "Sensei said so!" put a big smile on my wilted face. I could feel my eyes brightening up the expression on my face, the pull of Sensei's encouragement lifting their soggy corners.

I watched and learned in the back. It was a little easier there because I didn't have someone talking in my face whom I couldn't understand. When Senpai stopped to talk I let it go and focused on mindful breathing. I collected myself, having acknowledged that my teacher was right and I was better off facing the challenge.
But my place is in the front. The other students always make room for me up front so I can see the instructors' mouths. When I need to duck out for a break they do not fill in the gaps. They work patiently in their same spaces for the times I slip back through them into my spot. I did not want to go back to that spot today. Today, I had found a space in the back to collect myself.

As these stories go, it was not in the cards for me to stay back under Sensei's watch. He pointed to the front and nodded for me to go. I must have frozen. The next thing I remember he was right next to me, smiling and telling me to go. "Watch and do. SENSEI SAID SO!" he said with a laugh. I found myself smiling too, and I felt like I could have puked from the anguish of standing fourteen inches from someone I couldn't understand.
My family never taught us to speak Italian so that the adults could talk around the children. I have been so shapen by that and by hearing impairment that I have learned five other languages just to decrease the odds that I will ever have to go through that again. Here I was, facing that bit of family history that really hurt me. Their dialect was so beautiful, so musical, that I would have given anything to have spoken it with them.
But those days were over, I still can't hear, and I found myself up at the front-Sensei said so. Watch and do. Watch and do. Watch (pause) and do.

When my father used to hit me he would make me chant, "o-kay, Dad!" until he was satisfied with the volume and clarity. By the time I reached high school his standards had gone up and I had to say it for longer, and more clearly. I had to swallow the shaking in my voice to get it out and make him stop.
This was different. It was for my benefit. It was to make me stronger, to give me simple words that I could use to walk myself safely through my frustration, cajoling directions to help me ground myself. I wonder so often at the dojo, why couldn't my father have been like that? The answer is that he could have, and chose not to. But the point isn't even the comparison, for there really isn't one. The point is, it is nice to have someone apply gentle pressure to our wounds until the bleeding stops, be they physical or psychological. But the most special kind of bandage is the loving one that sticks with you while you get a nudge back into where you belong.

Watch, and do.

At some point in my life I will give up on hearing completely. I'm not far off. It's been three years since my ossiculoplasty and I'm still not getting the cognitive auditory processing I need to take the stress off of my frontal cortex, which spends way too much time and energy deciphering what might have just been said. When that point in my life comes I will have faced the fact that life will be just as it is today when I can't hear in the dojo. I will simply have to watch and do. I'll be alright.

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