I discussed the difference between Dad yelling at me and Mizukami Sensei yelling at me with my therapist Lance Miller. Yeah, on the surface, yelling is yelling. The effects could have been the same. Yet, there was profound difference in purpose, in intention. The effect was in the nuance.
Growing up as a kid, Dad yelled at me for whatever I did or didn’t do. I never knew what made him so angry at me. Honestly, that really didn’t matter. I was scared to my soul. Maybe, I forgot to lock the door or maybe, I made a mistake listening to what he said. Who knows? I wasn’t good enough for Dad. I embarrassed him. Clearly, I was not the son that he hoped for. I was weak. Not strong like him.
For many years later, whenever someone raised their voice, I was scared as hell. Yelling reminded me that I was not good enough. That I never would be. I spent much of my adult life proving that I was good enough, that I was good enough for Dad to love me. However, being more of anything would never be enough. That’s the human design. That’s just life.
Over 35 years ago, I met the late Mizukami Sensei when I trained in Aikido. Outwardly, Sensei and Dad were very similar. They were about the same age. Both were Nisei, second generation Japanese American. Although stereotype, in my experience as a Japanese American man, Nisei men were typically raised not to show much warmth or affection. Again, that’s just in my experience.
Mizukami Sensei got that I had to prove that I was good enough, because I knew I wasn’t good enough inside. In retrospect, Sensei saw that “I wasn’t good enough.” was my lie. “I’m not good enough.” were my Dad’s words that I had become my own over the years.
When Sensei yelled at me that was vicerally different. Yeah, Mizukami Sensei was Old School. Yelling was more the Japanese generational artifact inbred in practice over generations. Aware of this, I fix that in myself as Sensei, too. Life moves on. Times change. Culture and people continually evolve. I can always be better, be the greater man. I try to make a difference for others in the way that’s relevant to the times.
When Mizukami Sensei yelled that wasn’t about I’m not good enough. He yelled, because he knew I could be better. I was the blockhead getting in my own way. I learned to get out of my own way from Sensei. When Dad yelled at me that was because I was stupid, because I was no good. Big difference.
When I struggled training for Shodan (first degree black belt), Ishibashi Sensei, Mizukami Sensei’s senior instructor, said, “It’s your time to get yelled at.” I got it. I listened to Sensei, instead of the voice inside that said, “I’m not good enough.” Stay out of my head. Be present. When I failed, I got the correction, and tried again. When I got the Aikido technique, I practiced over, and over, and over again. Practice makes the unnatural natural. I work on myself, not on others. I get out of my own way. Just train. I made Shodan.
When I was Yondan (4th degree black belt), I practiced iriminage (clothesline technique to the attacker’s head) with 14-year-old Lukas. Sensei told Lukas, “Show me.”
I attacked Lukas. Lukas threw me strongly to the mat with iriminage. Sensei smiled. He said, “Jon, you’re a better teacher than me.”
Surprised, Lukas and I stared at each other.
I said, “I don’t think so…”
Mizukami Sensei smiled, then walked over to help some other students in class.
No, I was not a better teacher than Mizukami Sensei. Sensei was my GOAT (Greatest of All-Time). Sensei graciously brought me up to his level. That’s still the most meaningful thing anyone has ever said to me. Because it was from the man, who meant the most to me.
After Sunday morning Aikido practice, I worked with Ishibashi Sensei on technique for the bigger stronger attacker grabbing my wrist with both hands. Sensei showed me what to do over, and over again. I got it. I don’t make the attacker do anything. I don’t force the technique. I only work on myself.
I apply the technique to myself, not to the attacker. I don’t oppose the attack. I don’t defend. I keep my hands extended in front and move forward. I move parallel to the attack, not perpendicular, not opposing the attack. I get out of my own way. In the gap in the attack, I change the level of my hands in my space. The attacker gives me the technique. They have put the technique on themselves to protect themselves. I can’t make anyone do anything. I can only work on myself.
I don’t oppose. I don’t defend. I get out of my own way. I’m present in my actions. That’s not just in Aikido. That’s in life.
Letting go is the hardest thing I do in life. Getting out of my own way might be the second hardest thing I do. I open up, and free myself. Just train.
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Photo by Thiébaud Faix on Unsplash
