Umi no Hi

The spring events calendar is relatively light compared to those of the fall and winter.  Sure there's the Freshmen Welcome procedures and orientation.  But when stacked up against the school excursion to Okinawa in November, the trip to Yokohama in May is just mere "practice."

The crux of our spring program, though, is the host segment of both of our exchange programs.  By the end of July we have hosted two separate groups from Torrance for a total of five days in an attempt to simulate and summarize a day in the life of a normal Japanese high school student.

          
For me, the best part of these trips isn't so much the rare opportunity to riff in English to nearly unanimous groans

¹ As opposed to confused silence.

¹, but to, again, be reminded of those amazing, subtle differences of culture that I have grown more or less accustomed to.

I mean it's hard not to be consistently wowed by the quality of our Brass Band club and it's massive wall of trophies and the accordant dedication to practice and perfection literally unavoidable as the persistent clacking of metronomes and the haunting whine of woodwinds echo through the halls, their tick and twitter a constant reminder of my own lazy mediocrity. And, of course there are the unique cultural experiences of Tea Ceremony, Ikebana and Shodo. Even still, what seems to surprise the students most are the sports clubs.

I suppose club is the right word for it.  In Japan, when you commit to a sport, you're committing to the club team, whose only, unconditional requirement is your daily commitment.  There is no such thing as a multi-sport athlete because, within the system, it is impossible for a student to be committed to more than one club at a time.

To their credit it should be mentioned that no student is ever turned away from a club due to lack of ability or performance

² Neither physical nor academic.

² and very few players, if any, are ever cut.  Notwithstanding, as each school carries only one team, and while some teams can carry upwards of 30 or 40 kids, only the best players have the honor of being "jerseyed," or selected to be eligible for the game roster, to play in the actual games.

Regardless of a student's status, clubs meet virtually every day, some multiple times a day, throughout the entire year, as freshman until the day they must retire midway through the summer of their senior year.  There are no "seasons" when it comes to sports, and likewise there is no break from practice. Even still, invariably, the athletic calendar centers its axis around the prefectural tournament. For the bigger sports like baseball and basketball, the schedule finds its heart in the heat of the summer "大会" ("taikai").

Sure there may be a spring invitational tournament or a conscripted scrimmage between two schools, but inter-high school athletics come down to these athletic "tests": the Prefectural Tournament (県大会) and then the National Tournament (全国大会).

Two weeks ago, Ichikashi's boy's basketball team took first place in the Chiba Prefectural Tournament earning them a spot in the national tournament.

Around then, Taiga, a boy in Ken's composition class, ran a 14:20.44 5k

³ A number that would put him at the top of the charts in California.

³, qualifying him for the national meet.

And then last week saw the first pitches of the Chiba regional qualification for Summer Koshien, arguably Japan's biggest sporting event.

Way back in the early 2000s, when my only previous, direct exposure to Japan was limited through Harmony Gold VHS adaptations of classic Japanese animes and documentaries on PBS about national treasures (both historical and living), Discover Films: POV released a short doc on the all-Japan national inter-high school championship tournament, the Summer Koshien.

          
First played in 1915

⁴ And even then it was the penultimate sporting event in Japan.

⁴, the Zenkoku Koto Gakko Yakyu Senshuken Taikai (全国高等学校野球選手権大会), pits the best high school baseball teams from every prefecture in Japan (one team from every prefecture: two from Tokyo and Hokkaido) in a single-elimination tournament for the title of "Champion."  It remains the single largest scale amateur sporting event in Japan and stands as an enduring symbol of democratic meritocracy

⁵ The tournament is aired on national public television with no commercials or commercial sponsors; even the use of the stadium is donated.

⁵ as virtually every single one of Japan's 5000 high schools is eligible.  Of course, all they have to do is have a baseball team and then have that team win their 県大会...

Undoubtedly, sometimes what gets lost in the fervor of the literal aspect of sport and its purported inherent, absolute cultural value is the fact that the game is still played by children whose identities and relationships are deeply tied to whatever 部活動 they find themselves in their freshman year. It's easy to forget that high school is a transitionary period from childhood into adulthood, and the summer retirement of the 三年生 is the first and most heavy-handed of the many milestones that mark this passage.

Koshien and 全国選手権 are mere dreams for just about all of our sports teams.  Not only is the success of the club pegged to your team's ability to survive deep into a single elimination tournament, but for just about all of the jerseyed athletes (a preponderance of whom are 三年生) these tournaments are their last event before they are forced to "retire" from the club to make way for their juniors. For every single one of our students, winning that proverbial "next game" is as much about getting to play one more game with their friends as it is winning the title of "National Champion."

               
"This weekend is our last tennis tournament," one girl wrote in her journal way back in May.  "I want to win because I love playing tennis."

Girl's tennis turned over their annual calendar more than a month ago and was among the earliest of all the sports to retire out their seniors.  But I remember recently catching her gazing longingly out of the window of 練習室3, a room that happens to have a beautiful view of the courts on the south side of the campus, her eyes ladened with tears.

"I miss tennis," she said.  "But I miss tennis club most of all."

Chiba no Hi

It's been maybe 9 months since I moved to Kashiwa and, for various reasons such as rain, laziness and not being physically fit enough, I still hadn't taken the time to bike all the way around 手賀沼 (the marsh down the street from my apartment).


Last weekend I saddled up to the challenge and managed the 20km circuit, going so far as to getting slightly lost in the spirit of adventure and turned the trip into one closer to 40. Shrines built on spry hill tops, baseball fields butting up against gentle streams, and fresh eggs sold in vending machines, it was all worth it.

           
It was nice to finally get that far out of town on my own, to see what the other side of 取手 looks like and get a better sense of what life on the outskirts of a city like Tokyo is like by just making the conscious effort to get out and look. Then again, there is still so much to be seen just across the river from my apartment.

A few weeks ago, one of our students mentioned playing in a dodgeball tournament at a gym close to ふるさと公園, where we had our English Freshman Welcome. Neither Ken nor I knew what he was talking about. 柏市中央体育館 (Kashiwa Central Municipal Gym), replete with basketball/volleyball courts, a small gym for ping pong, a children's gymnastics room, a kendojo, a judojo, a kyoudojo (traditional Japanese archery range house), and a sumo stable! A SUMO stable. For children!

Every Saturday and Sunday morning they have children's sumo training. It's the bee's knees! Kids. And. Amazing.

It's quite the scene. The gymnasium complex, not just the sumo-くんs. And it's really close. Quite convenient. Maybe I will inquire within about their classes. Probably not sumo. Maybe judo.

---

Just like most martial arts, judo has come to develop an intricate colored-belt hierarchy (段, dan), starting at white and ending in various "degrees" of black"

¹ 十段, to be exact.

¹. Each belt color indicates a certain level of advancement and achievement, beginning with "initiate" and "novice" and ending, eventually, with "master." This color ranking system was introduced to help inspire progress and make matching skill levels for sparring much simpler.

In more traditional judo schools, when you step out onto the mat for training, regardless of your ranking, you can only wear one of two colors: white or black.

The message is clear: you're either a master (有段者, yuudansha) or you are not (無段者, mudansha, literally "ignorant person," or "having no rank").

Technically modeled after the public school system itself, judo schools were traditionally divided into two groups: underclassmen (mudansha), who are ranked in descending "級" (kyuu) grades of 9-1, and upperclassmen (yuudansha), who are ranked in ascending "段" (dan) degrees of 1-10.

This white/black dichotomy is so strong that many 柔道場 in Japan

² Especially at Kodokan, 講道館, the birthplace of judo, and Ichikashi included.

² only use white belts and black belts. It's also interesting to note that the judo instructor at our school is only a 3rd degree black belt (三段) and the Ichikashi student who won 全大会 last year (that's "nationals" for the two of you remaining Gleeks) was only 初代 or 二段.

There is often a misunderstanding of what is implied by possession of a black belt

³ So much so that there's even a short entry on it in Wikipedia's Common Misconceptions catalog.

³. Often, what we assume of "mastery," in western terms, is the romantic image of the 100 year-old man living in the 1,000 year-old cabin 10,000 miles away from the nearest town who has dedicated his life to the study of his art, forgoing all other earthly wants and desires and only trains travelers committed enough to conquer the 100,000 stair climb to his mountainside dojo/sanctuary. This kind of master "exists," but is awarded as the "master" title of "教授," or Kyoju, and is often earned at around 五- or 六- 段.

Of course, even with the lowest level of black comes the expectation of leadership over their mudansha counterparts (this is usually signified with a title like 師範, "shihan"). But the biggest distinction with the black belt is that it signifies a "mastery" over the 67 投げ技 (throwing) techniques, the 29 固技 (grappling) techniques and the 8 forms of 柔道の形, not mastery over classmates or the craft. The acquisition of the belt signifies a shift away from childish rote memorization towards more mature techniques.

The only things the white belts are expected to do

⁴ And are allowed to do.

⁴ is observe and repeat.

This master/student dichotomy is so pervasive throughout all of the arts in Japan that it even shows up in 書道 (Shodo, Japanese Calligraphy). Students are graded and ranked according to their ability to replicate stroke weight, balance and design, and assessed on the correctness of submitted patterns as reviewed by a master.

In Shodo once a student reaches shodan (first master-level) it is expected that the student now solely uses more strict 楷書 (kaisho, regular) scripts rather than the beginner's models. By san-dan, they are allowed to begin using 隸書 (reisho, clerical) and 篆書 (tensho, seal) styles. By san-dan, they can also begin using more free-form styles in their writing.

According to many practitioners, one is not "supposed" to teach another person calligraphy until they have reached a minimal rank of 初段 (the equivalent of a first-degree black belt), and even then, only to elementary school aged peoples. Adults require a minimum of 三段.

The final stages of ranking

⁵ Above 5 or so.

⁵ require actual in-person examinations.

Just as an aside, with a passive interest in shodo, myself, I found this outstanding website (Beyond Calligraphy) that helps break down stroke order and design balance based on the character's specific etymology. Most notably are the sections on the development of the shapes of basic hiragana.

Anyway, back to that shodo-ranking chart, I was surprised to realize that these rankings are the same rankings that the 英検 (Eiken) English Language Proficiency exam uses.

The table is divided into a top-half and a bottom-half: the top being the masters [those who have acheived a 段 (dan) ranking] and the bottom being 級 (kyuu) (those who have not). Kyuu's begin at Grade 10 (十級) and level their way up to Grade 1 (一級)

⁶ With the Eiken, every level requires a half-step, meaning that between going from Grade 2 to Grade 1 you must additionally pass the 準一級 (Pre-Grade 1 level test).

⁶ before entering pre-master level (準初段), working their way up to 六段 (or 八段 in some cases).

I haven't yet met anyone who's passed 準一級, let alone 一級. The highest level I've seen are a couple of our students occasionally try their hand at 二級. But since most universities don't look for much more than 二級, there is little incentive to try. Especially since the last time the students can take the Eiken to qualify to test for university entrance is three months into their senior year, there isn't a whole lot of opportunity to prep a student to take the test unless they've been practicing over the break by themselves.

And all of this without ever being close to "pre-mastering" (準初段, jun-shodan) the basics of English.

Which is fine because if I think back to my high school years, of what subject, exactly, would I have been qualified to be called a "master" of of even the most basic of skills? P2P music and LAN-parties, maybe. Maybe even canasta.