Scott Langley - Karate Clever: Searching for a New Way

KARATE
CLEVER

KARATE

CLEVER

Searching for a New Way

Scott Langley

MASON PRESS

First published in 2016 by
Mason Press
Rear of Cullenswood Park
Ranelagh
Dublin 6]

All rights 2016 Scott Lanley

CreateSpace paperback ISBN: 978 1 911013 549
eBook mobi format ISBN: 978 1 911013 556
eBook ePub format ISBN: 978 1 911013 563

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, filming, recording, video recording, photography, or by any information storage and retrieval system, nor shall by way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

The right of Scott Lanley to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Cover design by Gareth Jones, www.gazjonesdesign.com
Typesetting and layout by Dinky Typesetting and Design

For my dad

Bun Bu Ryo Do

In Japan Bun Bu Ryo Do is a famous saying. Bun means academic study. Bu means martial study. Ryo means together, and Do means the way. Bun Bu Ryo Do means only by training both the body and mind can you find the true way. This is my story of karate clever.

CONTENTS

ONE

I approached the immigration officer with my back to Japan, ready to exit the country for the very last time.

Gaijin card, please.

I handed over the ID card that foreigners were obliged to carry at all times.

Thank you, she said with finality, popping it into a drawer.

But I held out my hand in the hope that she had made a mistake, but all I got in the way of an answer was a disapproving shake of the head. I walked through to the international area, newly stripped of my legal gaijin status. The date was 4 July 2002, exactly five years to the day that I first set foot in Japan.

If anyone was in need of a holiday, it was me. The Instructors Course had physically and mentally scarred me, all for this vague, ethereal dream of one day being a professional instructor in Ireland. However, I had made it to the finishing line, becoming only the fifth foreigner to graduate in its sixty-year history. When Yumoto Sensei gave me the date of my graduation I started to plan. There was no way I was heading straight home. I deserved a little R & R. However, the reason I had given to Yumoto Sensei for having to leave Japan financial pressures at home was true. I had no money. Taking a holiday was somewhat problematic, so outcame my emergency Barclaycard. I booked a month-long pass for Amtrak and a return ticket to Los Angeles; strangely, they wouldnt sell me a single ticket. At least someone in Japan didnt want me to leave.

I arrived before I left on the Fourth of July, passing the International Date Line, and gained twenty-four hours, which to this day no one has ever requested back. I cleared security, at that time quite a pleasant experience, jumped into a taxi and headed to Santa Monica where I checked into the local youth hostel. It wasnt the Ritz, but I could see the Hilton from the dormitory window, so that was close enough. I said hello to the others in the dorm, one of whom was Japanese. I spoke to him, but he pretended he couldnt understand me, even though my Japanese had been perfect twelve hours ago when I left Japan.

After sleeping off the jet lag, I spent the next few days wandering around Santa Monica, Hollywood and various other parts of the massive L.A. conurbation. It was a shock to the system, and everything Japan wasnt. Everyone was white. I hadnt seen so many gaijin in years. However, as I strolled into a nearby food mall on my first full day there, I quickly realized how segregated the USA is facing me over the counter of every food outlet were black and Hispanic faces: whites were buying, blacks were selling. It was as stark as that. In a day I had gone from being the gaijin to being the majority, and strangely I started to feel very lonely. I rang home and remember my mum saying, Just enjoy yourself relax. My parents were bankrolling my jaunt, paying off my credit card as I went along, and I am sure after everything they had seen me go through, they couldnt fathom my current state of disquiet.

I roamed from one alien situation to another, and at onepoint found myself on a bus tour of the Hollywood Homes of the Rich and Famous. It was fun in a voyeuristic type of way. At one point we passed Nicholas Cages house and the large wooden doors were open people got whiplash trying to catch a glimpse of the car, although it has to be said that it was very shiny.

There were moments of enjoyment but the loneliness persisted. I didnt belong here and looked forward to getting out of L.A. and heading to Austin, Texas to see an old university friend, where I hoped the change of scenery and a familiar face would improve my state of mind. Maybe Japan has sunk into my core; maybe I was no longer Western; maybe I shouldnt have left. Maybe I shouldnt have left? I had just spent the last two years literally counting down the days until I could leave. My emotions were in turmoil. In Japan, OCD and survival had dictated my existence and now, free from the constraints of my karate life, I struggled to be.

I sat on the floor of downtown L.A.s palatial Union Station, the last of the great rail terminals, and made myself comfortable on the marble floor, typing away on an ancient laptop that Samantha had given me as a going-away present. In between organizing my Sayonara Party and taking me to a Kyudo Dojo, she had convinced me that I should write a book and insisted I start it on my month-long trip across America. I wasnt hopeful, but I had promised her and had already typed a chapter outline. I was beginning to find it cathartic to write down what I had been through, and it was a way of escaping the waves of loneliness constantly taking me by surprise.

As I balanced my ancient Macintosh on my lap, a large woman with a thick African-American accent kicked my shoe. Hey buddy, whatre you doing? Squinting through the light,I made out she was a cop just in time to temper my response.

Writing a book, I replied, as if that were commonplace in L.A. And apparently it was. With a Sure, do it! she turned on her heel and never bothered me again.

Half an hour later the same lady held back the crowd as a small Amtrak employee fended off questions. Apparently there had been massive flooding across western Texas. We could make it as far as El Paso, but ironically couldnt pass there. It would be onwards by coach. Everyone seemed very exercised about the whole affair, but I laboured under the false sense of security that five years of living in Japan had afforded me. Whats the worst that could happen? A train, then a coach, seemed perfectly adequate.

I should have taken the hint when the official, who reminded me of Droopy the cartoon dog saying ticket please, meekly offered refunds, which most of the waiting crowd immediately accepted. However, as I was using my one-month Amtrak pass, I had nothing to be refunded and nowhere to stay in L.A. I was moving out.

Sixteen hours later I found myself in El Paso, expecting to jump on a coach to take me the remainder of the twenty-four-hour jaunt. We disembarked to discover an empty car park, so took down our luggage, waiting expectantly. In Japan, when something went wrong, apart from the compulsory