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2024-09-14 03:22:50

Chapter 1: Introduction – Approaching My Life in Kendo
#martialarts #japan #korea #london #melbourne #cultures #sports #gender #masculinity #femininity
Over twenty years ago, my third sensei gave me a Japanese book called *Kendo and Human* (Inoue, 1998). At that time, I had been training in kendo for almost three years. I was a very junior kendoka (the name given to people training in kendo, equivalent to “footballer”), but I was preparing to represent Korea in the World Kendo Championship in America in 2000. My third sensei trained me for eight to ten hours per day. He realized that I did not understand the deeper aspects of kendo. He wanted to introduce me to them, to help me understand practices of self-discipline, self-reflection, and confidence. He thought that this book would help me. It was very difficult to explain and teach some of the skills of high-level kendo to someone as junior as me. It was like a parent trying to teach Shakespeare to a three-year-old. For example, how you win before you even enter the shiaijo (competition area). I started reading this book and found that I couldn’t stop because it fascinated me. Among other key things, I realized that I was just cutting to gain a point, rather than seeking to understand my opponent (the human) and engage them deeply and maturely through kendo.
The author, Inoue, was a well-respected Japanese sensei. His book detailed the morality, ethics, bravery, and manners of kendo. I absolutely adored it. When I moved to London, it was one of the few books I took with me. I treated it the same way as my Bible. It continues to inspire me. However, recently, I reread the whole book again while researching for this thesis. I was very surprised and shocked when I realized that it was meant for men only. Most disappointing of all were the three to four pages on women and women’s kendo. It would have been better if he had not written that section. Inoue sensei thought that women should train to improve their health and become better wives, mothers, and sisters—for beauty rather than strength.
How did I not recognize this sexism at the time? Honestly, back then, I thought it was actually very good advice for a tomboy like me, who had been brought up freely with an older brother. Reflecting on this now reminds me that my third sensei had very similar perspectives to Inoue sensei. When I was training as a strong kendoka, he always told me off. He thought that women’s kendo should be beautiful rather than strong. I understood what he was trying to teach me, but I struggled with it for a long time. Being strong was the best part of my kendo. I did not want to give that up.
My second sensei and I shared the belief that I could beat all women and men, both physically and spiritually. Women could be as strong as men. So, he taught me how to be strong enough physically to beat strong men. One day, he told me to smash the column one hundred times. I did it. My male friends tried to stop me, but I ignored them. The next day, my second sensei made me compete with one of the biggest men in the dojo (193 cm, 120 kg). I found it very easy to make him fall over. No one could believe it, yet after that, I could do it against other huge men as well and easily against other girls. My second sensei had taught me how to do a body attack. It was very fun and glorious.
I was known as a violent girl. I took it as a compliment. When a fight of mine at the (South Korean) SBS Kumdo (Kendo) Championship was broadcast on television, my friends told me that the main commentator was a big fan of mine because I was fighting like a man. But then I started to train with my third sensei, who always told me not to physically attack my opponents. It was so confusing and frustrating. I learned a lot about how to control my strength and how to be flexible from this sensei, but I lost my spirit and physical power. As I have grown older and become a sensei myself, I have benefited from being able to fight beautifully, with good form, rather than relying on my strength. However, I still find that many senseis, especially outside Korea and Japan, continue to doubt my ability to fight well against skillful and physically strong men. It is these experiences—of the pleasures and maturity I have found through kendo, along with moments when men have felt threatened by me, and sometimes tried to seriously wound me—that I want to explore in this thesis. How can we understand the gender relations in kendo—and, more broadly, corporeal politics and combative activities—and improve them so that any woman can enjoy and benefit from activities like kendo without being discriminated against?
https://www.amazon.com/My-Life-Kendo-Masculinity-Cultures-ebook/dp/B0BCYGG3P3

2024-09-13 09:09:31

Orchard Six Kkomaengideul (Kids)
#orchard #children stories #korean #family #love #nonfiction
Gongjunim
After decades of tragedy spanning two generations, the Orchard House finally welcomed the grace and hope of a new generation—a firstborn daughter named Gongjunim. Her arrival sent waves of excitement through the community, and none were more thrilled than her father, Gyu Cheol, the orchard owner. He was overjoyed by the new addition to his family, but it was his youngest sister, Jin Hee, who was the most ecstatic. As the doting aunt to all the orchard kids, Jin Hee eagerly took charge of little Gongjunim, lovingly bathing her and dressing her in the finest clothes. To Jin Hee, Gongjunim was the epitome of beauty and charm, and every moment spent with her precious niece was pure delight.
Carrying Gongjunim on her back, Jin Hee proudly showed her off to everyone, beaming with pride as she asked, "Is she not the most beautiful?" But when someone had the audacity to disagree, Jin Hee was deeply hurt, falling into a wounded silence and refusing to speak to them for a long time. This moment revealed the profound emotional bond and protective love Jin Hee felt for Gongjunim, who quickly became more than just a newborn in the orchard—she was the treasured centre of the family's joy and pride.
Gongjunim, meaning "princess" in Korean, was pampered and indulged from the very beginning. With her dark, thick hair often hiding her face and a slight chubbiness that mirrored her mother’s, she was the smallest among the orchard kids, just like her father. She often wished she were a couple of inches taller, joking with her younger sisters, "If you all hadn’t taken my food, I’d be taller." But when they glanced at her chubby figure, Gongjunim would fall silent. She also wished for a bit less hair—traits she had inherited from her father. However, she had her mother's thick lips and light brown eyes, giving her an appearance that leaned more toward cute than conventionally pretty.
Gongjunim, affectionately nicknamed "Yes girl," was known for her unwavering compliance with her parents' requests, always saying yes rather than no. Rules were of paramount importance to her, and she adhered to them strictly. A meticulous and tidy person, she needed everything in her life to be in order and spotlessly clean. Gongjunim managed her affairs with sharp precision, always knowing exactly how much money she had, down to the last penny. Punctuality was another of her strong suits, as she was always on time or even early. This combination of traits made her an exceptionally efficient worker, and she was recognized as the most pragmatic and realistic member of the orchard house family.
Whenever Gongjunim was with her mother, people would invariably comment on her mother’s stunning beauty. Yet, Gongjunim rarely heard such praise for herself. Her mother, with her radiant skin, exquisite features, and vibrant personality, was the epitome of beauty, leaving Gongjunim feeling overshadowed. Despite this, Gongjunim took pride in her mother’s beauty, which helped her maintain a stable sense of identity. As the firstborn of a wealthy family, she was accustomed to privilege and was generally able to manage her insecurities.
However, Gongjunim’s life took a dramatic turn when her father faced severe financial difficulties. This sudden change forced Gongjunim to confront a stark contrast in how people perceived and treated her. Once accustomed to the comforts of a “금수저 (geumsujeo: golden spoon)” lifestyle—where wealth and ease were the norm—she found herself thrust into a “흙수저 (heulgsujeo: dirt spoon)” existence by the age of 16, where hard work and struggle became essential just to get by.
Adjusting to this new reality proved challenging for Gongjunim. Accustomed to a life of privilege, the sudden change demanded resilience and hard work—qualities she was only beginning to understand. The contrast between her past and present highlighted the complexities she faced as she navigated the challenges of transitioning from a life of affluence to one marked by the need for perseverance.
As Gongjunim's family faced hardships, her mother, Myeong Su, lost many workers, prompting all the orchard kids to share in the workload. As the first child, Gongjunim found herself obligated to assist her mother in preparing meals for everyone. Despite her mother’s repeated morning calls that woke up the entire village, much like a rooster’s crow, Gongjunim occasionally resisted the responsibility, choosing instead to stay wrapped up in her blanket.
Frustrated by Gongjunim’s reluctance, her mother eventually turned her attention to Neuljeongi, orchard house second child, calling her ten times to no avail. Third child, Erika’s name was intentionally skipped, and the next in line, Ttogsuni, fourth child, promptly responded, eagerly offering her assistance. Meanwhile, Dae Hyun, fifth child, only son, heir of family and Hongi, youngest, remained unresponsive and were not called upon during this particular occasion.
Ttogsuni found joy in helping their mother, and though Gongjunim felt a sense of guilt, she eventually joined in the work, even though she disliked it. In her younger years, after the births of Neuljeongi and Erika, Gongjunim enjoyed their company but often pleaded with her mother not to have any more babies.
The responsibility of caring for her siblings, especially Neuljeongi, who always relied on her, weighed heavily on her. When Gongjunim wanted to play with her best friends, Neuljeongi would not let her go. When she attempted to distance herself, Neuljeongi would cry in one spot in the orchard house yard until Gongjunim returned. The increasing demands of caring for her growing family painted a poignant picture of a young girl overwhelmed by familial duties.
Despite her sometimes independent and seemingly selfish demeanour, family observed that Gongjunim was not as she appeared. During a family picnic, Gongjunim positioned herself in the middle, patiently waiting until everyone had disembarked from the bus. She meticulously checked the entire bus to ensure nothing was left behind.
On another occasion, at a public toilet, Gongjunim delayed coming out. Concerned, orchard kids went in to find her cleaning the messy toilet for someone else. Even during a mountain walk, when a signboard had fallen, presumably due to a storm, she didn’t hesitate to pick up a large stone and carefully place the signboard back on the ground. As the first child, Gongjunim didn’t want to be burdened with responsibilities, she was inevitably drawn to them. Yet, Gongjunim had developed a strong sense of responsibility, volunteering, and a knack for looking after everything.
Gongjunim often shared her dream of becoming a priest with the family and even studied theology, but she ended up married with ordinary man, she was working at a school, cooking for kids.
Even after getting married, Gongjunim and her husband regularly visited her parents’ farm, actively assisting whenever they needed help. She was her father’s daughter through and through, fully understanding and admiring him in every way. She often spoke of her father with pride, describing him as brave, warm, sharp, intelligent, and playful—a music artist more attractive and handsome than any celebrity. She would tell anyone who would listen, “My father’s motto was simple: work hard, eat well, rest, enjoy life, and always come back home to stay the night.”
Though the orchard kids had all left the hometown house, the farm became a playground for Gongjunim’s little two boys.

2024-09-13 08:59:23

Kendo is my light
#dream #kendo #martialarts #challenge #sports #life #women #belief
Prologue
Where is my designated spot of victory?
My heart raced, causing my breath to quicken. Aching sensations pulsed throughout my entire body as I treaded barefoot. My feet, torn and wounded, endured excruciating pain. Surak Mountain stood before me, its surface adorned with countless small, frozen stones. Each step upon these icy pebbles pierced
my bare soles, evoking a sensation akin to thorns pricking my skin. Goosebumps erupted all over me with every stride, amplifying the agony I endured. Hours had already elapsed, and my feet now bled
profusely, necessitating periodic respite to cleanse them in the snow.
Arriving at work that day, I realized with dismay that everyone was dressed in hiking attire. In my
hectic state, preoccupied with kendo, I had forgotten that we were embarking on a mountain expedition together. My boss glanced at me and declared, “You’ll be staying at the office.” Pleadingly, I implored,
“I’ll manage.” He cast a silent gaze upon me and proceeded ahead. I continued to beseech and trailed
behind the group until one of my female colleagues suggested, “Would you like to borrow my shoes? I
have an extra pair of trainers in my car.” Her audacious proposal incited fierce glares from the others.
She was considerably smaller in size than I. Hastily, I exclaimed, “Yes! Yes! What a brilliant idea.
Thank you so much.” Though I struggled to fit my feet into her sneakers, my boss glanced at me once more, and somehow, I managed to squeeze them in. He remained silent, granting me a stroke of fortune.
I trailed silently behind the group, but even before reaching the mountain, the ill-fitting sneakers began to cause blisters, adding to my discomfort. Amidst this footwear battle, my boss bestowed a wry smile
and remarked, “If you aim to join the national team, you must possess the courage to climb barefoot.”
His countenance betrayed a hint of scepticism. He already knew that I would not be able to endure such a feat. Instantly, I asserted, “I can.”
We had previously discussed my aspirations for the national team, and it seemed he was aware of my
intentions. His personal motto was “Born today, die today,” embodying a profound understanding of what true effort entailed. Through relentless exertion, he had achieved what many would deem success.
Thus, it was only natural for him to test me.
As I continued my arduous trek barefoot for hours on end, my boss’s expression revealed a mix of concern and terror, yet he remained silent. Eventually, I heard my female colleague cautioning me,
“Honga! You could lose your toes. Please put your shoes back on!” My feet were bleeding, cut, and
swollen, yet I felt a sense of triumph, radiating a smile brighter than anyone else on this planet.
In my early twenties, I was an ordinary young woman, attending night college to study industrial
management while working full-time. On weekends, I toiled all day at a pizza restaurant, finding joy
even in the task of cleaning the restroom at day’s end. It was because I harboured hope that I could become something more, or rather, I would shape myself into something great. This moment, for which I had waited tirelessly for years, was the epitome of what I sought—a test of my abilities, a battle worth fighting, and the key to realizing my true potential.
After several hours, we settled in a humble mountain dwelling for lunch. My male colleague had
prepared food for everyone, burdened by the weight of carrying it all. We gathered small branches, albeit damp, and my boss skilfully kindled a fire. We sat around the fire, and my boss gazed into the dancing flames, softly uttering, “That will suffice. Put your shoes back on.”
I refused. I did not want to. We shared a hearty meal of 라면 (lamyeon: spicey Korean noodle), the best companion on a wintry mountain, adding a boiled egg, a small portion of rice, and kimchi to the steaming noodles. The steam enveloped my face, warming me from within, while the fire’s smoke
caused occasional discomfort in my breathing. Nevertheless, both sensations brought solace to my
weary body. It was a moment of bliss.
At last, I reached the summit of Surak Mountain. Closing my eyes, I gathered all my strength and
whispered a prayer, “God, I aspire to join the Korean national team. With your presence, I know I can
achieve it.” Opening my eyes, I surveyed the natural landscape from the mountain’s peak, feeling
transformed in that very instant. I affirmed to myself, “I will become a member of the Korean national
team. I can do it because I am Cho, Hyun Hong (Honga).”
Our descent commenced, and for several more hours, heavy snowfall graced the deep mountains. It was a gracious blessing, an experience I wished upon everyone to comprehend its ethereal beauty. At that
moment, thoughts of my mother emerged, for she would always say when she witnessed snowflakes cascading gently from the sky, “Blessings are descending.” And so, I contemplated, “Could this be a
heavenly promise of blessings bestowed upon me?”
Throughout that entire day, climbing up and down the wintry mountain with bare feet, I triumphed over my boss’s test—a test that could have been devised by God or myself. Boarding the bus to return, my boss handed me a tissue to wipe away the blood and grime. Again, no words were exchanged between us. I quietly commenced the ritual of tenderly tending to my battered feet, revelling in a resplendent
triumph.
https://m.primal.net/KobV.jpg

2024-09-13 07:50:31

My Life In Kendo: Gender and Masculinity Across Cultures
Abstract
Contact sports have often fostered an aggressive and violent, hyper-masculine culture which prioritises strength and demeans characteristics associated with femininity.
The Japanese martial art of Kendo, however, has transformed into a modern sport which trains men and women together, and where women also frequently compete against men, in contrast to many other contact martial arts. My Life in Kendo:Gender and Masculinity Across Cultures uses an autoethnographic methodology to explore how my
journey in kendo can help us understand gender relations in kendo and improve them so that any woman can enjoy and benefit from kendo without being discriminated against. More generally, this research seeks to gain insight into what kendo offers in terms of positive/productive experiences for women in
particular, along with some key moments where this has failed. At issue are also questions of
Confucianism, migration, anger, masculinity, and aging. #kendo #maritalarts #sports #masculinity #aging #femininity #challenge
https://www.amazon.com/My-Life-Kendo-Masculinity-Cultures-ebook/dp/B0BCYGG3P3

2024-09-12 22:39:08

- reply

Thank you ^*^

2024-09-12 22:37:22

These are my books, which might be of interest to you. #books #kendo #sports #martialarts
https://www.amazon.com/My-Life-Kendo-Masculinity-Cultures-ebook/dp/B0BCYGG3P3
https://m.primal.net/KoGv.jpg

2024-09-12 22:30:55

Hi I am new to Nostr, I am an author and I teach #kendo. I look forward to being a part of this community. :) #introductions

2024-09-12 22:30:15

- reply

Thank you I will!

2024-09-12 22:28:10

Hi I am new to Nostr, I am an author and I teach #kendo. I look forward to being a part of this community. :)