May 2017 – Blog and Thoughts

Texas – Part One

Texas – Part One

Late 1967-December 1968

Disciplines

After my teaching gig at the middle school, I continued to take my karate lessons. I had finally graduated from the cement buckets, and Sensei introduced me to the next series of katas. Finally, I thought, I’m able to do something other than grunt my way around ten eighty-foot round trips carrying cement-filled buckets. Thankfully, I had finally learned how to walk correctly.

The next kata was basically the same as the first, except now I was taught to hold my arms in front of me, hands formed in half-fists, and with each step rotate each arm in a half-moon rotation—then back to the start position with the next step. This was intended to block blows coming from the left, then coming from the right. Instead of spending the entire session carrying buckets, I was at least doing something else with another part of my body.

I also finally learned what those wooden posts, really two by fours, covered in heavy canvas were for. After an hour and a half of the kata I was told to stand in front of one of those and punch them as hard as I could, using the karate punch technique—straight from the shoulder hitting the board with knuckles only. Standing in kata position, knees slightly bent, left foot forward, body angled slightly left, and both arms up in a defensive position, I took my first punch at the canvas-wrapped board—making sure my punch ended on the other side of the board. Rotating my body to the left as I closed my right fist, I threw my left arm up, defending my head from a right cross, and flung my right arm—followed by my shoulder and hip. In mid punch I pushed my right leg and foot forward—putting my right side’s full momentum into the punch. When my knuckles met the board I mistakenly thought it would give a bit. It did not. And the pain, as I followed through with the punch, traveled all the way up my arm.

At the end of the punch, I withdrew my right side, as sensei had instructed, and re-assumed my starting position. I thought I was gonna cry.

“YOSH—JOTO DEREONSAN!” Sensei bellowed behind my right ear, praising me for my form and my fearless attack on that wily board. And then he instructed me to repeat the exercise nine more times. He said this practice would create callouses on my knuckles and make me unafraid to hit something solid. I was sure my knuckles would be mashed to a bloody pulp by the time I finished.

***

On one sunny Saturday morning I arrived at the dojo with all the other students from classes Sensei taught for the semi-annual belt competition. This competition was held for all the competing belts to advance to the next level. All the white belts, easily outnumbering all the other belts, sat at one end of the dojo, while the browns and blacks sat at the other. Sensei brought out what I could only describe as a Hollywood-type “Director’s Chair”; and placed it against the wall at the center of the dojo, and sat on it Buddha-like.

The dojo had been decorated with banners, all written in Japanese, which were strung to the walls and hung from the ceiling. In one corner there was a small table on which some black and white pictures in wooden frames were placed. As I walked by, heading to the area where I was to be seated, I saw that most of the pictures were of a much younger—and definitely thinner Sensei—performing katas and competing in various belt competitions. One photo had caught him in mid-air, a good six feet off the ground, delivering a devastating flying leg kick to an opponent’s head. The still shot showed sensei’s body in perfect form, right down the position of his hands and fingers. His opponent had tried to arm-block the kick—but his forearm had arrived just a nanosecond after Sensei’s stubby foot had found the side of his head. His face was frozen in a pain-filled grimace.

We had been taught, and indeed Sensei had always strongly stressed, that the end of every offensive move was but the beginning of a defensive one; and the photo had captured the very essence of his philosophy. I imagined, after having delivered the vicious kick to his opponent’s head, Sensei landing soundlessly on the floor in full defensive mode—fully prepared to repel a counter attack. Although I wondered how one could mount any kind of offensive attack after having taken such a brutal kick to the head.

To qualify for the competition for my brown belt I had been required to learn and execute flawlessly ten different katas—each one increasingly more complex than the previous one. Before the sparring started, each class did a specific set of katas to show the sensei that not only had our minds memorized each move, but also that each individual muscle involved in the particular kata had been trained, and had retained the memory of its specific job. I was relieved when I found out that for this competition we would be required to execute one of the simpler ones. While the katas for white belts were simple and lasted about a minute each, the browns’ and the black belts’ katas were sequentially complex; consisting of spins, leaps and lightning fast arm and leg movements, taking up most of the dojo’s floor. Prior to performing my kata I thankfully noticed that all the cement buckets were gone.

At the end of the kata exhibition the sparring sessions began. Unlike the American Karate exhibitions, the students here competed against one other within their own belt classes. We had been paired off by drawing colored beans out of a basket, and one didn’t know who his sparring opponent was going to be until Sensei called out a color. So for example, if he called out “aka” (red), the two white belt students with the red beans sparred with each other in competition for a brown belt. I had drawn a blue bean (ao), and as I sat waiting my turn I wondered who I’d drawn as my sparring opponent. Since this was going to be a “full-touch” sparring session, I was a little unsettled and hoped I didn’t get beat up too badly.

The purpose of the sparring wasn’t to see who could pound the other into putty, but how perfectly each offensive/defensive move was executed. To my relief, we were told that regardless of the outcome, if both students performed satisfactorily they would both be awarded a brown belt.

The call, “AO!” came right after the third set of sparring opponent’s competition had been brought to a halt by Sensei’s deep and booming voice yelling “YOSH!—which translated into something like, “OK, you guys did okeydokey!”. Both white belts immediately stopped, turned to face Sensei and bowed deeply.

I stood up tentatively and bowed deeply to Sensei. As I straightened up I saw who I’d drawn as an opponent. He was a short but solidly built Okinawan boy, probably seventeen years of age—and he and I had never hit it off. Whenever I had drawn this guy as a partner during our “no-touch’ practice sparring sessions, he had always managed to land a few heavy ‘unintentional’ blows. Although always rebuked by Sensei, he would glare at me angrily as we returned to our seating area. As much as I wanted to pay him back, I knew that this could not be the time nor would it be the place. I vowed to keep my temper restrained and my discipline intact.

We walked to the center of the dojo where a very large wrestling mat had been spread. We faced, then bowed deeply to each other. Sensei yelled “HAI”, and the sparring match began. We assumed our fighting crouch and started circling one another—looking for an opening. Knowing this guy like I did, I assumed he would try to land the first blow so I prepared myself for what I knew would be his favorite opening: a straightforward kick to my midsection. I guessed right.

With an ear-splitting yell he launched his forward kick. I leaned back, transferring my body weight to my right leg, and with a sweeping under-handed forearm half-moon, sidestepped his kick pushing his left leg off to my left side. His momentum, along with my forearm’s sideward energy, caused him to pivot clumsily to his right exposing his left ribcage and kidney. Quickly shifting my balance to my left leg which was still in the forward position, I spun to my left, bringing up my right leg and delivering a solid swinging side kick to the area between his ribs and his left hip. The blow from the side of my foot was stronger than I realized and after connecting solidly with a dull slapping sound he crumpled to the floor clutching his side and yelling, “Itai, itai, itai!” (Hurt, hurt, hurt…).

I retreated and took up my basic defense position, never taking my eyes off my writhing opponent. A few seconds went by and I finally heard Sensei yell, “YOSH!” It was over.

Taking a step back I brought my feet together, put my hands to my side, and waited for him to get up. Still holding his side he got up and slowly turned to face me. I bowed deeply.

Even though he lost the match, the little Okinawan and I were both awarded our brown belts. He had launched a good attack in which his form was excellent, and I had blocked and retaliated with a successful attack of my own. Even though I had penetrated his defense, we were each judged on style and form.

After the white belts finished their competition for brown belts, the browns began their competition for black belts. But what was truly interesting for me was when the three black belts who had been in quiet attendance were called up for their competition. Two of the three blacks paired off, and I wondered why, since they were already black belts. I later learned that they were competing for a higher degree of black belt. These higher degrees, once attained, were displayed as subtle white markings on their otherwise solid black belts. I had always wondered why Sensei’s otherwise black belt had a solid white stripe running along the center. He had attained the highest level there was.

Once the two solid black belt competitors had finished their sparring and Sensei had grunted out his “Yosh” for them, the one remaining black belt rose and walked to the center of the mat. It was then I noticed that his belt had small, interlinked, white diamond insignias along its length. And what further surprised me was that he was going to compete with Sensei himself. Apparently, his present rank was below Sensei’s and now he was going for an equal rank.

While I thought the forgoing black belt competition was intriguing to watch, what was to come would forever remain in my memory and would further enhance my feelings of awe and respect for Sensei and for the discipline he’d instilled in me.

As the candidate and Sensei squared off at the center of the mat, the level of anticipation and excitement grew in the little dojo. Everyone’s eyes were glued to the two combatants as they approached and bowed deeply to each other. Sensei’s opponent was a good five inches taller than Sensei, much younger and rock solid—a streak of gray shimmering in his otherwise jet black hair. Next to him Sensei seemed older, balder, and even shorter and rounder than normal.

Without a sound, they began to slowly circle one another—each one in the starting position: crouched, left foot leading, arms out and bent at mid-level with half-closed fists positioned even with their eyes. It suddenly seemed that the little dojo’s space had magically grown and all the sound had been sucked out of the little wooden building.

The candidate made the first move: a lightning fast right fist thrust to Sensei’s chest that was easily swatted away. Sensei’s body seemed to float as he backed away from his foe and set himself up for his planned counter-offensive move.

In a flash, Sensei was in the air—at least five feet high—both legs in blurred motion as he literally flew in the direction of the younger opponent who frantically used upper half-moon blocks to swat away the attack. As Sensei landed soundlessly on the mat he was instantly back in a floor-level crouch. As his opponent attempted to make a hasty flying kick attack, Sensei spun on his axis—legs flying at almost floor level, and took both legs out from under the other man. As he fell clumsily on his back, Sensei was instantly on top of him, one knee locked under the other man’s throat, his clenched fist hovering menacingly over his nose.

It was checkmate. Had the younger man attempted an escape move Sensei would’ve sent his fist into the man’s face shattering his nose.

For what seemed an eternity neither man moved. Finally, Sensei’s body relaxed and in a quiet voice said, “Yosh!”

He removed his fist from the man’s face, backed off, and helped him to his feet.

The dojo burst into applause, and I was dumbfounded at what I had just seen. Throughout my training I had seen Sensei demonstrate flying kicks, but during these demonstrations, his support leg had never left the floor nor had he ever moved this fast. I had grown to believe that he was just too heavy and old to make those kinds of moves. What I saw that day was almost magical.

Both men now approached and stood facing each other—the candidate bowing deeply to Sensei. Sensei also bowed and reached out to shake the other man’s hand. They both walked over to where Sensei had been sitting and he reached under his chair retrieving a black belt with a white stripe down the middle—exactly like his own. Cradling it in both hands and bowing, he held it out to his younger opponent.

I will never forget the feeling of awe and sheer pride that I felt that morning for the little round sensei and his modest dojo. After the competition, he approached me and in halting and broken English congratulated me and expressed his pride at my performance. He told me that I had forever changed his perception of Americans and that he would never forget Fruranku Seenatura Dereonsan.

***

For the rest of my time at the dojo my brown belt opponent never spoke to me again and always tried to avoid becoming my partner whenever we were paired off for no-touch sparring. Because I was now married and was determined to spend as much time as possible with my new wife, I attended class less and less, and finally decided to drop out of my karate classes. Because of my lack of training, I was never able to complete the training required for my black belt. A few weeks after winning my brown belt I stopped attending the dojo altogether.

As I look back at my life, I realize that those months I spent with Sensei at his humble karate dojo instilled in me what I had sorely lacked in my character. Since I’d left home in 1960 I had led a very confused and undisciplined life. It had taken me almost seven years, a broken marriage, countless errors in judgment, and a couple of reassignments thousands of miles apart to finally gain the maturity and inner strength to understand what I needed to do to get my life in order. My training with Sensei had helped me develop a quiet but strong sense of discipline; his lessons on tactics had instilled in me the ability to understand that success in any endeavor depended not only on how cleverly you attacked a problem but also how well you defended yourself if your attack failed.

Consistently plagued with an intense lack of self-esteem since childhood, Sensei’s training helped teach me how to assess problems by using circular strategic thinking rather than trying to attack difficult situations head-on. I also learned that regardless of the complexity and/or size of the problem, I could solve it by first assessing what it was I needed to solve it. Then after formulating a plan, I executed it by pressing forward carefully using patience, determination, and dogged persistence. And lastly, I learned that even when I failed, the positive lessons learned by attempting a seemingly impossible task far outweighed the negative outcomes resulting from the loss. In short, you learn by trying even if you fail in the attempt.

For the first time in my life I felt strong, confident and intensely sure of myself—but most of all I saw who I had become and what I could achieve with my newly-developed inner strength. Suddenly, nothing seemed impossible; my only regret was that I had wasted so many years floundering in self-pity, living only for the day, and letting outside forces negatively affect my life. With my newfound self-reliance, I was eager to face the world and welcome new challenges.

As I entered this new chapter I felt more self-assured than I ever had in my entire life. And more importantly, I truly believed that, given the opportunity, I could successfully complete any endeavor on which I chose to embark.

It was then that I came to the decision that staying in the Air Force could no longer be an option for me. The regimented, political, and extremely dogmatic lifestyle emblematic of military life which I once enjoyed no longer appealed to me; rather, I now craved an environment which would challenge me in new and different ways. Although at this time I had no idea how to get “from here to there”, I understood that I had a little over a year to look for and locate that unknown. Little did I know that Texas, the place where all of this had begun, would end up providing me with not only new and exciting opportunities, but would help put me on a new career path—one from which I would not stray for many years to come.

New Beginnings

One afternoon, a few weeks before Kaz and I were married, we’d been out visiting Shuri Castle—an ancient palace populated by the Ryukyu Kingdom between 1429 and 1879. Largely destroyed during World War II, several walls and most of the lush green palace grounds remained. On the way back to Naha, I noticed that the temperature gauge on my car was rising dangerously high and the engine was beginning to sound strained. I knew I had a small radiator leak but thought I had it under control. Kaz knew where a little Okinawan car repair shop was, so I made a beeline to its location.

After the mechanic checked the car out, he told us that the radiator was shot. In fact, he doubted that I’d even be able to get back to my hooch after dropping Kaz off. When I asked if he could fix it, he replied the radiator was way beyond repair. I would have to have a new one installed.

After deciding that I may as well get a new radiator, the mechanic said that that was also out of the question. He explained that because it was not a Japanese car, there would probably not be any replacement radiators on the island. Further, even if I could find a new one, the water pump and all the hoses would also have to be replaced. He also mentioned that he’d found a leak in the automatic transmission, and given the overall condition of the car, that would probably also have to be replaced. I realized that the cost of all that repair work easily exceeded the entire worth of the car. Asking him for his opinion, he informed me that the car was junk and had pretty much seen its last day. Not seeing any other options, I left the car there and Kaz and I took a sukoshi cab back.

A few days later, after having taken base cabs to and from my work at the ADC, one of my friends suggested I should consider a new line of cars Toyota had just started selling on the island. The model was called the Toyota Sports 800. It was an aerodynamic-looking little two-seater sports car, made mostly of aluminum, weighed 1,279 lbs., and was powered by an 800cc, horizontally opposed two-cylinder air-cooled engine. It had black leatherette bucket seats and came in two colors: red with a removable black Targa lift-off roof panel, which was stowed in the trunk, and silver with the same removable black top. Best of all, it was priced at just over $1,000, and the Naha Air Base Credit Union would finance 100% of its cost. (See pic in Frank’s Blog).

After getting off work, I took a taxi down to Naha to see the car at the Toyota dealership—and it was love at first sight. A week later, after having secured a car loan at the Credit Union, I drove home a brand new little red Sports 800. Many years later I found out that Toyota had only manufactured 3,131 units of this particular car, and more amazingly, I had owned one of only 300 of these that were manufactured with the steering wheel on the left side.

Goodbye Okinawa

In October of 1967, Mika and I were married—twice: A traditional American wedding at the Air Force Chapel on the base with a military chaplain officiating, and on the following day, after entering our names into the Wedding Register at the City Hall in Naha, an Okinawan style reception was held at the Teahouse of the August Moon in downtown Okinawa. This is the same teahouse where the movie of the same name was filmed in 1956, starring Marlon Brando and Glenn Ford.

Mika (I was now regularly calling her Kaz), wore a beautiful white wedding dress and veil for the Chapel wedding, and a gorgeously ornate Japanese wedding kimono, complete with gold and silk threading, for the ceremony at the Teahouse. For the Japanese ceremony, her makeup and kimono—all traditional—took over 6 hours to complete.

I wore a dark suit for the ceremony at the air base, but was completely decked out in a formal “Morning Suit”, tails and all, for the Japanese ceremony. The American wedding was over in a matter of minutes; the pictures afterward taking more time than the whole ceremony itself. The Okinawan one was a whole different matter, the reception lasting deep into the Naha evening, many hours after Kaz and I had departed the festivities in the late afternoon.

We drove away from the tea house that afternoon in my little sports car and spent our honeymoon at a small but beautiful resort hotel located on the northern end of the island. For the first time in many years I was very much in love, and I felt extremely happy.

We settled down in my little hooch, and I continued to work at the ADC while Kaz worked the snack bar at my old barracks. I few weeks later I was notified that I was slated for reassignment stateside, and days later was surprised to discover that my next, and last, posting would be Bergstrom Air Force Base, in Austin, Texas. The location made perfect sense for the Air Force since I’d notified them earlier that I would not be seeking reenlistment at the end of my second tour of duty, but would be requesting full separation from the service. Since they typically paid travel mileage from the separation base to the enlistee’s home of record, Austin—being only a hundred and fifty miles from Houston—made perfect sense for them. At nine cents a mile, they would be paying me a paltry $65 in travel, housing and per diem funds—plus whatever I had accrued in paid vacation leave.

To top everything off, Bergstrom was a TAC base, (Tactical Air Command), and I soon learned that my duties, once I checked in, had less to do with tracking aircraft on radar for air defense while sitting in a nice dark room (what I’d been trained in for the past seven years), and more to do with the delivery, set-up and operations of forward air defense stations in wartime environments out in the battlefield. Specifically, all necessary equipment used for aircraft radar tracking was parachuted in by low flying cargo aircraft, like the C-130 Hercules, and our TAC teams (me), already on the ground just behind combat troops were tasked to find the equipment, set it up, make it operational.

This equipment consisted of huge tents, powerful generators, miles of heavy cabling, monstrous radar scopes, bays of communications equipment, and large wooden cases containing water and MREs (meals ready to eat). To say I was less than enthused to learn how to set up and operate all these apparatus would be a huge understatement.

I was now a staff sergeant so not only was I expected to be proficient in the actual set-up and operation, I was placed in charge of a crew of seven airmen who were to do the actual labor while I supervised and ensured that all was well. Lovely.

I learned all this information from another sergeant who had just arrived at the ADC in Naha from the very base I was going to. “I was excited when I learned I was leaving Bergstrom to come to Okinawa.” He told me one afternoon during a coffee break. “Although I hated to leave my family due to the lack of base housing here at Naha, I was more than willing to accept that small inconvenience just to get out of Bergstrom and leave that shitty job.” I was not looking forward to my assignment.

Kaz and I left Okinawa in January of 1968, and flew to Travis Air Force Base in Oakland, California after which we took a shuttle bus to San Francisco to pick up a PSA flight to Los Angeles. Once there, we commissioned a taxi to drive us to San Pedro, where we picked up our little sports car which we’d shipped from Okinawa a few weeks earlier. We then began the long drive to Texas, making a visit to my parents’ home in Houston before departing to Bergstrom AFB just outside of Austin, where I’d serve my last eleven months in the Air Force.

We drove for three days, but unlike my previous car trips, this one was actually pleasant. Although our car was very small, the seats were extremely comfortable and the ride surprisingly smooth. Despite the short wheelbase, the car seemed to absorb most of the rough patches of highway we occasionally came upon, and I was pleasantly surprised that the little two-cylinder engine was more than up to the challenge when crossing over mountains. It had a four-speed manual transmission and when going up steep grade I found that all I had to do was shift down into third gear to crest the grade. What was really phenomenal was that the car’s little 800cc engine averaged over sixty miles a gallon on regular gas. This made our trip very economical.

Because we were not in any particular hurry when we left California, we decided that we’d just drive casually, keeping the speedometer at a steady 65mph, and stop whenever we wanted to. This made the trip pleasant and stress-free. And again, unlike my previous trips, we stopped and spent the night at small hotels, motels, or motor inns we saw along the road at the end of the day.

The car had a very good heater but no air conditioning, so before I shipped the car from Okinawa I purchased a small four-inch rotating fan at an Okinawan auto parts store and installed it just behind and between the two passenger seats. I ran the power cord under the driver’s seat and up behind the instrument panel where I tapped a power source. With a little ON/OFF/ROTATE switch just under the fan blades, the fan kept us very comfortable throughout the trip.

Because I’d traveled this part of the country several times before, I sometimes grew weary of the landscape. But for Kaz, it was a wonder. Although while growing up she’d visited Japan several times, I don’t believe that she had seen this much land all at one time, so the changing scenery kept her constant attention. From congested, traffic-filled freeways in California, to rolling miles of beige sand, red boulders, and purple-hued mountains as far as the eye could see; dust-devils twisting and hopping along the parched desert earth; giant white anvil-topped thunderstorms bubbling up along the distant horizon; and, endless miles of white-striped black-topped ribbon-like highways, the scenery must’ve filled her mind with awe and wonder.

The sights, sounds, and smells that I’d somehow missed during those long treacherous road trips in the past, I was now experiencing to the fullest. I was older, my senses had matured, and I was at peace with myself. Further, I was now with someone who had come into my life at a time when I really needed some stability, and who was willing to leave her home and family and travel thousands of miles from everything she’d ever known—putting her absolute trust in me and my ability to make her happy. My heart swelled with pride and love, for as our little car ate up the miles, it was bringing us closer to what I truly believed was a bright and fruitful future.

On that long trip, I did a lot of thinking—mostly about the past—and I promised myself that I would work hard every day to make our dreams come true and avoid the pitfalls that had derailed my previous marriage. I replayed our courtship in my mind, beginning from our first meeting at the snack bar all the way to the evening when Kaz told me that I’d have to meet her parents and ask them for her hand in marriage.

I prepared myself for the worst, but everything ended up turning out OK. Well…there was that one little hitch, when her mother looked at me—her eyes filling with tears—and said loudly in English: “YOU STEAL MY DAUGHTER!!” I don’t think I said anything—I was so shocked. I thought she couldn’t speak English. By the time the sake was passed around and toasts were made, everyone at the table seemed to finally accept that my intentions were honest.

Now, on the way to Texas I didn’t know what I would be doing in a year, but whatever it was I was determined that I would be successful. What I didn’t know was that regardless of all our efforts to attain that success and happiness, someone very close to me would end up causing Kaz and me, irreparable harm.

To be continued…

Okinawa – Part Eight

Okinawa

Part Eight

October-December 1966

New Horizons

After my return to Naha I tried to get my life back in order, but as my dear friends began to leave—first, Nat and Smokey for home, then Ramie, Peewee, and finally Roomie to Vietnam—and the reality sunk in that I was no longer married, I began to find myself feeling more and more isolated and alone.

A few weeks later while at work, I overheard a couple of my coworkers discussing their upcoming participation in a karate competition. Although I had never been very interested in participating in sports activities—aside from playing a bit of basketball—their conversation piqued my interest, so I decided to ask a couple of questions.

They told me that they were part of a karate club, one of many such martial arts organizations on the base, and met almost daily in one of the numerous indoor sports facilities scattered throughout the many military bases on the island. They said that there were judo, jujitsu, karate, boxing, kendo, and various other contact sports clubs that one could join as a member of the military.

“It sure beats getting drunk and spending money on whores…” a tall, well-muscled black soldier from Florida said, grinning enthusiastically. I had to agree.

After thinking about this for a while I made the decision to seek more information concerning joining a karate class. I thought that since I had at least another eighteen months left on Okinawa, I should maybe try to improve myself instead of spending all my money drinking and prowling around in Naminoue.

After a few visits to some on-base classes to observe and ask about pricing, I began to have some serious misgivings about signing up for classes. First, it seemed that all the instructors were American and had earned their black belts attending the same club where they were now teaching. Sitting in on a class one day, I noticed that after the required warm-ups and form and movement drills, the instructors would pair off the students for what they called “dueling”. From what I could see, “dueling” was nothing more than one guy trying to kick the hell out of whoever he was paired up with. Lastly, the pairing usually consisted of one brown belt (more advanced), and a green or white belt (less advanced or novice), and the object of the exercise appeared to be to see just how many punches or kicks the less experienced student could absorb before staying on the floor and refusing to get up.

I decided that this maybe I should think this through a little more thoroughly.

A few days later I took a cab down to Naha City to have dinner at one of my favorite mom and pop Okinawan restaurants. The owner–a small, and jolly dark-skinned man named Ichiro, along with his equally tiny wife Kyoko, would always welcome me with the greatest show of joy and fanfare. Every time I’d enter their little restaurant, Kyoko would throw her hands in the air, flash her most winning semi-toothless smile and begin to jabber in non-stop Japanese. Although I’d picked up a few Japanese phrases and words since I’d been on the island, Kyoko’s (“…you call me Kyoko-san) rat-a-tat delivery always went way over my head. Except for my name, which they pronounced—Fu-rahng-ku, and a couple of words meaning “welcome” and “hurry”, everything else she said was always a mystery to me.

After seating me, she would always run into the kitchen, where Ichiro and one or two of their sons were cooking, and scream that “Furanku” was here! After a couple of minutes, he would come out, always wearing a ragged tank-top, greasy white apron over rolled-up khaki pants, and flip-flops, and offer me a beer (bee-ru). He would then chasten Kyoko to get my beer and to hurry up and take my order.

This particular evening, their normally packed restaurant was uncharacteristically empty. After the usual greeting and the ceremonial pouring of an ice-cold Kirin, Kyoko pulled up a chair and began to ask me about my trip home. Before I’d left to go to Reno I’d told them I was traveling back to the states to see my wife and kids—but not wanting to divulge the whole sad story, I intentionally left out the part about Sharon’s pregnancy. They each wanted to know as much as possible about my marital situation but I shied away and always tried to change the subject. This time Kyoko was insistent on hearing how my wife and kids were.

“Well,” I started tentatively, “me no have wife no more…” I said in Pidgin English, all the while making hand gestures which I hoped she’d interpret as two people going in different directions.

“Nani?” (What?) She exclaimed breathlessly. “Sodesuka?” (Is that so?)

“Hai…” (Yes) I said.

She pooched out her lower lip and grabbed my right hand with both of hers. Her face clouded up and she began making whimpering Japanese sounds and shaking her head. Slowly a big round tear rolled out of one of her eyes. She jumped up and ran into the kitchen jabbering and gesturing wildly. A few seconds later Ichiro walked unhurriedly out and sat on the chair Kyoko had just abandoned. I noticed that she was standing just inside of the kitchen door dabbing her eyes with a washcloth.

“Ah…Furanku…” Ichiro said sadly. “So, so, sorry…ne? (OK?)

“Daijobu desu” (That’s OK.) I answered nonchalantly, shrugging my shoulders.

He patted me on the back and headed back to the kitchen. After I’d finished my meal Ichiro came out and sat down with me at the table. He seemed really concerned and asked me several times what I was planning to do. I reassured him that I was fine, and to try to cheer things up I told him I was thinking about taking some karate classes but that I really didn’t like the ones on the base.

He immediately perked up and told me he had just the solution. A few blocks from his restaurant, in an area that I’d not yet visited, he knew of a karate dojo (school). The owner, he told me, was a frequent customer at the restaurant, and Ichiro was surprised that I hadn’t ever noticed him. He described the sensei (teacher) as short, round, and rock solid. I told him that when I was in his restaurant I was busy concentrating on his delicious food, not gawking at the people. Before I left, Ichiro gave me some verbal and hand-sign directions to the sensei’s karate dojo. He assured me that it would be easy to find.

A few days later I decided to take the plunge and start my search for the school. It took me over an hour to find, given that there were few street signs, and the many little shops and such in the area had their names written in Japanese. After asking several passing pedestrians directions to the “karate dojo”, I came to a small weathered gray wood-framed building whose signage included a small drawing of a figure appearing to be kicking a wall.

As was the custom, the door was completely open with only a pair of short dark curtains drawn across the door. I pulled the curtains apart and walked into a small ante-room whose floor was covered with about a dozen pairs of shoes, flip-flops, and getas (elevated wooden flip-flops). There was another door, again covered halfway with a pair of light gray curtains with a small set of stairs in front, leading up to an elevated room.

As I stood there for a few seconds, I could hear commands being shouted out followed by what sounded like stomping feet. I removed my shoes, walked up the three stairs in my stocking feet and parted the two curtains.

The room was larger than I thought—windowless with a low ceiling—and a smooth dark wooden floor. There were several poles about head-high wrapped in thick canvas along each wall. Between the poles, there were what appeared to be metal buckets filled with hardened cement.

In the center of the room, there was a group of six or eight barefooted Okinawan males—mostly boys, wearing loosely fitting thick white long-sleeved jackets with matching white floppy pants. Around their waists, each wore a long white canvas-looking belt, knotted in front in a rough and complicated looking knot. They were standing, legs akimbo, their arms raised in boxer fashion—except that their hands were open. And they were all staring at me.

At the front and facing the group was a man who I assumed was their instructor. Short, balding, as round as he was tall, he was very dark skinned and did not look like any kind of karate instructor. The sensei’s I’d spoken to on the base were all tall and lean, and not one of them looked to be older than thirty. This guy was pushing at least fifty and gave me the impression that he spent more time at the dinner table than at the dojo. His clothing was identical to the young boys except his belt was black; and like everyone else, he was also barefoot.

I stood tentatively by the door, my stocking toes nervously twitching on the smoothly worn wooden floor. The old man looked up at me quickly and cocked his head curiously. In a flash, he whipped his attention back to his charges and yelled at the top of his lungs:

“HAI!!”

The boys instantly snapped to attention, slapping their hands down to their sides and arching their backs ramrod straight.

“HAI SENSEI!!” They all yelled in unison and then bowed to the instructor slowly from the waist up. They held their bow until the instructor gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then they straightened up, held attention for a second, and relaxed. Slowly they began to disperse in small groups—all but ignoring me.

I was so caught up in the group’s finely synchronized motions that I didn’t even notice that the instructor had walked up to me. I looked slightly to my left, and there he was, not a foot away—staring up at me, his face twisted in a slightly annoyed scowl.

“OH! Hello…” I said, confused. “I mean…kon’nichiwa…” (good afternoon). And I executed a sloppy little bow.

He continued to stare, and finally, let out a disgruntled sounding grunt.

“Sumimasen…” (excuse me) I stuttered. “Etto…” (uh..) Not knowing the Japanese words, I reverted to English. “I’d like to take karate lessons, please—onegai shimasu…” I pronounced the word: “kah’rah-tee”.

“Nani?” (What?) He grunted. “Karate?” He pronounced the word: “Kah-dah-teh”.

“Hai,” I said. “Onegai shimasu.” (please), and I did another little bow.

He shook his head, and I couldn’t tell if he was saying no or just trying to clear his thoughts.

“Karate?” He repeated.

“Hai.” I repeated.

“Hmmm.” Now that I understood: he was considering my request. Then, in a burst of low-toned guttural Japanese he asked, “Anata wa nihongo o waka ri imasu ka?” (Do you speak Japanese?)

“Uh…” I said, trying to absorb his question while struggling to put together a response.

“Sukoshi…” (a little), I managed to mumble.

“Sodesu ka?” (Is that so?). He asked, doubtfully, crossing his arms.

“Hai, sukoshi…” I put my index finger over my thumb in the international gesture for “a little”.

He turned quickly and motioned for me to follow him. He led me through a small door in the front corner of the room which opened into a small and cluttered office. As I followed I couldn’t help but notice that he walked in a powerful and silent manner. He was more or less gliding soundlessly across the floor.

He slid in behind a mini-desk, muddled with papers and small booklets—all surrounding a small twin burner propane stove on which an iron pot seemed to be boiling. He pointed at a tiny folding chair, and I sat down gingerly.

“Doshite?” (Why?) He asked, leaning back on an old and very creaky metal office chair.

“Uh…doshite?” I asked back…not really knowing an answer to his question. My mind was racing to come up with some intelligent reason for my wanting to take karate from a man who spoke no English, at an Okinawan dojo in the middle of Naha City, with a group of young Okinawan men who didn’t seem to take a shine to me when I first walked in. So, I just repeated the word:

“Doshite…shiranai.” (Why? I don’t know.) “Boku wa manabitai…” (I want to learn).

“Sodesu ka?” He asked softly. “Dakara, anata wa manabitai desu ka?” (So, you want to learn?)

“Hai.”

He cleared his throat and reached over to the boiling kettle. He poured some steaming water into a small ceramic cup and placed the kettle back onto the burner. He stirred the water, which had now turned a light grayish-green, with a tiny silver spoon, causing some fine threads of steam to curl around his round and well calloused knuckles. Leaning back in his chair he blew gently into the cup and fixed his stone black eyes on me. “Sodesu ka, ne? Anata no namae wa nan desu ka?” (What is your name?)

“Frank…I mean, Furanku.”

“Ahh…Furankushinatora no yo ni? (Like Frank Sinatra, right?)

“Uh, no…Frank DeLeón.”

“Dai jobu.” (That’s fine.) He said, almost under his breath. His eyes locked on mine and he brought the steaming cup to his lips taking a precautionary sip. Satisfied that the tea was the right temperature he took a second and louder sip—more like a slurp.

He put the cup down on top of some pamphlets and said, “OK, Furanku-san…you first American karate boy this dojo!”

And that was it. For the next thirty minutes, he did his best, in chopped English, hand gestures, and some Japanese, to convey to me how often he expected me to attend classes: (six days a week—two hour sessions); how much it would cost me, (five dollars a month); and what the different levels of karate he taught were, (white belt-novice; brown belt-apprentice; black belt-master).

In so many words he explained that he didn’t believe in the American way of teaching karate: “Karate is martial art. Americans teach “martial”, I teach “art”. Karate is for peace not war. Karate is 99% defense, and 1% offense. Americans use karate 99% for offense, and 1% for defense. Sensei no teach like that. Waka ri masu?” (Understand?)

Before I left, with my promise to return in two days with the first month’s tuition and an extra three dollars for the white uniform, called a “ghee”, he penciled my name onto a large paper calendar. I was his dojo’s latest white belt novice and his first American student. Only much later when I had learned to read some Hiragana characters, did I realize that the name he’d written on the calendar read, “Sinatra”.

***

My introduction to Sensei’s karate program presented me with an extremely steep learning curve. While I had considered my military physical training program as the toughest thing I’d ever done to date, this went way beyond the pale.

First and foremost, I was taught that the whole of karate was comprised of hundreds (if not thousands) of katas (forms of movement). A kata was described as a type of “dance”, whose series of physical movements, involved arms, legs, feet, and even the head. Each kata was designed to teach a particular defensive and/or offensive move, meant to neutralize and respond to an attack. And, each kata—the first being extremely simple—got progressively more complex. Once the first ten katas were memorized and practiced until executed flawlessly, the student should instinctively be able to repel, block, and counter foot, knee, toe and heel kicks; elbow and fist thrusts; and spinning and flying arm and leg attacks.

The first kata I was taught was the simplest and most basic: walking forward. Since katas are a series of arm, leg, and body movements—executed while moving forward, backward, or sideways, one had to first train the body the correct way to navigate perfectly forward and backward. Therefore, it stands to reason that walking forward successfully while in a defensive stance should be the goal of the first kata.

To accomplish this, Sensei had a novel and rather torturous method of teaching this. Once the student was standing in the correct position: legs slightly apart, knees bent, left foot about six inches in front of the right, and body facing forward, he would bring two of the cement-filled buckets to each student. We were instructed to bend down, waist straight—the bend made with knees only—and pick up a bucket with each hand. Straightening the knees slightly would raise the buckets off the floor, after which we would commence a slow walk forward—but not the normal way one would walk.

Walking, or moving forward, was accomplished by first lifting the right foot about a quarter inch or less off the floor, but instead of stepping straight ahead the kata required us to swing the right leg in an inside arc and quietly plant the foot down. If executed correctly, the right foot ended up about six inches ahead of the left—with no sound when the foot left the floor nor when it planted back down. The next step was taken by the left foot—again a quarter inch off the floor, arching inside towards the right ankle—finally ending up six inches in front of the right foot. Each foot move was to be completed consecutively with no break in rhythm, and no shuffling sound whatsoever.

The forward moves were all made while carrying the buckets, each weighing about ten pounds, in each hand, body rigid from the waist up, and facing forward. At the end of each step the student would yell (grunt), “HAI”! The distance to be traveled was the length of the dojo, which was about forty feet. Students were not allowed to drop or release the buckets at any time, and once the kata began, the movement would be continuous until reaching the opposite wall. Once there, a body pivot to the right was executed—causing one to turn and face in the opposite direction. The kata would then re-commence and end at the original starting point.

At first, I thought that walking forty feet would be mere child’s play, but given the weight of the buckets, and the intense concentration required to force body, legs, and feet to move in perfect coordination to prevent loss of balance, and to try to move soundlessly, proved to be excruciating. Add to this the pressure of having Sensei in front, behind and on either side of me yelling and physically correcting each movement proved extremely stressful. On my first pass, I found myself almost completely exhausted and covered in sweat. Happy to finally put the buckets down I was devastated to learn that when back at the starting point I would be required to do another pivot and complete nine more round-trips before being allowed to put the buckets down and take a break.

***

After a couple of weeks, besides thinking I was never ever going to get over being sore all over, I began to think about my finances. The trips to the dojo every day after work were taking a toll. From my barracks, I would have to take to take a base taxi to the main gate, then an Okinawan taxi to the dojo. Once my training session was over, two more taxi rides back to the base and my barracks. I decided what I needed to do was to buy a cheap car.

I prowled the bulletin boards at the Air Defense Center, the Base Exchange, and the chow hall. Because being a serviceman meant being transferred out every couple of years, there was never a shortage of autos for sale. The problem was trying to find one that matched my budget: Cheap.

To my surprise, I saw a new listing go up on the bulletin board at my barracks. According to the information on the 3X5 index card written in red, an Army private who was being transferred out to Vietnam was selling his 1957 Plymouth/Dodge.

“A little rough on the inside and out, but runs good. Must Sell! Gotta Go NOW!! First $50.00, gets it!!”

Even though $50 would take over half my paycheck I thought if the car was still available I would go ahead and buy it. With the constant daily drain in taxi fare, it wouldn’t take too long for my investment to show a little profit.

I walked up to the second floor and looked for the soldier’s room. Luckily he was in, and in a few minutes I was taking a little ride around the base in the strange-looking car. When I saw the car described as a Plymouth/Dodge, I was a little mystified. Now the mystery was solved.

In 1957 the Chrysler Corporation manufactured a car for Canadian consumers called a Dodge Mayfair. It was a coupe that combined a Plymouth body with a Dodge front clip, making them a forward looking car that was never seen in the United States. Although originally a beautiful car, this particular unit had seen its share of bad days. It had apparently spent most, if not all, of its life on Okinawa, and the harsh salt air and lack of body care had taken its toll.

Besides several patched-over rust spots, and ragged interior, the car had been repainted in rust colored primer. I assumed one of its many owners, finally throwing in the towel on the growing patches of rust he would find weekly, decided to just paint the car in a color it would eventually become.

Its saving grace was that the sturdy V-8 engine was still quite serviceable, and in spite of the bad suspension, the windows that didn’t work all the time, and the noisy exhaust system, I was happy to take the deal for $50. For another $7 for license and registration, and $5 to fill the tank, I was set! No more taxi rides for me.

***

About a month into my karate training I paid a visit to the little snack bar located in my barracks for a Coke. I hadn’t seen the little female attendant since I’d returned from Reno and was a little surprised that she was still working there. As usual, she was sitting at the little table just across from the counter reading a small book and taking notes on an open pad. I could see that since I’d been gone she’d not changed her normal behavior of ignoring arriving customers.

After standing at the counter for a couple of minutes I finally decided to speak up.

“Excuse me, naisan. Could I get a Coke?”

She continued to ignore me by feigning even more interest in what she was doing. I cleared my throat loudly and in a slightly louder voice asked again for a Coke. This time I heard her mumble something under her breath, and she lifted her head out of the book, her face screwed up in an extremely annoyed look.

As soon as she saw me her expression changed instantly. “Oh! It’s you! I haven’t seen you for a long time. Where you been? Maybe TDY?” (Temporary Duty).

“Oh…no. I went home…to the U.S.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I had some…uh…family business.”

“OK. So you want Coke?”

“Sure. How you been?”

“Fine, just study English, work here, and go home. Same.”

“Well, your English is coming along well–much better than my Japanese.”

“I don’t think so!” (The word think came out as ‘tink’). She smiled sweetly.

I got my Coke, said goodbye, and headed back to my room. As I sat down at my table and got ready to write a letter to my mom, I found myself smiling at the thought of the little Okinawan snack-bar girl. For a long time, I thought that she was rude and very discourteous to anyone that dared walk into the rec room and order something, but the last few times I’d seen her she was amazingly friendly and positively chatty. I promised myself that I’d ask her what her name was the next time I saw her.

The next time turned out to be just a few days later. I had just finished an early evening training session at the dojo and was on my way back to my room. Since it was still early enough for the snack bar to be open, I decided to stop in and get a hot dog to munch on before taking a shower, doing some reading and hitting the hay. Walking into the rec room, I was quite surprised to see that she was still working because normally she worked the day shift and was gone well before four p.m.

“Hey,” I said cheerfully. “You’re still here. I thought you only worked the day shift.”

“Yes…” She said, her face showing a flash of anger. “The boy that relieves me and works the nights didn’t show up. I call my boss but he say I have to stay until close.” She trailed off into a series of grumpy sounding Japanese words, accentuated with a wrinkled brow and pooched out lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Why you sorry? I’m the one working late. And now I have to take the late bus home. I no like to do that.”

“No…” I stuttered. “I mean—no, I’m not sorry…it’s just something we say when we feel bad for someone’s situation.”

“Huh!” She snorted. “Well? What you want?” She was back to her rude self.

“Oh, just a couple of things.” She got up from her table and walked quickly around and behind the counter.

“Well?” She asked, crossing her arms impatiently.

“OK, first…I came in for a hot dog. Next, I wanted to ask your name. And finally…well, this next thing I just thought of now: Can I offer to give you a ride home?”

“Nani?” (What?)

“Oh, sorry…I guess that was three things.”

“How you give me ride home. You have car?”

“Yes, actually. I just bought one the other day. It’s not very nice but it runs. I needed it so I could go to my karate dojo.”

“Huh? Karate dojo? What you mean? You take karate?”

“Hai.” I said, confidently. “Yes, I do.” I fleetingly thought I’d like to give her a little demonstration of the kata I was learning, but then I was missing a couple of cement buckets.

“Eh?” She said, in a little whiney tone, then a flurry of Japanese words.

“Sorry, I didn’t understand.”

She slammed a hot dog on the counter and said, “Twenty-five cents, please!”

I dug into my pocket and held a quarter out for her. She stared at it until I put it down on the counter. Sliding the quarter to the edge of the counter, she angrily pushed some buttons on the register and threw the quarter in.

In my best Japanese I asked, “Nanji-ni au koto ga deki masu ka”? (What time do you get off work?) She looked at me with a shocked expression.

“Nani?? Where you learn that? Bar girl?”

I did, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “No, my karate sensei taught me that one.”

“Huh.” She grunted. “What else he teach you?”

“Namae wa nan desu ka?” (What is your name?) I said, coyly.

“Hmm, funny. I finish nine o’clock, and my name is Kazumi, but everyone call me Mika. You Furanku, ne?”

“Uh, yes. But how did you know?”

“Come back to snack bar after nine. I have to clean up then I want to go home. I’m tired.”

And with that she slammed the register drawer shut and turned away.

A Light in the Darkness

On that first evening that I gave Mika a ride to downtown Naha in my new (old) car, I got the impression she didn’t seem to care what it looked like, just that she was getting home in something other than a bus. Once downtown I asked her for directions to her house, but she told me that she’d be getting off a couple of blocks away. She didn’t say why, but I assumed she didn’t want her parents to see her being driven home by an American serviceman. On the way, she didn’t say too much and not knowing exactly how much English she understood I decided to just enjoy the company.

She pointed to the side of the street once we passed a stop light and I brought the Plymouth/Dodge to a noisy stop. She opened the door, stepped out, and took a couple of steps before turning and thanking me for the ride. As she walked quickly away, I noticed that I was just a couple of blocks away from my dojo.

The next few times I saw Mika in the snack bar, I began to notice a marked change in her attitude. If she was busy with other customers she tended to treat me, more or less, like she did everyone else: rudely. But if I caught her alone she smiled, inquired about my karate lessons, and a couple of times actually asked me to tell her about Texas. Before I knew it, I was looking forward to stopping by the snack bar after I got off work and before I went to my dojo.

One evening, as I was finishing up with my karate, Sensei came up to me and asked that I stop at his office before I left. I thought I was doing pretty well in the kata department, having graduated from cement buckets to actually doing something with my arms and hands, but I was still apprehensive as I knocked at his door.

“Hai, dozo!” Sensei said loudly, waving his hand toward a chair. I stepped in and bowed deeply.

“Sawatte kudasai.” (Sit down.) He said, motioning again in the direction of the little metal chair in front of his desk.

“Hai, domo arigato.” (Yes, thank you.) I said, and took the seat.

“So Sinatra-san, how you like karate?” He asked gruffly.

“Dai jobu desu…” (It’s good…).

“So desu ka?” (Is that so?)

“Hai, so desu.” (Yes, it is.)

“Ano, (Uh,) how you like be sensei?”

“Me? Karate sensei?!” I asked, surprised at the question. He burst out laughing, his belly bouncing gaily under his gee.

“Ah, Sinatra-san, you taku-san (a lot) funny, ne? No, not karate sensei—English (pronounced, Engrish) sensei.”

“English sensei? Waka ri masen.” (I don’t understand.)

Sensei took a sip from his little cup of ocha (green tea) and told me what he had on his mind. He had a friend, he said, who was an educator in what we would describe as a middle school. A few days ago they met for dinner and his friend mentioned that he’d like to have an English speaker help him out in a couple of his English Language classes. Sensei thought of me and mentioned that he may know someone who may want to help out, but he’d have to ask first.

“Dakara, (so) I ask if you like to be Engrish sensei?” He said, raising his ocha cup in a toasting gesture.

“Well, I don’t know that much Japanese so I don’t know how I’d teach English to Japanese students. Besides, I don’t have any sort of teaching license or degree.”

“No need! You his, etto…ashisutanto…” (assistant).

“Assistant?”

“Hai, ashisutanto. You teach kodomo (children) Engrish, and boku no yuji (my friend) teach you Nihongo (Japanese). Idesu ne?” (Good, right?)

I didn’t know what to think of this offer, but I promised him I’d think it over. He said I would be needed three days a week, from 9am until around 1pm—assisting for a total of two to three classes a day. I said I’d let him know in a couple of days.

***

The middle school was located just north of Naha City, in a semi-rural area surrounded by lush palms and thick-trunked camphor trees. The building itself was a simple two-story structure sitting on a field of fine white gravel. It was rectangular in shape, and outfitted with numerous windows and large doors. Most of the classrooms were located on the east side of the structure, thus affording them the full advantage of the bright Okinawan sunshine in the morning, and cool breezy shade for the two hours they were in session during the afternoon. The cafeteria, administrative offices, teacher break rooms, and bathrooms were mostly located on the western side, and were amply outfitted with slowly rotating ceiling fans.

Sensei had instructed me to ask for his friend, Yamamura, Kiyoshi, when I arrived at the school for my first day as “Engrish Sensei”. What he didn’t prepare me for was the string of administrative assistants I would have to wade through when I walked into the Administrative Office that first morning. Apparently, no one had briefed them on my arrival, or even that I was going to be assisting Kiyoshi-san. They naturally assumed I was lost, so they all attempted to usher me out to my car to resume my search for whatever building I was looking for, and where I was sure to find someone named Yamamura.

After a lot of bowing, hand gesturing, and the depleting of my entire thirty-word Japanese vocabulary, the principal finally came out of her office. Gratefully, she spoke good, if not heavily accented English, and asked me to take a seat while she rounded up Mr. Yamamura.

He walked into the office and his stature immediately reminded me of the Emperor of Japan during the war: Hirohito. Tall, wiry-thin, wearing a dark slim-cut suit, white shirt and a well-tied black bowtie; his glossy black hair was cut very short and on his face he was wearing thin black-rimmed spectacles.

I immediately stood up and placed my arms snugly against each side of my body, preparing to bow respectfully. He stopped directly in front of me, snapped to almost military attention—and while bowing deeply said, “Ohayō gozaimasu, hajimemashite?” (Good morning, how do you do?)

“Hai, genki desu, arigato gozaimasu.” (Yes, I’m well, thank you very much.) I replied, attempting to bow deeper than Yamamura-san’s bow—showing respect and honoring him for being a highly-placed sensei. In response to my deep bow, he bowed again deeper and I responded with an even deeper bow.

After a couple of more rapid bows on each side I decided that if I went any lower I was going to fall over. I straightened up and offered my hand. He smiled slightly, his almond-shaped eyes almost squeezing closed, and reached out and took my hand.

“Ah, I am Yamamura, Kiyoshi, and you must be Dereonu, Furanku-san—sensei Uchiyama (this was the first time that I’d learned Sensei’s last name) speaks very highly of you. He tells me you are his only American student, and for that he is very proud.”

His English was very precise—not quite unaccented—but each word was delivered with defined exactness and clarity. And the tone of his voice was a dead ringer for Peter Lorre.

“Ah no, it is I who is proud to be Sensei’s humble student.”

“Well, let me show you around the school before the students arrive. My classroom is on the second floor. Do you need to relieve yourself before we go up?”

I was a little shocked but quickly answered that I was OK for now. He smiled again and said that on the way he’d show me the “resting” room. He turned and began to walk out of the office, gesturing that I should follow him. Quietly, the entire administrative staff, all women, stood and bowed deeply as we walked out the door.

The classroom was large and airy, and there were twenty desks lined up neatly in four rows of five each. Although the sun was shining brightly through the large windows, I noticed that the ceiling was lined with three rows of fluorescent lighting. Behind Kiyoshi-san’s large wooden desk, an oversized chalkboard took up most the class’s front wall. Scattered about the classroom walls were neatly posted placards written in English, reminding the students of certain English grammar rules—many of which most Americans currently ignore or never paid enough attention in school to learn.

Next to Kiyoshi-san’s desk was a large wooden chair. “This is where you will be sitting during class”, he said. “You will give help to the students in relation to American slang and colloquialisms. Sometimes I have great difficulty in trying to explain the plainer side of English and there’s where I hope you will assist.”

“Sure, I’ll do what I can.”

“I understand that you also wish to expand your knowledge of Japanese.”

“Yes.”

“So this will be a learning experience for all involved.”

“I hope so. At least I hope I can be of some help.”

“I’m sure you will be, and I am most appreciative that you have chosen to take time out of your busy life to help us here in our little school. Thank you.” He bowed deeply and I unsuccessfully tried to outdo the depth of his bow.

I looked at the clock on the wall and asked what time class started. He said it would be starting in a few moments so he suggested we retreat to the Teachers’ Lounge. I wondered aloud why we were leaving just as the students were beginning to arrive, and he explained that it was not proper for the teacher to be in the room when the students walked in. It was customary to wait until the class president called the class to order before the instructors walked in.

The Teachers’ Lounge was smaller than I thought it would be—a couple of almost worn out couches, a small table with wooden chairs, and a minuscule counter complete with a sink and a couple of two-burner propane stoves.

“You like ocha?” Kiyoshi asked, pointing to the small kettle boiling on one of the burners.

“I’ve had it a time or two—it’s OK.”

“Ah…I love the American way of using ‘OK’. It’s a clever non-committal word that often passes for acceptance, but mostly means that the person who uses it is not convinced one way or the other.”

“Hmm yes, I guess that’s right. But I’m willing to try it unless you have something else.”

“No, ocha is all we drink here. Give it a week and you’ll find yourself wanting nothing else.”

I took the plain white ceramic cup filled with the steaming green liquid and sipped it loudly as I’d seen Sensei do at the dojo. Outside I could hear the shrieks the children were making as the hallways filled.

At eight o’clock a gong sounded and the noise in the hallway instantly stopped.

“Finish your ocha, Furanku, it is nearly time for us to begin.”

I drank the last of the ocha, leaving a layer of crushed greenish-black leaves at the bottom of the cup and placed it in the sink.

“Are you ready?” Kiyoshi asked.

“Hai.” I said, a wave of nervousness rising through my body. I still wasn’t too sure what I was supposed to be doing.

Approaching the open classroom door, a step or two behind Kiyoshi, I began to hear the high-pitched hubbub of the children’s voices. We could’ve been in any school, anywhere in the world; as the inharmonious sound of their collective voices belied any definitive language—they just sounded like happy, noisy children.

The din suddenly ceased, save for the soft shuffling of students scurrying into their seats as we crossed the threshold of the classroom. Walking slightly behind, and to the right of Kiyoshi, I got my first glance of the class.

We strode to the front of the classroom, and facing the students, stopped in front of the large wooden desk.

In the front row, a small, thin male child, dressed in the identical uniform of the rest of the nineteen, stood suddenly and snapped to stiff, ram-rod straight, attention. His face a mask of complete seriousness, he opened his mouth and in a high-pitched shout, said, “SENSEI! OHAYO GOZAIMSU!” Then, he bowed perfectly and deeply, from the waist up. As his bow reached its lowest point, the rest of the class, in unison, rose from their desks—snapping their posture to match their little leader—and bellowing, “SENSEI! OHAYO OZAIMUSU!”

The class held their collective bow until Kiyoshi acknowledged them with a slight drop of his head, which he held for about two seconds. Then, again in unison, the entire class turned ever so slightly and bowed to me. I thought the appropriate thing to do was to mimic Kiyoshi, I also dropped my head a couple of inches and brought it back up a couple of seconds later.

At that, the class instantly relaxed and they all slid back into their seats. Their eyes, however, remained glued on Kiyoshi as he explained to them what the lesson of the day was and who I was. I didn’t catch everything, but a couple of times I picked out my name (Sensei Dereonu), and twenty sets of eyes shifted over to me, lingering for a second, then back to Kiyoshi.

The lessons were simple grammar and vocabulary—greetings, and simple sentences such as ‘my name is…’—and the children were exemplary. Even in those days when the American classroom was still centered on education instead of political correctness, these kids put their American peers to shame. Quiet, respectful and attentive, it was clearly obvious that these kids were there to learn.

Each class was ninety minutes in duration, and there were four classes a day. Each class, in succession, was more complex than the previous—making the students in the last class almost fluent in reading, writing and comprehending English. I was amused to note that the highlight of the final class of the day was a section in English jokes.

“If the students can master humor in the English language, one can assume that they have very well mastered the language itself,” Kiyoshi said to me at the end of the first day. “I, myself, have not totally mastered American humor, and as an example, those ‘knock-knock’ jokes you like to tell each other don’t make a lot of sense to me. But, hopefully, someday…”

I asked him where he’d studied, and he said the majority of his education had been received in England, but he had studied in New York. “Well, there you go…” I said. “With that British background hobbling you, you may never be able to master ‘knock-knock’ jokes.”

I was only able to assist Kiyoshi for a couple of months, as I’d traded off a work cycle that put me on the evening shift at the ADC, but soon I found that I just couldn’t juggle work, karate, and teaching when I had to rotate back to the day shift. However, the experience, as short as it was, turned out to be extremely rewarding and allowed me to me see another piece of the Okinawan culture. The children were a joy to be around, and on my last day each class performed a little skit for me, all in English, to demonstrate their appreciation for my efforts.

Although I didn’t learn that much Japanese during my short tenure at the school, I really got hooked on ocha.

Frank and Mika

Whenever I wasn’t working at the ADC, taking karate, or teaching, I found myself thinking more and more about Mika. More often than not, when I was in the barracks I’d make a trip down to the snack bar feigning interest in buying a Coke, some blades, or a candy bar. The real reason of course was to see her and maybe chat a bit about my karate classes, or even discuss my time at the middle school. Unless she was busy with other customers, she would always smile at me—not something she did readily for anyone else—and cheerfully ask how my day was going.

Because I was now eligible for off-base housing, and I no longer had any roommates, I’d been looking at renting something near the base. Most of the guys I knew who lived off-base lived in Okinawan houses—commonly called a ‘hootch’. I’d received a couple of recommendations from some of my co-workers, but the hootches that I’d seen were either too expensive, too shoddy, or located in a neighborhood that was not close enough to the base.

Since Okinawan hootches normally were not outfitted with bathroom facilities (there was usually a communal outhouse that I wouldn’t send my worst enemy into), I felt that whatever I rented had to be close enough to the base to allow me to shower before and/or after work, or to hurry to a barracks’ restroom facility in the event of a sudden urge.

Eventually, fortune smiled at me and I located a small two-and-a half room hootch, not more than half a block outside of the base’s southern gate. The two main rooms, each about fifteen feet long by ten feet wide, were meant to be used as as a dining/living room, and a bedroom; and the smaller half-room on one end, equipped with a sink and a four burner countertop propane stove, would serve nicely as a kitchen. The best part was that I was able to negotiate the monthly rent down to twenty-five dollars a month—utilities included. Now all I needed was a little furniture.

When I told Mika about my renting a hootch she seemed pleased and actually recommended a couple of Okinawan furniture companies where I was sure to get good deals. After visiting them, I decided that to get the really good deals I would have to speak Japanese. Since I was sorely lacking in that department, I asked Mika if she could accompany me the next time I went. Surprisingly, she readily agreed.

On her next day off she told me she’d meet me at one of the furniture stores at a certain time; although I was relatively sure she’d show up, I was still somewhat surprised when I saw her waiting outside as I roared up in my Plymouth/Dodge.

After I’d bought a small full-size bed (Japanese full-size beds were about the size of one and a half an American twin), a hutch, and a small table and four chairs, I asked her if she’d like to join me for lunch. Surprising me again, she agreed. I guess our lunch at Ichiro and Kyoko’s restaurant could be considered our first ‘date’.

As the year came to a close I found that Mika and I were spending a lot of time together. Whenever I wasn’t working the evening shift at the ADC, I would take her home after her shift, (always dropping her off a couple of blocks away from her home), and on those days that she was off we would meet up and go shopping or have dinner. Once I asked her if she wanted to go with me to a movie on the base, as the movie theaters in Naha featured mostly Japanese movies—and the few American movies that they did show were all dubbed in Japanese. I was surprised when she declined my invitation, but then she went on to explain that the company that employed her at the snack bar prohibited her dating American servicemen, and she didn’t want to be seen doing so.

I was now living in my hootch and driving onto the base when I had to go to work. Although it had a small fenced area just outside the kitchen, complete with a full rain barrel, where one could actually take a sponge bath, I preferred to leave early and do my showering at my old barracks.

One evening, after having dinner and taking in a Japanese movie, I asked Mika if she wanted to see what my little hootch looked like now that it was furnished. At first she seemed reluctant, but in the end agreed to come over for just “a little bit”.

After a very short tour of the house, I brewed up a pot of ocha and we sat at the little dining room table to chat. As we conversed I began to realize just how taken I’d become with her. I found that her coquettish mannerisms, her beauty, and especially her intelligence had completely overtaken my emotions and caused my mind to dwell mostly on her. When we were together she brought a light into the deep darkness in my heart and caused me forget about all the unhappiness that I’d experienced in the past two years.

As the evening wore on and the ocha pot emptied, thoughts about driving her back home dimmed for both of us; and it was then, that night in late December that we decided to spend the first of many nights together.