Decade 2 – The 1960’s:
He Called It “Hapkido”
© Copyright 2016 James D. Brewer & Brown Bear Writing
The 1960’s was a busy decade for me. I finished elementary school, went through junior high school and high school, and I entered college. The cultural, political and social challenges of this decade have been well documented, and I will certainly not attempt to redefine them here. I will, however, talk about how the martial arts began to blossom and thrive, and I will speak specifically of what I saw and experienced in that context.
When I reached junior high school in 1963, I encountered the same razing, bullying and general harassment every other kid faced in that crazy, awkward phase of life. There was such disparity in size, maturity, and physical development in kids in Junior High School (now Middle School). Seventh graders were no physical match for many 9th graders, particularly those who were repeating that grade for the second or third time! I have often joked that some of our 9th graders had a hairy chest and dropped their wives off at work before driving to school. As 7th graders we all took our share of lunch money shakedowns, locker-room wet-towel popping, and the like. By the 8th grade, I had come up with a plan for deterrence. I figured that if early in the school year I could challenge the biggest guy in class, in a controlled environment, then I could make a statement to the rest of the so-called tough guys so they would leave me alone. What better place to do that than the boxing that was held about once a week during PE? One day when the PE teacher announced we would be boxing, I picked out the biggest, if not the smartest, guy in class and demanded to fight him. Now, I didn’t get knocked out, and the resulting match was certainly no victory on the cards for me, but I was successful in one respect. I sent a message. And for the most part that year I avoided much of the physical intimidation others experienced from the 9th graders. To my surprise, I did reasonably well in that boxing match; in fact, I performed well enough to be complimented by the instructor and to start enjoying and looking forward to the informal boxing in our PE classes. Maybe I was channeling ol’ Scotty, or maybe I was trying to find that indomitable spirit by forcing it out. It was my first taste of what might be called a martial art (albeit a sport), and the joy I got out of it was a precursor of things to come.
By the early 1960’s, television and movies were beginning to introduce martial arts to the nation at large. It was a slow drip-drip of information that, by the end of the decade, had turned into a flowing stream of shows depicting karate, kung-fu, judo, wrestling, boxing and other hand-to-hand/fighting endeavors. Elvis Presley was among the earliest of the media personalities that I recall being involved in martial arts. He was the epitome of cool in the mid-1960’s. But beyond the music, and beyond his obvious appeal to the ladies, something else about Elvis caught the attention of my generation. He looked like he could fight. I am not talking about the usual slugging-it-out, alternating hook-and-block, cowboy fistfights we had all seen hundreds of times before on TV and in the movies. He was doing something different. Not only did he always get the girl, but he always whipped the bad guy in the process by using something new and strange that folks were calling “karate.” But Elvis was not alone. Other TV and movie heroes began to fight differently than Gene and Roy. And many viewers, young and old, began getting their first taste of the oriental “martial arts.”
2.1 Books, Magazines, TV, Movies, and Helpful Friends
Unlike New York or Los Angeles, the small city in west Tennessee where I grew up did not have the influx of immigrants from the Far East bringing with them the fascinating realities of the martial arts. It always takes time for trends, both good and bad, to ooze from the east and west coast into the heartland of America. As I have aged, I have realized that the people of Hollywood are probably the last folks on the planet that I would consult for political or behavioral advice, given that they tend to live in a world nowhere akin to reality. But as a young man, I, like the rest of the country, was greatly influenced by what I saw on the “tube” and in the movies.
Martial arts portrayal in the US began slowly, long after Hong Kong kung-fu soap operas began to appear on ATV (Asia Television) in the mid-1950’s. According to Blackbelt.com, “the first time martial arts were featured on American television was in an early episode of ABC’s series The Detectives (1959-1961). The martial art was karate (“Martial Art TV”).” Other shows soon followed, but while Hollywood screen and TV producers demonstrated a growing interest in “karate” and “judo” in the late 1950’s and early 60’s, they seemed to have what I call a bi-polar relationship with the martial arts. They alternated between presenting them in a positive light and seemingly making fun of them. Several popular actors were training in some art as early as the late 50’s, e.g., James Coburn, Nick Adams, and Robert Conrad to name just few. They respected the arts enough to include them in their productions. And yet, there was a side to Hollywood that could not resist showing karate and judo with a wink and a nod—almost a tongue-in-cheek, joking portrayal that suggested an unspoken opinion of “this stuff won’t really work.” Still, I was so intrigued by the appetizer of martial arts I was getting from movies and TV that I was determined to have the main course. I remember with considerable embarrassment delivering my first technique.
I am not sure if it was from watching Elvis movies, or from mimicking secret agents Napoleon Solo or Illya Kuryakin on The Man from Uncle TV show (1964-1968), that I learned to deliver my first “judo chop.” My dear friend, Lee, had stopped by my house after school one afternoon and we had spent about two hours goofing-off (that would be “chillin’ or “hangin’” in modern terms). His mother[i] came to pick him up, and even though she had told him three times that she was ready to go, he had consistently ignored her every time. So, I decided he needed an attitude adjustment to help him mind his mother. I gave him a “judo-chop” to the back of his neck, just like Elvis would have delivered in defense of a girl, or Napoleon Solo would have done to a member of the evil empire of THRUSH[ii]. Both of our mothers stood aghast. I was roundly chastised as I should have been. It must have been a pretty good technique for it dropped him to his knees and succeeded in getting his attention, and I confess to having returned to my room rather proud of what I had accomplished. The problem, of course, was that Lee was not a member of THRUSH, had no known criminal or Communist ties or affiliations, and did not deserve to be “judo-chopped” to the ground. I was in the doghouse for days after that. But my fascination with the martial arts remained, and it was further fueled by karate scenes in big-screen movies like Goldfinger (1964). I determined to learn more about these strange physical and mental skills, so I did the next best thing to watching TV and movies. I bought the only book remotely akin to martial arts that I could find at Mrs. Howell’s Bookshop.
Picture if you can a 13 year-old trying to learn self-defense techniques from a paperback book containing pictures of two ex-wrestlers in Speedo-like trunks and ugly shoes. Well, that is exactly what I did with the help of my friend, Lee, who had gotten over being whacked on the neck. We studied the 1959 book American Combat Judo[iii] by B.J. Cosneck. We picked out eight-to-ten techniques we thought we could execute, and we got together in the afternoon after school to practice them until we felt proficient. We got some bumps and bruises out of the deal, but at least we were training in the real thing, or so we thought. Even with the self-delusion of our growing skill, I realized this was insufficient training for a teenager in west Tennessee to engage any Communist spies.
[i] Lee’s mother was the “someone” who stopped my insane beat-down of Carl described in the previous chapter. She just happened to be driving by at the right moment, saw me flailing away on him, and intervened to stop it. Given that event, and the attitude adjustment I gave Lee, she must have thought me quite a hooligan and probably destined for reform school. But she still let me hang around her son. She was a good woman.
[ii] The name behind the acronym THRUSH was never revealed in the series. One of the writers of the paperback U.N.C.L.E. novels, David McDaniel, came up with “The Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity” in his book The Dagger Affair (“What Does THRUSH”).
[iii] American Combat Judo by B.J. Cosneck was originally published in 1959 by Sentinel Books out of New York. Cosneck had taught hand-to-hand combat for the Coast Guard during WWII and jointly written How to Fight Tough with ex-heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey. Paladin Press offers a modern-day reprint of this classic work.
Over the next couple of years, I expanded my search and obtained other references in my self-study. I practiced every technique in Masutatsu Oyama’s Boys’ Karate (1968), and I read Self-defense for Boys and Men (1969) and every other Bruce Tegner[i] book my library could locate. I have noticed over the years that it has become quite fashionable to wink and nod and dismiss as poor quality the plethora of books Tegner wrote on various martial arts styles. The debate about Tegner continues to this day. Check out postings on the YouTube 1961 episode of Ozzie and Harriet where Tegner teaches karate to actor, singer, and teenage heartthrob, Ricky Nelson (“Ricky). Is it a hokey presentation of karate? Sure, it is. There were a lot of staccato blocks, punches and kicks. But they at least attempted to portray to an information-hungry public what forms, kumite (nice touch, Nelson pronouncing the word) and one-step sparring was like. The execution is stiff, and for some strange reason Tegner and Nelson kihap (commonly heard ‘karate yell’ or exhalation, or ‘spirit shout’) on every technique. Yet that is how Hollywood and the media portrayed karate and the martial arts in those early days. With precious few decent books available at the time, and no instructors within reach, the widescreen was all some of us had to shape our early opinions. While I doubt Bruce Tegner was a master in everything he wrote about (and he didn’t claim to be), his role cannot be underestimated in publicizing and explaining the martial arts in his books. And yet, the debate continues. Posting a comment as recently as 2015 about Tegner’s appearance in that 1961 Ozzie and Harriet episode, “Whisper” wrote, “My god he [Tegner] sucks!! Can you imagine how many kids got their asses kicked because they bought his [expletive deleted] books and thought they were learning something?” I confess. I read his books in the library. But I had already had my ass kicked several times, and Tegner had nothing to do with it!
Hollywood pressed on in its depiction of the martial arts. A young Ed Parker, later grandmaster in Kenpo and some-time instructor for Elvis, appeared in the role of a karate student in a 1963 episode of The Lucy Show. It is hard to tell if they are lauding the martial arts or poking fun at them in this portrayal.
INSTRUCTOR: I usually teach my students a combination of judo and karate.
LUCY: Ka-what-tay ?
INSTRUCTOR: Karate. That’s the science of open-hand and foot fighting.
LUCY: Uh-huh (The Lucy Show)
Yes, this was a comedy. And Lucille Ball and co-star Vivian Vance are hilarious trying kicks, stances and throws. Unfortunately, Parker comes off looking uncoordinated and amateurish; and in my opinion, this is not a particularly flattering view of the martial arts. But it is typical of the fare we were served on TV.
Perhaps one of the most egregious portrayals of an incompetent martial artist during this period was Don Knotts’ character of Barney Fife. Barney’s karate or judo appeared in several episodes of The Andy Griffith Show, and in every case his skills were a joke. After watching that, my goal was simple: Don’t be Barney Fife. Be better than Barney. Be the real deal.
ANDY: Barn, I been meanin’ to talk to you about that judo. It may be all right for some folks but, if I was you, I wouldn’t fool with it.”
BARNEY: Are you kiddin’, Andy? This is the greatest self-defense in the world. You can break a man’s arm with this stuff.
ANDY: Yeah, but you get a-hold of a big, strong guy and he’ll break your arm.
BARNEY: Aw, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Are you kiddin’?
[Barney then attempts to demonstrate self-defense against a knife attack using an arm bar, and Andy effortlessly pins him to the ground.]
BARNEY: Let me up, Andy. Let me up. I gotta go to (judo) class. (Barney’s Judo)
Then, in 1966, a character named Emma Peel burst upon the TV scene in a British secret agent show called “The Avengers.” This was the first serious attempt to portray a woman successfully employing martial arts in a major TV show. It did not hurt that she was smooth, fit, and gorgeous, and I am sure a lot of young men watched the show primarily to see Diana Rigg play this fascinating character. The fight scenes, at least by modern standards, were seriously short of being realistic, but Diana Rigg did something far more important in this show.
Suddenly, a generation of young women who had never been exposed to martial arts—or at least never been exposed in a way that might suggest they could actually participate in them—wanted to learn to fight like her. Mrs. Peel-inspired self-defense classes started popping up around the globe. Men admired her skills as well. To this day, if you dig around long enough, you can find find testimonials from current martial arts instructors who owe their early interest in combat at least in part to Emma’s efforts (Kurchak).
By 1968, with no tournaments or demonstrations for miles around my hometown, all I knew about the martial arts continued to come from what I read or saw on-screen. But, oh, what a sight it was! That incredible chauffeur, Kato, on The Green Hornet amazed me. I did not know his name was Bruce Lee[ii], but the more I saw, the more I wanted to learn. Fortunately, by 1967 or 1968 our local bookstore began to carry Blackbelt magazine. It was as if I had discovered a gold mine, and I saved up to buy an occasional copy. I still recall that late 1970 issue with Ken Knudson[iii] delivering a vicious elbow strike in living color on the cover. For years I kept that magazine, its pages dog-eared, the articles read and re-read until the print seemed dim from the sheer effort.
And then there were the tiny Heian kata advertisements that I cut out of one of those early magazines and tried to enlarge so I might learn the movements. I was not even sure what a kata was, but whatever it was, it looked good. When I discovered that Mr. Kang Rhee[iv] had a Korean Karate school in Memphis, where Elvis was rumored to train, I dreamed of attending a class there. Although Memphis was only seventy miles away, that school might as well have been in Seoul, Korea; for having no car and little money, I realized I would never set a bare foot on that floor. I focused on my books, my backyard practice with patient friends, my gleanings from network TV and the movies, the magazines, and an occasional application of Hai Karate® aftershave. I hoped I might someday get the opportunity to train for real. That someday was to come my freshman year of college in the fall of 1969 when I met Mr. Suh, a Korean student who had arrived to study at the small university in my hometown.
[i] Bruce Tegner (1929-1985) was “born into the martial arts” in October 1929. He first studied judo under his parents and later under legends like Kuwushima. By 1949 he was the California State Judo Champion. Along the way he also studied other martial arts such as karate and aikido as well as several weapon arts.
[ii]Bruce Lee’s real name was Lee Jun-fan. But anyone growing up during this time and possessing even a modicum of interest in the martial arts could not have been impressed by the jump front-kick that Bruce Lee delivers to the overhead light fixture in the office of James Garner’s private detective character in the 1969 movie Marlowe?
[iii] Ken Knudson, member of the Black Belt Hall of Fame, died tragically in a plane crash in 2006.
[iv] Master Rhee’s training began in Seoul, South Korea, where he earned the distinction of 9th Dan Master of Martial Arts. When Rhee moved to Memphis in the 1960s, he was surprised to hear that Presley had heard of him and was anxious to begin training under him. After joining Master Rhee’s classes, Presley developed a close bond with his teacher. Presley often went to Rhee for advice and eventually began contributing to his karate studio. Rhee’s relationship with Presley ultimately led to international fame.(http://www.stjude.org/martialarts/0,2630,596_3193_21311,00.html)
2.2 Real Training at Last – Mr. Suh & Hapkido
I remember it as vividly as though it had happened this morning. It was a mild September day in 1969 at tiny Union University. I was dashing from my freshman English Class to a psychology class just down the hall when I caught a glimpse of something posted on the bulletin board about “karate classes.” I came to a drop-deal halt, and I stood there not quite believing what I was reading on the hand-written notice that hung askew on the wall:
Karate Classes
Those interested meet in the basement
of the field house at 7:00 p.m. Thursday
You know how in the movies the heavens open-up, light shines down, and angels descend with that full-bodied chorus? That sign constituted the answer to my prayers and the fulfillment of years of hope. Could this be for real? Would there be actual karate classes in Jackson, Tennessee? I was late for psychology class that day, and I didn’t pay much attention to the discussion of Maslow’s “hierarchy of needs” over the next hour. I could not get my mind off the possibilities. Thursday night would fit my work schedule just fine, and I reasoned that no matter what it cost — I would even take another job if I had to — but I was going to learn karate. There was only one problem as I assessed the situation that morning. The classes were to begin on Thursday, and today was only Monday! How in the world was I going to contain my excitement until Thursday night?
The next three and a half days went by like the slow-frame advance on an old VCR. With every passing day the excitement mounted until finally the magical night arrived. I left work at 5:00 p.m. and ran the three miles home. I could not and would not take the time for supper, so I put on some sweatpants and a t-shirt, and then ran the mile and a half to the Union University field house.
I arrived thirty minutes early. Gradually some would-be students began to filter into the basement where the classes were to be held, and by start time perhaps fifteen curious participants were present. Finally, I got my first glimpse of Mr. Suh. He was a 25-yr old Korean man who stood about 5’5’’ and couldn’t have weighed more than 140 lbs. dripping wet. He stepped into the dressing room and a few minutes later emerged wearing a dobok with a heavy weave, judo-style top. It was the first real martial arts uniform I had ever seen up close, and I remember thinking, “Oh yes, this is the real thing!” Mr. Suh asked the curious people to line up, and speaking barely loudly enough to be heard, he introduced himself.
“My name is Suh. I am from Seoul, Korea and a new student here in the US.” As he continued, my anticipation grew. “I will teach, no charge, anyone who wants to learn Hapkido.”
No Charge? This can’t be real. I glanced around to see if the others were hearing the same thing I was hearing.
“There are thirty-two basic techniques in Hapkido[1],” he began to explain in broken English.
Then it hit me. Wait a minute. He said nothing about “karate.” What in the world is “Hapkido?” The sign clearly read “Karate Classes.” I must confess some initial disappointment. Then Mr. Suh then began to demonstrate some techniques and started showing us some stances, walking among us and personally correcting our posture and balance. “He was a very patient instructor,” says Steven Miller[2], one of our core group of original students on that first night. “He was just a delightful guy, who had a 5th Dan [degree of black belt] in Taekwondo and a 3rd Dan in Hapkido” (Miller). My disappointment began melting away as I lost myself in the sheer joy of learning stances, movement, and one or two basic evasion techniques for attack from behind. Finally, after all my years of interest, I was receiving actual instruction in … Hapkido.
Hapkido originally focused on pressure-point strikes, joint locks and throws, but now, thanks to the influence of hapkido expert Ji Han-jae, it also includes highly refined kicks and hand strikes. Various weapons are taught, including the cane (perhaps influenced by French savate), staff and belt. Development of the practitioner’s ki (life force) is also stressed. Hapkido, which doesn’t have any forms, and it is usually considered a self-defense style rather than a martial sport (“Hapkido”).
Mr. Suh would later say that he liked Hapkido because he “didn’t have to hurt people as badly” as with Taekwondo (Miller). Not only was I the first to arrive that night, I was also the last to leave. I hung back and spoke briefly with Mr. Suh, telling him how much I enjoyed his teaching. He didn’t say much, but he did manage a slight smile.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Jim Brewer.”
“Jeeeeeeemmm … Brewer,” he repeated. “You come back next Tuesday, Jeeeeeemmm Brewer, and I will teach you more.” Come back next Tuesday? Was he kidding? I would have had to be slabbed-out in the county morgue not to have been back on Tuesday!
I decided to prove to Mr. Suh how serious I was about learning. So, I enlisted the aid of my older sister, and by the second class, I had ditched the sweatpants and T-shirt in favor of a makeshift uniform. Over the weekend I conned my dear sister into making me a pseudo-uniform out of white cotton material and the closest thing we could find to a sewing pattern—a pajama pattern modified to my requirements. But what do you want from a working college student with little money, no car, and no access to “martial arts supplies?” And the internet was not even a fleeting dream in Al Gore’s mind in 1969, so ordering it online would not have been an option. That Tuesday night I proudly strolled into the classroom ready to rock and roll. Sure, some of the other students laughed. No, to be technically correct, all the other students laughed. God knows, in retrospect, I laugh about it too. But what impressed me the most is that Mr. Suh didn’t laugh. As we lined up for class, he walked over, gazed curiously at my “uniform,” rubbed the weak cotton material between his fingers, and slowly shook his head. He knew full well that material would never last through the throwing techniques we would be learning in the coming weeks, yet he said nothing negative. Maybe he was guffawing on the inside, but from the look in his eyes, it was clear that if he was sure of anything that night, he was sure he had a dedicated student on his hands. My homemade uniform lasted longer than many of the people that showed up that first night. Of the 15-20 people that started, by the end of the second week, only about eight remained.
My homemade uniform lasted almost a month until another student ripped the top to pieces trying a shoulder throw. This was not the karate I had read about and watched on TV. This was more like judo, and while everyone in class grew anxious waiting for Mr. Suh to teach us punches and kicks, I found myself gaining a new appreciation for break-falls and throwing techniques. Mr. Suh ran a traditional class, albeit no one had real uniforms. Each class would begin with stretching and calisthenics, and then each of the dozen or so students would step on to the mat and go one-on-one with Mr. Suh for a couple of minutes in what could at best be called a modified “randori.[3]” It was a challenging work-out as we each tried to throw the instructor using the techniques he had taught us in the previous classes. But even the students larger and stronger than I seemed puzzled and frustrated at their inability to break Mr. Suh’s balance or to get him off his feet. Then, Mr. Suh would break us into groups of two and we would work on our “technique”—a word that, like “ungawa” in a Tarzan movie, I would discover to have multiple meanings. Toward the end of the class we would have a grappling round-robin with all the class members, and we rarely left with a dry thread in our clothes. If natural endorphins were illegal drugs, I would have been in jail for life.
After about two months of class, our numbers had dwindled to six or eight regular students: Jimmy Chatham, Steve Miller, Ivy Scarborough, Jerry Elston, Ed Sepparillo, me, and a couple others whose names I cannot recall. Some new folks had joined after that first month, but more had left than had stayed. It was clear that this traditional method of learning was not high-speed or sexy enough for some folks. Nobody was receiving belts or promotions. I was to realize much later that Suh was applying a curriculum taught by Sokaku Takeda (32nd patriarch of Diato Ryu Akijujitsu) to Yong Shul Choi (the founder of Hapkido). Apparently, many of my university colleagues had no interest in weeks of stretching, “Danjeon” breathing, steady technique development, and having Mr. Suh toss us around for an hour like a rag doll. In retrospect, I think the instructor was weeding the fields. And it worked. Only the serious remained. But I, too, was frustrated. Why could I not figure out how to throw this guy? He was not that big and he was not that strong. There had to be a way, so I put my devious mind to work to determine how I might prevail in one of those encounters. We had not yet learned osoto-gari (hip throw), so I found a copy of Eric Dominy’s Judo: Contest Techniques & Tactics (1966) at the local library, and I got together with my trusty friend and former punching bag, Lee, and my guitar-pickin’ buddy, Wayne, and I practiced that hip throw until I could do it blindfolded and in my sleep. I determined to surprise Mr. Suh on the next evening of class. True to my pledge, I sat on my knees at the edge of the mat and patiently waited my turn at the opening session. Mr. Suh dispatched three or four of my fellow students in the usual manner, taking care to correct their technique as he helped them back to their feet from the mat. And this was nothing like the forgiving modern “puzzle mats.” We had one of those old-style, stuffed, fabric mats full of dead spots that offered precious little padding against the concrete basement floor. Finally, Mr. Suh turned and motioned for me to come on the mat. I stood up, bowed, and took a deep breath, mentally rehearsing my osto-gari. I began grappling with Mr. Suh and he executed his usual half-dozen throws to test my falling ability and endurance. After about one minute, I was sucking air and I knew I was running out of time. Then I saw my opportunity. In a move I doubt I could match today, I swept inside, and, more by luck than by skill, gained good hip contact, wrapped my right arm around his body, and extended my left-arm. Then I executed a flawless osoto-gari on Mr. Suh.
That was a huge mistake.
I remember the surprise on his face as he hit the mat. He quietly stood up, adjusted his dobok, and smiled.
“Good technique, Jeeeeem,” he said. Then we returned to the grappling and he proceeded to beat me like a rented mule. No, he didn’t physically strike me, he just tossed me around like a football using techniques none of us had ever seen before. The rest of the class watched in amazement when, for his finale, he dropped to his back and executed on me tomoe nage, a stomach-throw popularized in movies and cinema. “What usually happens in the movies is that the hero does this throw, and as the villain goes sailing over, he lets go with his hands so that the villain comfortably rolls on his back onto his feet (“Judo Stomach”). Well, Mr. Suh was the hero and I was the villain, but I did not “comfortably roll on my back and on to my feet.”
What in practice actually occurs is that one is dropping to the ground as one puts the right foot in the stomach. As your back touches the floor, you straighten the right leg and by pulling strongly with the hands to your own body turn the man over in the air and drop him on his back to a point past your own head (“Judo Stomach”).
Mr. Suh’s throw sent me sailing beyond the mat and bouncing off one of the concrete support poles in the basement of the fieldhouse. Like those cartoon characters with the birds and butterflies orbiting around their semi-conscious head, I just sat there a moment. When I looked up at Suh, he stared at me for three or four seconds, then turned and motioned the next student to the mat. The moral of the story was clear and I have never forgotten it.
Even if you’re able to, you don’t embarrass the instructor. This was a lesson that, later in life, I would teach others. But at that moment Mr. Suh had not-so-gently reminded me who was the teacher and who the student. You see, Mr. Suh was actually a Captain in the Republic of Korean (ROK) Army. As my fellow student in that initial class, Ivy Scarborough, reminded me recently,
(Mr. Suh) was trained in an environment that was very much “real world” and where survival was at stake. I am very glad, Jim, (that) we had the benefit of that mindset [instead of] this other lightweight nonsense so often seen in this field. The other is all but useless – except for exercising one’s vanity. (Scarborough)
2.3 Potlatch-do, Demonstrations, and Paying Attention in Class
Having learned something about vanity, I trained with our core group all through the winter. That following spring the university asked Mr. Suh to give a martial arts demonstration before the assembled student body. He agreed and when he informed us that we would be executing our techniques in front of hundreds of people, we thought he was joking. As I look back, that was a lot pressure to place upon a group of young men and women who had been training only slightly longer than six months. But Mr. Suh “enjoyed putting on a show” (Miller), and he was determined; thus, we were determined to make it a success. In preparation, we drilled techniques in extended classes over the next two weeks. One afternoon he handed me a hand-drawn sketch and some money and just said, “Potlatch.” Then he walked off. I studied that sketch at home that night, and even opened a couple of my karate books looking for “potlatch” – which I thought must be the name of a new technique he wanted us to do.
Then next day he asked me, “Did you get Potlatch?” He laughed when I told him I had no idea what he was talking about or what his drawing meant.
“Wood… for breaking. Have it cut to these dimensions,” he said, pointing to the drawing. He was giving me the order for the local lumber company to cut boards for breaking at the demonstration, “Potlatch®” was the brand of pine[4]. Sadly, I was not to become a one-on-one-taught master of the secret art of “potlatch.”
On the day of the demonstration Suh had us ready. He had confidence in us, and that gave us confidence in ourselves. Before a large, attentive and appreciative crowd of students and teachers in the field house gymnasium (we’d finally gotten to move out of the basement for the presentation), I demonstrated self-defense techniques against the grab and executed several throws. It was a good thing he had drilled us on break-falls, because that gym floor was unforgiving. All of us did some board-breaking techniques with hands and feet, and Mr. Suh broke bricks to the maddening applause of the crowd. Then, as the crowning event (though not particularly practical for self-defense), Mr. Suh had each of us take a running start from the half-court line and execute a flying sidekick that struck a boxing speed bag dangled about eighteen inches below the basketball net. To this day I am not sure what that was supposed to prove, but the crowd went wild. Maybe that was the point. Considering the lack of accurate information about martial arts filtering into our small town, such demonstrations provided most people with the only taste of Asian-style self-defense training they had ever seen in person.
A word of caution – be careful about “demonstrations.” Examine when, how and why you demonstrate your art. Ask yourself why you’re doing what you’re doing. During college I was once convinced to do a demonstration for some of my friends. Upon breaking a board with a side kick, I caught a knot-hole as I penetrated the board, cutting a rather nice slice down the side of my ankle. I was standing there trying to explain how much fun Hapkido is, while dripping blood on their floor, trying to mask the pain and trying not to limp when I walked away. To this day, I am still embarrassed by that “performance” (and that is all you could really call it); yet perhaps even that spectacle had an unforeseen positive effect. One of the individuals watching that comic opera that day is now a Ph.D. and Early Childhood educator, and she has become one of the most respected and well-trained taekwondo black belts in her system. In a selfish way, I will continue believing my awkward demo may have influenced her later interest.
Over the next couple of months, we did one or two other demonstrations. Eventually, as with any such spectacle, we were confronted by some non-believers. Mr. Suh had arranged to give a demonstration at a girls’ camp somewhere outside of Jackson, Tennessee. The core group[5] of students drove out to the camp and gave the demonstration. Jimmy Chatham[6] recalls how Mr. Suh literally bloodied his hand on a brick that was determined not to cooperate; but he continued to strike it until he prevailed.
The rest of the demonstration went well, and the group had assembled outside the building fielding excited questions from the appreciative young ladies. Several of these young ladies had invited their gentlemen friends out to the camp that day to visit, and they had watched the group’s presentation. The young men became concerned when their significant others seemed impressed, for the young ladies were engaging in animated conversations with Mr. Suh’s students. Human nature reared its ugly head. Several of the young men aggressively approached our group.
“I don’t think those tricks will work in a real fight,” one of them declared, his buddies close by for support. Everyone expected Mr. Suh to walk away, but he was clearly incensed by their suggestion that he and his students were fakes.
To everyone’s surprise, and particularly to Jimmy Chatham’s, he turned and pointed at Jimmy, saying to the young men, “He can beat any of you.”
Jimmy was a tall, lanky young man and quick as a cat. But the story goes that his eyes were about the size of silver dollars upon hearing Suh’s declaration. Fortunately, no one attacked. Perhaps Mr. Suh’s candor disarmed them. Maybe he intended that result. Maybe he wanted to prove something. I guess we shall never know.
[Figure 2.3.1: Steve Miller executes a flying side kick at one of Mr. Suh’s Hapkido demonstrations in the Spring of 1970. Mr. Suh and Jimmy Chatham hold the boards]
Later that summer, Mr. Suh took three of his most loyal students and began using a junior high school gym to continue his teaching. He opened the instruction to newcomers as well, and realizing he could supplement his income, he began charging a modest fee for the three months’ training. I had even sprung for an actual dobok (uniform) that I ordered through a magazine. It was a black “Bear Brand”® uniform, the top to which I still own (Figure 2.3.2) and sentimentally keep neatly folded and tucked safely in a drawer. But I take it out and wear it maybe once or twice a year just to remind myself of something important — one should always be a student and wearing this old dobok top helps me keep that in perspective. It is now considered a “vintage” uniform.
Vintage. Can you believe that? Makes me feel old. Oh, wait… I am old!
When I showed up wearing that new uniform in class the first time, Suh smiled.
“Stronger this time,” he said, handling the material. “But why you buy a black dobok?” Then I just shrugged my shoulders in lieu of informing him that I chose black because that was what Ken Knudson was wearing on the cover of that early Black Belt magazine I coveted.
During that summer, those of us with experience moved on to more difficult and intricate techniques, and we were expected to assist the beginners as well. As Ivy Scarborough points out about Mr. Suh,
“He was not one of the martial arts types so common today who have never heard a shot fired in anger – much less at them. Most of these people are into forms, techniques and image rather than the “how do you survive by badly hurting your attacker” mindset which was common to [Suh’s] approach.”
That no-nonsense mindset manifested itself all too clearly one day during those summer classes. Wayne Holmes[7] reminded me of the incident years later. Among the new students was a young man named Bill. A rather light-hearted fellow, he spent a lot of time joking and kidding around—behaviors that did not play well with Mr. Suh. Mr. Suh was old-school, thus he believed that training time was just that, and conviviality should be restricted to out-of-class time. Several weeks into the summer, Mr. Suh was explaining a technique when Bill started chuckling about something that had occurred a few minutes earlier. Mr. Suh stopped his explanation and looked directly at him.
“Beeeel, come here, Beeeel.” As Suh motioned for him, the rest of us sensed what was coming.
“Yes, Mr. Suh,” Bill said, a slight grin still adorning his face.
“Beeeel, why you all time laughing?” Suh said, as he grabbed the young man and executed a flawless leg sweep that dropped Bill to the mat. Suh picked him up. “Why, Beeel?” He executed a shoulder throw and slammed Bill to the mat. “Why you all time laughing?”
By now Bill was trying to catch his breath and gather himself.
“You not laughing now, Beeeel,” Mr. Suh said. “Good. Now is class time.” And as calmly and suddenly as he had stopped his instruction to the group, he returned to teaching, picking up almost in mid-sentence where he had left off.
- Lesson learned: Pay attention in class and respect the instructor.
If you want to yuck-it-up with your friends, go down to the pizza parlor after class and enjoy the evening together over a couple of slices. Remember: it is an honor and privilege every time God grants you the health to step on that mat. Some people will say I am an old curmudgeon, but I am not saying there aren’t times for laughter. Some very humorous events occur within a martial arts class, and many of us have either been the cause of them or the audience for them. But martial arts training is serious business, and, as Bill learned the hard way from Mr. Suh, traditional instructors expect a demeanor in their students that respects the sacrifice they have made in their lives to learn and teach others.
We trained hard and progressed rapidly with Mr. Suh during the summer of 1970. When I was not in school, I was working, so I did not get to know Mr. Suh as well as some of the others in our core group, like Ivy Scarborough[8] and Jerry Elston[9], who had (or made) more opportunities to pick his brain.
Mr. Suh, unlike many in some Western schools of martial arts, was a realist. Ivy Scarborough explains that “early on in the instruction he asked me in his broken English: ‘Why, you take hapkido – you very big, you very strong, what you need hapkido for?’ He was very wary of me at first. At 6’7” and 220lbs, he did not know what to make of this big American. At that age I was shy and unsure of myself and was taken aback by his question, so I just said: ‘I believe anyone can learn something useful from what you teach.’ That seemed to please him. But by showing him I did not think myself superior and I respected him and what he had to teach me, I slowly won him over. In fact, I had him out to our family home on the farm on two occasions for dinner.”
We returned to the fall semester at Union University exited to continue our training in in Hapkido. But the light at the end of the tunnel turned out to be an oncoming train, for although we returned to the university ready for training, Mr. Suh did not. We found out his parents had arranged a marriage for him in Korea, and he would soon leave the town and return to his native land to honor their wishes. Jerry Elston remembers it this way. “Suh went home from Union after he became interested in an American girl. When he called and told his mother, she told him [that] if he wanted a wife he needed to come home and she would have one waiting for him.”
Escorting Mr. Suh to the bus for Memphis and saying good-bye was difficult for his students. I could not be there because I was working, as usual. Apparently, he explained to some of those present exactly where he thought they stood in the ranking system, urged us to continue our studies, climbed aboard a big Greyhound® bus, and disappeared from our lives as quickly as he had entered. I never saw him again. But I never forgot him either. A group of six or seven of us, who had been with Mr. Suh from the beginning, tried to carry on. But over the next couple of months our informal gatherings became increasingly less productive and ever-more occasional. Despite our desire, without leadership we simply could not progress.
2.4 Welcome to Shorei-goju or “Mr. Parker Has Left the Building”
For the next several months I turned again to magazines and books, trying as best I could to maintain my skills using a heavy bag and occasional solo workouts. There was plenty of martial arts in Memphis. But I had neither the money, nor the time, nor the transportation to go the 70 miles to Memphis to train. Memphis could boast of Khang Rhee’s school at 1913 Poplar Avenue where Elvis sometimes trained. But such an environment was only a dream for most of us. So, I continued to work-out on my own.
On one cold winter evening in February of 1971, I met a recent transfer to the university who told me he had trained in karate—shotokan to be exact—and that he was a green belt. We decided to work out together one evening, but finding the gym closed we were forced to use one of the rooms at his fraternity house. As he showed me some of the shotokan forms, it was clear this man possessed considerable power. I was impressed how his gi (uniform) would “snap” with his techniques – something I saw with Mr. Suh and could occasionally manage myself. Then, after I demonstrated several Hapkido techniques, he suggested we engage in kumite, or sparring. I agreed, and we bowed in. For the next several minutes I was dumbfounded by his style of martial arts. It seemed, upon first observation, that the gentleman only knew four or five techniques. He rarely threw any technique except a front kick, side kick, or a reverse punch.
How limited, I thought. I bet he doesn’t grapple at all.
Meanwhile, I bobbed and weaved trying to strike him with a series of sidekicks and roundhouses, only to have most them blocked. And he blocked hard! Built like a fireplug, he was not very mobile, and yet he seemed to be where he needed to be when he needed to be there. When he did counter, he grabbed my uniform and reverse punched … hard. I did not fare as well as I expected against this strange (at least to me) style, and after he kicked me over a water fountain with one of those “predictable” front kicks, I gained a whole new respect for shotokan karate. Don’t you just hate how separated ribs mean you can’t sleep on that side for about a month? Bryan Mason captures the essence of this guy’s simple, direct techniques when he describes shotokan in a 2016 Black Belt magazine article. “Like the one-sword of itto-ryu, the one-punch referred to in the phrase ikken hisatsu, which translates roughly as “one-punch kill,” is a [Shotokan] technique capable of ending a confrontation with a single use (48).”
- Lesson learned: It’s not as important to be able to deliver many techniques as it is to be the master of a few good techniques.
It is not a question of how much you know; rather, it is how well you can execute what you know. This holds true whether you train in a predominately striking art or a grappling art. Brazilian Jiu-jitsu master, Royce Gracie, put it this way. “It doesn’t do any good to work on moves that are flashy but nonfunctional. It doesn’t help if you can punch and kick 10 times in 20 seconds. What does matter is being able to kick the man in the groin, break his arm or destroy his knee (Gambordella 91).”
Not long after my ribs healed from my introduction to Shotokan, I discovered that a karate instructor had moved to town and was opening a school above Jaco’s Music Store. Two or three of Suh’s disciples — my guitar-playing buddy, Wayne, among them — joined me and we all trudged down to the location and met a “Mr. Parker[10]” lately of Chicago—instructor of shorei-goju style karate. Hungry for more training wherever we could find it, we immediately signed up on a month-to-month basis. We spent our first week of class sanding down the floors of the room where we would practice. I would discover in the coming months that real martial arts training does not require fancy dressing rooms, carpeted flooring, mirrors along the wall, or music playing gently in the background. It requires only a splinter-free floor and room to move. We felt blessed because Mr. Parker was truly talented. He was quick, agile, and demonstrated considerable power and focus in his techniques. I liked the style because it provided more hand techniques than hapkido, and I enjoyed the formal class structure. Shorei-goju has been described as
… a style that contains every type of strike, kick, block, wrist lock, arm bar, sweep, takedown or pressure point which can be used, giving the practitioner the option of choosing which best fits his physique, personality and situation. … [a style] so complete that it has something for everyone. One does not have to be tall and thin or short and stocky, or a top athlete to study this system. It is adaptable to every size and personality. (“Shorei-goju”)
After doing two weeks of nothing but training in movement and stances, and I am talking Kibadachi (horse stance) and Zenkutsu Dachi (forward fighting stance) for hours, I yearned for the instruction to progress to actual blocking, punching, and kicking. But Parker, like Mr. Suh, was old-school, so he knew exactly what he was doing in terms of conditioning us for the long haul. Eventually we began doing some blocking and striking techniques and learning Sanchin kata, which features sanchin breathing. According to Andy Moorhouse, 5th Dan Goju Ryu, Sanchin kata is
… a deceptively simple multi-level exercise. Amongst the aims of Sanchin are to co-ordinate breath and action, create power [and] cultivate deep abdominal breathing. As an isometric strengthen[ing] exercise …’Rooting’ creat[es] solid foundation with the stance, from which to deliver your blocks and strikes. It develops ’Sanchin feeling’ and ‘Sanchin spirit’ to project into your techniques… [and] most importantly, it develops power through sustained muscular contraction (1).
Sanchin differs from the danjean breathing we had learned in hapkido. With this kata we were required to sustain a reverse punch blow to the mid-section amid our breathing technique. Mr. Parker would demonstrate proper sanchin breathing, then have each of us mimic what he had done, as he moved down the line, delivering a punch to each of us. The first couple of nights we did not do very well, but eventually we got better at sustaining his punches. I recall how one rather arrogant new student, introduced to sanchin breathing on a Friday night, returned for Monday evening’s class with a serious case of attitude. He began bragging to all of us how he had “mastered this breathing stuff.” And he offered as proof of his newly found skill the fact that he had let his brother and sister, and even his uncle, punch him in the abdomen and he withstood the blow. Unfortunately, Mr. Parker overheard his bragging and lined up the class.
“I understand Mr. Wood has already gotten sanchin breathing down to an art form after only one class,” Sensei Parker observed. Wood made the mistake of nodding, accompanied by a smart-ass grin. “Very well, then, Mr. Wood. Please step forward.” Wood moved out of line. “Breathe,” Mr. Parker said. Wood began some animated posturing and Parker punched him in the abdomen sending him several inches into the air and bouncing him off the wall about six feet behind us. Wood crumpled to the floor, and though he eventually got up and finished the class, he never returned after that night. No one missed him.
- Lesson learned: Don’t brag about your skills, particularly when you’re a novice.
I was thrilled to have again found a talented, hardcore instructor, and training with Mr. Parker was a true joy. So, imagine my shock when I arrived for class one evening about four months into training only to find the school deserted and the other students standing around with long faces. I soon realized that the talented Mr. Parker had skipped town. Now, I was not out much money (no more than a week’s tuition), but that night I did lose something even more important–my willingness to trust an instructor implicitly. If Mr. Parker had just called us together and explained that he could not make it financially in our small town, we would have tried to pay more tuition. But he just left. And that was to bother me for a long time. It still does.
Sometime after Mr. Parker left, I was working my job at the local newspaper mailroom where I operated a wire-strapping machine (Figure 2.4.1). One of the young adult, rural route, mail carriers drove up, parked his vehicle, and called up to me on the loading dock.
“Wayne Wooley’s lookin’ for you,” he declared with a smirk.
I wiped the sweat away and put down a bundle of newspapers. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m just tellin’ you, … he’s lookin’ for you.”
“Who? Who is Wayne Wooley?”
“A guy I know,” the carrier replied. “I’m just sayin’ …he’s lookin’ for you.”
“Why?”
“Cause he don’t like your looks. He says he’s going to whip your ass,” the man said matter-of-factly.
“Look, I’ve got work to do here,” I replied, “I don’t even know this guy.”
“Well, he knows you. You know that karate (expletive deleted), don’t you?” the carrier observed.
“What difference does that make?”
“Well, Wayne knows some of that, too.”
“Listen, buddy,” I said, tired and exasperated. “I don’t know who this guy is, or what his beef is with me. I can’t help the way I look. As for him ‘lookin’ for me,’ well, that’s kind of strange. You see, I’m here …right here… on this loading dock every day, Monday through Friday, rain or shine, from noon till five. So, he must not be ‘lookin’ for me too hard.”
“Well, …. he’s lookin’ for you,” the carrier repeated. Undeterred by my reply, the young man got in his car and drove off to deliver his route.
Who this guy was and how he found out about my martial arts training remains a mystery. It’s been almost fifty years, yet the hapless Mr. Wooley still has not managed to find me. Sgt. Rory Miller quotes one of his former training officers in Meditations on Violence, “No intelligent man ever lost a fight to someone who said, ‘I’m gonna kick your ass!’ Those words [are] the signal and license to prepare yourself” (77).
Someone who did find me was one of my work colleagues who thought it would be cute and funny to pretend to jump me one night when I came into the dark, presumably empty, mailroom. Perhaps I was alert because of the possible appearance of the wandering Mr. Wooley, but when I unlocked the door to what I expected to be a dark, deserted, room, my co-worker lurched at me from a countertop. He ended up on the floor from a knife-hand I do not even remember throwing. I turned on the light, realized who it was, helped him to his feet, and began apologizing for hitting him. Then, I turned on a dime and chewed him out for being stupid! What he had inadvertently done, however, was provide me with the first positive evidence that my training was becoming second-nature, and that I was entering a realm of mushin, or “no mind,” in responding to a perceived attack. In his later writings, Bruce Lee said, “I don’t strike. It strikes.[11]” Or as John Little writes in The Warrior Within, “the condition of no-mindedness allows one’s mind to be present everywhere because it is present nowhere” (54). And while I am no fan of opaque eastern sayings that seem to favor cleverness over meaning, this is one I have come to appreciate. I will discuss mushin in more detail later. But that night I began to realize, at a rudimentary level, what being of no-mind meant in terms of self-defense. It would come to play at other, more critical times, later in my life.
[1] You have to remember that this was three years before Tom Laughlin, taught by Hapkido Master Bong Soo Han, would release in 1973 the seminal movie “Billy Jack” and light the fire of a martial arts quest for knowledge that would pave the way for Bruce Lee and the host of actors and fighters of the future.
[2] Over time, Steve Miller developed one of the smoothest, fastest, jump-front-kicks I have ever seen to this day. After working with Mr. Suh, he went on to train briefly with Khang Rhee in Memphis. After graduating from Union University, and receiving his doctorate, Dr. Stephen Miller served as professor of Old Testament at Mid-American Baptist Theological Seminary for thirty-four years.
[3] “Randori” is a Japanese term for judo-like free-sparring. And “osoto-gari,” is another Japanese term I have used. Hapkido is a Korean art that blends in aspects of Judo. Given the eclectic nature of my background, I’m subject to tossing in any number of language discrepancies.
[4] The Potlatch Corporation operates over a dozen manufacturing facilities, including lumber mills, pulp and paperboard mills, and tissue-converting facilities. Its products include plywood, particleboard, and lumber. Given that I’ve splintered my share of it over the years, maybe I do qualify for a certificate in the art of Potlach-Do.
[5] I was not present for this demonstration, thus the account is a compilation of remembrances from Jimmy Chatham and Wayne Holmes.
[6] Jimmy Chatham, now Dr. James Chatham, went on to become a successful minister within the Southern Baptist denomination, currently serving as Pastor, First Baptist Church, Dickson, Tennessee. He, like many of us, continued to train at various intervals in his life, the most recent being in the style of Kenpo.
[7] Wayne Holmes went on to apply the discipline he learned in hapkido to build one of the most respected photography businesses in the State of Tennessee. We grew up playing music together, and he still plays a mean guitar.
[8] Ivy Scarborough went on to become a respected and successful attorney, public speaker and military analyst.
[9] Jerry Elston went on to a career in law enforcement. In describing Mr. Suh’s teaching approach, he writes: “Mr. Suh’s method of training was practical more than form based. As I went on to study through the years the consistent comment from other instructors was “did you go through Special Forces training at Camp McCall?” The Berets have been instructed I understand in practical hapkido for several years. When I became primary defensive tactics instructor for the Sheriff’s Office in 1989, I had to tone down my survival classes because of injuries. I simply didn’t know any other way to emphasize combat tactics other than by doing them.
[10] No relation to the famous Ed Parker, a life-long exponent of Kenpo.
[11] The quote is from the movie, Enter the Dragon, but the concept can be found in numerous Bruce Lee sources and eastern thought in general.