ENTERING THE WAY Losing a Topknot The Meiji Restoration and I were born in the same year, 1868. The former saw the light of the day in the shogun’s former capital of Edo, which came to be known as Tokyo. I was born in the district of Yamakawa-chõ in the royal Okinawan capital of Shuri. I f anyone were to take the trouble to consult official records, he would learn that I was born in the third year of Meiji (1870), but the true facts are my birthday occurred in the first year of the reign and that I had to falsify my official record so as to be allowed to sit for entrance examinations to a Tokyo medical school. At that time, there was a regulation that only those born in the year 1870 or thereafter could be considered qualified to take the examination, so I had no alternative but to tamper with the official records, which was easier to do then because, strange a it may seem, registration was no strict as it is today. Having thus altered the date of my birth, I sat for the examinations and passed them, but still I did not enter the Tokyo medical school. The cause, which seemed very reasonable then, would seem rather less so now, I imagine. Among the many reforms instituted by the young Meiji government during the first twenty years of its life was the abolition of the topknot, a masculine hairstyle that had been a traditional part of Japanese life for much longer than anyone could possibly remember. In Okinawa, in particular, the topknot was considered a symbol not simply of maturity and virility but of manhood itself. As the edict banning the revered topknot was nationwide, there was opposition to it throughout the country, but nowhere, I think, were the lines of battle so fiercely drawn as on Okinawa. Here those who believed that the future destiny of Japan required it to adopt Western ideas and those who believed the opposite were at constant loggerheads on almost every reform instituted by the government. Nothing, however seemed to stir Okinawans to such heights of frenzy as the question of the abolition of the topknot. In general, men born into the shizoku (or privileged) class were obstinately opposed, while those of the heimin (or common) class as well as few of the shizoku supported what might be called the abolition bill. The later group was known as the kaika-tõ (“the Enlightenment Party”), the former the Ganko-tõ (“the Obstinate Party”). My family had for generations been attached to a lower ranking official, and the whole clan was unanimously and adamantly opposed to the cutting of the topknot. Such an act was utterly abhorrent to every member of my family, although I myself did not feel strongly one way or the other. The outcome was that I bowed to family pressure, for the school refused to accept students who persisted in the traditional style, and thus the whole future course of my life was influenced by so slight a matter as a bushy topknot. Eventually, of course, like everyone else, I was to cong=form, but before I tell how that came about, I must go back few years in time. My father Gisu was a minor official, and I was his only son. Born prematurely, I was rather a sickly baby, and since both parents and grandparents agreed that I was not destined to a long life, they all took special care of me. In particular, I was coddled and pampered by both pairs of grandparents. Indeed, not long after my birth I was taken to live with my mother’s parents, and there my grandfather taught me the Four Chinese Classics and Five Chinese Classics of the Confucian tradition—essential for the sons of the shizoku. It was during my stay at my grandparent’s home that I began attending primary school, and after a time I became close friends with one my classmates. This too was destined to alter the course of my life (and in a far more fundamental way than the topknot), for my classmate was the son of Yasutsune Azato, a most amazing man who was one of the Okinawa’s greatest experts in the art of karate. Master Azato belonged to one of the two upper classes of shizoku families in Okinawa: the Udon were of the highest class and were equivalent to daimyo among clans outside of Okinawa; the Tonochi were hereditary chiefs of towns and villages. It was to the latter group that Azato belonged, his family occupying this exalted position in the village of Azato, located between Shuri and Naha. So great was their prestige that the Azatos were treated not as vassals by the former governor of Okinawa but rather as close friends on an equal footing. Master Azato not only was unsurpassed in all Okinawa in the art of karate but also excelled in horsemanship, in Japanese fencing (kendo), and in archery. He was, moreover, a brilliant scholar. It was my good fortune to be brought to his attention and eventually to receive my first instruction in karate at his remarkable hands. At that time the practice of karate was banned by the government, so sessions had to take place in secret, and pupils were strictly forbidden by their teachers to discuss with anyone the fact that they were learning the art. I shall have more to say on this subject later on; for the moment, suffice it to note that karate practice could then be held only at night and only in secret. Azato’s house was situated quite a distance from that of my grandparents, where I was still living, but once my enthusiasm for the art began to take hold I never found that nighttime walk realized my health had improved tremendously, and that I was no longer the frail child I had been. I enjoyed karate but—more than that—I felt deeply indebted to the art for my increased well-being, and it was around this time that I began to seriously consider making Karate-dô a way of life. However, the thought did not enter my mind that it might also become a profession, and since the thorny topknot controversy had put a medical career beyond my reach, I now began to consider alternatives. As I had been taught the Chinese classics from early childhood by both my grandfather and Azato, I decide to make use of that knowledge by becoming a schoolteacher. Accordingly, I took the qualifying examinations and was granted a position as assistant instructor at a primary school. My first experience in taking charge of a classroom occurred in 1888, when I was twenty-one years old. But the topknot still obtruded, for before I could be permitted to enter upon my duties as a teacher I was required to get rid of it. This seemed to me entirely reasonable. Japan was then in state of great ferment; tremendous changes were occurring everywhere, along every facet of life. I felt that I, as a teacher, had an obligation to help out younger generation, which would one day forge the destiny of our nation, to bridge the wide gaps that yawned between the old Japan and the new. I could hardly object to the official edict that our traditional topknot had now become a relic of the past. Nevertheless, I trembled when I thought about what the older members of my family would say. At that tome, schoolteachers wore official uniforms (not unlike those worn by students in the Peers’ School before the last war), a dark jacket buttoned up to the neck, the brass buttons embossed with a
Posted on: Thu, 28 Nov 2013 18:11:54 +0000