This isn’t fiction, this is just a real thing that happened to me, which this prompt reminded me of.
Since my 20’s I’ve practiced kendo, a Japanese sword art which among other things involves putting on protective gear and sparring with shinai, bamboo weapons meant to somewhat mimic the length and heft of a katana. It’s pretty physically demanding, but it’s also one of the martial arts with the highest percentage of women to men, because it’s not all about strength; speed and precision and stamina are worth more than muscle is in nine out of ten interactions.
Anyway. I went to visit a friend in another city, and visited one of their kendo dojo. And the experience was…bad. I attended the early-evening beginner’s class, and stayed through the later advanced class (this is polite; it’s rude to only go for what you can get, and not what you can give the school you’re visiting, and out of respect to the people who pulled you up, you’re supposed to pull other people up), and I spent basically the entire time in a state of simmering irritation. “You’re a woman, you don’t need to move so fast.” and “You’re a woman, you don’t need to kiai so loudly.” and so on, misogyny after misogyny. “There’s nothing wrong with your form, but you’re a woman, you don’t need to beat the men.” I’m small! I’m not a bruiser, either, though I have vast respect for the women who are. My only salvation has to be speed and spirit, and a good round of kendo requires screaming; no one had ever told me to be quieter.
I had my sparring round with the head Sensei, and he spent most of the round literally looking away from me. Even though I was a guest, and there’s some pretty strict reigi about the treatment of guests, he paid me no attention. I thought that I must have been imagining things, I must surely be misreading him or maybe I was being too egotistical and demanding, but the next week I went to the other dojo in town, and when I said I’d gone to this one first, one of the women laughed and said “Lemme guess–he totally ignored you, right? He told me there was no reason for a woman to ever test past nidan. ‘Up to nidan, so you can teach your sons the basics, then give them to me!’ ”
He had a reputation, and his school had a reputation, and it was simply my bad luck to have landed there. But leaving a practice early is bad behavior, unless you have a good excuse, and “everyone here is behaving like an asshole” wasn’t enough when I knew I’d have to give an accounting of this practice to my own Sensei when I got home. I had to stick it out.
So two hours in, the door opens up, and in walks this guy in a brand new uniform. It was dark, dark blue, and shedding dye at his throat and ankles where he was sweating already in the muggy air; it had deep creases from being folded in its sale packaging. It had pretty clearly just been put on for the first time. And I thought, okay, this is a noob who’s just got his armor, but he skipped the early class and he’s showing up this late to practice? Maybe he got stuck in traffic, maybe he’s an asshole, whatever. and the round ended, I bowed to my opponent and everyone in the room but the head Sensei rotated left, ready for the next fight.
And the New Guy looks around the room quickly, bounces in place a couple of times, loosens his wrists and ankles. His glance catches me, and his eyes light up–he doesn’t know me!– and he weaves between the other fighters to come stand across from me. We bow to each other, and he’s still rolling his shoulders a little bit as he drops down into sonkyo, the ritual crouch before standing up into the starting kamae. I have half of an instant to notice that his sonkyo is very fluid before he stands up and I’m suddenly freezing cold in the hot room. Goosebumps wash over my entire body. And I realize that no only did the person I was supposed to fight just evaporate, but this new fellow has the easy six feet of clearance on all sides that you see martial artists in practice instinctively, unthinkingly grant to people who are vastly their superior in skill.
Basically, I got destroyed in the next match.
It was such a relief. A common saying is “Fighting Sensei is like throwing an egg at a rock,” and it was true; I gave him 100% and all he did was laugh and challenge me more. He was never so far above me that I thought I couldn’t hit him, in that fashion of a good teacher who keeps his level just beyond yours, and I got more from him in two minutes than I’d gotten from the head Sensei in the previous two and a half hours.
I ended the match gasping and grinning and so, so grateful to have had this one good experience in three hours of bullshit. And then practice was over, and I got to go out into the sunlight and get myself an ice cream.
But basically–yeah, generally when you see someone in shiny new gear, it means that they’re a shiny new fighter. Sometimes it means they’ve fought so hard that every stitch of their old stuff gave out.
