That Time When Lauren Did Judo

It started when Yamada Sensei* told me over school lunch that our students would be learning judo during PE class.

“Lauren, during PE today, the students will be learning judo—“

“I WANT TO TRY THAT!” I say excitedly, not fully knowing what judo is, but always ready for a new activity.

“Oh really?” he replies, with a horrified smile on his face. “I thought maybe you’d… er… want to watch. We have a guest teacher today and—“

“Can I please try it?” I plead. I’m not really thinking about why I want to try judo, only that the quote, “you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take” is flashing through my mind. It’s inspiring, heartfelt, and, because I have an irrational fear of missing out on anything that happens in my life, it is all I need to convince me that I must try judo.

Yamada sensei laughs stiffly and makes eye contact with the other teacher at the lunch table. She smiles and shrugs.

“Well… I’ll see if we can find you a uniform that fits,” he says obligingly.

I am ecstatic. I try and high five the student sitting across from me but she is staring at her bowl of rice and doesn’t see my hand. I high five myself.

An hour later, I am standing in the school gymnasium amongst a crowd of Japanese middle school students. I am wearing a stiff, off-white judo uniform. The pants and belt are both a little snug on me, so I constantly suck in my stomach, hoping that it won’t come undone. It does.

I re-tie it, while trying not to look conspicuous. However, all the teachers have come to watch the students perform, and as I am the only giant foreigner woman in their midst, it’s quite probable that my uniform debacle did not go unnoticed.

The visiting teacher is a tall, stern man, who looks like he could’ve been a sergeant in any country’s army. He’s wearing the same sort of stiff judo uniform, only his belt is black and tied tightly. The jacket is open around his chest. I can see a mass of chest hair, and a withered, old nipple when he bends the right way.

He shouts commands. The students respond quickly, falling into a line of perfectly timed small stretches that I have never seen before.

I don’t understand what’s happening so I just try and mirror the instructor, while trying really hard not to make eye contact with his nipple.

Bending over feels awkward as I am certain my judo uniform will come untied at any moment, so I bend as little as possible. I wonder if I will get a cramp.

The instructor shouts something new and all the students get into three perfectly straight lines. I follow them. After explaining some things in unintelligible Japanese, the students get into a lunge position, then start somersaulting across the floor.

It is then that I realize I have made a terrible mistake. Whatever judo is, I want no part in it.

I look over at all the teachers standing in the corner and Yamada sensei gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up. My eyes are terrified saucers.

I befriend another terrified looking student who appears equally horrified at the choice of activity for the day. When it is our turn to launch ourselves into this terrible activity, we give each other a little “good luck” nod and then catapult our awkward bodies on to the mat in front of us.

As I collapse into a strangely positioned heap, the principal runs over to me, and grabs my arm. I think he has come to help me up, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps I will not have to do any more somersaults.

He does not help me. The principal slams my arm roughly into the ground, shouting Japanese words I’ve never heard before. He then raises his camera and takes a picture of me, as I stare up at him like a scolded puppy.

I think that if there is a hell, there will probably be judo there.

Then our visiting drill sergeant tells us to get into a circle, so we all get up off the floor and stand to attention.

“Thank god,” I think to myself, “now that we’re done with that crazy nonsense, we can start doing actual judo.”

I imagine judo to be some sort of punching and kicking martial art, where we do high jumps and spin on our heads. Or something with swords.

Spoiler alert: Judo is wrestling.

Within the next five minutes, the instructor was holding me by my sleeve and jacket front, yanking me over his shoulders like a sack of meat while explaining something to my students that was, once again, completely unintelligible to me.

From the placement of my body high above his head, I deduced that instructor was training students to lift their wrestling partner in order to throw them to the ground.

I felt like a frog that had signed up for a fun day of splashing around in the pond, only to find out that the pond was actually a pot of boiling water in a French kitchen.

My eyes were bulging out of their sockets in pure fear, and the students stared at me with a mixture of horror and pity.

When he finally launched me back onto the ground, I fell with a thud, while the students all paired together to practice their new judo skills. My eye was still twitching in fright.

My horrified somersault student friend from before was the only student left when I finally stood back up, so she was paired with me.

I think this new development made her even more horrified, considering that now she had to practice wrestling her crazy foreign teacher who doesn’t have any idea what’s happening.

She walked over to me, and we smiled awkwardly at each other for a moment, acknowledging the weirdness.

In English, I say, “I have literally no idea what is happening. Can you tell me what is happening?” I don’t know why I do this because I know that she won’t understand, but I am embarrassed and confused.

For some reason, speaking my native language comforts me, as if to remind me that I’m actually really smart if only someone would speak English to me.

She sort of tilts her head and cringes, so I apologize in Japanese, telling her that we should do our best.

She nods and smiles encouragingly at me.

Then, grabbing onto my jacket sleeve and lapel, she attempts to pull me over her shoulder and throw me on the ground.

Considering that I probably have about fifty pounds on this girl, I didn’t really think it was going to happen.

As I looked down at her tiny noodle arms limply yanking my jacket, I noticed that on one of her feet she also only had four toes.

To get my mind off the judo that was happening all around me, I thought about the significance of only having four toes.

I thought about what it must feel like to try and hoist a woman twice your size over your shoulder when, perhaps, without the extra fifth toe, your balance is slightly askew.

I thought things like judo must be difficult for her. Perhaps that’s why she was so horrified about somersaults.

The instructor, apparently noticing this poor girl having trouble, came over to help her out.

My soul had left my body at this point, so I didn’t really notice.

He lifted me up over his head again, to demonstrate that anyone can lift a foreigner if they just try hard enough. From my new aerial perspective, I get a great bird’s eye view of his weird, hairy nipple.

He then throws me onto the mat like a hunter throwing a prize buck carcass into the back of his station wagon.
Gently, but with enough force to confirm that it is, in fact, dead.

At this point, the fifth period bell rang. The students bowed to each other and walked off the gym mat, leaving me lying on the floor alone, considering whether or not it was worth it to ever get back up.

Yamada sensei runs over to me to report that it was time for a water break.

“The students have another period of judo practice after this,” he told me, “but if you’d like, you can return home now.”

“YES I THINK I’VE HAD ENOUGH,” I say, though I can’t be certain whether or not my voice is at a reasonable volume. I quickly pull myself up to go thank the instructor, though for what, I am not sure.

He turns to me with a sort of smug “you’re not good at judo” look in his eye. I bow to him, and begin the mandatory thank you spiel that I give to everyone I meet. “ARIGATO GOZAIMASHITA. YOROSHIKU ONEGAI--”

I stop mid-thank you as the instructor reaches to my belt and reties it for me, pulling it tight around my already sucked in belly. He says many Japanese words that I have never heard before. I feel strange.

He nods to me, then turns away. I pray to God that this act does not mean I will have to endure another period of judo.

I decide to just cut my losses and get out of there.

As I walk past all the students drinking their cold green tea, laughing and joking about the fun they had practicing their favorite sport, judo (ugh!), my somersault buddy shouts to me in Japanese.

“Lauren sensei! Are you finished?” she says.

“Yes,” I say, in sort of a forced way. “Time to go home now.”

“Well, you’re very good at judo! Let’s do it again sometime!”

She runs back to her friends. I stand there, feeling totally silly.

“Maybe judo isn’t such a bad sport after all,” I think to myself. “Maybe if I just pushed myself a little harder, I could be a judo master!”

Then I remember the weird, weird nipple. I scurry out of the gymnasium as fast as possible.



*Names have been changed because this story is awkward.