Writing and traveling #photos #writing Busan in Korea

Enjoying the freedom, exploring the world, and writing about the times I've lived through.

Writing my students' stories has become my way of reconnecting with them. Though I no longer know where they live, through my words, I meet them again, reliving the moments of joy we once shared. I cherish those times and am grateful for the memories. May they be blessed, wherever life has taken them. #books #writing #fun #martialarts #love #life #photography

Freedom and traveling #life #photography

Superstar was born! #sports #photograph

My Life In Kendo: Gender and Masculinity Across Cultures #martialarts #sports #books #reading #faith #motivation #life #love #japan #korea #women The Positive Experiences of Women in Combat Sports Women who participate in contact sports often experience great pleasure and affirmation from them. For example, Alsarve and Tjønndal point out that “women exercising mixed martial arts contain a potential to act as feminist role models through their counter-hegemonic renegotiation of norms and views on femininity and, more specifically, the perception of femininity as something fragile and passive”. In Kerala, South India, it was a woman, 76-year old Meenakshi who preserved Kalaripayattu, the traditional martial art of that state. With regards to kendo, Helen, a participant in Dumić’s study, described kendo as effecting her body like “a drug”: I got addicted to it [kendo] and now I cannot do without it. No matter how long of a break I took, I was still there. If I made too long of a break, I would have dreams, I would dream of going to competitions, to a training session where I had no hakama [training clothes] and so on. Merz mentions that when she went to a tournament where “women’s physical power was acknowledged and celebrated, they were not expecting the violence of boxing nor did they realize how strong they were or how challenging it was. The whole charade of an innate feminine fragility was gone and yet femininity itself had survived”. For example, Halbert interviewed female boxers: [A friend] had received an invitation in the mail to go see a women’s boxing match … and so we went to it. And it was the first boxing match. I’ve ever been to, and I had never heard of women’s boxing, so I was really intrigued. … You know, I thought to myself, “Oh my god. I’ve got to learn it. I’ve got to do it! I want this to be me!” Nash also described when she attended amateur boxing training in Tasmania. She said: I was faster and stronger than many of the men. I felt powerful and I loved it. Julian asked me to demonstrate good technique for others. I felt like my gender transgressions illuminated the artificiality of constructions of gender, undermining the sexist undertones of the sport. It felt good to be the woman showing men how to box. Also, Dumić interviewed female kendoka Helen who experienced harsh and tough kendo training. Afterwards, she felt that full of accomplishment when she survived: That moment when practice ended and when I took my gear off, that was kinda the most remarkable to me in that period, it was hard, very, I mean physically hard. That was cool to me. I managed to endure the entire practice despite being exhausted to death, red, white, green [laugh]. After that, it was kinda cool. According to Merz , “Eventually you understand that the physical impact of being hit is not so disturbing when there is no emotion connected to it when it’s no longer personal. That is when you can start to think like a fighter.” Another example from Halbert backs this up, with a female boxer stating: I love it! I love the training. Boxing gives you an inner strength like nothing else, and no one can take that away from you. I’m addicted. Also, an adrenaline high – a lot of excitement. Merz also describes that it could be “glorious” to feel the jaw is creaking, to see the eye is bruised, and the nose is broken. Boxing provides women with the chance to enjoy being aggressive, tough, dangerous, and brave. There are also important developments in martial arts regarding the inclusion of transgender participants. However this is beyond the scope of my thesis.

My nephew, Young Yun Jo will be playing a billiards match on Sky Sports in France at 8 PM Korean time. #sports #billiards #photography So proud of him.

Orchard Kids #children #character #reading #writing #books #family #korean #story Neuljeongi Neuljeongi, second child of orchard house, has dark, straight, thick hair like her father, and her light brown eyes, thick eyebrows, and full lips resemble her mother’s. Despite her small height, her body shape is very feminine and well-balanced, and she bears a striking resemblance to her mother more than any of her other siblings. While Gongjunim is practical and orderly, Neuljeongi is a deep thinker, though her thoughts often drift into realms that others find hard to understand. This can lead to moments where she asks seemingly obvious questions, making people either laugh or see her as a bit peculiar. Her personality swings between extremes—sometimes she is very quiet, while at other times, she talks nonstop. When she loves someone or something, she becomes intensely obsessive. Neuljeongi, a name bestowed with particular care by her mother, Myeong Su, embodies the essence of a deliberate, quiet journey through life. The name's origin traces back to a vivid dream Myeong Su had before Neuljeongi's birth. In this dream, a colossal Elaphe schrenckii anomala, a giant serpent, lingered in Myeong Su’s yard. Despite her efforts to drive it away with a wooden stick, the serpent remained unmoved, slowly slithering toward her skirt. Shortly after this unsettling encounter, Myeong Su discovered she was pregnant. From this enigmatic encounter, Neuljeongi's name emerged, symbolizing the slow and quiet unfolding of life’s journey. Yet, the tranquillity suggested by her name contrasts sharply with Neuljeongi’s internal turmoil. Confronted by her father Gyu Cheol’s stern demeanour, her cries became a tempest, stirring his already volatile temper and highlighting a poignant disparity between the serenity of her name and the storm of her emotions. Neuljeongi’s inner world, rich with creativity and sensitivity, manifested in her interactions. After school, she would often be found sketching fantastical scenes on the playground, her whimsical monologues weaving tales that left her peers bewildered. Her imagination, while enchanting, often set her apart, casting her as an enigmatic figure adrift in her own musings. Despite her boundless patience, Neuljeongi could shift into a realm of controlled chaos when deeply engaged in a task, revealing a bold spirit unafraid of extremes. This duality of serenity and fervour painted Neuljeongi as a paradox—a gentle soul with an immense reservoir of bravery and determination. Yet, her father struggled to understand her. When Neuljeongi’s behaviour displeased him, he would become furious, and she would retreat into a silent sanctuary, her tears a quiet testament to her emotional struggle. Gyu Cheol's harshness often left Neuljeongi immobilized, her physical discomfort a reflection of the Publicly, he would belittle her, misinterpreting her silence and tears as obstinance rather than a plea for understanding. His rigid standards blinded him to the nuances of her emotions, leaving Neuljeongi feeling delicate, sophisticated, and sensitive yet deeply isolated in a world she struggled to navigate. One evening, tensions among the orchard kids came to a head. Myeong Su’s lenient approach had led the children to push boundaries, causing Gyu Cheol to confront them with his usual sternness. As the children’s behaviour spiralled into chaos, Gyu Cheol’s anger escalated, reaching its zenith during a heated confrontation involving Neuljeongi and her siblings. His frustration was palpable, and his attempts to regain control only heightened the tension. In a dramatic turn, the orchard kids, sensing the brewing storm, made a coordinated escape, leaving Neuljeongi behind. Gyu Cheol chased after them, but the children, well-practiced in fleeing from their father’s explosive temper, sprinted swiftly and knew all the best hiding spots around the orchard. As Gyu Cheol’s anger intensified, realizing he had been outwitted, his pursuit turned into a frantic chase through the orchard. Meanwhile, Neuljeongi, frozen with fear, stood her ground, unwilling to yield to the chaos unfolding around her. In her young mind, she made a brave decision—if she became the target of her father’s wrath, his anger would be spent on her, allowing her younger siblings to escape unharmed. She resolved to endure his fury alone, a decision that, in her eyes, made her a hero. This act of self-sacrifice, born from love and a deep sense of responsibility like a second child. The night’s chaos culminated in a confrontation where Myeong Su, driven by maternal instinct, intervened to protect her children. As Gyu Cheol’s temper subsided, the household settled into a familiar routine of avoiding his wrath until calm was restored. Myeong Su’s adept management of the situation and her comforting gestures brought a temporary reprieve to the evening’s tension. In the aftermath, the orchard kids adapted to their father’s volatile nature with a survival strategy: vanish during his outbursts and return once the storm had passed. This unspoken rule, shaped by Myeong Su’s wisdom, became a guiding principle in their household dynamics. As life returned to normal, Neuljeongi's resilience and creativity continued to shine. Her beauty routines became a source of inspiration for the other orchard girls and village residents. From crafting unique eyeliner looks to inventing innovative beauty hacks, Neuljeongi’s influence spread throughout the community. Despite her father's harshness, Neuljeongi's spirit remained unbroken. Her ability to endure and adapt, coupled with her unwavering commitment to her passions, defined her character. In moments of vulnerability, she found solace in her mother's nurturing presence and the support of her siblings. Through it all, Neuljeongi emerged as a figure of quiet strength, a testament to the complex interplay between serenity and resilience in the face of adversity. Neuljeongi married the richest man, who played a significant role in helping her become the most successful career woman in the beauty industry.

Kendo Is My Light #kendo #korea #faith #true #reading #books #fun #life #dream #love #motivation Chapter 1 Every life has a story I was desperate to prove myself “Honga, do you dare to dream of the Korean national team? With just one year remaining, your preparation will be an arduous journey. It will be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. Are you willing to seize this opportunity?” The voice echoed in my mind as I arrived at the stadium for the SBS Kumdo Championship. Esteemed professional kendo players were converging upon the scene, figures I had previously only witnessed through the veil of television screens or recorded footage. The audience too streamed in, eager to witness the unfolding spectacle. Exhaustion already clung to my bones, as the night prior had brought little reprieve. When I awoke, my heart pounded within my chest as if a farmer was relentlessly striking an empty kettle, shooing away thousands of sparrows from the rice field. The incessant pounding had commenced the previous night and showed no signs of relenting. Standing before the colossal stadium, I took a moment to gaze at the heavens and whispered to myself, “This is a battle. I stand upon the battlefield. I am a warrior.” Suddenly, the cacophony of the relentless pounding subsided. I was not an elite athlete, nor had I trained in kendo since the tender age of five. I was an ordinary young woman who attended school, then embarked on a job hunt after graduation, eventually pursuing my dream career while juggling university studies in the evenings. That was who I was. Kendo had captivated me from the moment our paths intertwined, for the exhilaration that surged through me after landing a strike upon someone’s head—often men—was indescribable. I revelled in dominating and conquering the egos and bodies of men, swinging the shinai (bamboo sword) with reckless abandon every morning before work. It was a joy akin to the carefree days of my youth, when I played fearlessly alongside the boys in my village. And now, unbelievably, I found myself participating in the most prestigious kendo championship in South Korea, with the audacious goal of becoming the champion a mere six months later, following my encounter with Taek sensei (my second teacher). Reflecting upon it now, it seemed like madness. To harbor such a dream, the dream of becoming a champion, appeared ludicrous. “If I perform well, this achievement could propel me into contention for the Korean national team. Perhaps, I may even don the national colours.” This audacious dream, akin to threading a camel through the eye of a needle, became my weapon. I stepped into the stadium, ascending to the highest floor where solitude awaited me. Placing my armour down, I sat alone, seeking inner silence, and observed the bustling activity unfolding below. In the depths of my being, I affirmed once more, “Kendo does not define my entire existence. Yet, I refuse to retreat. This challenge may resemble a gamble, but I am determined to partake. This is the moment to unveil whether Taek sensei’s challenge was recklessness or whether I am reckless for embracing and pursuing his audacious dream. The truth shall soon be revealed. Today, I shall make it a reality. May my intentions reach the divine ears of God.” On that fateful day, it felt as if Taek sensei’s fate hung in the balance. His intuition and teachings would be scrutinized through my performance. I needed to embody the essence of someone who had dedicated their entire life to training and possessed undeniable talent. I stood as the embodiment of desperation, determined to prove myself in order to save Taek sensei and protect my cherished dream. From that moment forward, a newfound inner strength enveloped me. I relinquished all thoughts, disregarded my surroundings, and focused solely on gathering my mind at its core. My expression remained neutral, devoid of any tension. Gathering my armour, I descended to where the other competitors awaited. Two competition areas were bathed in the glow of immense lights. Inhaling deeply, I whispered to myself, “Every life has a story. Regardless of its status, be it low or high, poor or rich, each person possesses their own unique narrative. Today, I shall forge my own story. This is merely the beginning.” I locked eyes with my opponent, and my heart transformed into an engine, driving me forward. I commanded my soul to fulfill its purpose, to secure victory, and I ordered my body to conceal any trace of weakness throughout the imminent bout. As the shinpan, the referees, signalled for us to enter the competition area, I stepped forward. “Taddak! Tadaak!” The resounding clash of shinai filled the air. My strikes were sharp and swift, and my mind remained unwavering. I focused solely on my opponent’s movements, seizing every opportunity that presented itself. I dominated the competition, confident in my inevitable triumph. I inflicted pain upon my adversary, never relenting. Then, the flags of the referees soared skyward. I had emerged victorious from the match. As I awaited the next bout, I felt the presence of God by my side. If He had not been there, then I had earned His presence. Slowly, I began to recite the “Lord’s Prayer,” seeking God’s assistance, while observing the match of the individual before me. Effortlessly, I continued to triumph. I felt as though I had transformed into a formidable warrior after a mere six months of training under Taek sensei. How glorious it was. I had already advanced to the quarter-finals. However, this time, my mind faltered. My heart began to soften. I desperately searched for my untamed warrior spirit, only to find it absent. “Oh dear! Where has it gone?” Then, unexpectedly, an angelic voice visited me. “Oh no... I do not need an angel’s voice now, God! I need the voice of a demon!” Prior to the SBS Kumdo Championship, Taek sensei had taken me to a renowned kendo university. He recognized the necessity for me to train alongside professional kendoka—individuals who were swift, dynamic, skilled, and experienced. Having only trained with men in my dojo, he believed it imperative for me to practice with other professional female kendoka, as they would be my opponents in the SBS championship. He dropped me off at the university, uttering only a single word, “Good luck!” Then he departed, leaving me surrounded by strangers. Their gazes bore into me like I was an outsider. My attire, my manner of speech, my demeanour—everything about me seemed peculiar to them. Clad in heels and a short skirt, my hair flowing freely, and wearing a full face of makeup, they regarded me as if I were in the wrong place—in their eyes, I should have been at a shopping centre. And I felt just as out of place when I gazed upon them. They were girls who resembled boys, spoke like boys, and carried themselves like boys. It was an utterly unfamiliar sight to me. The kendo sensei of the university arranged for all the female kendoka to spar with me. They were former Korean national team members, champions, and promising kendo stars. University kendo sensei handpicked the best six, and one by one, they faced me in combat. The final match was intense. Blow after blow, we clashed relentlessly, neither of us willing to back down. The tension in the air was palpable, and with every strike, the sound of shinai reverberated through the arena. The match reached its conclusion, and to my surprise, it ended in a draw. As the matches concluded, a short break was granted. The expressions on the faces of the other female kendoka turned grim. I couldn’t comprehend the reason behind their distress. It was merely a competition, a matter of winning or losing. There was no personal vendetta involved. Their glances resembled those of hyenas, hungry and eager to devour me. However, one girl, Sun stood apart from the rest. Sun possesses a delightful charm with a hint of plumpness that only adds to her cuteness. Her chin acquires a subtle rosy hue, particularly after a hard training, giving her a radiant and healthy appearance. Sharing a penchant for rice, Sun’s love for food resonates with my own, and her calm, kind demeanour makes her a joy to be around. Despite her simple, country-girl style, she exudes a captivating charm in her conversations, filled with laughter and warmth. From our first meeting, I felt an instant and strong connection with her. She was the same girl I would be facing in the quarterfinals at SBS, and she had become my friend. In the restroom, I overheard a few girls crying and gossiping about me, questioning my presence and criticizing my kendo skills. When I entered, they all fell silent, and though tempted to retaliate, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. My sudden appearance had caught them off guard, and I understood their position. I chose to remain quiet until it was time to leave—though a week seemed too long—and I hurriedly followed the crowd. Some boys found amusement in my subdued behaviour, while other girls continued to harbor endless hatred. However, Sun who had trained alongside me with the university professional kendoka, offered me quick advice to help me improve. When professional university students struck my Men, their bodies moved like bullets, surpassing my ability to evade them. I grew desperate to dodge these metaphorical bullets. On the first day, my performance frustrated everyone, but by the second day, their frustration subsided. Sun, my friend, pleaded with them to treat me with kindness. I gave my all, training harder than anyone else, even though I was slower. Gradually, they began to appreciate my determination. After spending nearly six hours training together each day, we became friends. Even the other girls started to accept me. I developed a special affection for Sun, the one who cared for me and whom I was set to fight against in the next match. It left me feeling confused. “Kendo is not everything in my life, but for my friend, kendo is her everything.” Would I be taking her dream away from her? Was I doing the right thing? My heart whispered with uncertainty. I was at a loss, torn between conflicting emotions. Another voice emerged within me, asserting, “If I win this battle, perhaps my dream will come true. I cannot afford to feel sorry for anyone. Everyone here is likely desperate in their own way, but I might be the most desperate of all. If my friend loses because of me, she will still have a chance to be selected for the Korean national team. However, if I lose this match, I am out forever. I will never have the opportunity to secure the ticket—the invitation for selection to the Korean national team. I must win.” I found myself wrestling with these two voices, engaged in a battle within my own mind. I glanced around and witnessed numerous female kendoka packing their armour, ready to depart from this battlefield. I had to survive. I must. But I no longer possessed my wild warrior spirit, and I had no idea how to proceed without it. Then, suddenly, someone stood behind me and tightened the Men himo, the string of my head protector. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. It was Taek sensei. Somehow, he sensed that this match would be a challenging one. “Honga! Let’s do one more.” His voice, calm and quiet, carried a profound power. When he tapped my shoulder twice, I advanced like a well-oiled machine. I stood tall, facing my opponent once more, and our battle recommenced. In that moment of intense combat, our bamboo swords clashed repeatedly, both of us aware of the significance this match held in our lives. It was a struggle to score points, and just as the tension reached its peak, the whistle blew. However, our determination did not waver. We locked eyes, refusing to relent even after the allotted time had passed. The referee signalled for the match to continue with an additional two minutes. Once again, our shinai clashed fiercely, our gaze fixated on the elusive “틈 (teum)” - the moment of opportunity. Then, an indescribable feeling washed over me, a subtle shift in my opponent’s emotions. I perceived her frustration with my kendo skills, and a sense of confidence swelled within me. “I can definitely win this match,” I assured myself. My mind became laser-focused on a singular goal - victory. And then, I saw it. A careless decision on her part. Her Men strike left an opening, and time seemed to slow down as I witnessed her exposed wrist inching closer to my line of sight. It was a moment I couldn’t believe, as if taken straight out of a movie scene. Without hesitation, I swiftly directed my shinai downward, like birds diving from the sky to catch fish in the ocean. Darkness enveloped me for a split second, and then I snapped back into reality. As time resumed its normal pace, I saw the three referees’ flags motionless, suspended in the air. The crowd erupted with excitement, exclaiming, “Wow!” Relief flooded over me, and I silently thanked God. “Thank God, I did it.” A heavy sigh escaped my lips, and a river of sweat coursed down my back. I had made it.

Amazon.com

Amazon.com

Chapter 1: Introduction – Approaching My Life in Kendo #martialarts #japan #korea #london #melbourne #cultures #sports #gender #masculinity #femininity Over twenty years ago, my third sensei gave me a Japanese book called *Kendo and Human* (Inoue, 1998). At that time, I had been training in kendo for almost three years. I was a very junior kendoka (the name given to people training in kendo, equivalent to “footballer”), but I was preparing to represent Korea in the World Kendo Championship in America in 2000. My third sensei trained me for eight to ten hours per day. He realized that I did not understand the deeper aspects of kendo. He wanted to introduce me to them, to help me understand practices of self-discipline, self-reflection, and confidence. He thought that this book would help me. It was very difficult to explain and teach some of the skills of high-level kendo to someone as junior as me. It was like a parent trying to teach Shakespeare to a three-year-old. For example, how you win before you even enter the shiaijo (competition area). I started reading this book and found that I couldn’t stop because it fascinated me. Among other key things, I realized that I was just cutting to gain a point, rather than seeking to understand my opponent (the human) and engage them deeply and maturely through kendo. The author, Inoue, was a well-respected Japanese sensei. His book detailed the morality, ethics, bravery, and manners of kendo. I absolutely adored it. When I moved to London, it was one of the few books I took with me. I treated it the same way as my Bible. It continues to inspire me. However, recently, I reread the whole book again while researching for this thesis. I was very surprised and shocked when I realized that it was meant for men only. Most disappointing of all were the three to four pages on women and women’s kendo. It would have been better if he had not written that section. Inoue sensei thought that women should train to improve their health and become better wives, mothers, and sisters—for beauty rather than strength. How did I not recognize this sexism at the time? Honestly, back then, I thought it was actually very good advice for a tomboy like me, who had been brought up freely with an older brother. Reflecting on this now reminds me that my third sensei had very similar perspectives to Inoue sensei. When I was training as a strong kendoka, he always told me off. He thought that women’s kendo should be beautiful rather than strong. I understood what he was trying to teach me, but I struggled with it for a long time. Being strong was the best part of my kendo. I did not want to give that up. My second sensei and I shared the belief that I could beat all women and men, both physically and spiritually. Women could be as strong as men. So, he taught me how to be strong enough physically to beat strong men. One day, he told me to smash the column one hundred times. I did it. My male friends tried to stop me, but I ignored them. The next day, my second sensei made me compete with one of the biggest men in the dojo (193 cm, 120 kg). I found it very easy to make him fall over. No one could believe it, yet after that, I could do it against other huge men as well and easily against other girls. My second sensei had taught me how to do a body attack. It was very fun and glorious. I was known as a violent girl. I took it as a compliment. When a fight of mine at the (South Korean) SBS Kumdo (Kendo) Championship was broadcast on television, my friends told me that the main commentator was a big fan of mine because I was fighting like a man. But then I started to train with my third sensei, who always told me not to physically attack my opponents. It was so confusing and frustrating. I learned a lot about how to control my strength and how to be flexible from this sensei, but I lost my spirit and physical power. As I have grown older and become a sensei myself, I have benefited from being able to fight beautifully, with good form, rather than relying on my strength. However, I still find that many senseis, especially outside Korea and Japan, continue to doubt my ability to fight well against skillful and physically strong men. It is these experiences—of the pleasures and maturity I have found through kendo, along with moments when men have felt threatened by me, and sometimes tried to seriously wound me—that I want to explore in this thesis. How can we understand the gender relations in kendo—and, more broadly, corporeal politics and combative activities—and improve them so that any woman can enjoy and benefit from activities like kendo without being discriminated against?

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Amazon.com

Orchard Six Kkomaengideul (Kids) #orchard #children stories #korean #family #love #nonfiction Gongjunim After decades of tragedy spanning two generations, the Orchard House finally welcomed the grace and hope of a new generation—a firstborn daughter named Gongjunim. Her arrival sent waves of excitement through the community, and none were more thrilled than her father, Gyu Cheol, the orchard owner. He was overjoyed by the new addition to his family, but it was his youngest sister, Jin Hee, who was the most ecstatic. As the doting aunt to all the orchard kids, Jin Hee eagerly took charge of little Gongjunim, lovingly bathing her and dressing her in the finest clothes. To Jin Hee, Gongjunim was the epitome of beauty and charm, and every moment spent with her precious niece was pure delight. Carrying Gongjunim on her back, Jin Hee proudly showed her off to everyone, beaming with pride as she asked, "Is she not the most beautiful?" But when someone had the audacity to disagree, Jin Hee was deeply hurt, falling into a wounded silence and refusing to speak to them for a long time. This moment revealed the profound emotional bond and protective love Jin Hee felt for Gongjunim, who quickly became more than just a newborn in the orchard—she was the treasured centre of the family's joy and pride. Gongjunim, meaning "princess" in Korean, was pampered and indulged from the very beginning. With her dark, thick hair often hiding her face and a slight chubbiness that mirrored her mother’s, she was the smallest among the orchard kids, just like her father. She often wished she were a couple of inches taller, joking with her younger sisters, "If you all hadn’t taken my food, I’d be taller." But when they glanced at her chubby figure, Gongjunim would fall silent. She also wished for a bit less hair—traits she had inherited from her father. However, she had her mother's thick lips and light brown eyes, giving her an appearance that leaned more toward cute than conventionally pretty. Gongjunim, affectionately nicknamed "Yes girl," was known for her unwavering compliance with her parents' requests, always saying yes rather than no. Rules were of paramount importance to her, and she adhered to them strictly. A meticulous and tidy person, she needed everything in her life to be in order and spotlessly clean. Gongjunim managed her affairs with sharp precision, always knowing exactly how much money she had, down to the last penny. Punctuality was another of her strong suits, as she was always on time or even early. This combination of traits made her an exceptionally efficient worker, and she was recognized as the most pragmatic and realistic member of the orchard house family. Whenever Gongjunim was with her mother, people would invariably comment on her mother’s stunning beauty. Yet, Gongjunim rarely heard such praise for herself. Her mother, with her radiant skin, exquisite features, and vibrant personality, was the epitome of beauty, leaving Gongjunim feeling overshadowed. Despite this, Gongjunim took pride in her mother’s beauty, which helped her maintain a stable sense of identity. As the firstborn of a wealthy family, she was accustomed to privilege and was generally able to manage her insecurities. However, Gongjunim’s life took a dramatic turn when her father faced severe financial difficulties. This sudden change forced Gongjunim to confront a stark contrast in how people perceived and treated her. Once accustomed to the comforts of a “금수저 (geumsujeo: golden spoon)” lifestyle—where wealth and ease were the norm—she found herself thrust into a “흙수저 (heulgsujeo: dirt spoon)” existence by the age of 16, where hard work and struggle became essential just to get by. Adjusting to this new reality proved challenging for Gongjunim. Accustomed to a life of privilege, the sudden change demanded resilience and hard work—qualities she was only beginning to understand. The contrast between her past and present highlighted the complexities she faced as she navigated the challenges of transitioning from a life of affluence to one marked by the need for perseverance. As Gongjunim's family faced hardships, her mother, Myeong Su, lost many workers, prompting all the orchard kids to share in the workload. As the first child, Gongjunim found herself obligated to assist her mother in preparing meals for everyone. Despite her mother’s repeated morning calls that woke up the entire village, much like a rooster’s crow, Gongjunim occasionally resisted the responsibility, choosing instead to stay wrapped up in her blanket. Frustrated by Gongjunim’s reluctance, her mother eventually turned her attention to Neuljeongi, orchard house second child, calling her ten times to no avail. Third child, Erika’s name was intentionally skipped, and the next in line, Ttogsuni, fourth child, promptly responded, eagerly offering her assistance. Meanwhile, Dae Hyun, fifth child, only son, heir of family and Hongi, youngest, remained unresponsive and were not called upon during this particular occasion. Ttogsuni found joy in helping their mother, and though Gongjunim felt a sense of guilt, she eventually joined in the work, even though she disliked it. In her younger years, after the births of Neuljeongi and Erika, Gongjunim enjoyed their company but often pleaded with her mother not to have any more babies. The responsibility of caring for her siblings, especially Neuljeongi, who always relied on her, weighed heavily on her. When Gongjunim wanted to play with her best friends, Neuljeongi would not let her go. When she attempted to distance herself, Neuljeongi would cry in one spot in the orchard house yard until Gongjunim returned. The increasing demands of caring for her growing family painted a poignant picture of a young girl overwhelmed by familial duties. Despite her sometimes independent and seemingly selfish demeanour, family observed that Gongjunim was not as she appeared. During a family picnic, Gongjunim positioned herself in the middle, patiently waiting until everyone had disembarked from the bus. She meticulously checked the entire bus to ensure nothing was left behind. On another occasion, at a public toilet, Gongjunim delayed coming out. Concerned, orchard kids went in to find her cleaning the messy toilet for someone else. Even during a mountain walk, when a signboard had fallen, presumably due to a storm, she didn’t hesitate to pick up a large stone and carefully place the signboard back on the ground. As the first child, Gongjunim didn’t want to be burdened with responsibilities, she was inevitably drawn to them. Yet, Gongjunim had developed a strong sense of responsibility, volunteering, and a knack for looking after everything. Gongjunim often shared her dream of becoming a priest with the family and even studied theology, but she ended up married with ordinary man, she was working at a school, cooking for kids. Even after getting married, Gongjunim and her husband regularly visited her parents’ farm, actively assisting whenever they needed help. She was her father’s daughter through and through, fully understanding and admiring him in every way. She often spoke of her father with pride, describing him as brave, warm, sharp, intelligent, and playful—a music artist more attractive and handsome than any celebrity. She would tell anyone who would listen, “My father’s motto was simple: work hard, eat well, rest, enjoy life, and always come back home to stay the night.” Though the orchard kids had all left the hometown house, the farm became a playground for Gongjunim’s little two boys.

Kendo is my light #dream #kendo #martialarts #challenge #sports #life #women #belief Prologue Where is my designated spot of victory? My heart raced, causing my breath to quicken. Aching sensations pulsed throughout my entire body as I treaded barefoot. My feet, torn and wounded, endured excruciating pain. Surak Mountain stood before me, its surface adorned with countless small, frozen stones. Each step upon these icy pebbles pierced my bare soles, evoking a sensation akin to thorns pricking my skin. Goosebumps erupted all over me with every stride, amplifying the agony I endured. Hours had already elapsed, and my feet now bled profusely, necessitating periodic respite to cleanse them in the snow. Arriving at work that day, I realized with dismay that everyone was dressed in hiking attire. In my hectic state, preoccupied with kendo, I had forgotten that we were embarking on a mountain expedition together. My boss glanced at me and declared, “You’ll be staying at the office.” Pleadingly, I implored, “I’ll manage.” He cast a silent gaze upon me and proceeded ahead. I continued to beseech and trailed behind the group until one of my female colleagues suggested, “Would you like to borrow my shoes? I have an extra pair of trainers in my car.” Her audacious proposal incited fierce glares from the others. She was considerably smaller in size than I. Hastily, I exclaimed, “Yes! Yes! What a brilliant idea. Thank you so much.” Though I struggled to fit my feet into her sneakers, my boss glanced at me once more, and somehow, I managed to squeeze them in. He remained silent, granting me a stroke of fortune. I trailed silently behind the group, but even before reaching the mountain, the ill-fitting sneakers began to cause blisters, adding to my discomfort. Amidst this footwear battle, my boss bestowed a wry smile and remarked, “If you aim to join the national team, you must possess the courage to climb barefoot.” His countenance betrayed a hint of scepticism. He already knew that I would not be able to endure such a feat. Instantly, I asserted, “I can.” We had previously discussed my aspirations for the national team, and it seemed he was aware of my intentions. His personal motto was “Born today, die today,” embodying a profound understanding of what true effort entailed. Through relentless exertion, he had achieved what many would deem success. Thus, it was only natural for him to test me. As I continued my arduous trek barefoot for hours on end, my boss’s expression revealed a mix of concern and terror, yet he remained silent. Eventually, I heard my female colleague cautioning me, “Honga! You could lose your toes. Please put your shoes back on!” My feet were bleeding, cut, and swollen, yet I felt a sense of triumph, radiating a smile brighter than anyone else on this planet. In my early twenties, I was an ordinary young woman, attending night college to study industrial management while working full-time. On weekends, I toiled all day at a pizza restaurant, finding joy even in the task of cleaning the restroom at day’s end. It was because I harboured hope that I could become something more, or rather, I would shape myself into something great. This moment, for which I had waited tirelessly for years, was the epitome of what I sought—a test of my abilities, a battle worth fighting, and the key to realizing my true potential. After several hours, we settled in a humble mountain dwelling for lunch. My male colleague had prepared food for everyone, burdened by the weight of carrying it all. We gathered small branches, albeit damp, and my boss skilfully kindled a fire. We sat around the fire, and my boss gazed into the dancing flames, softly uttering, “That will suffice. Put your shoes back on.” I refused. I did not want to. We shared a hearty meal of 라면 (lamyeon: spicey Korean noodle), the best companion on a wintry mountain, adding a boiled egg, a small portion of rice, and kimchi to the steaming noodles. The steam enveloped my face, warming me from within, while the fire’s smoke caused occasional discomfort in my breathing. Nevertheless, both sensations brought solace to my weary body. It was a moment of bliss. At last, I reached the summit of Surak Mountain. Closing my eyes, I gathered all my strength and whispered a prayer, “God, I aspire to join the Korean national team. With your presence, I know I can achieve it.” Opening my eyes, I surveyed the natural landscape from the mountain’s peak, feeling transformed in that very instant. I affirmed to myself, “I will become a member of the Korean national team. I can do it because I am Cho, Hyun Hong (Honga).” Our descent commenced, and for several more hours, heavy snowfall graced the deep mountains. It was a gracious blessing, an experience I wished upon everyone to comprehend its ethereal beauty. At that moment, thoughts of my mother emerged, for she would always say when she witnessed snowflakes cascading gently from the sky, “Blessings are descending.” And so, I contemplated, “Could this be a heavenly promise of blessings bestowed upon me?” Throughout that entire day, climbing up and down the wintry mountain with bare feet, I triumphed over my boss’s test—a test that could have been devised by God or myself. Boarding the bus to return, my boss handed me a tissue to wipe away the blood and grime. Again, no words were exchanged between us. I quietly commenced the ritual of tenderly tending to my battered feet, revelling in a resplendent triumph.

My Life In Kendo: Gender and Masculinity Across Cultures Abstract Contact sports have often fostered an aggressive and violent, hyper-masculine culture which prioritises strength and demeans characteristics associated with femininity. The Japanese martial art of Kendo, however, has transformed into a modern sport which trains men and women together, and where women also frequently compete against men, in contrast to many other contact martial arts. My Life in Kendo:Gender and Masculinity Across Cultures uses an autoethnographic methodology to explore how my journey in kendo can help us understand gender relations in kendo and improve them so that any woman can enjoy and benefit from kendo without being discriminated against. More generally, this research seeks to gain insight into what kendo offers in terms of positive/productive experiences for women in particular, along with some key moments where this has failed. At issue are also questions of Confucianism, migration, anger, masculinity, and aging. #kendo #maritalarts #sports #masculinity #aging #femininity #challenge

Amazon.com

Amazon.com

These are my books, which might be of interest to you. #books #kendo #sports #martialarts

Amazon.com

Amazon.com

Hi I am new to Nostr, I am an author and I teach #kendo. I look forward to being a part of this community. :) #introductions

Hi I am new to Nostr, I am an author and I teach #kendo. I look forward to being a part of this community. :)