Tohei sensei was so serious. He was very rigid but in a (mostly) good sense. One time, in an interview, someone asked him if he liked Japan or America more. He answered, “When I eat rice, I like rice.” He always talked in that cryptic way. And I loved that. Because it was up to you to take what you want from it. He communicated the idea that aikido is a mindset, a thinking process.
I didn’t go to Tohei sensei for his technique. I went for his character. On the mat, he didn’t teach mechanics. He put more emphasis on acting correctly. He wanted us to take care of the dojo space. The highest ranking person at the dojo cleans the bathroom.
Tohei sensei’s aikido was not flamboyant; it was very clean cut. Sometimes, he would throw me, and he would put power into it, and I would feel that little bit of magic. But he didn’t correct me on the mat. Sometimes he would make a subtle gesture. He would put his palms together so they were parallel, which was a signal that I was too far out of line and I should pull it back. But that was it. Just come back.
I became his kenshusei (close student), assistant. I used to drive to his house and pick him up to take him to the dojo. Sometimes, if I arrived 15 minutes early, I would take a nap in the car. Then he would have to bang on the car window to wake me up. We’d go to the dojo, he would teach, and then I would drive him back home. When we got to his house, I would grab his bag and run it up to the porch. It was this kind of game – trying to stay one step ahead of the sensei.
When I messed up, he took me to his office and closed the door, and told me privately what I had done. I think he knew I had a softer shell at that time. I could take a physical beating on the mat. But he knew a sharp word from him would make me crumble. He took care of me.
One time, I was driving him somewhere, and I fell asleep at the wheel, and the car hit a road divider. I said, “Sorry, sensei.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Not people.”
Someone brought him a gift. I showed him the package: “Look, sensei. Someone brought you some fancy tea.” I pointed at the package and pronounced the name of this fancy tea. “See here,” I said. “It’s called `a-wok-ay tea’. Want to try some?” I was thinking it was a Japanese tea. He looked at the box, then at me, then back at the box. “You mean Awake tea?”
He would always say, “Eat more rice. More grow up.” I think he saw that I had aikido potential, and he was trying to nurture that. I didn’t have confidence though. He was always encouraging me to take more leadership.
When my parents came to visit, he had the class turn and bow to them. For him, he felt like my parents had sacrificed their son to move away and come to Chicago.
Tohei sensei had lung cancer. When he was sick, I would go to his house to sit with him and keep him company. Sometimes, I fell asleep, and he would catch me sleeping and yell, “Wake up!”
The day before he died, I had picked up his son from the airport. He had just flown in from Japan. Sensei had been hallucinating about seeing his son. I got his son to the hospital, and as I was leaving, sensei put his hands together and nodded to me. I believe now that he was thanking me for bringing his son.
There was a Zen priest who would visit sensei at the hospital a few times. He said to me, “This is a great teacher: someone who shares his life and his death.” That made an impression on me.