Sitting silently at a judo tournament in the minutes before it starts, I look around, for the moment an outsider. The referees gather in one corner, dressed in black suit jackets, ties and grey pants, all male, greeting and catching up on each other’s lives and students. The youngest of these men is 16, quietly becoming one of the elite, a judo official. Some of them have put on their judo personalities just like they put on their jackets, others already are commanding, in charge and sure of their place as an experienced referee. Spread across the mats are groups of students, most often separated by club affiliation. They joke with each other and play around, until they are called to pay attention and warm up. Most are boys and young men. This year about a fourth are girls. There are many more of the younger girls then teens, and few adult women, but there is more this year than last. The coaches also are spread around the gym, talking to each other, comparing results from the last tournament and telling each other about the students they brought with them today. If I look hard, I can find the 3 female coaches, one is the wife of a head instructor, helping him because he can’t coach two players at one time, one a black belt student assisting her sensei and one woman who has her own club.
The excitement is starting to build as more and more competitors step onto the mat, and soon it is overflowing with young people ready to test their skills against each other, the warm up music is loud and the competitors louder. In preparation, the officials are called to meet, and now it is time for me to put on my jacket, to become an official, commanding, in charge, confident, masculine. I am the only female referee working today.
As the first competitor is called to his match, the head referee comes over to talk to our team. He says the usual things, “Keep control of the matches, support each other, you are not out there alone”, and like I wasn’t even there, “protect her- she will need everyone’s help to stay in charge, especially when the adults fight.” I respond as expected, and thank everyone for their support, as I grit my teeth in frustration. All but one of the team is less experienced then me. A few of the men outrank me though, even those who began judo after I did. I don’t begrudge them their ranks, their skills or their authority. I resent the premise that I need extra assistance to maintain control of the match’s I am assigned to referee.
The day goes by fast, match after match is decided. I’m having fun as I almost always do at tournaments. Since I have reached the point where competition is no longer possible for me, refereeing is the nearest I can get to it. Throughout the day, my referee team does exactly what they were told to do, protect me, help me maintain control- even when I don’t need the help. Matches are conducted by a center referee and two others that act in support of the match; who sit on the sidelines with the advantage of a video to replay events and correct calls if misjudged. A throw occurs and my arm is on its way up to signal the score, before I can even complete my action, the support team makes the call for me. Over and over this happens, a few times the scores are different than I started to call, but not often. The room is deafening and my voice isn’t always heard by the intensely focused competitors, this time I had to call “stop” twice to get their attention. As I rotate off the match, I get called over to the head referee’s table for advice “you need to lower the tone of your voice, the competitors ignored you because they didn’t recognize your voice as a referee’s voice.” In other words, I need to sound like a man, not just look like and act like one, in order to referee effectively. When the black belt divisions begin, I am asked if I think I can handle them. I say “of course,” I referee the best match of my day, exciting, fun and with a great powerful winning throw, just as the supporting referee called “stop” and I ignored him, as the players were mid-technique. I am called to the side of the mat for a conference, and there admonished for not following directions, and then contritely congratulated on making the right decision, at the right time. The throw will count for the win; the player will be awarded a gold medal, because I didn’t follow directions well.
At the end of the day, the ritual of working together at a tournament continues. Everyone shakes hands and bows to each other, thanking them for their support and occasionally for their advice. One after another, my referee team comes to shake my hand and tell me that “I did well today.” The 16 year old, who had just refereed his 2nd tournament approaches and pats me on the shoulder and tells me that he hopes I learned something today and assures me that with time, I will get better. He has already being indoctrinated into the male role of the judo official.
As always, I have a several hour drive home and have time to reflect on the events of the day. I review each match that I arbitrated and each match on my mat that left me with questions or concerns, I walk myself through the events of each overturned or missed call and closely review the matches that had injuries or controversy- such as a coach protest. To assist with my review of the day, I have kept a log of matches and refer to it whenever my memory is not clear. Later, I will review past tournaments to see if there are patterns in the injuries or errors. If I am lucky, I will have photos or film to review as well. The goal is to always learn something and improve my performance.
As I think about the tournament, I also remember the many conversations I had with the competitors today. As an official, I am supposed to refrain from these exchanges, after all I might show bias. But they still happen. One of the young girls approaches me and asks what she is supposed to do when she is told to strip on the side of the mat, when I get clarification, I understand that her uniform was too small, which often happens with growing children, and she was told to change. I spent a few minutes telling her how to prepare for this at tournaments after hearing that she had nothing on under her pants. I described what to wear under her uniform that wouldn’t interfere with her techniques, and I tell her to make sure a female official accompanies her to the side of the mat. This is the regulation, although it is hard to do when all the officials are men. As she runs off to tell her coach what I said, I wonder about the way she was told to change her uniform. She was escorted to the side of the mat by a male authority figure, and in full view of anyone who walked by, she was told to “strip”.
Another girl asked me why she has to fight girls and can’t compete against the boys. A young man approached me and asked if I was a black belt, as he didn’t know that all referees were required to be black belts and that women could earn the rank, as he hadn’t seen any on the mat before today. Many other quick conversations or quick interactions occurred throughout the day as I told a competitor “good throw” or “nice technique”, “good luck at Nationals this summer”, or as I often have to say, “Use this loss to learn what you can do better next time.”
As I get close to home, I turn my thoughts to the struggles women have had to endure, just to participate in this “sport”, and how they are still continuing. I am surprised at what I finally discovered today- I’m still indoctrinated and trained to not even notice the condescension of many of the male judo players . The books we have and the stories that are told about judo’s history, barely mention women. There are a few, Ms. Fukuda- the highest ranking women in history, Rusty Kanokogi, one of the first female fighters and more recently we hear about Kayla Harrison, the USA’s first female gold medalist in judo, and Rhonda Rousey, who is making a name for herself in MMA and movies. Pick up just about any book on judo and you will find only a paragraph or two on the history of women judo players. Heilbrun says in her book Writing a Woman’s Life “The ultimate anonymity—to be storyless. Anonymity, we have long believed, is the proper condition of woman.”[i] The women of judo have been almost storyless. The story of most of the many judo woman has not been told at all. “Power is the ability to take one’s place in whatever discourse is essential to action and the right to have one’s part matter.” [ii]My part matters. So do the stories of all the women who live in the world of Judo. For it is much more than a sport we play, it is who we are, our identity, our extended family. As with most families, there is conflict, bad times, and wonderfully good times. Our stories occur in a time of revolution, of changing feminine roles and we have a place in the history of judo.
[i] (Heilbrun 1989)
[ii] (Heilbrun 1989)