There is a long tradition in historical European martial
arts (well, as long a tradition as there can be for a practice that is really
only about thirty five years old) of modifying equipment. Mostly this is because even after thirty-five
years we are only just getting commercially produced practice gear specifically
for HEMA, so for most of the past four decades people have had no choice but to
repurpose other equipment. Sometimes
this results in less than satisfactory work-arounds. But what is satisfactory is the way in which even
small modifications can imbue a piece of gear with totemic significance.
A few weeks ago my studio went to a tournament for the first
time (I should post more thoughts on tournaments later). In preparation for the tournament, we had
school patches ordered to put on our fencing jackets. I sort of expected to dismiss this as a
cynical marketing ploy. I was surprised
to discover that I didn’t.
Like a lot of my fellow students, I own an Axel Peterssen
Pro fencing jacket, which incorporates a leather plastron in the front. This poses certain difficulties from a sewing
perspective, as the whole point of the plastron is to resist penetration by a
sharp object (for instance, a steel trainer that breaks in the thrust rather
than flexing like it’s supposed to).
Some students decided to glue their patches on. Others decided to take it to a tailor. But I found that it mattered to me a lot that
I do it myself, the hard way, with needle and thread. This wasn’t just free advertising for
somebody’s business. This was an
expression of who I am as a fencer, and I needed to make it. I am a student of the Akademie des Heiligen Schwertes, and the crest of that school has
pride of place on the chest of my jacket.
Through Tristan’s teaching, I am associated with the New York Historical
Fencing Association, and the crest of that school belongs on my left arm.
And then I realized that one day there might be others, and
the order of patches might need to change.
As much as I love the Akademie,
it might not be my school forever. This is
really a pretty disquieting thought, because I actually do love the Akademie a lot, but I am … well,
me. Whenever I leave, if I ever join
another school, it will be important to me that the crest of that school take its place on my chest,
and the AHS crest move to my arm. Which
of course will mean that the NYHFA crest move, and so on …
So I bought a leather needle and some upholstery thread,
bought or borrowed some Velcro, and I lovingly added Velcro to my patches and
jacket. The stitching is not fabulous,
but it is mine. And now my fencing
jacket is not just protective gear. My
jacket says, This is me. This is where I come from. These people have supported my development as
a martial artist, and I honor them.
If my jacket describes who I am as a fencer, my waster - my,
well, my sword - describes what
fencing itself means to me. When I went
to fencing last week, my waster had a bright orange grip. It got a few looks. Of course there is a story behind it.
When I moved to New York, Blue Rose and Karyai gave me a
month’s worth of fencing lessons as a going-away present. I turned this into a Pentti+ Type III nylon
waster, which for a variety of reasons I am quite happy with both as a solo
drill and as a sparring tool. The only
thing I don’t like about it is the grip, which is more rectangular than oval (KDF
requires a loose grip on the sword that can slide easily around the handle, and
which rather awkward when the handle isn’t, you know, round). As far as I can tell, nobody likes the grips
on the Penttis, though they have enough other positive characteristics that
they are still the international standard in synthetic wasters. Some people (including some of my fellow
students) are of the opinion that since tournaments don’t allow you to compete
with your own Pentti, you might as well get used to the square grip. But most of those people have steel trainers
with much more realistic handles that they can use for drills. Since I’m not likely to have a steel sword
for a while, I decided to modify my Pentti’s handle.
The grip tape on mine was shredding anyway (nobody told me
you aren’t supposed to fence while wearing rings), so I decided to insert some
cardboard shims to round out the grip, and then rewrap the whole thing. And then I thought, since I was going to be
exposing the nylon of the handle anyway, maybe I should inscribe something on
it. Why?
I don’t know. Maybe I was
inspired by Shanah Van’s love tattoo. Or
maybe there’s just a universal impulse to inscribe things that are important to
us.
I decided on a tennis overgrip for my new wrap, which in
turn meant I needed to decide which color I was going to get, because
apparently tennis overgrips come in a bewildering variety of colors. Naturally, this decision could only be made
from a heraldic standpoint, and naturally, the heraldry in question could not just be classical.
I had recently decided that whenever I finally get my steel
trainers (I can only use one at a time, of course, but many people eventually
acquire two, to train with a partner) I wanted one to have a green grip and the
other a blue one. In classical heraldry
(much of which is surprisingly modern; of course I am aware medieval and even
Renaissance heraldry was much more practical than the symbolism-laden construct
that we have inherited), green is associated with hope, joy, and fidelity in
love; while blue is associated with truth and loyalty. In Mandalorian armor, green is associated
with duty, while blue is associated with reliability. These are fitting reminders for something
that supports me as an absent father and husband and as a lawyer. So I resolved to own a trainer with a green
handle, named Ijaa’bora - Duty. After that, eventually, one with a blue
handle, named Ruusaan - Reliable One. But with green and blue taken, what color
should my Pentti be?
Ultimately I decided to answer that question by asking what
my Pentti means to me.
Drilling with my Pentti is calm. Even if I am tired and cranky from my run up
and down the minor hills of Prospect Park, when I am on the knoll or in the
hollow where I drill my mind is quiet, like it is when I am painting. At the same time, it is deeply
invigorating. When I wield it during
warm-up cuts in class, I feel my muscles awaken and my breathing deepen as my
whole body looks forward to what is to come.
It is satisfying. The end of a
sparring session, when I have withstood an hour’s worth of sweat and blows and
know that I could keep going, feels like the end of a dance. And it is a symbol of my friends’ love for
me.
So I no longer own just a Pentti+ Type III nylon
waster. I own Shereshoy, whose name means … well, shereshoy. Openness to what
life will bring, and the groundedness to eagerly seek it out. The desire to live, and the drive forward
into the unknown - which is, really, simply another facet of the desire not
just to live but to live. Shereshoy
means … I think the best literal translation is to seize life. But what it really means is joy.
In Mandalorian armor, the color associated with this lust
for life is orange. In classical
heraldry, orange is associated with worthy ambition - a fine synergy for this
foreign adventure of mine, and coincidentally related to Master Liechtenauer’s
characterization of the art of fighting as the art that dignifies.
So I took down my Pentti from its hook on my door and
carefully cut out the shims using a pattern cut from paper borrowed from my
Brooklyn roommates, from cardboard that came from the chair I bought when I
finally admitted in a deeper way that I am here, and not elsewhere. Beneath the shims I carefully inscribed the
handle with orange ink: ner gai cuyi
shereshoy - “my name is Joy.” I
wrote it in Mandalorian to remind me of family, in the style of Greek
dedications to remind me of friends. Then
I bound that up beneath my cardboard and sealed it with an orange tennis
overgrip, and I hung Joy upon my door.
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