Dan Ivan
The First American Karate Master
By
Robert Hunt
We came to a four-lane north of Palm Springs, California, crossed it when traffic thinned and found ourselves on a dirt road. We followed the rutted road north. It seemed to lead nowhere. With a leap of faith, we crept along the ruts to a house half-buried among the rocks and yucca trees.
Dan Ivan appeared like a wraith out of the night, his dark Transylvanian eyes lost in the shadows. He stood in the middle of the road and waved us in.
The following is taken from that night, as well as 30 years of friendship and apprenticeship, some long hours of taping in that sunken house, and his own words from his memoirs (presented below in bold italics.)
I met Mr. Ivan in the 70's at his tournament in Costa Mesa. He was a humble, straightforward, helpful person with deep set eyes and aquiline features who seemed to care more about me than I thought I deserved. He was the kind of person you immediately liked.
He had brought a young Japanese Shi-To Ryu student named Fumio Demura to California from Japan in 1964 to help run his dojo. Together, they created an operation and reputation. I joined their organization - the Japan Karate Federation - in 1981, and have more or less remained with them since, although, since Mr. Ivan’s passing, the organization has been rebuilt by Demura under the name Genbu-kai.
Mr. Ivan passed away in 2007, after I originally wrote the following story.
“As I walked through the neighborhood of fallen concrete buildings and remaining ashes of those that burned, the smell of hibachi cooking permeated the air. Looking around in the darkness I could see small flickering flames, fires built in cans to keep warm. It was Japan after the Second World War. It might as well have been Mars.”
A light bulb swayed back and forth on one bare wire, scattering light on the dark staircase below. Dan Ivan stared down the staircase and wondered if karate was worth the risk. The bombed-out buildings had the feel of a concrete graveyard, and who knew what the shouts meant? Finally, he mustered up the courage and crouched down to catch a glimpse of the room below.
It was filled with Japanese men in white karate uniforms and they didn’t look happy. It was three years after the end of the war, miles away from where most Americans wandered and worlds away from any place Dan Ivan had ever been.
He eased his way down and stood staring, not sure what to do. A room full of Asian heads rotated his way and he was certain, at least very afraid, that wartime memories might still prevail.
The teacher was short and solid, with shoulder length hair. He stopped class with a gesture. Dan bowed, the teacher bowed and Dan offered that he had been studying judo on the Army base. This teacher happened to know his judo teacher and Dan exhaled. The teacher welcomed him to sit and watch, turned back to his class and Dan began a lifelong friendship with a karate teacher who later became famous - Gogen Yamaguchi, the "Cat".
But where does one begin to tell Dan Ivan’s story? A more complex person would be hard to find, and a person with a more colorful life doesn’t exist.
“As I walked through the neighborhood of fallen concrete buildings and remaining ashes of those that burned, the smell of hibachi cooking permeated the air. Looking around in the darkness I could see small flickering flames, fires built in cans to keep warm. It was Japan after the Second World War. It might as well have been Mars.”
A light bulb swayed back and forth on one bare wire, scattering light on the dark staircase below. Dan Ivan stared down the staircase and wondered if karate was worth the risk. The bombed-out buildings had the feel of a concrete graveyard, and who knew what the shouts meant? Finally, he mustered up the courage and crouched down to catch a glimpse of the room below.
It was filled with Japanese men in white karate uniforms and they didn’t look happy. It was three years after the end of the war, miles away from where most Americans wandered and worlds away from any place Dan Ivan had ever been.
He eased his way down and stood staring, not sure what to do. A room full of Asian heads rotated his way and he was certain, at least very afraid, that wartime memories might still prevail.
The teacher was short and solid, with shoulder length hair. He stopped class with a gesture. Dan bowed, the teacher bowed and Dan offered that he had been studying judo on the Army base. This teacher happened to know his judo teacher and Dan exhaled. The teacher welcomed him to sit and watch, turned back to his class and Dan began a lifelong friendship with a karate teacher who later became famous - Gogen Yamaguchi, the "Cat".
But where does one begin to tell Dan Ivan’s story? A more complex person would be hard to find, and a person with a more colorful life doesn’t exist.
Trains passed through Alliance, Ohio working their way to almost any place that wasn't Alliance, Ohio. That’s where he was born – in a house so modest it mocks the word. He sat and watched those trains pass, listened to their mournful wail, and longed to go somewhere.
He finally started to jump the trains just for the ride through town. One day he didn't jump off. After that, he spent years riding the rails around the Depression-ravaged countryside, living off the land, the people and his ever-present wit - a "flim-flam man" in the flesh.
“Life was always one big adventure for me. I started hopping freight trains when I was about nine or ten years old, which later developed into more serious situations with the law. That’s why in 1945, at age 15, the Police in Alliance, Ohio dragged me into the Army Recruiting Office. With their help and some forged documents, I ended up in basic training, then off to Guam and the South Pacific.”
Eventually, he was presented with the choice of the army or Depression-era justice, and arrived in Japan shortly after the Second World War. He learned Japanese, joined the CID, the Criminal Investigations Division of the Army, and spent the next years studying karate, judo, kendo and aikido and tracking American military criminals around Tokyo. He practiced survival at its root, in the dirty, death-filled streets of Tokyo’s underworld. Listening to him, I always felt that he was probably happiest in Japan, in 1948, a gun on his hip and life in the raw laid out before him.
“Walk with attitude, strut and swagger, something I learned as a kid…”
He finally started to jump the trains just for the ride through town. One day he didn't jump off. After that, he spent years riding the rails around the Depression-ravaged countryside, living off the land, the people and his ever-present wit - a "flim-flam man" in the flesh.
“Life was always one big adventure for me. I started hopping freight trains when I was about nine or ten years old, which later developed into more serious situations with the law. That’s why in 1945, at age 15, the Police in Alliance, Ohio dragged me into the Army Recruiting Office. With their help and some forged documents, I ended up in basic training, then off to Guam and the South Pacific.”
Eventually, he was presented with the choice of the army or Depression-era justice, and arrived in Japan shortly after the Second World War. He learned Japanese, joined the CID, the Criminal Investigations Division of the Army, and spent the next years studying karate, judo, kendo and aikido and tracking American military criminals around Tokyo. He practiced survival at its root, in the dirty, death-filled streets of Tokyo’s underworld. Listening to him, I always felt that he was probably happiest in Japan, in 1948, a gun on his hip and life in the raw laid out before him.
“Walk with attitude, strut and swagger, something I learned as a kid…”
He studied karate with Funakoshi’s student, Obata, then aikijutsu with Gozo Shioda. Karate only found its way to Japan in the 20’s, took root in the 30’s, came to almost a complete halt in the war years and began in earnest thereafter. That’s when Mr. Ivan’s life collided with his destiny.
“A young Japanese man confronted me, blocking my path. Back home in Ohio this was the way fights start, so I laid into him first with a judo throw, an Osotogari leg hook throw, something I was developing at the Kodokan for the past few months. A good throw, but my adversary, flat on his back, practically bounced back up and hit me in the mouth with a straight right hand. I took notice that a semi circle of men formed around me - obviously his friends. My plan was to dump him and split. No way could I handle all of them. Instead, he and his friends took off, disappearing into the crowds that were gathering. That seemed like a good idea, so I did too.”
Fifty years later he still vividly recalls the times - fights, stakeouts, beatings, betrayals, the proximity of death. Karate wasn’t a game on a clean, matted dojo floor, it was survival on dangerous streets. He talks about going down to Okachimachi looking for the heroin peddlers who trafficked in “China Snow.” Most of us have never even seen heroin, let alone dug a peddler out of a rat hole. Okachimachi is now a stop on the Tokyo railroad line, but in those days it was a cardboard town rearranged in minutes to keep intruders out - or in. He recounts the fear of confronting the bosses there, but you can only think that maybe that fear pumped the blood through his veins.
His later years were filled with karate schools in Southern California, karate productions at the Japanese Deer Park, a million dollars in real estate, movies, Las Vegas tournaments, and enough accolades to fill several lifetimes. But late at night, in his quiet, humble house in the desert, that’s not what he talks about. Japan is what he talks about, and life in the maelstrom of adventure.
“Things in Ueno-Asakusa machi were volatile, the war weary residents had no more regard for the police than they did for me. It was understandable, the entire nation was starving, and when you don’t have a place to sleep or food for your children, then…”
He tested for his Kendo black belt, not sure what to do. After traveling all night, he was tired and on unfamiliar ground, but wasn’t going to give them an advantage. He screamed and attacked. They stared like he was some bizarre maniac, but gave him the belt. He thinks Kendo was great training.
“You learn to close distance quickly.”
When Mr. Ivan talks about fighting, you listen for a while, then you realize that he isn’t talking theory, he’s recounting fights.
“Attack the eyes, then the legs, then the throat or solar plexus. That way you take away the vision, the mobility and the breath.”
It wasn't abstract meditation on battle, it was how to survive.
I have sat and listened on countless evenings while Dan Ivan talked about his life and his adventures. I audio taped many of them. Sometimes I walked away laughing, other times wondering what kind of childhood could temper such a human. I never walked away bored.
“I was born and raised during the ‘depression’ in United States, a time when we had too little to eat, no jobs and a bleak future. Frankly speaking, everything that happened to me before entering the Army could have earned me a long jail sentence. From the very beginning, I empathized with the Japanese.”
“A young Japanese man confronted me, blocking my path. Back home in Ohio this was the way fights start, so I laid into him first with a judo throw, an Osotogari leg hook throw, something I was developing at the Kodokan for the past few months. A good throw, but my adversary, flat on his back, practically bounced back up and hit me in the mouth with a straight right hand. I took notice that a semi circle of men formed around me - obviously his friends. My plan was to dump him and split. No way could I handle all of them. Instead, he and his friends took off, disappearing into the crowds that were gathering. That seemed like a good idea, so I did too.”
Fifty years later he still vividly recalls the times - fights, stakeouts, beatings, betrayals, the proximity of death. Karate wasn’t a game on a clean, matted dojo floor, it was survival on dangerous streets. He talks about going down to Okachimachi looking for the heroin peddlers who trafficked in “China Snow.” Most of us have never even seen heroin, let alone dug a peddler out of a rat hole. Okachimachi is now a stop on the Tokyo railroad line, but in those days it was a cardboard town rearranged in minutes to keep intruders out - or in. He recounts the fear of confronting the bosses there, but you can only think that maybe that fear pumped the blood through his veins.
His later years were filled with karate schools in Southern California, karate productions at the Japanese Deer Park, a million dollars in real estate, movies, Las Vegas tournaments, and enough accolades to fill several lifetimes. But late at night, in his quiet, humble house in the desert, that’s not what he talks about. Japan is what he talks about, and life in the maelstrom of adventure.
“Things in Ueno-Asakusa machi were volatile, the war weary residents had no more regard for the police than they did for me. It was understandable, the entire nation was starving, and when you don’t have a place to sleep or food for your children, then…”
He tested for his Kendo black belt, not sure what to do. After traveling all night, he was tired and on unfamiliar ground, but wasn’t going to give them an advantage. He screamed and attacked. They stared like he was some bizarre maniac, but gave him the belt. He thinks Kendo was great training.
“You learn to close distance quickly.”
When Mr. Ivan talks about fighting, you listen for a while, then you realize that he isn’t talking theory, he’s recounting fights.
“Attack the eyes, then the legs, then the throat or solar plexus. That way you take away the vision, the mobility and the breath.”
It wasn't abstract meditation on battle, it was how to survive.
I have sat and listened on countless evenings while Dan Ivan talked about his life and his adventures. I audio taped many of them. Sometimes I walked away laughing, other times wondering what kind of childhood could temper such a human. I never walked away bored.
“I was born and raised during the ‘depression’ in United States, a time when we had too little to eat, no jobs and a bleak future. Frankly speaking, everything that happened to me before entering the Army could have earned me a long jail sentence. From the very beginning, I empathized with the Japanese.”
A few years ago, the International Martial Arts Federation awarded him a ninth degree black belt. A Zen priest, a descendent of Tokugawa, handed him a parchment covered with kanji. Mr. Ivan was proud. He was impressed that someone of that stature had presented him an award.
But what could that Zen priest possibly offer Dan Ivan? A number? A piece of paper with Japanese writing on it? Stature in the martial arts community? That high-bred Zen priest, contemplating life from a polished hard-wood floor, has nothing to offer the warrior who has contemplated life from the inside out and the bottom up.
Who should present whom the award?
Most karate people I know have never fought a real fight, never faced death. I haven’t. I’m not sure what I would do if faced with someone who actually wanted to end my pointless existence. Dan Ivan knows.
A hundred and fifty years ago, Okinawan Bushi used karate to defend themselves, bring bad guys to justice and fight the good fight. Dan Ivan’s life is one of the closest Western ones I can find that parallels the lives of those early Okinawan Bushi.
“I scrunched up in the corner, gripping my club in my right hand. Tears began to flow uncontrolled, but silent - dry tears. The bums at the other end of the boxcar wanted to see some weakness from me, then they would attack to take any valuables I might have. It was something I learned how to do, remain stoic, expressionless, cry on the inside, but never let anyone see. At that very moment I was a real thirteen-year-old, missing my Mother, Grandmother and Grandfather back on Homestead Avenue in Alliance Ohio.”
Dan Ivan created many of the karate “masters” who populate today’s martial world. He promoted them in the early days and put them in the forefront. But Dan created his own identity. He owes who he is to no one, no magazine editor nor tournament promoter.
“I was just a two-bit juvenile gangster back in Ohio, now suddenly its like the universe wanted to shape me up, give me a major attitude adjustment.”
But what could that Zen priest possibly offer Dan Ivan? A number? A piece of paper with Japanese writing on it? Stature in the martial arts community? That high-bred Zen priest, contemplating life from a polished hard-wood floor, has nothing to offer the warrior who has contemplated life from the inside out and the bottom up.
Who should present whom the award?
Most karate people I know have never fought a real fight, never faced death. I haven’t. I’m not sure what I would do if faced with someone who actually wanted to end my pointless existence. Dan Ivan knows.
A hundred and fifty years ago, Okinawan Bushi used karate to defend themselves, bring bad guys to justice and fight the good fight. Dan Ivan’s life is one of the closest Western ones I can find that parallels the lives of those early Okinawan Bushi.
“I scrunched up in the corner, gripping my club in my right hand. Tears began to flow uncontrolled, but silent - dry tears. The bums at the other end of the boxcar wanted to see some weakness from me, then they would attack to take any valuables I might have. It was something I learned how to do, remain stoic, expressionless, cry on the inside, but never let anyone see. At that very moment I was a real thirteen-year-old, missing my Mother, Grandmother and Grandfather back on Homestead Avenue in Alliance Ohio.”
Dan Ivan created many of the karate “masters” who populate today’s martial world. He promoted them in the early days and put them in the forefront. But Dan created his own identity. He owes who he is to no one, no magazine editor nor tournament promoter.
“I was just a two-bit juvenile gangster back in Ohio, now suddenly its like the universe wanted to shape me up, give me a major attitude adjustment.”
Now in his seventies, he lives a secluded life in the California desert facing his own very imminent date with eternity. In the quiet desert night, I sit and listen to Sensei Ivan's old stories, knowing that they will not always be there to hear. Coyotes occasionally howl. The night descends further around us. I take a deep breath and contemplate my own eternity.
It’s hard to know someone. People aren’t easy to understand, and Mr. Ivan is more complex than most. He made plenty of mistakes, but I don’t judge. I just listen and try to be the best friend and student I can. That’s pretty much all. When I gave him this manuscript to look over, he told me to change it, that he would be embarrassed by it, ashamed to walk down the street.
But I didn't change it.
“It was a cold dismal night in Tokyo, 1948, during the American Occupation of Japan. I had entered the Ueno, Asakusa district, a ravaged war-torn no-mans-land, off limits to allied personnel. It was off limits for good reason, a breeding ground for criminals, whose primary source of income was the black market, robberies, prostitution and general illegal activities. Of course that described nearly all of Japan during that time, except here it was a little different. It was teeming with residents who had little use for a round-eyed Yankee like me, especially the homeless veterans of the war that still harbored resentment and hatred for Americans. Little did I know, at that time in my life, that destiny might have already charted my course. Despite my hostile surroundings, I was at the right place at the right time and on the precipice of a new life.”
It’s hard to know someone. People aren’t easy to understand, and Mr. Ivan is more complex than most. He made plenty of mistakes, but I don’t judge. I just listen and try to be the best friend and student I can. That’s pretty much all. When I gave him this manuscript to look over, he told me to change it, that he would be embarrassed by it, ashamed to walk down the street.
But I didn't change it.
“It was a cold dismal night in Tokyo, 1948, during the American Occupation of Japan. I had entered the Ueno, Asakusa district, a ravaged war-torn no-mans-land, off limits to allied personnel. It was off limits for good reason, a breeding ground for criminals, whose primary source of income was the black market, robberies, prostitution and general illegal activities. Of course that described nearly all of Japan during that time, except here it was a little different. It was teeming with residents who had little use for a round-eyed Yankee like me, especially the homeless veterans of the war that still harbored resentment and hatred for Americans. Little did I know, at that time in my life, that destiny might have already charted my course. Despite my hostile surroundings, I was at the right place at the right time and on the precipice of a new life.”
