In 2023, I was in conversations with an intermediary to scheduling an interview with John Eley, one of the longest American students of Koichi Tohei and active member within the Ki Society. Unfortunately, the interview never materialized, however I was offered a previous interview Eley did in 2008. The quality is not the greatest, however, such aikido history must be retained for future generations. As an ongoing project, I have transcribed the first interview and edited Eley’s responses into one continuous narrative. Any mistakes are my own. Read the first part here.
The split between Fumio Toyoda and Koichi Tohei really developed after Tohei Sensei backed Toyoda’s independence from the original Illinois Aikido Club. Toyoda changed over time. This didn’t happen all at once; it built slowly. When he first came to Chicago, he was incredibly enthusiastic. He was in his twenties, about my age – I was in my late twenties then – and he was very dynamic. But once he gained control of the club, things shifted. I think he had always been interested in the idea of running things like a business, so he became more and more focused on running the organization.
Over time, I think he also began to resent Japan for demanding certain things that interfered with his operations. I remember the second time Tohei Sensei came to Chicago, around 1976. Almost everyone from the East Side showed up, and even people from farther away, from places like South Carolina. Essentially, what they [Tohei, Toyoda, and other instructors] were doing at that time was trying to divide up the country. This was just before Toyoda went independent. They were attempting to assign chief instructors to various territories. It struck me as a bit silly because these were still relatively small clubs. Still, they broadly divided the country and placed different instructors in charge of different regions. That arrangement eventually created a lot of conflicts. For example, sometimes students would move to another area but still want to remain under their original instructor.
At the same time, I think Toyoda felt the territorial system limited his freedom of movement and influence. Around 1978 or so, Toyoda decided to form a federation called the Midwest Ki-Aikido Federation. We had a big dispute with Japan about the name. They argued that the term “Midwest” was too broad. For example, people like Koichi Kashiwaya would consider places like St. Louis or Kansas City, Missouri to be part of the Midwest. Technically that’s true. Illinois is actually closer to the East Coast geographically, even though we call ourselves the Midwest. There was a long argument about the name, but Toyoda refused to change it. That was one of the battles we had with Japan, partly because the name gave him more freedom to expand where he wanted.
Throughout all of this, I was somewhat on the sidelines. I wasn’t a chief instructor, but Tohei Sensei trusted me, so he asked me to keep him informed about what was happening with Toyoda. I would never write to Tohei and say something like, “Toyoda is doing this or that.” But when Tohei asked questions, I would answer them.
Over time, Toyoda’s attitude toward Japan became more dismissive. I remember once he was planning to do something, and I told him, “Sensei, if you do this, Japan is going to be very upset.” He just waved it off and said, “No, no. You just pay them a few extra bucks. They won’t mind.” That was his attitude: just pay them a little more money and it would be fine.
Toward the end of that period, he even began speaking critically about Tohei Sensei in front of students. We’re all human and everyone has frustrations, but you don’t speak that way in front of Tohei’s students. In fact, 1976 was the last time Tohei Sensei came to Chicago. He had originally been scheduled to visit every two years, but because of the growing conflict between him and Toyoda, he stopped coming. That bothered me a lot, because it meant the students were being punished for the conflict between the instructors.
Around that time [between 1976 and 1978], Toyoda also formed relationships with Shuji Maruyama – who is not related to Koretoshi Maruyama, who was next in line in the Ki Society – and with Hideki Shiohira in San Francisco. Shuji was operating in a kind of semi-independent position. The three of them began discussing the idea of forming some kind of national organization. They were all members of the Ki Society, and from what I could see, the real issue was control. No one said it outright, but that seemed to be the underlying problem. This was their business and their livelihood, and they resented the control that Japan tried to maintain over it. At the same time, they couldn’t, or didn’t want to, completely break away. They liked the prestige of having Japan connected to the organization. So, they were trying to find a way to keep the connection without accepting the full authority that came with it.
This created a lot of problems. For example, Toyoda would go wherever he wanted and was welcomed, regardless of territorial boundaries. But under the system, if you went into another instructor’s territory, you were supposed to notify them and arrange things properly, sometimes even sharing a commission. I actually got reprimanded once, years earlier because I didn’t know the procedure. I had a student in Denver who wanted me to come out and help him, so I went. Afterward, I got slapped on the wrist for not notifying the appropriate people. Toyoda, however, would repeatedly go into other territories without doing that.
There were a couple of incidents that stood out to me. One was a seminar he held with Roy Suenaka, who was from Hawaii and had a [physical] build somewhat similar to Tohei Sensei. Roy had his own organization, but they held an open seminar together. At the end of the seminar, there was also a ki session. Afterward, certificates were issued. That caused a big argument, because in the Ki Society, only the central organization was supposed to issue certificates, not individual chief instructors. Toyoda said they weren’t really certificates, just documents stating that people had completed the course, but Japan believed there was more to it than that.
Another incident happened on the East Coast. Toyoda visited a dojo there and gave a test. The dojo was under Shizuo Imaizumi, who was the chief instructor for that area. Imaizumi had refused to give one of his students a nidan test, but Toyoda administered the test anyway. That caused a major problem. I later received a letter from Tohei Sensei asking what was going on. When I asked Toyoda about it, he said it had only been a “practice test.” I’m not sure how much of a practice test it really was.
Situations like this kept happening. There were several points when Tohei Sensei nearly expelled Toyoda from the Ki Society, but the Board of Directors of Ki Society International smoothed things over. At one point, Toyoda even had to travel to Japan to apologize and ask for forgiveness.
I ended up somewhat in the middle of things because I kept trying to answer the questions that Tohei Sensei would send me. Some of them were rather unusual. There was a man named John Clodius involved, who was a Tai Chi instructor. I knew him personally. He was interested in ki training and wanted to incorporate some of those ideas into his Tai Chi practice. Clodius also had a sister named Mary. When Tohei Sensei came to Chicago for the last time, Clodius attended the seminar and asked Tohei if he could teach a ki class within his Tai Chi program. Tohei Sensei told him that if the chief instructor approved, he could teach a ki class, but it had to be a separate ki class. It couldn’t simply be part of Tai Chi. Because of that, there was a somewhat loose relationship between Clodius and Toyoda and the Chicago Ki Society. I was aware of it because I knew both of them. At the same time, I was running my own clubs full-time, so I wasn’t always present.
One day I went to Toyoda’s dojo, and he called me into his office and handed me a letter from Japan. He said he had opened it accidentally, even though it was addressed to me. The letter was from Tohei Sensei, who had received a complaint from Clodius claiming that Toyoda had assaulted his sister. Naturally, Tohei wanted to know what was going on. Toyoda was standing right there and explained that he and Clodius’s sister had been romantically involved and that they had already reconciled. So, I wrote back to Tohei Sensei and explained the situation as it had been described to me. Tohei later replied, saying that he understood and that he would disregard Clodius’s letter. However, somehow the letter I had written ended up reaching Clodius, along with the reply he had sent. After that, I wrote to Tohei Sensei and asked that if he needed to contact me, he should send letters directly to my home address.
Clodius became furious about the situation. He wrote a letter to Tohei Sensei that was extremely abusive, calling him all sorts of names. I know this because Tohei later sent me a large envelope containing copies of all the correspondence, including that letter. It was shocking to read. Years later, Tohei Sensei even called me about it and said it was the worst letter he had ever received in his life. The incident really had nothing to do with Toyoda, but I always remember it as one of those strange episodes from that period.
At some point, Tohei Sensei decided to remove both Toyoda and Clodius from the Ki Society. I don’t remember any single incident that triggered it. It seemed more like the accumulation of many issues and letters over time. He may also have learned more about the small organization that Toyoda, Shiohira, and Maruyama were forming together. In any case, Tohei expelled Toyoda from the Ki Society. Maruyama and Shiohira went back to Japan and apologized. Maruyama ended up spending about six months in Japan and six months in the United States for a while. For years afterward, it wasn’t entirely clear whether he was still part of the Ki Society or not. That uncertainty caused a lot of frustration for people like Shizuo Imaizumi. Japan never gave a clear answer about Maruyama’s status, and I think that confusion eventually contributed to Imaizumi leaving as well.
Shiohira, who had reconciled with the organization, remained involved longer. In 1981 or so, when Toyoda had been expelled and I became a chief instructor, I attended a seminar in Los Angeles. I was the first non-Japanese chief instructor to attend one of those seminars. Shiohira was there, and he seemed to suspect that I had somehow manipulated events to my advantage. I told him he was crazy – I wasn’t that clever. All it really left me with was an empty bag, because Toyoda had taken the club with him.
While I was in Los Angeles, I asked Tohei Sensei whether I should notify Toyoda’s students about what had happened. Tohei told me not to do anything. The only thing he asked me to do was to go and apologize to people like John Omori and Nakamoto, because they had previously supported Toyoda. At one point, Tohei also said he would not send any more “country boys” to the United States, which I assumed was a jab at Toyoda.
Toyoda himself did not tell his own students that he had been expelled from the Ki Society for about a month. During that time, I received calls from people who were completely unaware of what had happened. They were surprised to learn that Toyoda was no longer part of the Ki Society. After that, Toyoda formed his own organization. He had tremendous energy and, unlike me, he was a very good businessman. He built the organization up quickly, expanding not only his own dojo but also creating an international network.
Toyoda could be very self-centered, though. If an opportunity appeared that might benefit him – even if it hurt someone else – he would take it. Still, I never really disliked him. In fact, it was hard to dislike him. We always welcomed him when he came around.
Later on, he sometimes tried to pull me into his plans. I would tell him that I couldn’t get involved because I was part of the Ki Society. He would still try to persuade me, saying it was a good opportunity. When Tohei Sensei reprimanded Toyoda about certain things, I was sometimes asked to deliver the message. I think Tohei felt that was a kind of retribution for Toyoda’s actions, though I’m not sure that was really the case. More than most of the other departures from the Ki Society, Toyoda’s split left deeper scars. Many others left on relatively good terms and simply went their own way. Imaizumi, for example, eventually left without a lot of hostility. But Toyoda’s break was more contentious.
After that period, very few instructors from Japan came to Chicago. Koichi Kashiwaya came once, but that was about it. Part of the reason was that I simply couldn’t afford to bring instructors over. Another part of it, I suspect, had to do with the lingering tensions surrounding Toyoda.
After Toyoda, I decided to start a club of my own. The Belmont–Cragin location came after the previous club. In hindsight, it was a big mistake because it was too far west, outside the main “yuppie zone.” There’s a reason why most of the larger clubs on the North Side are relatively close together, usually within a mile or two. That’s where you find younger adults – the people most likely to be interested in training. Once you move outside that area, the demographics change. You find more established families and more ethnic neighborhoods. Unless you run children’s classes, which we never did, it’s very difficult to make a dojo successful there. The place had good drive-by traffic, but nobody ever stopped. We stayed there for maybe two or three years.
From there, we moved to Rogers Park, near the intersection of Morse and Glenwood Avenues. That was a nice location, partly because the No Exit Café was nearby. The dojo was in a large brick building. We operated there for a while, and the club continued, though the membership size varied. It was never as large again as in earlier years. In many ways, the dojo survived simply because the students wanted it to exist. I couldn’t put much money into it, so it depended largely on their dedication. Eventually we moved to Loyola University. That location worked fairly well, although we constantly had to move the mats and we couldn’t train every day. Still, it carried us through much of the 1990s.
After my mother passed away, I inherited some money and decided to take another risk. I invested nearly $50,000 into starting a new dojo. This time, I made the mistake of moving out into the suburbs. I thought I understood Chicago well enough, but suburban locations come with many complications: building codes, inspections, and various regulations. I found a place in Prospect Heights, not far from where my wife had moved to take care of her ninety-year-old mother. We moved in around May, but because of inspections and permits we couldn’t officially open until September. We were able to hold classes, but we couldn’t run the business until the city approved everything. The rent was about $1,000 to $1,200 a month. This was around 1999, and we stayed there for about four or five years.
Eventually, I moved the club into a community center in an effort to keep things going. Looking back, I sometimes feel a little bitter about that period. I probably should have closed the dojo a year or two earlier. The club wasn’t growing despite advertising, and eventually I ran out of money. At its best, the dojo only broke even. If I had been able to open earlier and advertise sooner, things might have turned out differently, but that’s hindsight. As the finances worsened, the student body slowly shrank. I became discouraged and depressed, and I have to admit that some of that was my fault. Losing a dojo is a painful experience. It’s almost like losing a child.
The move to the Park District was an attempt to keep something alive, but the same problem remained. You need enough students to cover costs, and you need advertising, so people know you exist. We never quite reached that critical number. In the end, I was paying out of pocket while already struggling financially. At the time, I was working as a substitute teacher, and later at Kinko’s, which at least put food on the table. Still, there were times when I could barely pay the electric bills in my house in South Shore. Eventually, I had to close the dojo. Most of the students drifted away. I was grateful when Ted Ehara began helping me, but by then the momentum was gone. I never fully understood why so many people disappeared. Perhaps they were worried about liability or other responsibilities, even though the organization was incorporated and everything was legally under my name.
For a brief time, we had a very nice training space in a church facility, and if people had stayed involved, it might have continued, but the situation never really came together. By that point, David had stepped away, and without a strong figure to bring people together, it became harder to keep things going. In earlier years Dave had been very good at attracting and organizing people, but after so many years he was tired. In truth, I was tired too. Running a dojo requires an enormous amount of energy. By then, I was worn out and discouraged. Losing the club was very painful. While I understood why people moved on, it still hurt. That experience is part of why I don’t feel particularly strongly about many of the conflicts involving Japan and the organizations anymore.
Speaking of which, I used to spend a lot of time around karate practitioners in the 1960s. During that period I met Mike Selfoff [unsure of last name]. He came by to say hello one day. He had just come out of the Army and had studied Shotokan Karate through the Japan Karate Association. Before that he had also trained in Okinawa and Hawaii. He sort of latched onto me, and through him I ended up meeting a lot of different martial artists.
At that time, martial arts in Chicago were still quite small. When aikido first started there, most of what existed were judo clubs. There were very few karate schools, and almost nobody had heard of aikido. People constantly asked what it was. Then, during the late 1960s, there was an explosion of interest in karate. Suddenly instructors seemed to appear everywhere. Some were legitimate teachers, but many people opened schools after learning just a few techniques, sometimes staying only a few pages ahead of their students in a book. Others were good street fighters or had learned a little karate while stationed overseas in the army.
The Japan Karate Association (JKA) was one of the few organizations that had a strong reputation for legitimacy. There was another karate instructor in the area – his name escapes me now, a Polish fellow – who was very skilled but also extremely racist. I don’t even know whether he particularly liked Japanese people, but he was technically very good. Around that time, you also began seeing Korean instructors arriving. At the same time, however, there was a whole second tier of people taking advantage of the karate craze. One of the most colorful figures to emerge from that environment was John Keehan, better known as Count Dante. Originally, he had been connected to the Trias Karate Association under Robert Trias.
Count Dante himself was not particularly known as a street fighter, and he was probably only a shodan or nidan. But he was a brilliant promoter. He organized a strong following on Chicago’s South Side and began teaching many Black students, which eventually caused friction with Robert Trias. I remember attending one of the big tournaments they organized. Trias himself was there. By that time, he was already in his late sixties and not in very good physical condition. He gave a demonstration, and honestly, I was worried he might fall over. Still, he had an enormous organization behind him.
Keehan’s top student at the time was a man named Raymond Cooper, who later changed his name to an African name that I never quite remembered. Raymond was a natural talent. He studied the JKA karate books carefully and essentially used Keehan as a vehicle to develop his own training. At that tournament, he clearly won. In fact, he was so dominant that the judges seemed to ignore his points unless he knocked his opponents out completely. Despite that, Trias refused to acknowledge the victory and awarded the title to someone else. It was widely understood that he did not want a Black competitor winning the tournament. This must have been around 1967 or so, though the timeline is a little fuzzy. Trias was still independent during his first big tournament. It was during the period when Isao Takahashi was still in Chicago, so it might even have been closer to 1965. Selfoff had come around 1962, and he was present when Koichi Tohei visited Chicago for the first time in 1964, so all of this was happening in the early to mid-1960s.
Eventually, Count Dante either left or was thrown out – depending on whose story you believe – and he formed his own organization. He promoted himself to seventh dan, and from there, his reputation as a flamboyant martial arts promoter only grew.
What developed in Chicago at that time was almost a two-tier structure. On the North Side, you had the JKA and the Illinois Park District programs. Those were mostly white practitioners, along with Japanese American instructors. On the South Side, you had the second-tier karate organizations, particularly the groups run by Keehan. Those schools were extremely popular and played a major role in developing martial artists in the Black community. To this day, martial arts on the South Side remain relatively limited. Aside from some karate groups and the Yoshinkan Aikido program that came through my old friend Commander Robert Cramer, there were not many other systems established there.
Race was definitely an issue in those days. I remember the first time a Black couple – two women – came into the Illinois Aikido class. Some people began whispering about whether they should be allowed to join. Takahashi Sensei simply said, “Let everyone train. What are you talking about?” His attitude was that if someone had bad intentions, they would soon realize aikido was not what they wanted and would leave. If they truly wanted to learn, then they would stay and train. Because of that approach, there were a few Black students in the Illinois Aikido classes. There were also a few in the JKA schools, though not many. Still, the racial tension in the broader martial arts community was obvious.
I once attended another large tournament at the old Chicago Coliseum on the South Side in the 1960s. A Black instructor from New York named Chatham had brought his students. The same thing happened again: his students were clearly winning, but the judges refused to recognize the points. The difference was that this event was being held on the South Side, and about ninety percent of the audience was Black. Watching a group of white judges ignore obvious points in that setting was a terrible idea. A riot nearly broke out. I was there with Mike Selfoff. Many of the karate practitioners began quietly packing up and sneaking out. I told them I was staying put. In the end, everything cooled down, but it showed how tense the situation had become.
Around that time, we also had a young aikido instructor pass through Chicago named Karo Kambukai [unsure of name]. He was only a nidan then and was on his way to New York before Yoshimitsu Yamada arrived. Later he settled in Italy and eventually became a sixth dan. I even have film of one of his early demonstrations. Years later, he returned to Chicago and attended one of these karate demonstrations with us. While watching, he leaned over and asked, “What are they doing?” He genuinely didn’t recognize what he was seeing as karate. It had evolved into a very Americanized version of the art. When he gave his own demonstration afterward, everyone was amazed because they weren’t used to seeing that level of skill. That was one of the problems in the early days of martial arts in the United States. Because I had connections with Selfoff and the JKA group, I had seen some very high-level practitioners. But many people had no real reference point for judging skill. If someone was better than a beginner, or simply better than you were, it was difficult to know how good they actually were. Establishing that kind of standard was a real challenge in those early years.
To learn more about aikido and its history in America, click here.
