A Shift of Kindergarten Proportions

It was hard to leave the house to teach Taekwondo on Thursday. Momo, my 13-year-old dachshund terrier mix, has “doggie Alzheimer’s” and was having a bad day. Incontinent. Roaming incessantly. Getting stuck in corners and not knowing how to get out.

I hated to leave her, but there were kids to inspire and empower, so I kissed Momo on the forehead, walked out the door, and then climbed into my yellow Mazda Protégé 5 (what my students call the Taekwondo Taxi) to head to school.

It was during the youth class that things turned around. And I have a 5-year-old to thank for this shift in my mood.

Lydia – a bright, positively bouncy tyke with cornrows and a firey fighting spirit – was running laps with her classmates as part of our warm-up when she abruptly stopped and stooped over, hands on knees. I thought she was about to throw up.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Do you feel sick?”

She lifted her head and started bawling: “I’m still thinking about school today!”

Thick waves of tears rolled down her cheeks as her classmates ran past her. Bless her heart: She was still in her own little Kindergarten World. I’ve seen this many times before: children coming to class worried about a bully, afraid about the grade they’ll get on a test they took (or will take), or upset over a rule their parents’ just re-enforced.

I mentally rubbed my palms together, and then gently tried to refocus her attention.

“Well it’s a good thing you came to Taekwondo class today, Lydia. For the next hour, you can forget about school and have fun. Come on! Wanna run with me? Let’s forget about school for the next hour and just practice Taekwondo.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lydia nodded acceptingly and then followed me as we blended into the running circle.

Our run finally over, we all took a water break, and I asked Lydia if she was feeling a little better. She nodded yes. It was only the second week of kindergarten – a brand new world to her – and she was having adjustment issues.

“You hang in there, O.K.?” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said.

Next the class practiced “Run, Skip, and Drop” drills. Students form three lines about four classmates deep and keep their eyes on me. They have to watch my hands and listen to my commands so that they’ll know when to run forward, run backward, skip to the left, skip to the right, or drop to the ground. Everyone LOVES this fast-paced drill, and even the most severe ADHD students thrive because they get all that pent up energy out and they don’t have time to get distracted.

I noticed during Run, Skip, and Drop that Lydia was fiercely focused. She obviously had forgotten all about the bad day at school and was concentrating on the Taekwondo drill at hand.

Lydia and her classmates were having a blast, and the rest of the class was just as much fun. Next we practiced knee kicks for self-defense, and each student got a turn at “15-Second Knees,” a drill we do that emphasizes multiple, powerful knee kicks. I held a black, four-inch-thick rectangular power kicking bag while students kneed the bag and kihapped loud. The real challenge during this drill, though, is to stay with the attacker (me). I'd dart, dodge, lunge, and retreat. They had to grip the bag, hang on, AND continue kicking.

Lydia was on fire. That little girl (whom my adult students have nicknamed Lil’ Ninja) kicked hard and hung on to that bag like a rodeo cowboy on a bucking bronco.

The crowd whooped and hollered after she finished, clapping loudly. They enjoyed seeing the smallest person in the class have the biggest round.

Class ended too soon, and after we bowed out, I asked Lydia and her mom to follow me into my office to discuss her next promotion. Lydia was an orange-stripe white belt and was due any day to take her test for her green stripe.

I sat in my chair in the office. Lydia stood before me.

“So are you glad you came to Taekwondo today? Did you have fun?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“Did Taekwondo give you a chance to forget about school for a while?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, smiling.

“Well, that’s all I need to hear then,” I said as I rose and reached into the bookshelf that housed all the belts.

“Lydia, Taekwondo training can help take your mind off of a lot of problems. And while I could give you a test next week to see how your kicks, punches, and forms are looking, you can’t kick and punch your way through kindergarten. But you can do what you did today. When you’re having a bad day, you can let it go and focus on something else – something positive.”

I untied her old belt – completely filled on both tails with multiple-colored stripes – and wrapped a stiff new green-stripe white belt around her waist.

“Today was your test,” I said, “and I’m happy to say that you passed.”

She grinned widely and then looked at her mom, who was videotaping the impromptu promotion.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she said, hugging me.

“You’re welcome. I’m so proud of you.”

As Lydia left my office, I thought about Momo. For a good two hours, I hadn’t thought about her ailments and the fact that we might soon lose her. I still felt sad, but the worry I came in with was gone.

And I had a Lil’ Ninja to thank for that.