‘Have You Hit Anyone Today?’

One of my newest Taekwondo students is struggling to change a multigenerational approach to conflict resolution: smacking people. A non-martial artist might think that Taekwondo is the worse place for a kid like him, but I believe he’s right where he needs to be.

Tai is a rice-paper-petite yet energetic 8-year-old white belt with an older, calmer, more reasonable and cool-headed sister and an oftentimes tired-looking mom who’s trying to raise them both without their dad. Tai hasn’t seen his father in three years. That’s because his dad is serving time in prison for aggravated assault. One night years ago, Tai’s father lost his temper and beat up another man.

Tai was with his dad that night, and he saw the whole thing. Years later, Tai’s mom is still seething over the fact that Tai’s dad exposed his son to such a traumatizing event. Now she thinks her son has a skewed view of how to resolve conflicts.

It’s not just his dad’s example that he sees. Tai’s mom says that other male family members struggle to maintain emotional control, too.

“All of his cousins, his uncles—they’re all fighters,” Tai’s mom explained one day after class. “My daughter—she’s like me. When she sees trouble, she walks away. But him? He’s like his father more and more every day.”

She’s determined, though, to do everything she can to break the family’s cycle of violence.

And I’m determined to help her.

The day after Tai earned his white belt in my Taekwondo class, his mom asked if I could talk to him.

“He went to school today and popped this kid in the face,” she said in frustration. “Gave him a bloody lip.”

I looked around the indoor basketball court and saw Tai playing on equipment that was set out for a gymnastics class.

“Tai!” I said in a deep tone. His head popped up like a prairie dog coming out of its hole. He immediately turned to me. So did everyone else in the gym. I curled up my left forefinger a few times, motioning him to come over. He walked slowly toward me.

“Come with me, son,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. I led him to an empty spot on the first row of bleacher benches and knelt on one knee on the hardwood basketball floor. “Did something happen at school today?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, barely moving his lips.

“Yes, what?” I asked, cupping my palm to my ear to signify that he had left something out from his response.

He looked confused.

“Remember what you have to say to those you respect? Yes, ma’am; no, ma’am; and thank you, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” I asked, cupping my palm to my ear again.

A mental lightbulb went on.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said proudly, smiling.

“So what happened at school today?”

His face deflated.

“I hit someone,” he mumbled softly.

“Ah,” I said, slowly nodding my head.

“But I didn’t start it!” he blurted. “This boy in my class, he threw a book at me.”

“Oh, my goodness! Did it hit you?”

“No.”

“So you weren’t hurt?”

“No.”

I cupped my palm to my ear.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

I slowly nodded my head again.

“Then, Tai, I have bad news for you,” I said. “You had no right to hit him, especially if the book never hit you.”

He looked down at the floor.

“[Tai], you’re taking Taekwondo now, and I’m teaching you how to kick and punch to defend yourself. But what you’re learning is for self-defense only, not to beat up on your classmates. I can’t teach you anything more if I think you’re going to use it against others like that. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

I cupped my palm to my ear again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Now, did you tell a teacher that your classmate threw a book at you?”

He nodded no.

“You have to tell your teachers. They need to know. So if this ever happens again, don’t hit anyone. Go tell your teachers. Let them handle it. It’s their job to make sure no one throws things at you at school. It’s their job to teach you and to keep you safe when you’re at school. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright, then. Do you have any questions?”

He nodded no.

“Then I’ll see you on Thursday,” I said. We bowed to each other and then he ran off to go play on the gymnastics equipment.

Tai was in class the next day and was excited to get to kick and punch again. But he was absent later in the week.

On a Wednesday, while I taught the advanced-belt youth class, I saw Tai sitting on that same first-row bench in the bleachers where we had our talk. He looked sad. After class ended, I walked over to him.

“Hey, Tai! How’s it going, buddy?”

“My mom says I can’t do Taekwondo no more,” he said, looking down at the floor.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Cuz.”

“Because … why?”

“Cuz I hit a girl in school.”

I looked at him and sighed. I took a deep breath.

God, give me the right words to reach this young man, I prayed.

Then I knelt down beside him again.

“What happened?” I asked, and he began telling me about how he and a girl were playing and they both got a little too rough. An after-school monitor told them to tone it down, but they didn’t. After a few more minutes of talking, I discovered that Tai didn’t just hit his classmate. He kicked her so hard in the stomach that she vomited.

The male monitor separated them, and at first the monitor wasn’t going to tell Tai’s mother about the incident, but then Tai started mouthing off at him.

“(My classmates) always blame me for everything,” Tai complained, “and the teachers believe them.”

“Well, son,” I began, pausing a bit, “when you have a reputation for hitting others, the teachers are going to believe others before they believe you. That’s how it goes. The only way to stop that is if you are the one who goes to the teacher first and asks for help.”

He looked down at the floor again. I took a seat beside him.

“[Tai], you need to learn how to control your body or you’re going to end up where your father is today. And that would be a waste of a bright future. Do you know you can be anything you want to be?” I asked.

Tai’s lifted his head. I paused, then looked him in the eye, saying, “Do you know that if you wanted to, you could be the finest black belt I’ve ever had?”

His face softened.

“You can,” I continued. “But you have to use your Taekwondo for good, to protect your classmates instead of harming them.”

Tai nodded his head up and down.

“Here,” I said, pulling out a sheet of paper. I began writing a list of things to remember every day that would help him establish and maintain self-control.

“When you get upset, when a classmate hits you, breathe. Then go tell a teacher. Say something like, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, he’s hitting me. I can’t hit back because I want to keep taking Taekwondo. Can you help me, please?’

“I guarantee you they’re going to take notice and they’re going to help.”

“You think so?” he asked.

“I know so!” I replied.

“Now, the other thing I want you to do is start saying a mantra. Do you know what a mantra is?”

“Uh-uh,” Tai said.

“What’s that?” I asked, bringing a cupped palm up to my ear.

“No, ma’am,” Tai said.

“A mantra is something you say often—so often that it becomes a part of how you live your life. Every day, I want you to make a choice: Do you want to study Taekwondo or do you want to hit people? If you want to take Taekwondo, then I want you to say this: ‘I will not hit anyone today.’

“Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Tai said. “Ma’am!” he quickly added.

“O.K., now remember that this mantra is just for today. You’re deciding that you’re not going to hit anyone today.”

“Do you understand?”

He smiled, nodding yes.

“Pound it,” I said, offering my left fist. We bumped fists and he turned to go.

Every day after that, every time I saw Tai, I asked the same thing:

“Hey, buddy! Have you hit anyone today?”

“No, ma’am,” he’d say.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” I’d say, and we’d bump fists. He’d smile proudly.

Tai learned very quickly that every time he saw me I was going to ask him the same question. I could tell he always felt proud when he answered, “No, ma’am.”

Did I find the so-called magic bullet to help steer this young man from a life of violence? Time will tell. In Taekwondo as in life, there really are no magic bullets, and there certainly aren’t quick fixes. Everything we accomplish comes only after years of practice, and I suspect the same will be true with Tai.

True: Tai’s now off to a positive, wonderful start, but it’s going to take much more than a daily check-in question and a fist bump to calm his mustang-like spirit and a generation-upon-generation cellular structure that’s prone to violence. He’ll have good days. He’ll have trying days. He’ll slip up, and he’ll succeed.

Just for today, though, I’ll take it. And so will Tai’s mom, who is now able to sigh just a little bit of relief and have hope that her son will learn a gentler, more powerful method toward conflict resolution.