2011 Taekwondo Essay Contest, Sponsored by the Embassy of the Republic of KOREA
REPOSTED BY REQUEST
With blond, stringy locks and deep blue eyes, 7-year-old Stephen ricocheted into my martial arts school one spring day almost two years ago, excited that he was going to learn how to kick and punch.
He had no clue that learning Taekwondo would have such a lifesaving impact.
Neither did I.
When I met his mom, Sandra, I noticed how remarkably fatigued she seemed. Deflated in a way. With two younger daughters in tow, she leaned against the doorway to my office as if needing rest, then told me her son had recently been diagnosed with ADHD. Doctors recommended he study martial arts. After Stephen left the office to join other students in before-class games, Sandra told me his story:
• He struggles to stay on task
• He gets easily agitated
• His younger sisters are usually the target of his outbursts
“He has trouble getting along with his sisters,” she said. “We’re not sure if he has Asperger’s syndrome. He still needs to undergo additional tests.”
I nodded gently. She wasn’t the first parent I’d met whose child struggled with ADD/ADHD and emotional control. But she didn’t know that. I could tell she felt very alone.
“I’ve worked with a lot of students with ADHD and even Asperger’s,” I said, trying to reassure her.
“Does this (martial arts) work for everyone?” she asked in a pleading way.
“Yes, if I have the parents’ backing,” I replied reassuringly, “I’ve had very positive results.”
She nodded, sighed, and seemed to relax a bit. At the same time, though, I could tell she was trying not to get her hopes up.
In his trial class, Stephen did what every ADHD kid does: ask a million questions.
• How long did it take you to get your black belt?
• Are those weapons? Can I touch them?
• When can I get a cool uniform like yours?
• Hey, what do the stripes on everyone’s belts mean?
Of course, he never took a breath between questions, and he never really gave me a chance to answer him before his mind hop-scotched to the next thought. But that’s the ADHD way: ask, ask, ask.
Stephen was thin and looked a bit frail until he got out on the dojang floor. Once on the mat, the kid had unending energy. Right away, though, I noticed that he resisted saying “yes, ma’am,” “no ma’am,” or “thank you, ma’am.” I insist that students show respect in the dojang, though. Stephen would be no exception. I thought we would have a war of wills, but Stephen surprised me. He caught on by watching his classmates (hip, hip, hurrah for peer pressure) and, although a bit begrudgingly, soon began responding with “yes, ma’ams.” He did it because he was enjoying the heck out of kicking paddles and punching targets. He was having a blast, so showing respect wasn’t such a hard sell. But showing respect at home didn’t come so natural to Stephen.
And of course, that’s where he needed to show respect the most.
After Stephen’s trial lesson, his blond bangs were clumped and heavy with sweat. He smiled wide, and as I invited him and his mother into my office, his questions ranged from the Asian artwork on the wall to my collection of martial arts books.
“Did you like the class?” I asked him. Sandra stood again by the doorway, watching.
“Yeah, Taekwondo is fun!”
“Yes, ma’am?” I said.
He looked confused.
“Yes, ma’am. Taekwondo is fun!” I repeated.
He caught on quickly. “Oh, yes, ma’am!”
“Wonderful!” I said. “You looked really great out there, and I’d love to have you as a student. But all my students have to say ‘yes, ma’am,’ ‘no, ma’am,’ and ‘thank you, ma’am’ to me. Can you do that?”
“Yyyyes, ma’am,” he said, with only a little hesitation.
“Great! Now, the other thing is that you must show your family – your parents and your sisters – the same respect at home. Can you say ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘yes, sir’ to your mom and dad?”
He paused. “Weeeeell, that depends. Do I have to?” His face squinted as if just the thought of respecting his parents caused excruciating pain.
“If you want to learn Taekwondo from me, yes, you do.”
He paused again. “Weeeell," he said, about to launch into a debate about why he shouldn't have to follow our rules. I interrupted.
"Yes, ma'am or no, ma'am?" I asked.
"No, ma'am. I’m not interested in Taekwondo anymore,” he said, and then promptly turned and walked out of the office.
I was quite stunned, but at the same time oddly impressed by his honesty. It wasn’t something he wanted to do, or had any intention of doing – and he knew it.
Sandra’s spirit appeared crushed. Tears began forming in the corners of her brown eyes.
“Thanks, anyway,” she said, trying to smile.
“Let me know if he changes his mind,” I said.
She nodded and then led her daughters out to the family’s maroon minivan, where Stephen was already buckled in and ready to leave.
That would have been the end of the story, except that Stephen remained in the back of my mind for at least two more weeks. There was something about this little boy that made me – an admittedly stubborn, old-style instructor – ease my standards. So while shopping in an Office Depot one day, I called Sandra to see how the family was doing – and to offer a compromise.
“If you’re willing to deal with a little disrespect at home for a while, then I’m willing to take him on as a student. I have a feeling that what he starts practicing in the dojang he will begin applying at home. He won’t know it’s happening, so he won’t be so resistant. What do you say?”
“Let me talk to him,” she said.
Once dressed, Stephen looked simply adorable. Proud. He stood a little taller, and kept feeling his chest, brushing his palms over the light cotton material. You could tell that he felt special. Somebody. And he was ready for anything. Superman, move over.
Stephen’s first official class went just a hare better than his trial lesson. He asked only 999,999 questions this time. (Alas, progress!) And he was quicker to notice the times he needed to say “yes, ma’am” and “no, ma’am.” He learned about perseverance, about not quitting just because things in life get hard, and he learned that if you try your best at something, you’re always a winner.
His sisters were a lively, supportive bunch, excitedly watching their big brother from the wooden spectator benches by the open-air garage door. Five-year-old Kate and 2-year-old Maddie sported long blond locks, too. Maddie liked to wear a pretty pink ballerina tutu, although she wasn’t yet in dance class, and she and her older sister would occasionally wave at Stephen. He, of course, ignored them.
They loved their big brother. He just didn’t know yet how much he loved them.
Day by day, year by year, Stephen grew mentally and physically stronger. He still struggled with interrupting me while I gave instructions to the class, but his questions grew fewer and father in between. And when his mouth did blurt out a question at the wrong time, I’d hold my open palm up as a signal for him to stop talking, and continue giving instructions to the class. I always turned to him before the class began our drill, though. I wanted him to know that if he practiced patience, I’d always acknowledge him.
“Question, quickly,” I’d say, and oftentimes he’d fire off not a question but an observation that had nothing to do with Taekwondo. But at least he held his question.
Progress, not perfection.
Home life was improving as well. Stephen was getting along better with his parents and sisters, and one by one, his dad, Edward, and both sisters joined the school.
Before my eyes, an easily distracted little boy became someone I called on to show new students the ropes. Stephen had even put in enough assistant teaching hours on the mat to qualify as a Junior Leader, a position marked by more responsibility – and a special uniform. Stephen was all about wearing neat, cool, and different uniforms, but when I presented him with the Junior Leader patch and new duds one day in front of a large crowd, his eyes filled with tears.
“Ms. Chapaty,” he whispered, leaning in a bit, “what if I have to quit?”
Edward was about to graduate from The University of Texas at Austin with a Ph.D. and it looked as if the family might have to move so that he could begin his career as a university professor.
“That’s O.K., Stephen,” I said gently. “You can pick Taekwondo up again wherever you move. The important thing is that you earned this. I HAVE to give it to you. Will you accept it?”
The tears began to dry up and that lovely wide smile he’s famous for reappeared. “Yes, ma’am,” he said confidently.
As it turned out, Edward got a temporary teaching position with a local college, and Stephen, now 9 years old, continued studying and growing with me. Edward’s teaching kept him from training on a regular basis, but he’d show up on his bike every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon to take Stephen home. When Sandra dropped Stephen off for class, she left a bike attachment that Edward later hooked onto his bike, and after class, he and Stephen would ride off into the sunset.
One day they needed to leave early to help Sandra prepare for a church potluck.
“Stephen, hurry up. We gotta go, buddy,” Edward told his son, who was still on the mat.
“Yes, sir,” Stephen said, uneventfully. He bowed off the mat and went straight to the men’s dressing room without bargaining or complaining.
I looked at Edward. Our eyes met, and we both smiled. Stephen had indeed come a long way.
And that would have been the end of the story, except for a bright summer day in Austin about a month ago when Edward, the kids, and some family friends were having a great time at a pool. The summers in Texas can be brutally hot, and everyone was trying to stay cool. Stephen was doing his best swimming that day, diving in and out of the cool, chlorinated water. Everyone was having a great time. But as Stephen pulled himself out of the water for the last time, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Maddie was at the bottom of the pool.
At first, he thought she was playing the “hold your breath” game, but his intuition told him something didn’t seem right. So he dove straight down to the bottom. Realizing that Maddie was drowning, he grabbed her bear-hug style, kicked hard and fast to pull her up to the surface and yelled for his dad to help.
Maddie wasn’t breathing when they laid her body across the poolside. Someone called 911 while Edward and one of the family’s friends, an off-duty lifeguard, began administering CPR. When the ambulance arrived, Maddie was breathing – but just barely. Her eyes rolled back; she was barely conscious. And for the next 24 hours, the family didn’t know whether she’d survive.
Lots of prayers were said. Loads of good chi were sent Maddie’s way. Within 48 hours, that little girl I first met in a pink tutu was talking and laughing again with her brother and sister.
Everyone in our community let go a huge sigh of relief.
Then everyone became awed by the presence of mind of a humble little boy. Nine-year-old Stephen, who two years earlier had the focus of a hummingbird and who flat-out refused to respect anyone in his family, saved his little sister’s life without hesitation.
Ask Stephen’s grandmother about the event, and she’ll insist it was his Taekwondo training that made him attentive and intuitive enough to know when something was wrong, and then courageous and physically strong enough to take immediate action.
Ask Stephen, and he’ll shrug. Maybe crack a smile. It was traumatic for him to see his little sister float helplessly at the bottom of the pool, and then later struggle to breathe in the hospital. He doesn’t like to talk about that day. And he certainly doesn’t want any fanfare over his role as a lifesaver.
I’m not sure he’ll truly understand how great his actions were until he’s much older. But this I understand:
Stephen is more than an ADHD label. He and Maddie are living proof that kids with attention and hyperactivity disorders do not have to be branded and written off as high-maintenance individuals or considered defective or abnormal. In fact, he’s a shining beacon – an inspiration to those young and old who struggle with attention challenges.
Stephen’s still an imperfect 9-year-old. Now, though, he has a fan base that extends beyond his family. He’s inspired a whole martial arts school – challenged a whole city – to step beyond labels and comfort zones and make the world a better place.
“A black belt in spirit, already he is,” Yoda would say.
“Agree, I must,” I say.
As for Stephen, this would have been the end of the story, except....
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