No Pouting in the Dojang

The Pleasure and Pain of Self-Defense Instruction

2012-01-11T06:56:00.000-08:00

Today I understand a little more about the meaning of the word bittersweet.

I’m mainly a youth Taekwondo instructor, but I also teach simple yet effective women’s self-defense strategies and techniques. And times as these make me feel both proud and sad about passing on this important knowledge to others. I’m honored to teach women to use their five weapons (two hands, two feet, and their voice) to protect themselves. But I shouldn’t have to teach women to enforce boundaries or to fight back when accosted. Their boundaries should never be invaded and they never should be touched unless invited.

On New Year’s Eve in Austin, three women were attacked—one of them murdered. Police officials believe one man is responsible for all the assaults.

Our community has been shaken, and as a result, Moy Yat Ving Tsun Kung Fu Academy decided to offer two months of free self-defense classes to any woman who wants to learn to protect herself. I’ve been hanging out at the school on Tuesday nights, so I decided to help. All of a sudden, a whirlwind ensued:

• A FOX News reporter and cameraman came by the school on Monday to film a piece on our free classes offer. (www.myfoxaustin.com/dpp/video/Free-Self-Defense-Class-Offered-In-Wake-Of-Attacks20120109-ktbcw-#axzz1j4i7dDEH)
• The next day, Sifu Aaron Vyvial and I were invited to do a live demonstration during the news station’s morning show.
• And last night, we had a full house—women from all ages, sizes, races, and financial statuses eager to feel safe and strong again.

These are all wonderful things—except that a woman’s dead. Her friends and family are grieving. It will take a lot of time for the two women who survived the New Year’s Eve attacks to heal from the trauma. And the perpetrator is still out there.

Tragic events like this boost enrollment in self-defense classes (and the sale of mace and guns). But it never feels good. I can’t speak for other instructors, but I can’t enjoy the moments in the spotlight. Yes, I guess it’s nice to be on television (my mom and dad were proud), but I’m not happy about it. The reason I did it was to reach the women who won’t come into our school. If they saw the TV spot, the morning show, or the uncut YouTube video of my time with the reporter, they may remember some things that may just save their life.

I’m in a serious business. My job is to try to help build confidence, strength, and an explosive and relentless fighting spirit in women so that (God forbid) if they’re ever attacked, they’ll have options. They’ll have a choice. Maybe they’ll even sense an attack coming and thwart it completely.

I’m proud of what I do, and so grateful and honored to do it. But today, it doesn’t feel very good.

Today, it’s bittersweet.
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Know a woman who needs and wants to learn effective
self-defense strategies and techniques? Visit http://www.txkungfu.com/ or call 512.680.4535.
Moy Yat Ving Tsun Kung Fu Academy is located at
2105 Justin Lane, Suite 111, Austin, TX 78757.

The Boy With Lifesaving Focus

2011-12-29T11:30:00.000-08:00

PARTICIPATION AWARD WINNER!
2011 Taekwondo Essay Contest, Sponsored by the Embassy of the Republic of KOREA

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.

The next week, Stephen bounced into the school to sign up. After all, he desperately wanted one of those cool, white Taekwondo v-neck uniforms.

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....

I Speak Gratitude

2011-11-11T13:20:00.000-08:00

This month my students and I are on a quest to find one thing to be grateful for every day. Our aim? To see whether the spirits of people—even those grieving a loss—can be buoyed by being thankful for life’s gifts on a daily basis. Not the iPad kind of gift, but rather the things we often take for granted.

The Gratitude Experiment couldn't have come at a better time. Life has hit me hard lately. For months I have been struggling with knee and foot issues. In late October, my partner and I had to put down our 15-year-old dachshund terrier Momo after an agonizingly long decline. Within the same week, I was served papers notifying me that an ex-student had filed a lawsuit seeking damages from an injury she had suffered while sparring 15 months earlier.

But I have faith that this exercise will help me stay out of self-pity, move through and let go of grief and anger, and stay positive. If it works, I’ll definitely pull it out every November as a homework assignment for my martial arts students—and I might continue myself year-round.

Here we go:

Nov. 30
Day 30 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful for gratitude and the power of choice. No matter what happens in my life, I can choose to be grateful—to see something positive in one thing every day. If you’ve never tried the Gratitude Experiment, I highly recommend it. It has been quite a powerful and empowering journey.

Nov. 29
Day 29 of Thanksgiving: I won! I won! I won! I won an award in an essay contest sponsored by the Embassy of the Republic of Korea. Today, I’m grateful for the gifts of martial arts and writing. Most of all, I’m grateful to the topic of my essay: Ian D., a kid with ADHD. Through Taekwondo, Ian developed (1) the focus to notice one summer day that his sister was drowning at the bottom of a family friend’s pool; (2) the courage to act quickly as he dove down to the bottom; and (3) the physical strength to grab his sister bear-hug style and kick them both to the surface and to safety. I’m excited about the award, but it doesn’t come close to trumping Ian’s heroic actions.

Nov. 28
Day 28 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful for Texas Ruby red grapefruit. It’s light and rich in vitamin C (a good thing during cold and flu season). Not everyone in the United States can get this fruit, either. Lucky!

Nov. 27
Day 27 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful for a day of living in the moment. Today, I had an unexpected adventure that I’d have missed if the day had unfolded according to my piddley plans. The Power of Now: It’s more than the title of a bestselling book!

Nov. 26
Day 26 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful for old songs like “Rocky Mountain High” by John Denver that bring back good memories of gentler times.

Nov. 25
Day 25 of Thanksgiving: Today I’m grateful for a circle of good friends (who answer to either The Yayas or The Domino Divas), a good meal, the smell of sea salt, and the sound of ocean waves. A weekend with friends at the beach: Awesome.

Nov. 24
Day 24 of Thanksgiving: OMG, IT’S FINALLY THANKSGIVING! Today I’m grateful for Angie Van Heel, who invited others to join her in a 30 Days of Thanksgiving (Gratitude) practice. The problems I had 24 days ago have not changed. They’re all still here. Yet I somehow feel better about my life. Hmmm. Thanks, Angie!

Nov. 23
Day 23 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful that I don’t live in Yemen or Egypt, where a revolution could break out on any given day with little warning. I’m also glad that I don’t live in Afghanistan, where, according to a CNN.com article, a woman who is raped has to either suffer 12 years in jail or marry her attacker.

Nov. 22
Day 22 of Thanksgiving: I'm grateful for my day job. A competitor laid off a bunch of people last week. Times are tough everywhere these days. So I'm grateful that I have a job, first of all, and that I have the kind of job that is going to pay me to go eat, nap, and play board games with my family on Thursday AND Friday. What a gift.

Nov. 21
Day 21 of Thanksgiving: I'm grateful that I don't beat up on myself for little things as much anymore—like forgetting to post this gratitude yesterday.

Nov. 20
Day 20 of Thanksgiving: I'm grateful for the transformation of butterflies. They remind me that no matter what may seem wrong with my life, change—big change—is just around the corner. Today, a friend gave me the honor of releasing Monarch butterfly No. 9 from their makeshift den sanctuary. I named him Momo for our dog who died right around the time that the caterpillar cocooned. Then I let him go. It was a beautiful moment.

Nov. 19
Day 19 of Thanksgiving: I have comfort: a small (cozy) house, and in that house is a livingroom with a comfy couch. On that couch, covered by warm and loving dogs, I get to take the occasional nap. I'm lucky. I have a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food in my belly. I have comfort. Priceless.

Nov. 18
Day 18 of Thanksgiving: I'm blessed with the best Taekwondo students in the world. Their growth continues to amaze me!

Nov. 17
Day 17 of Thanksgiving: I have the best dream life. I've always dreamed in color, and the images are vivid. Lately I've been having recurring travel dreams, sharing my time between Paris and Las Vegas. It's an adventure every night!

Nov. 16
Day 16 of Thanksgiving: Today I have yet another doctor's appointment. My left foot is swollen AGAIN. I'm grateful, though, that I have a left foot. And a right one, too.

Nov. 15
Day 15 of Thanksgiving: It's raining today in drought-stricken Texas. Thank you, Sky Gods.

Nov. 14
Day 14 of Thanksgiving: I'm grateful for my 12-step recovery program, specifically Step 1, which reminds me that I'm powerless over people, institutions, and certain events. It's OK to stick with the winners, and, as a result, let go of toxic, drama-addicted people.

Nov. 13
Day 13 of Thanksgiving: I'm grateful for one of my Taekwondo students, who years ago when he was age 9 intervened on behalf of a classmate when a bully pulled his classmate's pants down in the boys restroom. Then my student did the right thing—the brave thing: he told his teacher. As a result, school administrators discovered that the bully had done this to others, and he was disciplined. I'm proud of my student. He helped stop a monstrous bully. He stepped forward to help a weaker, smaller peer. At 9 years old, he was a bigger man than any of those "men" at Penn State.

Nov. 12
Day 12 of Thanksgiving: I'm grateful today that I can hear. I can hear the quiet of an early morning. I can hear my cute, sweet, smart yet neurotic dog Dudley bark his head off at some unseen danger in the backyard. I can hear Mare burp in the kitchen and then belt out Tarzan yells like Carol Burnett as she gets dressed in the bedroom. I can hear birds tweet outside (not the Twitter kind). I can hear, and life sounds wonderful.

Nov. 11
Day 11 of Thanksgiving: It’s Veteran’s Day, and I’m grateful for all the servicemen and women past and present who’ve fought for our country, but especially Uncle Marvin. He fought in Vietnam and then was a drill sergeant stateside. As a result of his traumatic experiences in Asia, he went through some very rough patches during his life—persevering through pain others could see but of which he would never speak. Thank you, Uncle Marvin, and all the men and women who’ve ever worn a military uniform. You’ve kept me, my family, and my neighbors, students, and colleagues free and safe. For that, I’m truly grateful.

Nov. 10
Day 10 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful for three very important things: health, sanity, and, umm, what’s that third one there. Let’s see…O.K., so health, sanity, and—let’s see. I can’t. The third one…I can’t. Sorry. Oops…. (Thank you, Texas Gov. Rick Perry, for reminding me that I’m grateful to have a sense of humor.)

Nov. 9
Day 9 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful for family—mine and Mare’s. I have the funniest little bingo-blotter-wielding mom in the world. I’m also grateful for some awesome in-laws. I love them and they love me. Not everyone who’s married can say that. Even fewer who are gay can say that. I am truly fortunate.

Nov. 8
Day 8 of Thanksgiving: Considering the state of this nation’s economy, I’m grateful that I have a job that pays enough to cover ALL my bills.

Nov. 7
Day 7 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful for all of life’s difficulties—the things that have made me/allowed me to face fears and overcome obstacles and adversities. All of these trials have molded me into the strong woman I am today.

Nov. 6
Day 6 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful that I live in Austin, Texas, a super dog-friendly city with lots of off-leash parks.

Nov. 5
Day 5 of Thanksgiving: On a chilly morning, I’m grateful that SUMMER’S FINALLY OVER in Texas!

Nov. 4
Day 4 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful for my warm, cuddly, awesome pets (three dogs, one cat) that love me unconditionally and make me smile and laugh daily. I still miss Momo, our 15-year-old dachshund terrier that we had to put down late last month, but today I’m grateful that we had all the wonderful years we did with her.

Nov. 3
Day 3 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful for my wonderful, beautiful, resourceful, and staggeringly creative partner. She amazes me more every day.

Nov. 2
Day 2 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful that, save for my inherited osteoarthritic knees, I’m in good general health.

Nov. 1
Day 1 of Thanksgiving: I’m grateful that I’m sober today.

Gratitude Quote of the Week

2011-11-09T08:03:00.000-08:00

“If you’ve forgotten the language of gratitude, you’ll never be on speaking terms with happiness.”
— Anonymous

Courage Quote of the Week

2011-11-03T06:09:00.000-07:00

“To know what is right and not to do it is the worst cowardice.”
— Confucius

The Art of Giving and Receiving Love

2011-10-28T09:07:00.000-07:00

The other day, another parent said, "We love you, Ms. Cathy."

I’ve heard it before. In fact, I get that sentiment a lot. And yet I’m still surprised. I’ve practiced Taekwondo for 19 years now (11 years teaching), and I know that I’ve done a lot of good for others, especially children. Still, I'm always on guard, trying to strike a healthy balance between good self-esteem and humility. (Trust me: My ego can balloon with the best of them.)

Parents and students do love me and the work that I do, and they show me and tell me in a myriad ways.

Families bring me cookies and cards throughout the year. During the winter holiday season, they shower me with gift certificates to Starbucks and Barnes & Noble. Students write me Valentine’s Day poems and give me lollipops on their birthdays. Some Tiny Texans run up and wrap their arms around my dobok pant legs, squeezing out a big hug. One time, an anonymous donor left an envelope containing $200 cash on my office desk. It’s rare that a parent comes up and gives me a big, strong bear hug and a kiss on the cheek, but that’s happened too. (That one may always surprise me.)

These moments of thanksgiving have happened so often that you’d think I would have gotten used to them by now. After all, I’m an empowering teacher who invests a lot of energy in inspiring others, especially my young students. What goes around comes around, eh? Yet the love and acts of kindness that my students and parents show me always take my breath away. I’m genuinely touched. And on many levels, it’s difficult to take in all that love.

It’s always been easier for me to be the compliment giver than the receiver, to Aikido-deflect a nice sentiment. It’s also always been easier for me to believe a negative statement about myself rather than a positive one.

After all these years of powerful training, I’m slightly baffled that I still have much to learn about the art of building and maintaining self-confidence and self-esteem amid humility.

I continue to try, though. If I want my students to believe all the encouraging words I say to them, then I have to be able to let those messages in myself—to not discount sweet words that parents and students often convey.

Last week at the YMCA, I got more than my fair share of practice in the art of taking compliments. Many parents were excited about the results of my latest character-building homework assignment.

To earn a black stripe on their belt, students were encouraged to do something nice for their parents—take out the trash, set the table for dinner, clear the table after dinner, clean their room, put away their toys—without their parents either knowing about it or asking them to do it.

“You can do anything,” I told students in my Tiny Texans and Youth Beginner’s class earlier in the week, “ANYTHING! Just don’t tell your parents. It has to be a surprise! And if they ask you to do that task, it’s too late. It doesn’t count. So if your parents are always reminding you to brush your teeth before bed, brush your teeth RIGHT AFTER DINNER! Beat them to it!”

On Thursday, 3-year-old Izzie—a meek and long, blond-haired Cinderella wannabe—was the first to report her progress.

“Ms. Cathy,” the Tiny Texan squeaked, “I strapped myself into my car seat without mommy’s help.”

“WOW!” I said, looking over at her parents. Izzie’s mom nodded in affirmation. “I’ll bet that makes your parents very happy because they know you’ll stay safe in the car.”

Izzie nodded silently. Her mom smiled wide, pride beaming from her face.

For successfully completing her character homework, Izzie received a black stripe on her white belt. Now Izzie was smiling as wide as her mom. As I cut the electrical tape off and pressed its end firmly to Izzie’s belt, I gave her some encouraging words.

“You’re smart,” I began. “Strapping yourself into your car seat is a very important task. It will help your parents know that you’re riding safe, and the more you do little things like this to keep yourself safe, the more your mommy and daddy will trust you in the future to take on more big-girl tasks.

“So keep up the good work!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Izzie said softly with a shy smile. Her mom mouthed a silent “thank you.” I nodded approvingly and mouthed an equally silent “you’re welcome.”

In the next class, Ricky, a petite, 6-year-old yellow-stripe white belt, tugged on my dobok sleeve. He had something important to tell me about his homework assignment.

“Ms. Cathy,” he said, “I went to bed without my parents telling me to.”

“That’s fabulous!” I said, as I gave him a high-five palm slap. “I bet your parents appreciated that, huh?”

“Oh, yeah!” said his mom, who was standing nearby.

“I’m very proud of you,” I said to Ricky. “Do you know why?”

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“You’re helping your parents. They’re not trying to be mean to you when they tell you that it’s time for bed. You see, they know your body needs a certain number of hours of sleep so that you can grow. When your body gets lots of rest, you’ll grow big, tall, and strong!”

Ricky’s eyes grew wide.

“Keep up the great work, son,” I said, wrapping a black stripe around his white belt. “If you keep going to bed when you’re supposed to without complaint and you keep getting all the rest you need, pretty soon you’ll be taller than me!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Ricky said, grinning.

“And then I won’t want to spar you anymore because you’ll be so strong that you’ll kick me into next week.”

Ricky smiled wider.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said.

“Comsah hamnidah,” I said in Korean, and then in English, “Thank you!”

Ricky’s mom reached out her hand to shake. “Thank you for all you do,” she said. “You’re teaching our kids so many great lessons. It’s more than Taekwondo.”

I tried to take it in.

“You’re welcome.” I finally said.

As Ricky and his mom turned to go, I noticed another parent, the mother of a 6-year-old white belt, who had been patiently waiting nearby. She had a serious look on her face. Right or wrong, I immediately thought, "Oh no, what'd I do?"

“I don’t know if you realize how important you are,” she began. I sighed a bit on the inside. “You’re surrounded by angels. I know you don’t really know me very well, but I have to tell you that it is so refreshing to find a teacher like you. We are all so grateful. You are very special, and we love what you do for our kids.”

I’ve heard this before too (yes, even the part about being surrounded by angels). But holy tamale, I’ve never known what to say. Or do you say anything?

I stood there and practiced receiving love.

“Thank you,” I said simply. “Thank you for your kind words. I really appreciate your support.”

Indomitable Spirit Quote of the Week

2011-08-18T06:03:00.000-07:00

“The reward for work well done is the opportunity to do more.”
— Dr. Jonas Salk
Developer of the polio vaccine

They'll Never Forget Their First Jobs

2011-08-12T09:31:00.000-07:00

My first summer job was working at a five-and-dime store called TG&Y Family Center in San Antonio. I cut fabric, cut keys, manned the women’s dressing rooms, and ran a cash register. It wasn’t glamorous and not necessarily fun, but it was a job and I was happy to be earning my own money. I was just 16, yet felt more like an adult, and my mom was proud of me.

The day I received my first paycheck, my mom took me out to a nice seafood restaurant to celebrate. I was officially a mature young adult. My mom had done her best to raise me with good values and a good work ethic—go to work on the days and hours assigned and don’t call in sick unless you really ARE sick; don’t be late; do your best; take correction from your boss without taking it personally; try to do a better job today than you did yesterday; be grateful for a job and a paycheck.

I don’t have kids of my own, and for many years I didn’t think I had anyone to pass this work ethic on to.

I was wrong.

When I began Tao of Texas MAI’s Junior Leader program, I envisioned a way for kids to work toward something of value—something that would distinguish them from their peers on scholarship and college applications; something that would help them learn and practice good leadership traits that would one day be worth its weight in copper.

Years ago, I told two twin brothers—who at the time were 10-year-old green belts—that if they worked hard in their new roles as Junior Leaders, one day doors would open for them. And those doors might even be worth money.

As they took their Junior Leader vows, I don’t think they thought much about what this position might one day mean to them. They were likely too busy drooling over their cool Junior Leader patches and new, snazzy uniforms. To be honest, though, none of us knew that six years later, their work as Junior Leaders would lead to their first summer job.

Roberto and Martin Hass are twins, and they used to be tied at the hip. Though they never dressed alike, they did everything together. They both began studying Taekwondo when they were 8 years old. Initially, they were equally whiny on the mat. Both boys could devour an unlimited supply of burgers on the grill. They both idolized their older brother, Juan, and absolutely adored their mother and father.

And I’m sure they thought I hung Ganymede.

The boys were inseparable and sometimes indistinguishable—especially when wearing identical white Taekwondo uniforms. Luckily, Martin’s wider face and Roberto’s soft, brown tail, which he kept long and braided, gave them away.

When they became Junior Leaders, though, the Hass brothers each blossomed in different ways. They began embracing individuality amid a common interest. Roberto knew immediately that he wanted to get a 3rd degree black belt in Taekwondo some day. Martin wasn’t as ambitious; at the time, he only wanted a brown belt. Roberto loved playing in the school orchestra and marching band. Martin liked to cook and create intricate origami.

My first clue that these young men would be extraordinary leaders came on a rainy fall day when I was running late to a class at the Town Lake YMCA. A three-car accident slowed traffic to a crawl. I didn't have a cell phone back then, so I couldn't call and tell anyone that I was stuck in traffic. I hurried to the YMCA as safely as I could, but was still 10 minutes late. When I walked into the dojang, Roberto and Martin were leading the warm-up. They had everything under control.

"We knew you'd be here," Martin said, "so we just got things going for you."

They were 11 years old.

As the years went by, they grew—together and separately—from boys to teenagers. Soft, peach-fuzz stubble began sprouting on their chins. They grew taller and became harder to spar because their kicking distance lengthened. They grew stronger, and no one wanted to hold power bags for their back kicks because it felt like taking a direct hit from a mule. They moved from riding in back seats of their parents’ cars to arguing over who could finally sit in the front seat to—too soon—who would get to drive to the dojang.

There’s nothing scarier than seeing a kid who was 8 years old just the other day drive up and gingerly park a behemoth white minivan. It messes with the mind.

In time, Roberto’s and Martin’s roles and relationships to the world changed yet again. Roberto got his black belt first, but Martin gravitated toward teaching, becoming Tao of Texas MAI’s first Assistant Junior Instructor. To become a Junior Leader, the brothers each had to accumulate at least 36 volunteer teaching hours; to qualify for Assistant Junior Instructor, Martin had to put in more than 150 volunteer teaching hours. He did it so fast that I contemplated bumping the minimum teaching requirements up to 200 hours.

Lower-belt students began looking up to the boys—sorry, men—and the Hass brothers’ popularity reached what I call “rock star status in a flying sidekick world”. The moment the twins entered the dojang, students stopped and watched every step they took. Students honed their peripheral vision skills by watching out of the corner of their eyes as Roberto tied his black belt. They dreamed of the day when they'd tie a black belt around their waist too. They listened to every instruction Martin gave during warm-up, and would repeat his words verbatim when given a chance to lead warm-up themselves. Earlier this week, a Tiny Texan saw Roberto in the hallway and turned to his dad and excitedly blurted: “There’s a Hass brother right there!”

You would have thought Lady Gaga had just entered the YMCA.

Though the twins became their own men, all along, Taekwondo remained the constant. So it was fitting that when youth class enrollment exploded this summer at the East Communities YMCA (we had waiting lists in two of four classes), I requested two part-time assistants. And guess who I recommended for the jobs?

The Hass brothers’ first jobs—at age 16—are to do something they love and have been doing for almost half their lives already. How many adults are that lucky?

The brothers are so comfortable on the mat. It’s practically their second home. The only difference is that now that they’re getting paid, I see them blossoming even more.

East’s executive director asked me the other day how Roberto and Martin were doing.

“It’s interesting,” I replied. “They were always really good Junior Leaders. Polite, patient, compassionate. But now that they’re getting paid, it’s as if they see themselves as professionals. They’ve raised their skills to a higher level. They’re getting more creative in their teaching techniques. They’re really looking…mature.”

I shook my head in dismay, then laughed, then felt a pang of sadness. It was a bittersweet moment to realize that my boys have grown. Roberto and Martin are now juniors in high school. I’ll have two more years with them before they’re off to college and then on to their non-Taekwondo professional careers.

I don’t have kids of my own—true. However, I now have more than 70 students at the YMCA. Before me stand an eager sea of Robertos and Martins, and one day they’ll be looking for their first summer jobs, too. A new path from Junior Leader to black belt to assistant junior instructor at the YMCA has been firmly paved, and it will be interesting to see which students follow in the Hass brothers’ barefoot steps.

In the meantime, I’m carrying on my mom's tradition by taking Roberto and Martin out to lunch to celebrate their first paychecks.

I couldn't be more proud.

Knowing When Not to Persevere

2011-07-29T05:51:00.000-07:00

My students have really taken a liking to our “Don’t Quit” motto—even the Tiny Texans.

Case in point:

Yesterday, 5-year-old Zephyr had a gnarly stomach virus. He felt awful, but at the same time, he was sad about having to miss Taekwondo class.

So he shored up all the indomitable fighting spirit he had and declared to his mother: “I’m in control of my body and won’t throw up in class.”

Poor little thing! I was so touched that he was trying to practice the Taekwondo tenets of perseverance—and self-control.

Mean Mommy made him stay home anyway. (Smart mommy, if you asked me.)

For his willingness to come to class even though he didn’t feel well, though, Zephyr will get a special “self-care” stripe when he returns on Tuesday.

A Point of Gratitude

2011-07-06T11:47:00.000-07:00

During the summer, most martial arts schools struggle to make ends meet because enrollment dips. Students and their families go on grand Grand Canyon vacations and set their GPS destinations for Disney World and a dozen other theme parks. Today, I’m astounded when I see the enrollment numbers for the East Communities YMCA’s Taekwondo classes. We are not dipping in enrollment. On the contrary. There are waiting lists for two of the four classes I teach.

Chalk up one gratitude point.

Last year, I struggled to attract a diverse crowd to my dojang. Today, I’m grateful for the opportunity to inspire and empower students of all races, religions, and socio-economic backgrounds. I’m using what little Spanish I know every day. Funny, all I had to do was move my program a few miles east of IH-35.

Chalk up another gratitude point.

For five years, I struggled to find enough time to do all the things—besides teaching—necessary to keep a martial arts school running. Today, I’m grateful that someone else collects tuition; enrolls new students; sets up bank draft payments; pays the rent and utility bills; handles all the marketing and advertising; cleans the bathrooms, dressing rooms, and lobbies; cleans oily fingerprint smudges off the wall-to-wall mirrors; keeps the restroom stocked with toilet paper; replaces empty water dispensers; opens and locks up the building; cuts the lawn; spays for mosquitoes; takes care of any minor flooding issues; and makes coffee for visitors.

Chalk up another big, bad gratitude point there, buddy.

But today, I’m exceptionally grateful for a little thing that’s made a big difference in everyone’s training. Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute's original location was an open-air dojang. (Yes, I know. Crazy.) Every summer, I allowed students to wear school T-shirts from Memorial Day to Labor Day (or the first cold front). But let’s face it, people: no matter how many ceiling and oscillating fans you have going, between May and September in Texas, it’s incredibly, unmercifully, diabolically HOT. I had to constantly remind students to drink plenty of water. I had to disclose not-so-pleasant examples of whether their bodies were hydrated. ("If your pee is yellow, you're not drinking enough water. If it's clear, you're good to go.") I had to always be on the lookout for faces that turned dull and ashen. We never had anyone become ill because of the heat, but it took a physical and mental toll. For example, during black belt tests, candidates not only were concerned about performing well, but they also worried about hydrating enough the day before and day of the test. The joke was that if you had a "Barbie bladder" and woke up every hour the night before the test to go pee, then you were going to be O.K.

So today, I’m grateful for one big advantage of moving to the YMCA: They have AIR CONDITIONING.

Now, I know that one day very soon one of my longtime students will come up to me and complain that it’s hot and they’re sweating (even though perspiration is obviously one of the things you can expect to happen when you exercise). And on that day, I’ll be nice. Very nice. I’ll just look at them with all the seriousness of Yoda and say, “Take our class outside like at the old dojang, should we?”

To which they’ll say with a flat, ashen face, “Oh, uh ... no, ma'am,” and get back in line with a new perspective.

Gratitude.

Priceless.

"Don't Quit" Quote of the Week

2011-06-02T09:29:00.000-07:00

“I’ve missed more than 9,000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games. Twenty-six times I’ve been trusted to take the game-winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.”

— Michael Jordan
Legendary basketball player

Ruthie Says, “No!”

2011-05-11T05:23:00.000-07:00

Three-year-old Ruthie is quiet and shy—the opposite of her boisterous and energetic big brother, John. She has long, pretty, light brown hair and a sweet spirit. Her still, Zen-like manner is often overshadowed by John, who is 5 and taller and louder, and who doesn’t mind using his voice to interrupt when I’m talking or chat with his classmates when he should be listening.

John has no problem being heard. However, Ruthie is like a little ninja: silently watching, learning. Yesterday, she finally came out of her stealth shell and she was impressive. What's more, she may have even unknowingly set the tone for a more confident, powerful life.

Tuesday’s Tiny Texans class started with kihap practice, yelling 10 times so that everyone could practice their spirit voice. I use a number of strategies to get my students to yell with good, solid fighting spirit.

"You know the lady at the front desk? The one in the lobby who tells you not to run in the hallways?" I asked them yesterday.

"Yes, ma'am," they said in unison.

"Well, she doesn't believe we study martial arts, so we have to be loud enough for her to hear us. O.K.?"

"Yes, ma'am!" they replied.

"Also, you know how your parents tell you to use your inside voice. Well, when you kihap in Taekwondo class, be sure to use your outside voice!"

"Yes, ma'am!" they exclaimed, grinning with excitement.

Except for Ruthie. She remained stoic, watching.

She is a tough read, but I had a plan to gently coax her out of her shell.

In the day's first drill, the Tiny Texans practiced knee kicks to the thick, black and red power kicking bags. Everyone was on fire, kicking hard and kihapping loud.

Except for Ruthie. She kicked softly and wouldn’t make any noise.

I coached her, trying to get something—anything—out of her little mouth.

“You can do it,” I whispered. “You can make any noise. You can say, ‘Hah!’ or ‘Hi-yah!’ or ‘No!’”

I offered her the power bag again, and she kicked. At the same time, her voice released a quiet, “No.”

“Yes!” I screamed, almost scaring her. I offered her a high-five palm slap and she obliged.

“That’s great!” I told her. “I’m so proud of you. Can you do it again?”

She nodded yes. I offered her the power bag.

“Say, ‘No!’” I said.

She kicked, and out of her mouth came another, “No.” This time it was a little louder.

“Yes!” I screamed again. Another palm slap followed.

It happened just like that again and again: I kept reminding her what to say, and she kept kicking and verbalizing louder and louder.

“No!” she finally said, with great spirit.

In the span of 45 minutes, Ruthie’s kihaps went from an uncomfortable, unsure, and meek statement to a loud, firm refusal. Parents and spectators who were watching the class from the sidelines of the mat were impressed, and they cheered her on. They clapped each time she said, “No!”

They clapped, I smiled, and I hope we were all thinking the same thing: This little girl is learning at a young age that it's O.K. for a woman to have a voice. It's O.K. for a woman's space to be respected. It's O.K. to set boundaries, and to enforce those boundaries when threatening people cross them. It's O.K. for a woman to take care of herself, to say the necessary things to make herself be heard, and ultimately to defend herself when her words are not heeded.

This was Ruthie’s second week in martial arts class, and she obviously has a long way to grow. But I’ve been doing this teaching gig for a long time, and I suspect that this little girl’s evolution is going to be an extraordinary thing to witness.

And I’m betting that this will not be the first time she makes the blog.

‘Have You Hit Anyone Today?’

2011-05-06T05:59:00.000-07:00

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.

Fighting the Good No-Fighting Fight

2011-04-25T05:29:00.000-07:00

Lee is a sweet and shy straight-A student with long, wavy brown hair that falls to his shoulders and curves along his forehead. When his bangs get long, you can barely see his right eye.

My dad would call him a hippie, and judge him harshly. To him, Lee's hair would be proof of either apathetic or rebellious character. On the contrary. I learned long ago not to judge the book of this 10-year-old yellow belt by his mocha-covered scalp. Under all that wayward hair is a smart, attentive, and focused young man who absorbs every word his teachers say and who takes his study of life and Taekwondo seriously.

Recently, my class at the East Communities YMCA worked on improving their self-defense techniques, and at the end of the class, we discussed the value of non-confrontation—about how just because we know how to fight doesn't mean we should. We talked about using Taekwondo only in self-defense and about walking away from a fight whenever possible.

Unfortunately, Lee got the opportunity to practice this lesson right away.

Last week after class, Lee stood quietly next to his mother. She asked if I had a moment to speak to them. From experience, I've learned that when parents ask that question, it's usually because their child's behavior has been less than ideal.

Instead, Lee's mother told me about an incident that occurred the night before that blew her away. Lee and a friend were having dinner with their families when the two boys began arguing. Lee’s friend hit him. But Lee did not hit back. Instead, he used a strategy we had discussed in class the week before.

“He stood up confidently,” his mother said, “and then he said, ‘If you’re going to treat me like this, I’m going to sit somewhere else.’ Then he took his plate and went to another part of the table.

“I was so proud of him,” she said. “And I just love that you do what you do with these kids. It means so much.” She choked up and turned away.

I smiled at Lee and raised my left hand for a high-five slap.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ 'bout!” I said as we slapped palms. “Nice job, buddy! I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said humbly.

“That qualifies you for a black stripe on your belt,” I added.

His eyes widened. Black stripes are the rarest award to receive in my Taekwondo class. Students earn them only after demonostrating good character through the application of Taekwondo's tenets—courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit—to a tough situation at home or at school.

"You know [Lee], friends who treat you like that aren't really your friends," I said as I wrapped the black electrical tape around his belt.

"I know," he nodded, sounding a bit sad.

"I'm sorry you're having to learn that," I added, "but I'm proud of how you handled a tough situation."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said with a half smile.

"I have a feeling that this is going to open doors for you to have more friends who will treat you with respect."

He smiled.

I paused, looking him in the eye.

“And I have to give you something else,” I said, reaching into a clear plastic bag that I keep in my white electrical tape bucket. The bag contained a variety of patches.

Months ago, I ordered 10 snazzy red and black circular patches with the words “Taekwondo Honor” embroidered on them. I had decided that these patches were not for sale. Students had to earn them, and so I waited for a reason to award one. Lee’s self-control and inner strength in the face of an angry peer—a peer that he thought was his friend—showed tremendous courage and proved that he was more than worthy of such an honor.

“Sew this on your right shoulder, son,” I said, “and keep up the good work.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. We bowed to each other.

Lee is just now learning about how applying Taekwondo's tenets will make him a stronger, wiser young man with true friends who treat him with respect. If he's already absorbing these kinds of lessons now as a yellow belt, I can only imagine what greatness lies ahead for the young man with the wild, lovely mane.

Students Break for Breakthroughs

2011-03-31T11:53:00.000-07:00

There are three things that you should know about me:

1. I love to break things.
2. I love rituals, customs, and ceremonial rites of passage.
3. I love to help others.

On Saturday night, all three things came together in a unique fund-raising event that will help East Austin youth gain self-confidence, physical strength, and spiritual peace.

My mother always frowned upon me breaking things when I was a child (big surprise). But now that I’m an adult, and a Taekwondo practitioner, I’m encouraged to break wood, tile, and brick—stacks of it, if possible—and I always gleefully oblige.

Some martial artists are known for fancy flying kicks, fierce sparring ability, impeccable balance, or the ability to knock an opponent into next week with a powerful punch or kick. I’m known for my breaking ability, but in order to feel complete, I had to find a way to turn my gift into a ritual that would help others.

“Breaking for a Breakthrough” was born in 2005, and it’s been a powerful source of fund-raising and transformation ever since.

“Breaking for a Breakthrough” is a physical, mental, and spiritual exercise that emphasizes board breaking skills as a way to break through problems and obstacles, and symbolizes how oftentimes we need the support of others to move through life’s toughest challenges.

Participants select a whitewood pine board (12 inches long, ¾-inch deep, various widths) and write on it a problem or obstacle they have in their life. Something that really eats their lunch. When they are ready to let that problem go, they hand the board to a nearby martial artist to break for them. Participants take the two halves of pine home and put it in a place where they will see it every day. The day they walk by it and realize the breakthrough is complete, they set it aside to burn at their next campout or on the next cool, fall evening—returning it to the earth.

Saturday’s “Breaking for a Breakthrough” Break-a-Thon benefitted the East Communities YMCA’s Partner of Youth fund, which ensures that every kid who wants to take a class at the YMCA can—regardless of the ability to pay. The Break-a-Thon was phenomenal in many ways. Financially, we raised $225 ($25 more than our goal). At $5 per board, that’s 45 white pines to smash through. It may not sound like a lot, but for our humble little martial arts group, it was a tremendous feat of feet and hands. Here’s why: Thanks to our breakers, there now is a spiritual crack—a ray of hope—at the center of some very stubborn obstacles that have kept many people from living in peace and freedom.

Our group gathered in a half-circle, sitting side-by-side on gray folding chairs, to root on individual breakers in the center. I explained how “Breaking for a Breakthrough” worked, and we got down to spiritual business.

Little 4-year-old Lev handed me a board that read, “I can’t break a board.”

“Is this your board or someone else’s?” I asked.

“It’s my board,” he said, almost hesitantly.

“Well, how about this: I’ll break your board if you break mine.”

I showed him a 3-inch-wide board that had “Uncertainty” written on it in red marker.

“O.K.,” Lev said, smiling wide.

Lev chose to break with a stomp kick.

He only had to hit my “uncertain” board twice before it snapped.

Crack!

The roomful of spectators cheered.

“You CAN break a board, Lev!” I said, holding up the two board pieces, one in each hand.

He grinned from eardrum to eardrum as I handed him the broken pieces, and then he ran to his parents for a big bear hug.

My students were not only challenged with bigger boards than they were used to breaking, but also tried by the oftentimes intense emotional/spiritual factor. This makes the boards even harder to break. Some obstacles are tougher to overcome than others, and when you participate in this kind of exercise, you quickly realize that some boards—though they may be identical in size—are harder to break than others because of what has been written on them. We humans are capable of carrying around a lifetime of painful worries and fears in our souls. When dark energy has been in our cellular structure that long, it’s not that easy to free.

Still, many people were willing to let go of a lot of longstanding and heartbreaking obstacles on Saturday, and each breaker never quit. I was very proud of both parties.

One student in particular—a persistent, 7 year-old green belt—hit the mega-obstacle jackpot. He was breaking for someone who had written in black ink, “Fear of people, fear of failure, fear of economic insecurity.”

Poor kid must have hit that 5-inch-wide board with a side kick a dozen times before I stopped him. I could tell he was getting tired, but he never lost composure and wasn’t about to give up.

“Listen, this is a huge problem,” I told him. “It has nothing to do with whether you’re doing the kick right or not. It’s just a really big obstacle for this person. Lots of fear, and that’s real scary. So think about the person, about how much you want to help them overcome their fears, and then hit it hard and fast right in the center. It’ll break.

“Try again,” I said, holding the board with a good grip. I locked my elbows. As I turned my head away, I gave him the command to begin.

“Shijak!”

He hit the board with a powerful side kick. It still didn’t break—but everyone heard a little crack.

“That’s it!” I said. “One more time.”

He hit it again just as hard. It still didn’t break.

“O.K. guys,” I told the spectators. “It’s time to send good, healing chi to this person. Let’s help this young man break this board.”

Everyone nodded and leaned forward in their chairs. Some clasped their hands in prayer.

We set up again, and this time he hit that board with the hardest kick ever—accompanied by a loud, thunderous kihap.

Crack!

The room erupted in applause—for him and for the person who now had hope that many lifelong fears would soon vanish.

“That was hard-fought,” I whispered to him as I shook his hand. “Good job.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said humbly, then returned to his seat.

All evening, the energy in the room was intense. Even East Communities’ executive director said she became teary-eyed.

“I found myself getting emotional—over a board,” she said later, looking a bit baffled.

I could tell she didn’t understand why she had such strong feelings.

“In this kind of breaking exercise, that’s what happens,” I said. “You’re feeling all that energy moving—from dark to light, from sadness to joy. Some of the people we broke for tonight have been stuck in hell for a long time, and tonight they’re on the road to freedom.

“That’s huge.”

She gave an understanding nod.

I am continually amazed at how easily our Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute’s group is willing to help others in need. I have to send out a Herculean electronic hug and thank you to all our breakers: Calvin Redman, Ziyah Parramore, Elijah Kleinman, Lev Kleinman, Jonathan Kleinman, Danielle Hamilton, Karen Rivera, and Waylon “Way-Way” Redman. They were selfless in service to others and bold in spirit.

Does reading this make you crave a breakthrough of your own over something that’s really troubling you? If you didn’t get the chance to participate in Saturday's breakthrough event, contact me via email.

I’ll never turn down an opportunity to break something.

Then again, you already knew that about me, didn’t you?

Flexibility Quote of the Week

2011-03-28T06:07:00.001-07:00

“The most successful people are those who are good at Plan B.”
— James York, mathematician / scholar

A Case for a Quiet Kihap

2011-03-21T05:34:00.000-07:00

I encourage all my students to practice strong, loud kihaps, or spirit voices, so that they can defend themselves with ultimate power. No kihap is right or wrong. No two kihaps sound the same. If done with the right spirit, though, all kihaps should scare the crap out of you.

Three-year-old Logan loves to use his spirit voice. He takes it very seriously.

Recently Logan came running full speed into the Tiny Texans training room and made a beeline for me.

"Ms. Cathy," he began. His blond hair was ruffled and he was a tad out of breath. "I have [heavy breathing] something to tell you."

"Yes, sir, I'm all ears," I replied.

"My baby sister is coming with my daddy today!" he said, holding his index finger up in the air.

"Wow! How exciting is that?"

"Yeah, I have to make sure I don’t scare her with my kihap," he said in a serious tone, then darted off to run circles around the room with his classmates.

Integrity Matters

2011-03-17T05:30:00.000-07:00

A wise martial arts mentor once told me, “How you practice is how you will fight.”

When I awoke this morning, his words carried a different meaning. A talk I had on Sunday with one of my Taekwondo students made me think that this adage applies not just to fighting, but also to integrity—as in: the truth you speak today dictates the life you lead tomorrow.

Integrity, one of the five tenets of Taekwondo, is an exceptionally vital value to possess if you want to live a clean, misery- and mentally-debt-free life. It’s one of the hardest tenets to practice and one that, with true diligence, will help you gain respect (even from those who don’t like you) and open countless doors of opportunity.

A single slip of integrity, though, can ruin years of trust in all types of relationships.

Dee was learning the integrity lesson the hard way.

Her mom reached out to me for help via email: “I am having trouble with [Dee] and she responds to you more than she does to me. Anything I say seems to roll off of her,” her mom wrote. (If we were talking face-to-face, I would have stopped her right there and said that all parents of teen-agers feel that way from time to time.)

“Lately she has been caught blatantly lying,” the mom continued, detailing the most recent incident. “I am only bringing this up because she will listen to you.”

I felt honored that she trusted me, because I’ve made more than a few mistakes in my own life, many of which I’m still working hard to amend.

On Sunday, while the rest of my Taekwondo class practiced forms, I took Dee to a corner of the gym for a private talk. I invited her to sit on one of the benches.

“Oh, [Dee],” I said, sighing yet smiling. “What happened?”

She knew exactly what I meant.

“Well, I was just scared to tell my mom the truth,” she said. “I know. I shouldn’t have done it.”

I gave an affirming nod, and then asked, “Be honest. Have you lied to her before?”

“Yeah, but it was just teen-age stuff,” she said.

“Like what?”

Dee described several instances, adding, “But none of them were a big deal.”

I paused and leaned forward on the wooden bench. “Lies are lies. They’re not big, small, or white. And if you start categorizing them, then you can easily justify them, and then before you know it you’re lying all the time over stuff you could have easily told the truth about.

“Do you get that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, looking down.

We discussed ways she could rewind when she catches herself telling a lie.

“One of my best friends has worked really hard to stop lying,” I said. “When she realizes she’s not being honest, she says, ‘Wait. I don’t think that came out right. What I meant to say was...’ and then she tells the truth. It’s humbling and embarrassing in the moment, but she’s gotten better and better at calling herself on lying—and you can, too.”

Dee nodded again.

“So you’re demoted for at least a month,” I said. “And in that time, I want you to do a thorough inventory of all the times in your life that you’ve lied. Go all the way back to the first one you can remember and list them.”

Her jaw dropped.

“That’s the first column. In Column 2, list the people that you hurt, because your lies hurt people—you especially. In Column 3, describe what you could have done differently instead of lying.

“Does that make sense?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dee said solemnly.

“You’re not the first person to lie and you won’t be the last. But you can shift course right now and live a life of honesty. It just takes guts.”

Dee nodded again, said thanks, bowed, and then returned to her classmates to train.

After the talk with Dee, one of my black belts lovingly called me “a hard-ass.”

“O.K.,” I said. “I’ll own that.”

Why? Dee is about to go off on her own—to college, to the military, or into the workforce—and it’s especially important that she learn to be truthful NOW. And as an instructor, if I don’t take the time to mentor her and her classmates regarding integrity, they may one day think it’s O.K. to fudge on timesheets at work, pad expense accounts, cheat on their taxes, or be unfaithful to their spouses.

I can’t let that happen. And even though I hated doing it, I had to be the bad guy and demote her. I had to take a stand—to say, yes, it does matter that you have integrity at all times, not just when it’s easy, and especially when no one's watching.

My hope is that by now Taekwondo is important enough to Dee and I’m a vital enough influence that she gets the message and never again trudges the road of lies—or at the very least is blessed with hours upon hours of sleepless nights every time she fudges on the truth.

When I joined Alcoholics Anonymous, people there said AA would ruin my drinking if I decided to not stay sober. I hope our talk—and the inventory Dee's been assigned—ruins any future lying.

Why? At some point, everyone:
1. Dreads being honest because it will get them in trouble
2. Dreads being honest because it will get someone else in trouble
3. Dreads being honest because the truth might hurt someone they love
4. Tells the truth and needs to be believed.

If we bop along in our lives and lie when it’s convenient, then No. 4 above will be a hard sell indeed.

That’s why we Taekwondo stylists must practice integrity.

Everyday.

In all our affairs.

No matter how bad we look.

Now I’m the queen of wanting to look good, so I personally hate making mistakes in public or disappointing someone. I’d love to be perfect all the time, especially in front of my students. Problem is: I’m terminally imperfect and on my best day mistake-capable.

Case in point: Last week, 5-year-old Lev brought me a note from his mom saying that he had dutifully fulfilled his requirements for a black character stripe. For two weeks, Lev took out the trash without being asked or reminded.

"That's great, Lev!" I said. "Would you like the stripe now or in front of your classmates?"

"In front of my classmates," he said, smiling wide.

"You got it!"

Lev was so excited! And I was ecstatic, too, because he’s only 5 and that shows an awful lot of maturity, attentiveness, and heart. But then something unthinkable happened: The class came and went and I—gulp—forgot to award him the stripe.

Poor Lev! He never complained. He didn’t cry. He didn’t whine. In fact, he just went home.

I remembered my oversight about five minutes after class ended when I saw his mom’s note on top of my class curriculum binder.

“Crap!” I whispered under my breath.

I looked around the room and Lev was gone. I felt horrible.

When I got home, I knew what I had to do. While I could award him the stripe the next class and act like I intended it to be that way, being my word is important to me. I didn’t purposefully ignore this young man, but I know that when you’re 5 years old, things like getting stripes in front of the class are important and that feeling like you’re not important and that you’ve been forgotten hurts. So I wrote the following email as an admission—and a humble amends:

“Dear Lev,

“First, congratulations on earning a black stripe for taking out the trash without being asked. That’s fabulous! I'm so proud of you, and I hope you’ll continue to look for ways to help the family out around the house.

“I was supposed to award you a black stripe on Tuesday. I didn’t, and I’m sorry that I forgot. I hope you will forgive me and allow me to award you ANOTHER black stripe as part of my sincerest apologies.

“Keep up the great work! See you Thursday!”

Needless to say, Lev was more than happy to accept my apology. And here’s the silver lining I never expected: Telling the truth—admitting I forgot, admitting that I had a lapse of focus—actually resulted in a self-esteem boost for this young man. He got TWO stripes instead of one! We even joked that I should forget things more often so that he could get double the stripes!

It was humbling, but I had to admit my error in front of Lev and his parents. And though it was difficult to be "a hard ass," I had to take a stand with Dee.

I’d rather be tough on myself and my students today so that we all can learn the importance of practicing integrity tomorrow. That way we're more likely to speak the truth when it is hardest to speak, when we need to speak it the most, and when we need to be believed. No one can afford to have people doubt them on that important day.

Integrity is not only a Taekwondo tenet, but it’s also a vital lifelong value. I’d rather Dee lose rank temporarily and thereby learn a hard lesson in the pitfalls of dishonesty now from her martial arts instructor than to find it easy to lie to others later and risk permanently losing her spouse, friends, job, and mental and spiritual freedom.

After all, the truth she practices today will dictate the life she leads tomorrow.

Building Better Bodies Every Day

2011-03-02T06:12:00.000-08:00

Our main goal at Tao of Texas Martial Arts is to build better character every day. Character development is hard work, but it can feel invigorating when we finally accomplish goals and overcome nagging issues.

Now I know how my students feel.

My Taekwondo students get so excited about a little strip of black electrical tape on their belt. In my class, I award black stripes to indicate strides in character development. These students work so hard on really tough issues and are thrilled when I wrap that one-inch stripe around their belt. The moment I snip my scissors and press the tape end to the belt, you might think I'd just delivered an empowering, chi-charged exclamation point. My students smile widely and deeply, and I am so proud of them.

Their efforts toward becoming better little people are so admirable that today they’ve inspired me to work on an issue that is challenging me to let go of old behavior and make better choices.

More specifically: To eat well.

Yes, today I humbly admit that I:
• Do not always give my body the nutritional things it needs to work at an optimum level
• Often succumb to eating what’s convenient instead of what’s healthful
• Hate to cook
• Crave fried foods and starches
• Usually give into my cravings

Martial artists are supposed to be the epitome of good health and fitness. We’re known for our strong bodies, clear minds, and serene spirits. So I’m pretty embarrassed to admit today that I often falter when it comes to putting healthful food in my body.

I have made progress. Almost 20 years ago, I quit drinking alcohol. Four years ago, I gave up sodas. Both were super duper hard to do, but now bearable—afterthoughts, in fact.

I’m hopeful that avoiding the Danish staring me in the face this morning and that fried chicken sandwich calling me for lunch will one day also just be something that passes under my nostrils and through my psyche—and keeps going.

At age 47, I can no longer afford to neglect my body by not giving it what it needs. After all, it works hard for me. My body has kept me active and healthy all this time, and energetic enough to chase after Tiny Texans and teach ADHD youths Taekwondo for 11 years.

But in the last four months, I’ve had three upper respiratory illnesses. My immune system is shot. It’s time—check that: overdue—for me to take steps to better care for myself.

On Monday, I started thinking about my little students and the black character stripes I award them, and I got an idea: I have a size 5 white belt in my gym bag. Why not use it to mark my own achievements in eating better?

Here's my character challenge: Every day I eat well, I’m giving myself a black character stripe.

“Will you take away a stripe every time you don’t eat well?” my partner Marianna asked last night.

“Oooh, that’s—a good point,” I replied. “Consequences; just like I have with my students. I guess I’ll have to.”

My plan is simple: fill that white belt with as many black stripes as possible in one month, and then take it to my Taekwondo classes and show it to my students—to let them know that I, too, have to work hard every day to become a better, healthier person.

On Monday, I received an acupuncture appointment to help boost my immune system. Yesterday I followed up with that by eating well—all day. This morning, I’m awarding myself my first black stripe! Woo-hoo!

Today I fill like a giddy little girl. Now I know how my students feel.

U.S. Open Opens World of Possibilities

2011-02-21T11:18:00.000-08:00

On Friday morning, I led little 4-year-old Caroline by the hand at the Austin Convention Center, which for the week had been transformed into one huge dojang for the 20th U.S. Open Taekwondo Championships.

In its 20 years, the U.S. Open has been a destination for many athletes with Olympic dreams. The tournament itself has matured into one of the highest World Taekwondo Federation points-rated competitions in the world. This year it drew over 1,500 competitors from countries as Australia, Azerbaijan, Brazil, Canada, Croatia, Denmark, Ecuador, Egypt, El Salvador, France, Germany, Ghana, Great Britain, Hong Kong, India, Israel, Ivory Coast, Mexico, Morocco, the Netherlands, Pakistan, Puerto Rico, Russia, Serbia, Sweden, Switzerland, the United States, and Venezuela.

This season, though, the tournament was a destination for the Diller family, and it inspired big dreams in a little girl deep in the heart of Texas.

Caroline, one of almost two dozen Tao of Texas Martial Arts students who volunteered for the tournament, is one of my Tiny Texans, a mini-martial artist with a lively, energetic, and curious spirit. She came to the Convention Center to volunteer with her mom, older brother Ian, and big sister Eliza. As payment for her cute services, USA Taekwondo gave Caroline an orange U.S. Open volunteer/souvenir T-shirt that went down to her ankles, the chance to cart sparring helmets from ring to ring, and time to read her new flip book while her mom filmed matches for Dartfish. Later that morning, a USA Taekwondo staff member gave her a free meal ticket, and another passed her a clip-on koala that the coach from Australia brought as gifts. She proudly clipped the koala to her lanyard.

Many past Olympic medal winners were there—some walking around in uniform waiting for their turn to compete, some in inconspicuous street clothes. However, seeing the Olympic stars, hearing the numerous foreign languages spoken, and seeing the bright, colorful flags flying overhead from every country imaginable may not be what Caroline remembers most about her first Taekwondo tournament. She’ll one day outgrow the T-shirt and lose the trinket. But one thing she’s likely to keep forever is the sight of female leadership at the tournament.

As I gingerly led Caroline around the 11 rings, we kept our eyes open for white match sheets. They contained pertinent information such as names of the players, countries they represent, weight division, etc. When we saw a paper with a winning player's name circled, we picked it up and delivered it to the tournament desk so that the next bracket could be created.

At one referee desk, a high-ranking female official was putting the finishing touches on a match sheet, so we waited patiently nearby. This particular referee is a veteran known for her demanding style and clear understanding of the rules. She wants her referees to do right things right the first time, and she can be quite intimidating.

I've been at these tournaments before, though, so I know she has a soft side.

"See that lady at the desk?" I asked Caroline. We were close enough for the referee to hear me. "She's wearing a blue jacket, and that means she is a very important referee. She can conduct matches all over the world!"

"Really?" Caroline said, her eyes widening.

When the referee looked like she was finished with her paperwork, I told Caroline, "Ask her if she has any results for us to take back to the tournament desk."

The referee heard me and dutifully played along.

"Do you have any results?" Caroline chirped, a bit shyly.

The referee turned to us. "Here," she said with a kind smile as she handed the paper to Caroline.

I asked Caroline, "How do you say 'thank you' in Korean?"

Caroline smiled at the referee. "Com sam nee dah," she said.

"Comsa Hamnidah!" the referee repeated as she nodded approvingly. She looked at me and smiled, "You're starting them young!"

"Yes, ma'am, I am," I replied, as we turned to go back to the tournament desk.

We zigzagged our way through the rings and spotted a match that was about to end, so we hung out to take those results back, too. Nearby, a female coach was standing next to her player as they waited for their match to begin.

"See this lady, Caroline?" I asked, kneeling down next to her. "She’s a coach. I can remember just a few short years ago, there weren’t many female coaches out there in the sparring ring."

The woman turned, looked down at me and Caroline, and smiled.

"But that’s changed, hasn’t it, ma’am?" I said, looking up at the coach. I winked.

"Yes, it has," she confirmed. "We’ve come a long way."

"What that means, Caroline, is that you can be a coach one day, too," I said.

Caroline beamed. Her golden blonde hair seemed to glow.

"Me?" she asked innocently in her squeaky voice. "I can be a coach?"

"Absolutely," I said. I looked up at the coach. She nodded yes to Caroline.

It was as if Caroline had just been given a new toy. She was excited, and her thoughts immediately turned to her big brother, Ian, whom she adores.

"Then I can be Ian’s coach!" she screamed in halleluiah fashion.

"Yes you can!" I laughed.

Caroline smiled wide, and as we continued walking around the hall, she’d squeeze my hand a little tighter as she repeated, "I’m going to be Ian’s coach when I grow up!"

Practicing Perseverance in Relationships

2011-02-16T07:52:00.000-08:00

There have been times when—talking to my sisters on the phone—I've wanted to repeatedly bang the receiver against the coffee table in frustration. So recently when one of my hardest-working students showed signs of a relationship struggle with his little brother, I understood.

In 11 years of teaching martial arts, I've learned that for students with siblings, Basic Rules to Live By No. 4—"We must build and maintain a good relationship with our brothers and sisters at all times."—can oftentimes be an annoying, painful thorn in their sides, but that it's a Basic Rule for a reason. Besides parents, there is no more important, long-term, grit-your-teeth-and-smile-anyway relationship than the one we have with our brothers and sisters.

You may love your brother. You may treasure your sister. If you've never had fleeting angry and even homicidal thoughts toward your siblings, though, (1) I'd like to meet you and (2) you’re either a freak or a saint.

Maybe I'm the freak, though. And maybe all my students are freaks, too, because poor little Carl, all of 7 years old, was struggling with the “at all times” part regarding his 3-year-old brother Wallace. Carl and Wallace are in Tiny Texans together, and Carl is a great big brother in martial arts class. In fact, he's in many ways a model student. But recently things had not been so hunky-dory at home.

In an email, Carl's mother told me that she and her husband had discussed it, and they wanted me to remove a black character stripe that I had awarded their son for being a good big brother. Apparently, the last straw was when Wallace wanted to see something that Carl had, and Carl uttered an ugly refusal.

I can understand his parents' frustration. All parents want in the whole wide world is for their children to be safe and to get along. But all older siblings want in the whole wide world is a cool toy for their birthday and space from their annoying younger siblings.

Anyone familiar with my teaching style knows I have no qualms about stripping stripes from belts when students exhibit character unbecoming a decent human being. My gut told me, though, that stripe removal or demotion would be the easy way out for Carl. Indeed, this was a great opportunity for him to practice perseverance.

On Sunday, I took Carl and his father into the YMCA’s nursery room for a one-on-one talk. I no longer have my own office, so the unoccupied nursery—though cheerfully and colorfully decorated—was the best place available to have a serious, private talk. I could tell Carl was apprehensive. He knew his parents had asked that I remove the stripe. He squirmed in his chair, expecting me to whip out my scissors and snip, snip, snip.

Instead, I asked him several questions to gauge whether he understood why his parents were concerned about how he treated Wallace at home.

"What does it mean to be a good big brother?" I asked.

"Be nice?" he replied. "And share my stuff?"

"Good! Yes! That’s what I’d like in a big brother. Now, it’s normal for your little brother to want to be around you all the time. Do you know why?"

"No, ma’am?" (Carl's answers always sound like he’s asking a question.)

"Because he loves you."

"Yes, ma’am?"

"You are so BIG to him. Like your dad is big to you. You love your dad, right?"

"Yes, ma’am?"

"Well, that’s how Wallace feels about you. He looks up to you. He wants to hang out with you because you’re cool."

"I am?" Carl asked. (This time it was a question.)

"Yes, you are," I said, then leaned forward in my chair to look him in the eye. "So next time Wallace wants to see something you have, or do something you’re doing, just remember that it’s because he loves you."

"Yes, ma’am?"

"Do you have any questions?" I asked.

"No, ma'am?" Carl said.

"O.K. then, let's train."

We stood up, bowed to each other, and Carl walked out of the nursery to join his classmates on the mat. His dad offered a handshake.

"Thanks, Cathy," he said.

I nodded, "No problem. That's what I’m here for."

A few days later, I wrote the following email to Carl to encourage him to keep working on his relationship with Wallace:

"Dear Carl,

"Remember the essay you wrote on what it means to be a good leader? Well, it turns out that if you replace the word 'leader' in your essay with 'big brother' and 'students' with 'little brother,' you already know how to be a good brother….

"Below is your essay. Read it with your parents so that you can continue your commitment to being a better brother:

" 'To be a good [big brother] you have to listen to your [little brother]. It might be important. Be honest to your [little brother] so that your [little brother] will do [things] right. Be kind to your [little brother] so [he] will like you. Respect your [little brother] and [he] will respect you. Think about your [little brother] and [he] will think about you. I think these are qualities that make a good [brother].' "

"These were your own words, so think of [your brother] as one of my students and one of your classmates. Try to be kind. When you feel impatient or frustrated or angry, don’t take it out on him. Instead, tell your parents your feelings, ask for some alone time if needed, and then in a few minutes, try again to reconnect in a positive way.

"You can do this. I BELIEVE IN YOU.

"Love,
Ms. Cathy"

Yesterday, Carl’s mom told me that she had created a behavior chart so that Carl would have clear instructions regarding what is expected of him. This was a great idea, because I can attest that most children thrive amid structure.

"Since I made the behavior chart," she said, "he has been an AMAZING big brother!"

I had to smile wide. In that moment, I was proud of Carl, proud of his parents, and grateful that the Taekwondo tenet of perseverance can have a positive impact on every part of our lives.

Sometimes, life offers wonderful opportunities to be brave, strong, and responsible—to take action instead of complaining, blaming, or lashing out. There are things I wish I didn’t have to do and actions I’m sometimes afraid of taking. I’ve learned the hard way, though, that complaining and excuse-making wastes time and doesn’t change the fact that I still have to take action if I want my life and relationships to improve.

Speaking of which, I owe my sisters a much overdue phone call.

Perseverance Quote of the Week

2011-02-15T10:58:00.000-08:00

"There have been many, many times when I’ve been frustrated because I can’t land a maneuver. I’ve come to realize that the only way to master something is to keep at it...."

— Tony Hawk
Skateboarder extraordinaire

The Gift of Helping Others Find Their Voice

2011-01-21T06:32:00.000-08:00

My newest students at the East Communities YMCA are a cross-culture mix of women and children—all in the midst of transforming weak peeps into powerful, self-confident voices through the study of Taekwondo and self-defense.

These students are learning that when they stand up for themselves and others, opportunities and hope become abundant.

My Tiny Texans (ages 3-6) can easily name the four weapons every person is born with: two feet and two hands. But no matter the age, everyone seems to stumble on naming the fifth one.

“Head!” one boy shouts out in class one day.

I nod approvingly. “Not a bad guess,” I say. “Yes, keeping a clear head is a vital asset in self-defense, but that’s not the answer I was looking for. Who else has an answer?”

“Eyes!” a girl shouts.

“Elbows!” another boy says.

“Knees!” two siblings agree.

The students keep guessing until finally the meekest girl in the room shyly raises her hand.

“Yes, Ms. Diller?”

“Your voice,” the 7-year-old squeaks.

“YES!” I shout, giving her a high-five. She smiles through missing front teeth.

Students rarely think of their voice as a weapon. Sure, everyday we see people yelling at each other on the street and on television. But rarely is the voice demonstrated as a positive, gentle-yet-firm tool to de-escalate confrontation or stand ground when boundaries are crossed.

A surprising number of women who attend my self-defense class for the first time struggle not to laugh or feel silly when they kihap, or use their spirit voice, while kicking or punching. So over the years, I’ve developed a fun, easy drill called “Blink/Don’t Blink.” When I find students who are shy about using their voice, I have them practice projecting the power of their kihap to make their partner blink. When on the receiving end of the kihap, students try to stay centered, calm, and unnerved—known in Japanese martial arts circles as the “state of no mind.”

Two new white belts—11-year-old twin brothers forever on the cusp of fierce competition and sibling bickering—had no problem finding their voice the other day once they stopped giggling.

At first they couldn’t keep a straight face.

“O.K.,” I said, “five push-ups every time you laugh at your brother.”

“One, ma’am; two, ma’am...,” they counted as they lifted and lowered their plank-straight bodies on the mat.

They each did a couple sets of push-ups, and became more serious.

“Ha!” one brother yelled. His twin still snickered.

“One, ma’am; two ma’am...” his brother counted as he did push-ups.

“Try again,” I said, encouraging them to picture themselves in a self-defense situation.

“No!” one yelled at the other, making him blink.

“Shut up!” the other retorted.

“O.K.,” I interrupted. “That was good. But I didn’t make myself clear on the parameters of this drill. Let’s be respectful. What’s another way to stand up for yourself without saying ‘shut up’?”

“Back away!” the brother shouted.

“Better!” I cheered.

Both brothers smiled. They were proud of what they were learning—forgetting that just moments before they couldn’t look each other in the eye without busting a gut.

As a teacher, it’s always a good day when you see your students grow and break barriers. Women who find their voice, though, are the most exciting for me to teach, for with this type of awakening, they tear down years of society’s messages of:
• “Be a nice girl.”
• “Don’t rock the boat.”
• “Ladies don’t act that way.”
• “You can’t say that.”
• “If you speak up like that, people will start calling you a b----.”

In addition, many women and youth I teach these days live on the poorest side of town. They may already believe messages such as:
• “You’re destined to stay poor and powerless.”
• “Your options in life are limited.”
• “Look out for No. 1 because no one’s got your back.”
• “You might as well get high because you’re life’s not going anywhere.”

Get a group of women and kids together in one of my martial arts classes, though, and watch a light go on in their psyche, a flame flicker in their spirit, and a powerful, previously squashed voice rise from the depths of their soul.

Last Sunday, one lady in my Fit for Defense class almost made herself blink from the voice that erupted like a volcano from her diaphragm. Another woman who came in with a chirp left with a voice as strong as a bullhorn.

They stumbled out of the room afterward amazed by their meager personal triumphs. I wanted to tell them that more will be revealed, but I feared they couldn’t handle any more empowerment, lest their spirits go supernova right there.

I’m blessed that on my journey, many martial arts masters helped me find my voice. I’m honored to pass on my knowledge—to help others find their voices, too. It’s one of the best jobs I’ve ever had. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to build hope in others?

If you have a voice, you have a choice.

And from there, anything is possible.

When Two Garage Doors Close, Another One Opens

2011-01-06T07:10:00.000-08:00

Alexander Graham Bell said, “When one door closes, another one opens.”

This week, Bell’s words came to fruition: On Monday I closed the doors of the building where I started Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute five years ago. On Tuesday I opened the door to the East Communities YMCA and walked in to the next phase of my martial arts life: teaching Taekwondo to kids from the poorest side of Austin—hoping to help them make positive life choices to counter what they see (crime, drugs, gangs) every day.

As exciting as it is to begin a new program in a new place for a new purpose, I’m feeling a mixture of sadness and fatigue today. Change for the better is still change, and there’s grief in leaving anything behind—even when you’re moving on to something better.

As I sat on the floor of the now-empty, echo-replying training hall Monday night, I fully understood the cliché “memories flooded in”. I avoid clichés, but dang it, this one is appropriate to describe how it felt to look around the dojang, remembering all the events, people, and transformations that occurred since Tao of Texas MAI opened.

What I Will Miss

I will miss that old school—and I emphasize the word “old”. It was a cement-walled, double-garage-door building with dark wooden rafters, zero insulation, and funky smelling fluorescent lights. It was frigid in the winter and brutally hot in the summer, had minor flooding issues, and sensitive electric wiring. It was always either the coldest, windiest, or rainiest day of the year—at night—when the breakers decided they had had enough and flipped out. I had to trudge outside with a flashlight and flip them back on. Oftentimes, I ended up switching off all the wrong levers until I found the correct switch.

The building may have been old, but it was because it was old that I loved it so much. It held a lot of spirit and character, and it helped me and my students train hard and dig deep. Five students became black belts, two black belts promoted to higher ranks, and I received a third-degree promotion. Hundreds of children and adults learned thousands of lessons regarding not only how to punch, kick, spar, and break wood, but also how to improve their fitness and health and become more honest, responsible, patient, compassionate, and respectful people. Not a bad five years spent, if you ask me.

With the mirrors, mats, and training equipment gone, I felt a little sad (correction: WAY SAD) about the other things I’ll miss. Things such as:

• The feeling of a cold mat beneath my feet on a winter day. My students sometimes complained that their toes were numb from the cold floor, and some claimed they had frostbite. I now treasure their exaggerations. I loved the cold, though. It made me feel alive. And cold or not, we always worked hard enough to produce a good stream of sweat by the end of class.

• The feeling of sweaty bangs and a sopping wet dobok after a long day of good, hard training at the height of summer

• The cool shower at home AFTER a long day of good, hard training at the height of summer

• The jump line, where kids and adults honed their jumping skills. Nathan and Matthew, two of my teenage students, spent a week one summer painting cement blocks on the wall—floor to ceiling—the colors from our belt ranks. (Tim Diller was the only one who actually reached “Super Red”.)

• The “Don’t Quit” sign, which encouraged me and my students to keep going even though training—and life—became hard

• The many guest instructors and visitors who helped my students see beyond Taekwondo—that life and other arts are out there and that we should always be open-minded to learning new things. Ilene Smoger Sensei of the Okinawan Karate Club of Dallas taught a bo weapons class; Andrew Budd Sensei taught Enshin Karate techniques; and my old master, Kyoshi Ivan Ujueta of the Professional Karate Institute in San Antonio, introduced my students to Jukido, the gentle, powerful way. Then there were Kelly and Mike from Toronto, Canada, who worked out with us one Saturday morning and taught everyone Tang Soo Do forms. My students still talk about all of these people, the fun they had, and what they learned.

• The anime character painted on the wall by another one of my teenagers. It was Lacy’s first paid gig as an artist, and her friend Danielle took a blurry picture of us as I handed Lacy her check.

• The very spot I stood on the mat when I realized I had to flunk a black belt candidate because she quit a task on the test. She learned a hard lesson that day, and I did, too. On her retest, she learned to persevere despite what trash her mind was talking, and I learned that by not enabling my students today, I enable them to succeed tomorrow. (Today, she is one of my finest black belts.)

• The sight of the ceiling fans and the Plexiglass windows shaking when the Enshin Karate guys hit the heavy Sabaki bag. These guys’ kicks were fierce. The small blood stains on the six-foot-tall bag proved it.

• The harsh knocking and banging sound from the Ving Tsun Kung Fu brothers working on the jong, a wooden dummy used in Chinese martial arts training. It was kind of scary to watch how these men attacked that wooden dummy.

• Lock-Ins. My students and I had a blast each time they brought their sleeping bags in for an overnight stay—and the parents appreciated a “date night” without having to come home early to relieve a babysitter. We always held a “Midnight Writer’s Group,” where adults and kids met at midnight to talk about the craft of writing and to share their work. And at around 4 a.m., when many of the kids had finally crashed, some teenager always seem to be in a talking mood, revealing thoughts, dreams, and fears that I doubted even their parents knew. I was honored to listen.

What I Won’t Miss

With the mirrors, mats, and training equipment packed away, I felt relief (correction: A HUGE WEIGHT OFF MY SHOULDERS) about all the things I won’t miss, such as:

• The long hours. Five days a week, I worked 6:30 a.m.-2 p.m. as a copy editor for an educational publishing company, then taught multiple classes in the late afternoon/early evening, did financial/administrative paperwork at home, ate dinner late, and (with whatever time was left) loved on my partner, four dogs, and cat. I chose to continue working my day job to pay personal bills because I didn’t want money to influence how I ran the school. I was able to remain true to that plan, and even though the schedule was exhausting, and I missed a lot of time with family and friends, I don’t regret my choice to make martial arts training affordable.

• Keeping track of tuition payments and paying bills and taxes. Ick.

• The restroom door lock that always had to be adjusted when the building’s foundation shifted

• Those pesky mosquitoes that loved to visit our open-air dojang in the summertime. We kept them off our bodies by spraying insect repellant and keeping our limbs kicking and punching.

• The trickle of water that flowed into the building from outside during a hard rain. (Oftentimes it was more than a trickle.)

• Keeping the back lot weed-free and cut short. Students were never back there—never saw it. Heck, I rarely saw it. However, as a tenant, I was responsible for keeping it cut. It contributed nothing to the school—and was another physically taxing chore.

• Trimming the heavy ivy-like vines that grew along the electricity line just outside our garage doors. If I didn’t trim them, the mosquitoes bred like rabbits.

• Cleaning the dojang, especially the bathroom, where sometimes boys missed their intended target. Eew.

What I Learned

In five years, I’ve seen many small businesses (even martial arts schools) come and go. I’ve had some of my best enrollment months despite stock market fluctuations and hard economic times. I learned a lot by watching other businesses fail and prosper, and personally, I’m grateful to have learned that:

• I’m a fabulous youth instructor.

• I’m not meant to run a school—ever again.

• I was smart not to incur new debt (besides a meager start-up loan) and make the business support itself. Now I’m closing the school DEBT-FREE. In five years, I’ve seen many small businesses fold due to bankruptcy issues, so I feel extra fortunate that I stuck to my guns on this issue. (Wait. That was a cliché, wasn’t it? Grrrr.)

• Material goods and money don’t motivate me. People do.

• Life is too short to spend one more second doing something because others think I should, or because they think I’d be good at it.

• I’m at my best and happiest when I’m teaching and mentoring—being of service to others.

• I don’t have an inherent need to be the top dog. I don’t have a problem taking orders from others. Hence, for me, it’s less stressful to work for someone else and let them pay me to teach, pay the rent and electricity bills, collect tuition, keep the books up to date, pay (the majority of) the taxes, cut the lawn—and clean the boys’ restrooms.

As I collect all the old building’s keys and prepare to turn them into the leasing office, I know that this time next year I will have compiled a whole new list of bullets like the ones above. And that’s O.K., because if there’s one thing I’ve learned most, it’s that when one door closes, another one always opens wide to a new adventure.

More Words of Wisdom from Tomorrow’s Leaders

2010-12-22T09:38:00.000-08:00

Gabriel, a 9-year-old purple belt, became Tao of Texas Martial Arts’s newest Junior Leader today. As part of meeting all the requirements for this coveted position, he carefully and thoughtfully wrote the following essay on what makes a good leader:

“A leader shows a good example to other people. A leader helps people to achieve goals. A leader incourages people to do the right thing.

“A leader corrects you when you’re doing something wrong. A leader motivates you when you are discouraged. A leader shouldn’t discourage you. A leader should be very calm and polite. A leader corrects people very nicely.

“A leader tells people what to do very clearly. A leader does not critisize people. A leader does not lie to people. A leader does not cheat nor does he tell his students to cheat either.”

One word: WOW.

Gabriel's essay made me think of the many masters I've worked with over the years who sadly did not live up to the last two lines. It also made me wish the concepts he mentioned in his essay were standard operating procedures for Austin and Washington lawmakers.

This young man has a good head on his shoulders, a good heart in his body, and a brave, compassionate soul.

We need more young men like Gabriel walking this earth.

'Twas the Night Before Kung Fu...

2010-12-17T07:31:00.000-08:00

New words to a holiday classic

‘Twas the night before Kung Fu, when all through the house
A creature was stirring, and it wasn’t a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
And, big surprise, a burglar decided to start there.

My children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sparring matches danced in their heads.
And mamma in her dobok, and I in my gi,
Crept down the stairs to surprise the bad-guy would-be.

When out in the living room there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from the hallway, prepared for blood splatter.
Toward the burglar I charged like a flash,
I hit and hit him. I literally kicked his a--.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave luster to his bruised cheeks from blow after blow.
When, what to my overwhelmed eyes should appear,
But a switchblade knife—pointed at me, “Oh dear!”

With my trusty Kung Fu, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment: “Don’t let that knife stick.”
More rapid than eagles his attacks, they came.
And he grunted, and shouted, and called me bad names!

“Get out of my way, or I’ll hurt you, old man!
“This isn’t the time to be a UFC fan!
“I’ll slice you real bad; I’ll throw you against the wall!
“Now get away! Back off! Before I cut you all!”

And then, in a twinkling, I remembered my form
A punch and a tiger claw—and I was reborn.
As I drew in my leg and threw out a kick,
Down to the floor the man went—and now he looked sick.

His eyes—how they dazed! His nose—how it bled!
His cheeks were all swollen! He had a cut on his head!
He drooled from the mouth and was curled up in a ball,
And the shock on his face told me: That was all.

The stump of a knife he held tight in his teeth,
And a bandana encircled his head like a wreath.
In the blink of an eye, he climbed out the window,
And on the lawn he fell in a noisy crescendo.

He ran to his car, to his Homies he whistled,
And away they all drove like an Iranian-bound missile.
But I heard him exclaim, as they screeched out of sight,
“You Kung Fu guys are crazy. But, man, can you fight!”

Friends Who Bully Friends Aren’t Friends

2010-12-09T12:07:00.000-08:00

[Hopefully last in a series]

Last week I received a bittersweet call from a former Taekwondo student who had grown over 6 feet tall—in more ways than one.

I rarely get phone calls from my students, so it was a surprise and a treat to hear from Marvin.

As a frail, pip-squeak 8-year-old, Marvin walked into the dojang one day years ago with his mom. I thought he was a girl. He had beautiful, long and wavy golden blond hair. The only thing that indicated he was a boy was the sleeveless David Robinson San Antonio Spurs basketball jersey he wore and the fact that his mother referred to him as “he.”

Marvin studied Taekwondo with me for about three years until he reached green belt and budding basketball height. Now over 6 feet tall, Marvin was on his high school basketball team. But Marvin’s call indicated that he was growing in more ways than height. He was going through a hard social and emotional growth spurt after one of his friends struck him in anger.

“Oh, I admit it,” he began. “It was a stupid confrontation, and I started it.”

While in his room after school, Marvin and two friends were casually jawing when his friends began a tirade of gay slurs. Marvin asked them to stop.

“I said, ‘Hey, guys, that’s not cool,’ but they kept on,” Marvin explained. “Then I said, ‘You guys have to go. Seriously, I mean it.’”

They didn’t leave. Instead, one of his friends began to tease and taunt Marvin about being gay because he defended homosexuals. Marvin has a girlfriend, but that’s beside the point. His family raised him to be open-minded and open-hearted and to be compassionate, accepting, and respectful of everyone—period.

Marvin admits he was tired and overwhelmed by the stresses of school. His family also was dealing with a tough issue at home. So he asked his friends again to leave, but they remained. In a moment of frustration, Marvin made the terrible decision to throw a cup at one of his friends.

The cup hit his friend, and the friend exploded in a violent rage, repeatedly punching Marvin in the head.

Marvin said he saw the attack coming. “It was like a slow motion movie. As he was coming at me, I started thinking of all the ways I could take him down.” Then Marvin remembered something I said in class many years ago.

“You said to only use my skills if my life was in danger,” Marvin said. “Even though I haven’t been in class in years, I knew I still had skills that could really hurt him.”

He chose to take the hits and not fight back. Marvin’s other friend stood nearby and watched while the boy screamed and pounded Marvin’s head. The attack lasted only seconds, and then both friends left in a huff.

Marvin was shaken but thankfully wasn’t physically hurt. Instead, he was baffled by his friend’s strong reaction, which didn’t seem to match being hit by a cup.

Marvin had seen this side of his buddy before, but his friend’s anger had never been directed at him.

“I knew right after I threw the cup that I shouldn’t have thrown it,” he said on the phone. “I wish I could have taken that cup back. But it was too late, and then [his friend] just flew into a rage.”

“You obviously struck a nerve,” I said.

“Yeah, he’s had a rough life so far,” said Marvin, who described the foster homes his friend had been in before being recently adopted.

“I would bet his biological parents were abusive, and that they threw things at him,” I said.

“That sounds right,” Marvin replied.

There was a pause in the conversation, then I said, “You know you could have blocked, right? Blocking an attack is OK. Even if you started it, you didn’t have to sit there and take it.”

“I know,” he said. “I just chose not to fight back.”

The incident opened a dialogue about his relationship with this boy, and whether they were really friends.

“Well, I started it. I shouldn’t have thrown the cup,” he said.

“True,” I agreed. “Did you apologize?”

“I did,” Marvin said, adding that it didn’t do much good. His friend had already texted and emailed him with trash talk and was threatening to post disparaging things about Marvin on Facebook.

“If you are sincerely remorseful, and you make amends by never repeating that behavior again, then you’ve done your part,” I said. “You can’t force him to accept your apology, and you don’t have to take further abuse.”

It was during our conversation that Marvin questioned whether his friend was a bully.

“Friend” bullying happens more than some might think. In this situation, it appears his friend took on the role of a Bully, Marvin was the Target, and his other friend was the Bystander, who did nothing.

Marvin was able to recognize the dynamics and of how this wasn’t the first time events had played out this way.

Marvin was disappointed in himself—wishing he hadn’t thrown the cup—but also disappointed in the friend who exploded and the bystander friend who did nothing.

“I know it’s hard,” I said, “but sometimes you have to let people go.

“Own up to your part, make amends, and then make sure you control your emotions going forward. Once you’ve done that, though, if your friend doesn’t accept your apology, doesn’t own his part, and doesn’t change his behavior, you have to walk away.”

Marvin took a second to check his latest text message. It was another angry tirade from his “friend.”

He sighed.

“You’ll be O.K., [Marvin],” I reassured him. “You’re learning a lot from this.”

“Yes, ma’am, I am,” he said.

“And you’ll be stronger because of it,” I said, adding a last question: “So what can you do the next time ‘friends’ in your room start throwing gay slurs around and won’t respect your boundaries or leave when asked?”

He paused, then said, “Find real friends.”

Marvin has indeed grown in more ways than height since his last Taekwondo class. And although I'm not crazy about the fact that he now towers over me, I'll gratefully be the smaller woman in exchange for him being a bigger man.

Learning That Playful Hitting is Still Hitting

2010-11-23T10:38:00.000-08:00

I snipped off a red Spirit stripe from the white belt of a promising young student last week because he popped his elementary school buddy in the stomach too hard. Both students agreed they were playing, and that the hitting just got out of hand.

Still, this athletically gifted, quick-study 9-year-old had read and signed Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute’s Code of Conduct, which clearly states in boldface: CAUTION: Do not misuse the skills you learn in the dojang; use them only in real self-defense situations.”

There’s a reason that rule is there: I’m teaching young students to use their hands and feet as weapons that can hurt others. I’ve got to know they have enough self-control to not misuse their skills on a whim.

It’s truly hard to teach martial arts to children. One of the biggest reasons is because martial artists have to hold themselves up to a higher standard, and that means there are a lot of things that normal, everyday people of all ages can do that we cannot.

Like playing a rather innocent round of “Slug Bug.”

From time to time, I still grieve the fact that slug bug—a traffic game in which friends playfully punch each other in the arm the second they see a Volkswagen beetle roll by—is a luxury I can no longer afford.

After 18 years in the martial arts, I can knock someone into next week with my fist. That’s a wee bit too hard.

And honestly, if I expect my young students to respect the “no horseplay” and “no using Taekwondo outside class unless your life is in danger” rules, I can’t play this game ever again on principle. I must set the example.

I understand that no matter the intensity or intent, hitting is unacceptable. Still, it’s a hard concept for my white belt student to wrap his head around.

“But I didn’t hit him hard,” he said. “I didn’t know that was a Taekwondo strike.”

He showed me how he hit his classmate, demonstrating a knifehand side strike.

“That’s a Taekwondo strike,” I replied. “I’m teaching you how to use your hands and fists as weapons, so you can’t hit others. Period.”

“Do you understand?” I finally said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Maybe not.

My young white belt has not returned to class.

In a martial arts teacher’s life, you win some (students/lessons/competitions) and you lose some. I’ve had to confront many other students regarding “playful” hitting, and most have come back to train and try again. The students who stick around—the ones who see the benefit of Taekwondo despite a self-control setback—always become stronger and more respectful, responsible, and confident young men and women in the end.

Will my young student take this lesson to heart and return to continue practicing our way of life?

More will be revealed.

Perseverance, Indomitable Spirit Tipping Points to Success

2010-11-22T06:20:00.000-08:00

[This essay first appeared on the Nexus Taekwondo Alliance website. Visit www.nexustaekwondo.com for more information.]

If you’ve ever witnessed a student’s growth in the martial arts, you know that powerful breakthroughs can occur at any moment – that a mental, physical, and spiritual tipping point of sorts can happen in a heartbeat.

It happened to Omar. It can happen to you, too.

A stoic, hardworking Taekwondo orange belt, Omar recently faced the very thing that proved to be a stumbling block during his last martial arts promotion test: a 7-inch wide, ¾-inch thick whitewood pine board.

With shoulder-length brown hair and stringy bangs, Omar is a perfectionist who rarely smiles. Nine times out of 10, he’s serious. Last year, the 11-year-old was voted “Hardest Working Man on the Mat” as part of the school’s annual Taekwondo Tenet Awards. No one has ever accused Omar of being a slacker.

Despite his efforts, Omar has at times come up short on his goals. For him, the hardest spiritual hurdle to overcome in martial arts has been accepting and understanding the universal reality of imperfection. Not winning every game or contest or passing every test with a perfect score has been hard for him to swallow.

As a white belt, Omar always cried the moment he realized he had not performed – a block, a kick, or a form – perfectly. During game time on the mat, it was excruciating for him to be the runner-up.

He wanted to win. Every time.

Failure and imperfection are part of life, though, and I don’t hide that from my students. Still, it’s hard to teach 10- and 11-year-olds the other universal reality: Winners at life are simply people who have failed once, twice, maybe hundreds of times, but who still rose to their feet and tried again.

Earlier this year when Omar tried to break a board with a side kick for his orange belt, he struggled. He cried. He looked and felt defeated. Ultimately he broke the board, but not until I changed the technique from a side kick to an ax kick.

I could see he was still battling memories of his last side kick shortcoming. And when Omar marched up to me in the dojang and proclaimed, “I’m not confident in my break,” I knew he was destined for a breakthrough.

Here’s why: He said he didn’t have confidence, but I could see in his eyes that he was determined to try again anyway, and to me, that’s what was most important. Omar had the will and the indomitable spirit to persevere.

We got to work: First I had Omar kick the power bag hard, repeatedly coaching him to use the blade and heel of the foot. When he delivered good technique, I delivered an avalanche of praise.

Bam!

“GOOD!” I exclaimed several times, offering Omar high-five palm slaps.

Next I pulled out an 8 ½ x 11-inch sheet of notebook paper. I use paper because it’s a great follow-through tool. The student can see and hear the results of his kicks through the paper, and therefore gets used to kicking through the target.

“This is no different from the wood board you’re going to break in a minute,” I reminded him. “It’s the exact same material. It’s just a little thinner. Kick through the sheet. Make it crackle. Kick it out of my hand. Tear it in two with your foot if you can.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Omar said, still stoic.

Smack!

“That’s it! That’s it!” I screamed as he kicked the paper in half.

Next I pulled out a rebreakable board.

“This is a little harder,” I said, “but use the same strategy – accuracy, good technique, speed, power, follow through.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Omar said.

Pop!

“Aaaaaamaaaaazing!” I cried. Omar cracked a slight smile.

“O.K. here we go,” I said, pulling out a wooden board from my wood stack on the shelves. I knelt down on one knee and looked Omar in the eye.

“I know you can do this, son,” I said in a serious tone.

With a purple marker, I drew an “X” in the center of the board.

“Right here,” I said, pointing to the X. “Kick right here. Blade, heel, follow through. And you know if you follow through so far that you kick me in the chest, I’m not going to be mad at you. I’m going to be so proud.”

An upward curve appeared on Omar’s left lip. Then he intently stared at the board.

“Whenever you’re ready, let me know.”

He nodded. He took a few deep breaths. “Ready, ma’am,” he finally said.

I nodded, and then looked away. “Shijak!” I said, giving him the command to begin.

Crack!

The room of spectators that had silently gathered to watch Omar’s rite of passage erupted in applause. I roared more praise.

“Oh, that was a sweet break!”

Omar actually smiled wide – for about two seconds. He didn’t need to smile, though. Anyone with a mustard seed of awareness could tell how wonderful this young man felt by the way he proudly tugged on the stiff new green belt I later wrapped around his waist.

Through his board break, he had a breakthrough. I knew it was only a matter of time. Now he knew, too.

Mahatma Gandhi once said, “Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.”

Gandhi may not have been a Taekwondo stylist, but he certainly had a thorough understanding of the art’s most important tenets: perseverance and indomitable spirit. And now, so does Omar.

Taekwondo doesn’t have the corner market on building indomitable spirit. A strong spirit can be attained through anything in life that requires you to give your best – your all – in an effort to be a better person, to live a better life.

Indomitable spirit is a vital asset to have in your back pocket when life hits you hard. Giving up is easy. Continuing to trudge forward – even when (especially when) you’re not assured of success – is a road less traveled. But a hardened spirit (not to be confused with a hardened heart) is what separates those who eek by and complain about what life hands them from those who give their best, accept the results with gratitude, and ultimately succeed.

To earn his green belt, Omar broke through a 7-inch wide whitewood pine board and learned that perseverance and indomitable spirit are pathways to excellence and success. If an 11-year-old can learn this valuable lesson, anyone can.

What board stands between you and your life goals? What’s stopping you from giving your best to accomplish your dreams and goals? More importantly, what are you waiting for?

The tipping point toward the breakthrough you seek could occur in a heartbeat.

A Sage in a Size Zero Dobok

2010-11-17T11:06:00.000-08:00

A book I read on a regular basis reminds me of the value of hard work, humility, and faith.

“We will be amazed before we are halfway through,” it promises.

This promise has come true for me countless times in the past. On Tuesday, it came true again – this time in the form of an intelligent, solemn young man. He’s an 8-year-old green belt, yet he acts like a sage black belt.

Tuesday began like most days at the dojang. I joyfully watched the Tiny Texans as they began their energetic parade into the school. It’s always fun to watch these pre-K martial artists bop in the door, bow as they make their best attempt at a Korean hello, and then run into the training hall to play like whirling dervishes before class.

The highlight of the day, though, came when 8-year-old Ziyah handed me a white sheet of notebook paper containing his essay on what makes a good leader.

Ziyah and his classmate Calvin each wrote essays to earn 10 extra leadership points toward meeting their Junior Leaders qualifications at Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute.

Writing such an essay hasn’t previously been a requirement to qualify for Junior Leader status at Tao of Texas. However, I’m already rethinking that. I’ve been so blown away by my students’ serious thought and wisdom on the subject that I’d be crazy not to continue this rite of passage – for their sakes and for mine.

The energy they give this project is so inspiring. Their words fill my spirit with gratitude, gladness, and hope.

Ziyah – a thin, oftentimes-quiet green belt with soft, brown eyes and hair – cracked a slight smile as he handed me the sheet of paper. His essay was neatly written in pencil. He was proud and excited, and I’m sure a tad bit scared. His parents told me that he’d been working hard on the essay, and I knew he wanted me to like it.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, bowing as I took the paper. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to read this later. I want to get a cup of coffee and sit back, because I can tell this is going to be some good reading.”

He smiled all the way this time. “Yes, ma’am,” was all he said.

So this morning as I drank my cup of coffee, I began to read. Again, I was amazed at the wisdom that comes from 8-year-olds:

“A leader is a good example to other class mates.

“They never show their fears.

“They always listen to the teacher and does what the teacher says.

“Leaders remain calm and focused on responsibilities.

“Some of them are bowing in and out of the dojang, keeping uniform clean, putting away materials after use, and always saying yes mam and yes sir.

“They are always confident and never frustrated.

“They never get people in trouble.”

(I can think of a few high-profile and high-powered lawmakers in Washington, D.C., who could greatly benefit from spending five minutes with this young man.)

Ziayh and Calvin will soon take their Junior Leader vows, after which they will receive their new, sharp and snazzy uniforms, and coveted Junior Leader patches. It’s a BIG DEAL at our school to become a Junior Leader, and I am excited for them both. I can only imagine the incredible growth that's in store for them.

After all, I'm already amazed – and they're not even halfway through.

A 7-Year-Old’s Path to Greatness

2010-11-12T07:20:00.000-08:00

[Revised to include essay]

Greatness is attributed to such people as Mahatma Gandhi, Albert Einstein, and Abraham Lincoln. Yet I suspect I have greatness in my midst.

And it’s tucked inside a 7-year-old boy’s body.

Another student astounded his parents – and me – this week in his thousand-mile journey in the martial arts. No matter how many times I’ve seen transformative moments like this before, I still get giddy with excitement. Still get chills.

I’m a writer – and you can’t write this stuff.

Earlier this month, I invited four young men to apply to become Junior Leaders at Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute. At our school, being a Junior Leader isn’t something you pay for in extra tuition. It’s something you earn. A candidate must be at least a green belt who has accumulated 36 or more hours of leadership-related tasks.

Students get leadership points by leading the class in warm-ups; teaching classmates their kicks, punches, and forms; or helping with chores around the dojang. Junior Leader is a coveted role. Not every student becomes a Junior Leader, but those who have attained this position also coincidentally have gone on to obtain their black belts.

These students are selfless, hard-working, and determined. They are humble, inspiring examples to their peers of the true power of martial arts. They are my right-hand men and women on the mat.

And they get to wear cool uniforms: black pants and a white top with black V-neck trim – a privilege typically reserved for black belts only.

Calvin has been foaming at the mouth to become a Junior Leader for a while now. For the past three months, he has been the first student in the dojang on Tuesdays and Thursdays, showing up an entire hour before his own class begins so that he can assist me in the Tiny Texans class.

Calvin is 7 YEARS OLD.

He is big for his age, but Calvin is big to the 3- to 5-year-old Tiny Texans for another reason. To them, he’s not just Calvin – a 2nd-grader who struggles with penmanship. He’s “Mr. Redman,” and Mr. Redman can do all kinds of neat, cool kicks. He can break whitewood pine boards and throw hard punches with his fists, and he can knock over the yellow standup punching bag with a powerful front kick and loud kihap. These mini-martial artists literally and figuratively look up to Calvin. They want to be just like him.

Every training day, Calvin has diligently written down his leadership points on the Leadership Log and added them up. (He has become very motivated to improve his math skills now that addition has a real-life application.)

Calvin wants to be a Junior Leader so badly he can hardly stand it. So the day after he was promoted to green belt, I gave Calvin and three other boys an opportunity to get 10 leadership points by writing an essay on what it means to be a leader.

Calvin was motivated – the kind of motivation that inspires greatness. So I wasn’t too surprised when I received the following email from his mom:

"Okay. Where is my son? What have you done to him? Geez.... As soon as we left [the dojang], Calvin said, ‘I want to write my essay tonight.’ I said no, and explained to him that an essay takes time and thought. Being the persistent little bugger that he is, he started talking about what makes a good leader. I had a feeling he did not quite understand the question by the random answers he was giving me. So, I explained the best I could. First off, I explained that leaders are not just ‘Junior Leaders,’ but teachers as well. ‘Ms. Cathy is a leader…,’ and so on. Then it clicked. We came home and I told him to write a rough draft. Of course, he had never even heard of that, so I had to explain that to him. I told him an essay had a beginning, middle, and an end (at least that is how I remember it!). We talked about what made you respect people and what makes you want to learn from someone. Cathy, that guy wrote an essay!!!!! He wrote everything, and formed all of the sentences on his own. I added one word at the end to complete the last sentence. He is extremely proud, and I cannot even tell you how proud I am. I hope you feel the same when he hands it into you tomorrow.”

Calvin turned in his essay on Wednesday – handwritten so that he could practice improving his penmanship – and his mom was right. It was amazing:

“To be a good leader you have to listen to your students. It might be important.

“Be honest to your students so your students do the move right.

“Be kind to your students so they will like you.

“Respect your students and they will respect you.

“Think about your students and they will think about you.

“I think these [qualities] will make a good leader.”

Check it: He’s 7 years old, people! And while his mom admits she added one word (obviously: “qualities”) to the essay, he wrote the whole darn thing himself.

At the end of his mom’s email, she wrote “You are the BEST!” and thanked me for inspiring her son.

Let’s be clear. I’M not the best. CALVIN is the best. He is the one who sat down and thought about being a leader – about how I treat him and his classmates with courtesy, integrity, and respect, and about how that’s how he wants to treat others when he’s in a leadership role.

You may have begun your day listening to the pundits on CNN bemoaning the fact that this country’s in a liberal/conservative/Democratic/Republican/Tea Party hell hole and there’s no way out. You might feel discouraged, disheartened, and hopeless. You may say, “Where are our heroes? Our John Waynes?”

I can attest that many of the great heroes you seek stand in sharp, neat lines, kicking and punching on a daily basis at Tao of Texas MAI here in Austin, Texas. But truly, they’re everywhere.

You may not pay much attention to 7-year-olds. They may not warrant the time of day on your busy calendar. Be advised, though: If you dismiss these kids, you will be missing out on greatness-in-waiting. Inspiration and empowerment can come from the most unusual and unlikely places, circumstances, and people.

Is Calvin the next Dalai Lama? Doubt it. Yet I sense we should all keep our eyes on him.

The Force is strong in this one, Yoda might say.

10 Strategies to Deal with Bullies

2010-11-02T09:18:00.000-07:00

[Part 6 in a series]

Oftentimes it takes a combination of actions to stop bullying. Below are tips I give my martial arts students to help deal with such situations.

1. Don’t retaliate. If a bully physically strikes you in any way, don’t hit back. If a bully says mean things, don’t top that with a hurtful comment of your own. This will only escalate and feed the bully's power. Instead, tell a friend, a teacher or an adult about the person and incident.

2. Walk away. Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute’s first rule of self-defense is to run away from dangerous situations. Walk away from anyone who makes you feel uncomfortable, whether the person is physically or verbally threatening. If the bully follows you, walk right up to a teacher—and just stand there.

3. Make a bully-buddy. One of my students recently told me that a classmate would stick his leg out to trip her as she walked by in the lunchroom. If this happens to you, find a “bully-buddy”—another student (or maybe several) to walk around with you. Bullies are less likely to target students who travel in pairs or groups. When challenged, many bullies will back down.

4. Avoid the bully. Another student recently said that she and her friend were scared of a boy who hovered around them and said hurtful things as they waited in the hallway for class. In this situation, the bully-buddy method wasn’t enough. Their solution? The girl and her friend began hanging out at a bench outside in the school courtyard; by class time, the boy was gone.

5. Think strong, stand tall. When confronted by a bully, think strong and stand tall. Imagine you are huge. Pretend you’re a super hero. Keep your chin up and shoulders back; and imagine that you’re wearing a cloak that doesn’t allow mean or hurtful words through.

6. “No! Stop!” If a classmate kicks or hits you, pulls your hair, cuts in line, or takes your possessions, say, “No! Stop!” as loud as you can, and then go tell a teacher what happened. This isn’t tattling. It’s called self-defense—and taking care of yourself.

7. Don’t believe everything you hear. Bullies love insults, and they have a way of pressuring otherwise nice classmates—even ones you thought were your friends—to laugh at you, or join in mocking gestures to try to make you feel embarrassed, uncomfortable, ashamed, and sad. Try a role-play game in which your mom or dad play the bully. Practice not believing mean things someone might say to you. Here’s an example of one I played with Peter, a smart, blond-haired, freckle-faced boy in my Taekwondo class.

“Peter, you have the most disgusting purple hair I’ve ever seen.”

He grinned. His classmates giggled.

“What are you smiling at?” I asked. “Your hair makes me want to throw up!”

He started to laugh. So did the rest of the class. “Why aren’t you upset, Peter?”

“Because it’s not true,” he said confidently. “I don’t have purple hair.”

“So what’s the difference in me saying something mean about your freckles? If you believe your freckles are beautiful, it doesn’t matter what I say. Right?”

“Right.”

“But let’s say you don’t think you’re good at math, and someone calls you
‘stupid.’ Then it hurts. Because you think it might be true.”

The class nods in silence. Some kids look down.

“The key is to know what’s true about you, and not be distracted by what’s not true. Love yourself for who you are—freckles, imperfect at math, and all. If others don’t ‘get’ you, their loss.”

8. Smile and nod. Bullies love to make you cry or see you be afraid. It’s a game for them. Don’t show that you’re hurt or scared. No matter what others say, smile and nod. It confuses bullies, and if they don’t get the reaction they seek, they’ll likely get bored and leave you alone.

9. Tell someone. It may be hard to speak up, but don’t be silent about bullies. Know that parents, teachers, and school counselors want to know about bullying, and that teachers are PAID not only to teach you math, English, science, and social studies, but also to ensure that you’re safe while in their care. It’s unfair—and can even be considered disrespectful—to not let them help you. Plus, your teachers may get in trouble with their boss, the principal, if you don’t let them help you.

10. Think outside the box. A parent told me that a bully had taken her son’s shoes one day at school and then threw them to his friends while her son chased after them. “If he takes your shoes again,” I told my student, “ask him to return them. If he doesn’t, don’t chase after him. That’s part of his game—to make you look silly running around. Instead, march right up to the teacher and tell her, ‘Excuse me, ma’am. Can I borrow a pair of shoes?’ When she finds out what happened to your shoes, trust me, she’ll handle it from there.” I explained that, technically, he wouldn’t be tattling on the bully; he’d simply be asking to borrow shoes.

Bullying: Signs and Solutions

2010-11-01T07:45:00.000-07:00

[Part 5 in a series]

How can you tell if your children or your friends are being bullied when they won’t admit it?

Watch for these signs in others:
• Feeling anxious or upset about going to school or getting on the school bus
• Complaining of feeling sick—especially with headaches and stomachaches—before school
• Crying before school
• Being unusually quiet
• Avoiding certain people at school
• Having lower self-esteem than usual
• Showing a drop in grades
• Coming home from school with torn clothes
• Having unexplained bruises
• Saying they lost a personal item but not wanting to talk about how it happened
• Not mentioning that a personal item has been broken
• Denying (with irritation) that anything’s bothering them

No matter how great a relationship you have with your children or friends, targets of bullying may be hesitant to reveal what’s going on. They may feel that admission makes them look weak, or they may believe the things others say about them and therefore don’t want to talk about it because they feel shame.

A low self-esteem is a prime give-away that something’s wrong at school.

If you suspect your children or friends are being bullied, be supportive. Tell them OFTEN:
• How much you care about them
• How important they are to you
• That they can tell you anything they’re experiencing at school without judgment
• That their peers are crazy if they don’t “get” them or don't think they’re the most terrific person in the world
• That they are perfect just the way they are

Ultimately, trust your instincts. Parents, if your gut tells you that you should intervene further, set up a meeting immediately with your children’s teacher, school counselor, or principal.

“I Was a Teenage Bully – and Didn’t Know It”

2010-10-29T07:26:00.000-07:00

[Part 4 in a series]

Looking at my partner—a mature, responsible Lutheran Democrat who relays phone calls for the deaf and hard of hearing of Texas and volunteers every Saturday at a low-cost spay and neuter animal clinic—you’d never know she was a bully in school.

“Were you ever bullied?” I asked one night as I began preparing to write this series.

She paused, then said, “No, I was probably the bully.”

“Really?” I said with a surprised shriek.

She seemed equally surprised. She’d never thought much about it until all the stories of Phoebe Prince surfaced and we began to talk more about our individual school experiences.

I’ve always thought anyone with half a heart could spot a bully a West Texas mile away. Now I’m not so sure. And knowing my partner, I’m convinced that she is one of those people statistics cite who don’t realize just how hurtful and harmful their harassment is to their peers—who blow off their behavior as good, old-fashioned teasing.

Were you, or are you, a bully? Have your ridiculing words or physical actions caused others pain?

Let’s be clear: There ARE mean people in the world who find pleasure in hurting their peers. They know what they’re doing, and they do it with a powerful sense of gratification.

Studies indicate, though, that the majority of bullies were once victims of bullies themselves—many simply doing what was done to them without a second thought. Could the majority of bullies be truly that clueless about the impact of their actions? Could you have been a bully yourself and not even known it?

To find out, let’s all answer one of those dopey questionnaires. Ready? Have you ever:

• Hit, kicked, pushed, back-slapped, tripped a peer?
• Pulled someone's hair or spit at them?
• Called a peer names, or verbally ridiculed him or her in front of friends or before strangers in public?
• Mocked a person’s voice or walk, regardless of whether he or she was present?
• Knocked books out of a classmate’s arms?
• Taken property and refused to give it back—or made your peer do something humiliating and embarrassing to get the property back?
• Taken and purposefully broken someone’s property?
• Pressured others to join in on teasing or hitting someone?
• Alienated a peer from a social circle or group game?
• Threatened others so that they wouldn’t intervene on behalf of a bullied peer?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, sorry to break it to you, but you are, or have been, a bully.

It’s not too late, though, to change your behavior—to make amends. If you’re truly remorseful, here are some ideas on how to cleanse your karma:

• Apologize immediately for past behavior and DO NOT REPEAT that behavior again. If you say you’re sorry but repeat the same actions, it hurts your peers even more—and you lose integrity.
• The next time a peer is being criticized—unfair or not, present or not—say, “That’s bullying, and it’s no O.K. Not now, not ever.” Then walk away.
• Invite the targeted or alienated peer to join your group for lunch or to just sit and talk.
• If you’re in school, tell a teacher or counselor that a peer is being bullied, and that you’re concerned for his or her welfare.
• Avoid hanging out with peers who criticize others because they’re different, especially if they are intolerant of others based on race, religion, socio-economic status, sexual orientation, or disability.
• Forgive yourself for past wrongs.

Humans are incredibly resilient. Many grown adults have survived bullying in school. Some are stronger for it, but for many, it’s still a source of painful memories.

If you’ve been a bully in the past, talk to others who were bullied. Get real clear about the depth of damage your actions might have caused. Then share your realizations with others—especially the youth in the world—and use your experiences as a springboard to a more open dialogue on how to treat peers with respect.

It’s always the right time to make amends for past actions—to others and to yourself. All that is required is a sincere heart and a courageous spirit. You never know: People who have been bullied in the past, like me, might just need to hear a kind word from you today.

Memories of Being Bullied

2010-10-26T10:28:00.000-07:00

[Part 3 in a series]

Every morning when I was in the second grade, I begged my mom to let me stay home from school.

When I was 8 years old, I was bullied.

Tears flowed from my eyes every day as I sobbed, “Mamma, I don’t wanna go to school!” My mother ignored me, diligently helping tie the shoelaces on my black and white track shoes. I had run out of stomachaches, headaches, and fake fevers. I had to go to school, and I dreaded it because I just didn’t want to face what kids would say to me another day.

From first grade until about ninth grade, I was teased for a variety of reasons. My peers said:
• I was gross. (Truth: I had a gum disease that caused my gums to spontaneously bleed. This drew the disgusted “Eews!” and “Gross!” jeers of my classmates.)
• I wore ugly dresses. (Truth: The dresses were discount-store-bought cheap, but pretty. I wore them with black and white track shoes and knee-high white socks—a big fashion no-no, but, come on, I was just a kid.)
• I was a nerd. (Truth: I was book-smart, and I loved learning.)
• I was a teacher’s pet. (Truth: I thrived on pleasing authority figures—and still do.)

Students also mocked my last name with a similarly sounding Spanish slang phrase that was a gay slur.

I played the part of a super-stealth ninja for most of my time in school. I tried not to cry when kids said hurtful things because I learned that if they didn’t think they hurt my feelings, they lost interest and went on to bully someone else.

That worked until the sixth grade, when an older classmate threatened to beat me up after school—for no reason. Again, I was scared and didn’t want to go to school. But while I didn’t breathe a word about the bullies before, I did tell my mom about this girl. Mamma’s solution? Wear jeans and loop on my sister’s thick leather western belt.

"If that girl lays a hand on you," Mamma insisted, "you pull that belt off and whip her with it!"

I snuck around school, changing my routes to avoid the bully, and eventually she forgot about me. For the rest of the year, though, I had a whole new group of kids making fun of me and that big leather belt, calling me “Hee Haw Cathy.”

Eventually, around 10th grade, my peers stopped picking on me so much. I still excelled in academics, except by the time of my induction into the National Honor Society, being smart was considered an asset. My classmates could call me “nerd” all they wanted and it didn’t matter because I knew was bound for college. (Stick tongue out here.)

Today I’m a grown woman who still loves to read and has made a career out of working with words as a writer and editor. I also have much higher self-esteem and inner strength. Studying martial arts has been a true gift. It saddens me and makes me angry when I hear what comes out of the mouths of today's bullies. But today through martial arts, I have a chance to help youths build self-confidence as a way to combat the bullies I know they run into at school. I get to give them the words I never knew to speak and the courage I didn't yet have to stand up for themselves.

Surviving bullying IS NOT a rite of passage. Bullying is WRONG. No kid should have to grow thicker skin or toughen up so that they can weather classmates’ taunts and torture. It doesn’t have to be this way.

Until our judgmental and violent-prone culture changes, though, the best I can do is to pass on the following wisdom to those who still suffer the wrath of bullies:
• Don’t listen to or believe your classmates’ hurtful words. The mean things a bully might say to you and about you aren’t true anyway. Imagine you’re Teflon cookware: Let nothing stick to you.
• Stand up for yourself—and others. Repeat this simple mantra: “Bullying is not O.K.—not now, not ever!” Then walk away.
• Stick with the winners. Find a good, solid group of peeps and stay close. Avoid those fair-weather friends who abandon you when the bully comes around or who join in on the bashing because they themselves are afraid of what the bully might do or say if they don’t.
• Talk to someone. Don’t suffer in silence. Adults can and will help if you ask—even parents.
• Give it time. Remember that school life doesn’t last forever. This, too, shall pass, so please hang in there.
• Avoid taking bully-prevention fashion tips from your mother at all costs.

We Interrupt Our Series on Bullies for a Word on Peer Pressure

2010-10-22T09:27:00.000-07:00

Another young man bit the character dust this week and suffered the unfortunate consequences of taking action on a bad idea. And it wasn’t even his.

Through aggressive intimidation or by the threat of being ostracized, peers can seemingly wave a Holly wood, Phoenix-feathered Harry Potter wand and make smart kids with low self-esteem do really dumb things. From name-calling to outright dares, peers-in-power have an uncanny ability to push the right social-status buttons to ensure that their insecure fellows act as powerless puppets.

For many elementary- to high school-age youths, it’s vital to look good on the outside—to be liked by their peers. (Heck, this is true for many adults.) However, that desperate need for acceptance oftentimes leads to lackluster decision-making.

Jake is the latest casualty of peer pressure gone wrong.

In my office after Taekwondo class earlier this week, Jake fidgeted while sitting in a cold metal folding chair. Long straight locks of brown hair fell onto his forehead, covering his eyes. His hands nervously rubbed his thighs. Finally he began telling me why he was suspended from high school and sent to an alternative learning center in town.

A couple of weeks ago, a classmate in Jake’s chemistry class bragged that he had brought alcohol to school in his water bottle.

“You don’t believe me?” the classmate asked.

“Nah, I don’t,” Jake said.

“Here. Take a drink then,” his classmate said, holding the water bottle out in the air.

Other classmates looked at Jake to see what he’d do.

Jake grabbed the bottle and took a sip. Right as Jake took the drink, school security officers entered the classroom and busted them both.

“Really?” I asked him after he finished his story. “You took a drink of something without knowing exactly what it was? In CHEMISTRY class?”

Jake nodded yes, then added, “Kind’a ironic.”

“I’ll say,” I replied, then paused. “Smart thing to do?"

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head and smiling weakly. He’d obviously been lectured on this topic already by his mom and dad.

Jake’s grades are good. By all appearances, he’s an intelligent, well-adjusted young man who doesn’t abuse legal or illegal substances. He knows it’s wrong to drink alcohol—anytime, anywhere—until he’s legally mature. So why did he do it?

“ ’Cause I didn’t believe him,” Jake said.

“You didn’t feel pressured?”

“Nah,” he insisted. Now I didn’t believe him.

We could have danced around the issue all night, and Jake probably wouldn’t have admitted that he was afraid of being called a “woosie boy” by his classmates, of being razzed for not having the guts to take a drink. So I had to work with what I was given.

“Learned a big lesson, did you?” I asked, feeling for a second as if I were channeling Yoda.

“Oh, yeah,” Jake insisted, his eyes growing large.

“Because I don’t know if you realize how lucky you were,” I said, leaning forward in my chair. “Whether it’s a friend who tries to get you to drink something or a stranger, you don’t know what’s really in stuff these days. There are so many designer drugs out there. You are really lucky you just had two weeks at The Rock. You could have been permanently physically or mentally scarred by a bad drug trip.”

I paused. He nodded silently. Our martial arts school is a drug-free zone, and anyone who violates the drug policy risks demotion or suspension. He waited to hear the consequences of his actions.

I pulled open the side drawer to my gray metal desk. It was filled with worn, multicolored belts.

“See these belts? These are all the belts I’ve taken away from students over the years for various reasons. One of these is from a young man who got into trouble with pot, came to Taekwondo, was doing really well, but then went to hang out with his drug buddies again one night. He turned in a bad UA (urinalysis) and I had to demote him.

“He knew he had a problem coming in. You’re different,” I said, pausing.

It’s at times like these that I pray for guidance—for the wisdom to know when to be gentle yet firm and when to practice forgiveness, patience, and compassion.

“I’m not going to demote you today,” I finally said, “but you have to be smarter about this kind of stuff, because next time, if you survive, your belt’s going in here,” I said.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, then immediately added, “Yes, ma’am.”

"I would hate to not have you as a student anymore, because you're physically talented and have tremendous Taekwondo potential. But in Taekwondo, we either learn to stand tall—to have the strength to follow our own path regardless of what others think—or we are left with pain, resentment, and regret."

He nodded, we bowed and shook hands, and he left. Now it's up to him.

Will Jake learn that “no” is an acceptable and oftentimes important response to peers’ pressure and dares?

More will be revealed.

Not the happily-forever-after ending to the story you’d like? The truth is peer pressure is a cunning, baffling, and powerful force to be reckoned with. The best I or anyone else can do is to live by example: to be a strong person of conviction who not only says no when I want to, but most importantly when I need to. The next best thing I can do is to help my students develop a higher level of self-esteem as a buffer—a halo of protection of sorts—so that they stay true to themselves, on a path of excellence. Only then can the next generation create the possibility of making choices that are right for them.

Only then can our children lead fruitful, fulfilling, and serene lives.

Standing Up to a Bully: A True Story

2010-10-21T08:07:00.000-07:00

[Part 2 in a series]

Nine-year-old “Mark” couldn’t just stand there as a bully pulled a classmate’s pants down in the boys’ restroom. Mark intervened, telling the bully to stop. The bully immediately backed down and left the restroom.

Let’s be clear: Mark is not a big boy. He’s not aggressive. What makes this an extraordinary act is that he is a sweet, kind, and gentle young man who still has his own struggles with occasionally being the target of bullies. However, for some reason that day it was easier for him to stand up for his classmate than it has been to stand up for himself.

Standing up to a bully is hard enough for youths. Risking social backlash by defending a peer is harder. Even more difficult is telling an authority figure about the incident without feeling like a tattletale. Mark knew he should tell his teacher what happened because he had heard in Taekwondo class the week before that school officials need and want to know when students are being harassed.

Mark’s classmate was embarrassed about the incident and begged him not to tell their teacher. His friend didn’t want his teacher and peers knowing what happened, and also didn’t want the bully to retaliate for getting him in trouble. But Mark knew what he had to do.

“I didn’t want to hurt my friend, or make the bully mad,” Mark said later, “but I had to tell the teacher what happened.”

School officials later discovered that Mark’s classmate was not the only boy the bully had targeted. At least a dozen students later admitted that the bully had pulled or tried to pull their pants down, too. The bully was disciplined, and Mark and his friend haven’t had a problem with him since.

As a result of his courageous actions, Mark was named Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute’s 2009 Student of the Year. His courage and commitment to using Taekwondo in a positive way – embodying the tenets of courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit – set a mighty high bar for those who follow.

It’s not easy to confront a bully, especially when someone else is the target. Could you do it? Would you?

Bullying a Heartbreaking Pandemic

2010-10-20T09:59:00.000-07:00

[Part 1 in a series]

My heart broke last week when a parent told me about his son, who every morning cried, screamed, and pleaded for his dad to let him stay home from school. He was afraid of a bully.

“(Jay) is just totally scared of going to school,” the dad said. “I’m emailing and calling the principal and his teacher. The only thing he tells us is that other kids call him ‘stupid’.”

I’ve taught children and teens Taekwondo for 11 years. If I had a dime for every time I heard a heartbreaking story of a student being bullied or an adult recalling a painful, peer-bashing trauma from childhood, I’d be richer than Bill Gates and Oprah combined – on the cover of my own Fortune 1 magazine.

The Karate Kid was a box-office hit this summer, but for many U.S. youths, school bullies are not the fiction of Hollywood movies. They are emotionally unsettling realities.

The problem didn’t start with six Massachusetts teens accused of bullying 15-year-old freshman Phoebe Prince to suicide in January. Bullies torment millions of U.S. youths every year and incidents are commonplace in school hallways, lunchrooms, locker rooms, playgrounds and gym class.

Consider the following statistics from recent government surveys and reports:
• Bullying occurs in 21 percent of U.S. elementary schools, 43 percent of middle schools, and 22 percent of high schools.
• Fifty-two percent of U.S. students witness bullying at least once a week.
• Sixty-six percent of U.S. students are teased or bullied at least once a month.
• An estimated 160,000 children miss school every day because they fear bullies.

Who gets the brunt of bullying? Sixth-graders were bullied more often than any other school-age group, according to a 2009 U.S. Department of Education report. Bullies also frequently target classmates based on race, religion, sexual orientation, or disability.

If these statistics trouble you, think about the percentage of bullying that goes unreported. I know from experience that youths are tight-lipped about being bullied. They’re ashamed to admit it, and oftentimes will keep quiet until either the pain is unbearable or parents or other adults find out by accident.

For example, a mom of one of my students came to her son’s elementary school to bring him lunch one day and saw him circled by his classmates on the playground. They had tackled him, taken his shoes, and were playing keep-away. Her son chased after his shoes in vain. It was only then that he admitted to her that one of the boys had been bullying him for weeks.

One of the most common reasons parents bring their children to train with me is to learn self-defense.

“He gets picked on at school,” they say. “We want her to learn to stand up for herself.”

I oblige. It’s my job. Unfortunately, bullies keep me in business. Why?

Turn on a cable news program and listen to how pundits debate each other. Watch news footage of a political rally. Be a fly on the wall while an adult drives in rush-hour traffic. Watch an episode of The Real Housewives of Any City, U.S.A., where women are celebrated for berating each other. Some Americans are culturally invested in judging and ridiculing each other, and our kids see it. They mimic it. And some think nothing of the feelings they hurt, or are unconscious of the power of their harsh words.

While reality TV housewives might be able to dish out and receive insults unfazed, our 6-, 10-, and 15-year-olds don’t yet have the self-esteem or life skills to defend against such taunts and torture – to ignore the unfair and oftentimes unfounded criticism from peers.

How can we stop this unconscionable behavior?

At its core, bullying represents a lack of respect for others. If children and adults diligently practice respect, we can cure this social plague. But adults must first change their own judgmental tendencies, because children learn more from their parents about how to interact socially than anyone else.

As a teacher, I rely heavily on Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute’s 10-point character development system called Basic Rules to Live By. My students understand that rule No. 10 – “We must respect our teachers and peers at all times” – is non-negotiable. If they violate this rule, they risk losing rank.

They are rewarded, however, for showing respect. One of my elementary-age students was named 2009 Student of the Year at Tao of Texas MAI because he intervened on behalf of a classmate who was being bullied.

To ensure that girls like Phoebe Prince graduate from high school and have a chance at a long, healthy and happy life, we must find ways to make respect for others more attractive than wielding power over peers.

Will Tao of Texas MAI’s mission to promote self-respect and respect for others in every child, one child at a time, one day at a time work? I have hope.

Jay may have hope, too. As it turns out, his elementary school has a zero-tolerance policy on bullying. The day his dad reported the incident, counselors talked to Jay, then to one particular boy, then to both of them together. The bully was told that his behavior was unacceptable and that there would be consequences if it continued.

Jay still resists going to school in general, but his dad says this week it has more to do with a scary spelling test than a threatening classmate.

Little Big Man Makes My Day

2010-10-13T10:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I didn’t feel up to teaching. My throat felt scratchy, and I suspected I was coming down with a head cold. I went to the dojang like clockwork anyway, though, because over the years, I’ve learned that’s where my days – even great days – get better.

Alas, Waylon, a red-haired, rosy-cheeked Tasmanian devil, came running in. Three-year-old Waylon, affectionately nicknamed Way-Way, climbed onto the back of the couch in the lobby and poked his head through my office window. I was sitting at my desk trying to get some paperwork out of the way before class – and to rest.

“Hi, Miss Caffee,” he said.

I rose from my chair and gave him a proper bow. “Anyan-hasaeyo,” I said, which means “hello” in Korean.

“Aya-haf-say-o,” he tried to reply, nodding his head like a pecking chicken.

Way-Way is a plump-cheeked, solid-framed trip. He’s tough: When he loses his balance and falls on his butt with a thud, he gets right back up. He’s smart, fearless, and loves Taekwondo.

At 3 years old, Way-Way already is a natural martial artist. But then again, Taekwondo and Tao of Texas MAI were a part of him from the time he was in the womb. All through her pregnancy, his mom Christina sat on the burgundy benches in the spectator area, cheering for her son Calvin, who attended the school’s Tiny Texans class. Through his mom’s rounded belly, Way-Way heard the kihaps and felt the energy of Calvin and his classmates. So everything about Taekwondo and Tao of Texas is oddly familiar to him.

As a toddler, Way-Way would sit in Christina’s lap, and he and I would trade air punches until we were both giggling so hard I had to stop. Once he started walking, I would catch him in the corner of my eye kicking in the air like big brother, and getting on the floor mimicking everyone else doing push-ups. Way-Way couldn’t wait to get on the mat. So as soon as he was officially potty trained, his parents enrolled him into our Tiny Texans program.

He has taken to Taekwondo like a starfish takes to the Gulf of Mexico.

“I can’t believe that little guy,” a spectator told me yesterday. “He’s so attentive – and fierce.”

Indeed he is. But like most 3-year-olds, Way-Way most loves to laugh. Sometimes he intends to be funny, and sometimes he doesn’t – but he is anyway. Like yesterday.

“Miss Caffee,” he began seriously. He obviously had something important on his mind. “Do you know that Bruce Lee is a black belt?”

I was amazed he even knew who this legendary martial artist was.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, “he’s a great black belt!”

“Uh-huh!” Way-Way said, then popped off the couch and ran into the dojang.

I smiled at Christina, who had come into the office to tell me one hilarious story after another about how Way-Way and Calvin have been watching Bruce Lee movies with their father. Their favorite movie so far is the one in which Lee creams Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.

Then Way-Way appeared again in the lobby. I could now see him through my office door. He had a mischievous look on his face.

“Ms. Caffee, can I fight with one finger?” he asks, holding his right index finger high in the air. He shrugged his shoulders, made a funny face, giggled, and then bopped back into the dojang.

What a hoot!

Way-Way made my day. And today, even though I’m still a little under the fall weather, I get another chance to see what kind of funny rabbit Way-Way will pull out of his hat.

For his parents’ sake, though, I hope it’s not of the funny-embarrassing variety, like last week when Way-Way shuffled out of the dojang bathroom with his pants down to his ankles, asking someone – anyone – to help him pull up his bottoms. (Just a moment earlier, he told his mom he was a big boy and could do it himself.)

A Black Mark on Their Belt is a Good Thing

2010-10-12T07:43:00.000-07:00

Nothing motivates my young students more than small, half-inch-wide pieces of electrical tape. These sticky, glossy, self-esteem tools help me challenge them, and ultimately celebrate great triumphs in character development.

As part of my Taekwondo youth program, I award a variety of colored stripes (electrical tape) to students to mark progress within their belt rank. A yellow stripe is for good punches, blocks, and hand strikes; orange is for outrageously great kicks; green is for powerful and graceful forms/patterns; purple is for simple yet effective self-defense techniques; and blue is for high-endurance sparring. Red is awarded when the student shows great fighting spirit. That one isn't awarded every day. Even more rare, though, is the black stripe. This stripe indicates above and beyond the mat progress in character – and is easily one of our hardest stripes to earn.

Yesterday, I gave one of those coveted character-development “black stripes” to a 7-year-old student who brainstormed with his parents on a personal trait he wanted to change – and for one week he did it!

This young yellow belt unknowingly started a trend, for as soon as I got home, I received the following email from another parent whose two white belt sons were now eager to work on a longstanding self-discipline issue.

“They were intrigued when you mentioned in class doing a home (character) challenge,” the mom wrote. “They have both been having a hard time (trying to break a bad habit) and they would both like to try to (stop) for one week. If they succeed in this, would it be possible for them to get some recognition in class?”

How fabulous is that?

My answer was to fire off an email to students young and old, challenging everyone to commit to changing one thing – a thorn in their side, something that eats their lunch – for one week.

I’m excited, because I know they’ll all work hard to persevere through tough obstacles – and they’ll feel great about themselves afterward.

Here’s how it works:

With their parents, students choose from one of the suggested challenges below – or make up their own. (The character trait practiced is in parenthesis.)

Sample challenges:
• Listen to your parents: Reply yes/no, sir/ma’am and take immediate action without complaint (respect)
• Do your homework without complaint (responsibility)
• Eat all your vegetables (self-care)
• Take baths without complaint (good hygiene/self-care/self-respect)
• Break a habit that’s harmful/hurtful (self-care/self-respect/self-discipline)
• Brush your teeth before bedtime without complaint (good hygiene/self-care/self-respect)
• Go to bed at the assigned time without complaint (respect/self-care)
• Get dressed and ready for school ON TIME (responsibility)
• Be nice to your teachers and peers (respect)
• Be nice to your siblings (respect)
• Clean your room and keep it clean (good hygiene/self-respect)
• Do your chores without being asked/reminded (responsibility/integrity)
• Take on a new household chore and follow through (initiative/integrity/maturity)

How would your kids, nieces, or nephews do at any of the above? What challenges could YOU work on to set an example for your kids regarding the importance of building better character every day?

• Call your parents just to say hello (respect/compassion/love)
• Don’t complain about your boss/co-workers (respect)
• Break a habit that’s harmful/hurtful (focus/self-care/self-respect/self-discipline)
• Avoid judging your neighbors (love/compassion)
• Pay your bills on time (responsibility)
• Don’t spread gossip (respect/integrity)
• Be nice to your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend regardless of whether you’ve had your morning coffee (respect/patience)
• Don’t yell or honk the horn at other drivers in traffic (patience/self-control)
• Listen to others’ views without interrupting (respect)
• Don’t call [fill in name of your least-favorite lawmaker] names (respect)
• Live within your financial means (responsibility)
• Don’t yell at the kids (patience/self-control)
• Don’t hit “send” on that snippy email (respect/self-control)

I’ll admit that the piece of black electrical tape my young students work so hard for is not attractive to an adult. But how about this: For any adult who takes on a character challenge and succeeds, I’ll offer a free week of Taekwondo classes. Simply email me your challenge for approval to TaoTexas@gmail.com.

That young yellow belt probably has no idea what he and his parents started, but I’m excited to see where this goes – to see the growth of a group of students that surely will result from this challenge.

My gut tells me I should check to see when Home Depot closes today. I suspect I’m going to need a lot more black electrical tape….

The Growing Pains of a Small Dojang

2010-10-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

Growing pains.

They hurt – but it’s a good thing when they’re the result of high-class problems.

My young students experience mental and physical growing pains on a daily basis. The biggest physical growth spurts happen over the summer, when they literally grow in their sleep overnight. They complain that their feet hurt, their bones and muscles ache, and they’re tired a lot more than usual. I tell them that it’s a normal part of growing up, and remind them not to be too grumpy with and sassy to their parents. They usually oblige.

Sometimes martial arts schools have growth spurts, too.

Looking around the dojang mat yesterday, I realized that now that fall is here, I have a brand new crew of students. We have a huge influx of white belts who are uber excited and motivated to work hard learning Taekwondo.

Problem is there are A LOT of them.

During yesterday’s youth class, the white belts packed the mat with the more experienced upper belts, all of them forming a sea of white uniforms with rainbow-like colored belts around their waists. Everyone kihapped loud, perspired, and worked hard.

The energy was very powerful.

Almost too powerful.

Bordering on frenetic.

As we bowed out, I knew I needed to meditate on finding a solution to make the student-teacher ratio more manageable. The solution option that struck me immediately, though, freaked me out.

Today, I’ve got an eerie feeling lurking – with the customary “Twilight Zone” theme music playing in the background – because I now remember a dream I had years ago, before there was an inkling of an idea to run a martial arts school:

I am in the front office of my school when a tall, lanky, balding man walks in.

It’s early fall, or late summer. It’s not too hot. There’s a slight breeze, and the sun is shining brightly through our glass doors.

I am in full uniform, but class hasn’t started yet.

“Welcome. Can I help you?” I ask.

“Yes,” the man says. “I’d like to sign my daughter up for martial arts classes.”

“Well thank you for visiting our dojang,” I reply. “We’re filled to capacity right now and have a waiting list. You’re welcome to add your daughter’s name to the list, and as soon as a spot opens up, I’ll give you a call. Feel free to watch a class while you’re here.”

Wow. That’s what yesterday was about. We’ve hit our limit. And it’s definitely a high-class problem. While I hate to turn students away, I need to attentively teach the ones already on the mat.

It’s all about practicing Basic Rules to Live By No. 10: Respect your teachers and peers (classmates) at all times.

The disrespectful thing to do with my students is to pack them in like sardines – many schools actually think this is a GOOD thing – and not care whether they learn solid, quality martial arts.

But I DO care that they learn something. I do want to have a personal relationship with my students. I don’t want there to be so many that I can’t remember their or their parents’ names.

Since I’m not out to get rich off of teaching martial arts, I’m starting to get that it’s O.K. to have boundaries and limits regarding how many students I believe I can effectively teach at one time.

And that’s my growing pain for the day.

A high-class problem indeed.

Walking the Talk of Respect

2010-09-20T11:38:00.000-07:00

It’s uber easy to preach to young students about the benefits of building and maintaining good character: honesty, integrity, respect, and responsibility.

It’s a lot harder to walk the talk.

This weekend, I was both grateful and at-times a tad annoyed that my own “teacher voice” echoed in the back of my mind, reminding me that I, too, need to practice respect – especially when it comes to my parents.

Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute’s 10-point character development system is called “Basic Rules to Live By.” All students under age 16 must know and practice these rules. Adherence to these principles is a condition of promotion, and a blatant disregard for them oftentimes results in demotion.

My young students have the most trouble with rules No. 4 (We must build and maintain a good relationship with our brothers and sisters) and No. 7 (We must clean our room and keep it clean). But for my older students – and me – the one that is by far the hardest to practice in our daily lives is No. 1:

We must respect our parents and family members at all times.

If not for this particular rule, though, I might not have the relationship I do with my father today.

Some background:

My dad has been a barely functioning alcoholic the majority of his life. When he divorced my mom (I was 13 years old), he divorced me, too. We had one father-daughter Sunday together right after they split, and then I didn’t see him again for years at a time. When we did meet, he was always drunk and confused – his brain wet from years of mass whiskey consumption. It became too painful for me to watch him kill himself with booze, so I began a practice of loving and praying for him from afar. I maintained contact through one-way snail mail letters and cards.

Thanks to therapy, the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and Al-Anon, and teaching young martial arts students how to build better character every day, I began a slow relationship re-entry with my father this year after my step mother died. It has been hard, but every time our relationship seemed unmanageable, I thought of how I drill rule No. 1 into my students’ psyche. If I expect them to have respect for their parents, I must have respect for mine.

Walking the talk, I’ve tried to show my father love and tolerance. I avoid being around him when he’s drinking, for I’ve learned that that’s a breeding ground of resentment for me. However, it’s been especially tricky these days to maintain that boundary because he’s heartbroken and lonely. He’s always drank to kill the pain of emotional loss, and now that his June Carter Cash is gone, he doesn’t seem to want to stay sober one minute.

Back to the present: This weekend, my students were at it again: They mentally and spiritually went with me to San Antonio to visit my father in a hospital. He’ll turn 75 later this month, but he didn’t wait for his birthday to go on a doozy of a bender, and this time, it was costly in many ways: He ended up in the emergency room with congestive heart failure, pneumonia, and a vicious staph infection.

And he lost his truck.

When my sister Nancy called to tell me that Daddy had had a heart attack, I was naturally concerned for his welfare, and in the true spirit of rule No. 1, I rushed to the hospital to be by his side. He told us that he drove himself to the hospital and must have passed out in the parking lot. He didn’t remember how he got to the hospital or where he’d left his truck.

Entering his hospital room was scary: A big yellow sign warned us to take infectious-disease precautions. We had to don gowns and Latex gloves before crossing the threshold. Nancy and I could hold his hand, but we were warned not to get too close. He was frail, gray, unshaven, and had the shakes. (His doctor told us he suspected Daddy had Parkinson’s disease. “He don’t have no damn Parkinson’s,” my sister snapped. “He’s an alcoholic who hasn’t had a drink in three days!”)

Lying uncomfortably in a hospital gown that revealed just a little more than I was comfortable with, Daddy made sometimes-incoherent small talk. Every once in a while, we’d slip in a question:
• “So what’s the last thing you remember?”
• “Was it morning, afternoon, or dark just before you passed out?”
• “Do you remember what you ate for breakfast, lunch, dinner?”

He didn’t remember a thing. Blacked out, as they say in AA.

Once he fell asleep, Nancy and I left to drive around the hospital parking lot in the rain, hoping to find his truck parked crooked somewhere. No luck. We worried about the expenses of paying for a truck that had been towed.

At the nurse’s station, we hit an information jackpot. We discovered that:
• They had his truck keys.
• The hospital doesn’t tow cars of patients.
• Daddy’s chart indicated that EMTs picked him up outside a neighborhood bar. (A bartender said Daddy stumbled and fell in the parking lot, passing out in a puddle of muddy rainwater.)
• His blood alcohol level was a staggering .324.

My sister was pissed, and let out a string of obscenities under her breath.

All I could do was shake my head. Through pursed lips, I mumbled, “Respect your parents at all times. Respect your parents at all times.”

With my father still asleep, Nancy and I decided to go bar hopping to try to find his truck. One saving grace about old alcoholics is that they are set in their ways and tend to hang out in the same places. We found his truck at bar No. 2.

His white Ford Ranger was the epitome of an alcoholic vehicle: smashed and banged up, pock-marked with dents big and small and scratches short and long. The back bumper was barely hanging on. I climbed into the driver’s seat and tried to figure out how to drive the truck back to his house without touching a disgusting-looking steering wheel. That’s when I spotted two whiskey bottles in the floorboard. One was empty; the other had been cracked open for a christening swig. Seeing those bottles brought back childhood memories of riding around town with Daddy. Drinking always made him want to get into the car and drive, and he always had a whiskey bottle or two sloshing around on the floorboard.

Respect your parents at all times. Respect your parents at all times, I repeated as a soothing mantra.

I let out a huge sigh, fired up the misfiring engine, and tentatively drove the clunker back to his house.

Finally at his home, Nancy and I entered an unlocked back door to find myriad sources of his staph infection. The place was a filthy, stinky mess. I carefully walked around, trying to conjure up memories of better times in the living room, or tender times when I’d watch Daddy through the kitchen window as he picked up pecans in the backyard. He was so big to me back then. I hadn't thought about those times or been in this part of his house in at least two decades. I felt a mixture or nostalgia and sadness.

“It was easy to respect him then,” I thought, “when I didn’t know what alcoholism was.”

Nancy and I were torn between not wanting to touch anything and needing to unplug all the appliances (the refrigerator would have to be cleaned out another day) and search for some important documents. We gingerly began: Nancy taking a stab at a stack of letters and papers on the dining room table, me on a hunt for outlets.

That’s when I noticed that my father had been living in a fire hazard for years.

I started with one of a variety of lamps on a dining room table. It was attached to an extension cord, so I followed it hand over fist … to a three-pronged adaptor plugged into three other extension cords, each of which was attached to another three-pronged adaptor with extension cords, which were attached to another extension cord, which hooped over a nail on the wall, leading to another extension cord that ran under a piece of carpet, which finally led to a three-pronged adaptor at a wall outlet.

The whole place was wired up like a spider web string game. Every outlet was overloaded. I shook my head, amazed that the house hadn’t burned down yet.

Respect your parents at all times. Respect your parents at all times, I repeated.

Reality set in. Sadness ebbed and flowed. It was very hard not to be mad at Daddy. But what good would anger do?

As I moved to the kitchen to unplug more extension cords – and realized that my dad or stepmother had a lamp fetish – I thought about an end-of-class talk I recently gave to my students.

“How do we show respect to our parents?” I asked the class.

Hands popped up like popcorn. I chose a sweet, oftentimes shy 7-year-old girl in the back row to offer an answer.

“We’re niceth to them,” she said between missing front teeth.

“Yes, we are! What else?”

More hands popped up.

“We go brush our teeth when they tell us it’s time for bed,” one of my older green belts said.

“No arguing!” a kid with ADHD blurted out. “Even when we’re about to win our video game.”

“You are correct, sir!” I said, offering a palm-slapping high-five.

As I looked around my father’s home, I felt grateful for him and my students. It all could have been so much worse. Daddy could have killed someone during his last bender. He didn’t. He could have killed himself. He didn’t. I could have become angry and resentful. I didn’t. Instead, my students helped me realize that I have yet another chance to be a compassionate, loving, and respectful daughter.

Our job done, my sister and I turned to leave, carefully stepping over the rotted, unsteady areas of the porch. It felt good to set an example for my students to follow in an effort to help them understand the importance of respecting their parents. And with walking the talk in mind, I walked out to the car to return to the hospital for the next chapter of respecting my father at all times - especially now.

Tom Brokaw Would Love Tao of Texas

2010-09-13T09:11:00.000-07:00

When I teach my students how to break pinewood boards, I often emphasize the importance of setting an intention – a visualization of their foot or hand going through the board. I remind them that setting an intention is a spiritually powerful exercise that can be applied to any of life’s situations and dilemmas, oftentimes with freakishly effective results.

Today I realize how my own lessons in setting intentions have impacted the school’s bottom line. In the grand scheme of things, if you ask legendary television newscaster Tom Brokaw, it’s a good thing. But it’s sure made for a hard business road less traveled.

Dial back time to October 2005: I’m sitting in a Denny’s restaurant with my partner at about 5 a.m. because neither of us could sleep. While we’re waiting for our breakfast, I grab a napkin and start writing a mission statement for a martial arts school that hasn’t opened yet.

“We are committed to:
• Helping children and adults of all ages and sizes become physically fit through the art of Taekwondo – and thereby become healthier people.
• Helping attention-challenged children learn to focus so that they can succeed in school – and in life.
• Giving at-risk youth powerful, character-rich role models and a place to work out aggression – and thereby build a greater sense of self-worth and respect for others.
• Giving women and children a safe place to learn self-defense – and to feel secure in their home and world.
• Giving everyone – regardless of age, race, gender, beliefs, or lifestyle – the opportunity to gain mental, physical, and spiritual strength, and as a result, make the world a better place.”

Almost five years later, we have accomplished every one of our intentions – including one that I never wrote down: “Making a difference trumps making money.”

This is the one intention that set the biggest tone for the school.

When I opened Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute, I had no idea what I was doing. I just knew why. When my grandmaster decided to close his Taekwondo school, his students looked to me. At the time, I was just a fledgling youth instructor.

“Where are we going now, Ms. Chapaty?” they asked.

So I shrugged, said, “O.K.,” and became a chief instructor. Why? I felt obligated to help them continue their training – and I’m a people pleaser.

My students and I kicked around at a local YMCA for about 18 months before my partner found this little funky double-garage-door space in Central Austin. The building had foundation problems, flooding issues, and NO air conditioning, but it was the most affordable place we could find in a somewhat affluent, easily accessible area.

“It’s perfect (for a school),” she said. So I shrugged, said, “O.K.,” and became a school owner. Why? My students, their parents, my partner, and my friends thought I would make a great school owner. They caught me at a weak, codependent moment. So I signed for a $10,000 start-up loan, poured in all the money I had from my savings account, and gave it a shot.

You may have noticed that I haven’t yet mentioned the desire to own and run a martial arts business.

That’s because I didn’t.

Regardless, my friends and I painted walls, hung sheetrock, attached mirrors to walls, and laid down 1-inch-thick mats over spray-painted concrete floors (the building’s prior tenant was a custom sign shop).

I didn’t have a clue regarding how to run a business, and, honestly, I really didn’t want to know either – which put a lot of pressure on me to figure out how I was going to make this business thingy work without it being too much of a business thingy.

Thankfully, along the way, many offered support. Friends, mentors, and colleagues made suggestions regarding how I could make a buck.

Some of their suggestions were no-brainers. Others felt too confining. While I tried not to be too stubborn (the opposite extreme of perseverance), some suggestions felt like putting on a coat that not only didn’t fit, but itched, and made me look like someone I wasn’t.

One day, I spoke to a martial arts consultant, and I was shocked and appalled at his recommendations that I:

• Charge the market rate of $125 per month for tuition. (Was he comparing my students to "The Day's Catch" at a seafood restaurant?)
• Charge more for rank exams, and charge an increasing amount for each higher rank.
• Hold more frequent exams.
• Let some students test (and pass) even when they’re not quite proficient because they’ll catch up later.
• Charge a monthly fee for locker use.
• Begin a Black Belt Club and charge extra for membership.
• Begin a Leadership League and charge extra for membership.
• Shorten class times and reserve the last 15 minutes of the hour for students who join a Special Training group and … you got it, charge extra for membership.

Overall, his suggestions didn’t feel right in my GUT (my acronym for “God’s Unique Talk), which I rely on heavily to maintain personal integrity.

It wasn’t entirely his fault, though. He was just trying to help me make money. He had no idea – no one knew – that my unspoken, Denny’s-enacted intention put me in direct conflict with running a school that focused solely on maintaining a high profit margin.

Right or wrong, good or bad, I tossed that consultant’s advice out our double garage doors and did it my way, vowing to:

• Not incur new debt (besides the start-up loan), ensuring that the business paid for itself and lived within its means
• Not draw a salary until we had a prudent, three-month emergency reserve of all bills (we haven’t reached that mark yet)
• Continue working at my part-time day job to pay my personal bills until the school could afford me a salary (I'm still working that job)
• Not hold back certain information, lessons, or programs just because students or their parents couldn’t afford to be a part of an added-expense Black Belt Club
• Create a Junior Leaders program and make its membership contingent on whether students put in a required number of volunteer assistant teaching hours rather than paid more money in tuition per month
• Let people pay half-tuition if that’s all they could afford
• Start a scholarship program, and when the coffers occasionally dried up let those students continue to train

One day in Year 3, my partner turned to me and said the obvious: “You’re never going to make any money from this school, are you?”

“Probably not,” I replied.

“I didn’t think so,” she said, and we both nodded our heads in acceptance.

Almost five years later, the start-up loan is paid off and the school is supporting itself. I’m not much more than a penny wealthier from a financial perspective than the day we opened, but I'm FILTHY RICH with students whose personal growth and transformations are valuable beyond monetary measure, such as:

• A kid learning the value of telling the truth
• A brother learning how to be more patient – and thereby having a better relationship – with his annoying little sister
• A parent of an ADHD child breathing a sigh of relief and seeing a ray of hope because her son is finally able to focus on anything for five seconds
• A recovering alcoholic/addict healing from a childhood of violence through the art of safe and controlled sparring
• A woman who has never thought of herself as strong (much less an athlete) doing 100 jumping jacks, 30 sit-ups, and 30 push-ups – and living to tell about it
• A kid who now enjoys going to school because he’s heard often enough to “smile and nod” (what I call Verbal Aikido) when a bully says mean things to him
• A young girl who on her first day of Taekwondo class came in with bangs covering her eyes and head pointing to the floor who now confidently sits back straight, head high as first chair oboe in her high school band

I wouldn’t change the above for the world. Today I know that I’m a gifted youth martial arts instructor with a knack for working with ADD/ADHD populations and that I’ve had a tremendous impact on others.

That's priceless, and that's all I've wanted to do.

Which is why I think Tom Brokaw would like Tao of Texas. He once said: “It’s easy to make a buck. It’s a lot tougher to make a difference.”

Here, here!

Brokaw’s words are like a validating, comfortable, warm, and worn coat that feels right wearing. I haven’t been trying to make a buck. I’ve been trying to make a difference, and that’s why running Tao of Texas MAI – where I’ve valued helping people grow mentally, physically, and spiritually more than attaining monetary gain – has been such a financial struggle at times but at the end of the day also a tremendously rewarding experience.

Has the school been a success? By martial arts industry standards: Nope. In the grand spiritual scheme of things: YES. Today, though, it’s pretty obvious that I have no business running a business. I’m terrible at it. I’m miserable in it. Someone else who has less of a problem dealing with the whole “making money in martial arts” should do it – and maybe I should work for them.

I love to teach, so I’m going to let those who dream of owning martial arts schools step in while I return to doing what I love and do best anyway: impacting lives through Taekwondo.

Will I ever negotiate an internal peace treaty between money and mentoring through martial arts in general? I must, if I’m to realize mental, physical, spiritual, and financial balance. Everyone should be compensated for a job well done. That's why today I’m setting a new intention – and this time I’m not hiding it:

I will focus my energies on mentoring others through Taekwondo, and I will be generously compensated (through monetary and spiritual means) for my efforts.

Now that’s a coat that fits me perfectly.

Open-Air, Open Eyes

2010-09-13T06:06:00.000-07:00

Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute is an open-air dojang. Although we have a small air conditioner we use occasionally, it doesn’t work very well, so the majority of the time we end up throwing open the garage doors, turning on a gazillion fans, and training till our doboks are drenched.

Open-air training has become rare in most modern martial arts schools (especially in Texas), but it has been a vital element of how we build mental, physical, and spiritual strength and perseverance at Tao of Texas.

First, it helps everyone feel closer to nature. Hot and cold breezes blow in. Leaves slowly and softly drift to the ground in the fall. Tree limbs sway and swish year-round. Birds chirp. It’s all right outside our white, metal garage doors.

Second, we sweat a lot – I mean A LOT – which forces students to hydrate and take care of their bodies. They drink more water, which helps all their organs function at optimum levels. They learn nifty little statistics, such as, "When you're thirsty, you're already 40% dehydrated."

In this age of obesity in America, one might think students training in an open-air dojang in the height of summer IN TEXAS would have yet another excuse not to exercise. On the contrary. I see just the opposite. Summer training presents an odd challenge. A badge of courage and perseverance of sorts. No matter the temperature, there are those who will not buckle. No matter the weather, someone always shows up for class.

Third, when we sweat and tire, it challenges us to remain in the discomfort of the moment, to notice it – but not run away from it (through drugs, alcohol, food, etc.). I’ve learned that discomfort is often a temporary condition, and I tell my students to let it be until it isn’t anymore.

“This, too, shall pass,” I remind them, adding that when things get hard – in Taekwondo as in life – to remember that the only constant in life is change.

A Shift of Kindergarten Proportions

2010-09-03T08:41:00.001-07:00

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.

The Benefits of Respecting Others

2010-08-19T08:17:00.000-07:00

My all-time favorite task as a martial arts teacher is proudly wrapping a new belt around the waist of a deserving student or adding a hard-earned stripe to the well-worn belt of someone who shows progress and fighting spirit. But where there’s a yin, there’s a yang, and that means sometimes I have to later demote those same students for a variety of character-related crimes. The main violation for kids involves a lack of respect. Siblings are usually the targets. Anger is oftentimes the source.

One time, I bumped a student from probationary black belt all the way down to white belt for bopping his sister on the head with a bo. It was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do as an instructor. I was afraid that this kid – a really great student in so many ways – would not return to train. But I knew that if I didn’t help him learn a lesson in self-control now, I’d be setting a Taekwondo Tasmanian devil out onto an unsuspecting world later.

After a long talk about "Star Wars" and the dangers of going over to the "dark side" of martial arts, that boy did return. Today he is a 19-year-old second-degree black belt and sophomore at Yale University.

When students misuse their Taekwondo skills, belt demotion is oftentimes automatic, but some students benefit more from telling me (and themselves) what went wrong and what to do right the next time.

The following is a short essay one of my students wrote regarding why it might be a good idea to treat his sister with respect.

Why treating my sister better can benefit me
“If I treat my sister better, then I do not have to get into trouble with my parents. It also will make my sister want to be nicer to me. Like when I was nice to her and she let me play with her brand new toy. I feel good when I am nice to her, but I only feel bad when I am mean to her. Also, if I want her to respect me and my rules about my room and my toys, then I should respect her as well.

“Also, if I keep doing this to my sister, then I cannot study Taekwondo anymore. Taekwondo is helping me a lot with self-control, which is helping me act better to my sister. It is also helping me with my endurance, strength, and self-confidence.” – E.A., age 10

So my question of the day is this: How can treating YOUR siblings with respect benefit YOU?

Mantra Magic

2010-08-18T06:45:00.000-07:00

The following is a mantra one of my students said to mentally prepare for one of the toughest tests yet of her Taekwondo life:

I will be nervous, but I will get on the mat.
I will sweat, but I will keep fighting.
I will get tired, but I will throw one more kick.
I will want to quit, but I will throw one more punch.
I will mess up, but I will move on.
I will be the strongest, fastest, and best fighter I can be.

To read her full blog entry, visit:

http://jem5.blogspot.com/2010/08/my-other-passions.html

Have I said yet this week that I LOVE my job?

Potty Training as the First Step in the Thousand-Mile Journey

2010-08-17T09:13:00.000-07:00

Tiny Texans is our entry-level class for students ages 3-6.

You read that right: 3 years old.

They are an eager, excited, and gut-busting, hilarious group. Honestly, at that age, it’s downright impossible to teach them true Taekwondo. And while I do teach these students a little kicking and punching (always emphasizing that they don’t kick and punch ANYONE ANYWHERE unless they’re in uniform at the Dojang with a paddle in front of them), I mostly focus on developing body awareness and listening skills, and improving balance, body coordination, and respect for others. The kids love it and we have a lot of fun together.

Their parents love the class, too – not only because I wear out their children (who after class are tired and don’t fuss so much when it’s time for bed), but also because I introduce and reinforce basic yet important rules to follow at home:

• Say “yes, ma’am” to Mommy and “yes, sir” to Daddy
• Brush your teeth when you’re told
• Don’t argue about taking baths
• Be nice to your baby sister and brother
• Never lie

From the wooden benches in our spectator section, toddlers of past and current Tiny Texans watch and eagerly wait for the day they’ll get the chance to get out on the mat and kick and punch. But just because they turn 3 doesn’t mean they automatically gain admission to Tiny Texans. They also know that before they can join my class, they must be able to:

1. Follow instructions
2. Pay attention during the entire class
3. Not pee on my mat

No. 3 is non-negotiable.

So I had to smile and chuckle this morning when I received the following email from an excited parent whose pistol of a child had a recent breakthrough:

“Guess who’s potty trained? That’s right! As soon as he got it 100%, he said, ‘Now I can do martial arts!’ He is 3 (years old) now, so can we try it out for September?”

God, I love my job….

A Ninja Pep Talk

2010-08-10T08:18:00.000-07:00

It's an honor to be a teacher, to give students tools for self-improvement (planting the seeds of strength and self-esteem) and then patiently wait and watch them grow. Some stretch tall. Some expand wide. Others fly to incredible heights.

It's quite an accomplishment for a student at ANY age to take a black belt exam in ANY martial art. And I've learned the hard way that a good instructor knows when to be tough and when to be supportive. That's especially important during Black Belt Test Week. During this important week, when the student is on the verge of completing a rite of passage years in the making, there is no time for stern lectures or admonishments. Now, a good instructor pours on the love, support, and encouragement.

Below is the last piece of advice I give students about to face our school's TWO-DAY BLACK BELT TEST.

But you don't have to be a black-belt-in-waiting to benefit. Read it and ask yourself, "Who in MY life needs to hear good, supporting, loving words from ME today?"

(Don't be surprised if that person is YOU.)

Dear Uber Ninjas,

Right about now, you're probably feeling a whirlwind of emotions: fear, excitement, gratitude, nausea. You may even feel frustrated, angry, and impatient. Maybe you're wishing the test were already over so that you can relax. Well, you CAN relax in a way: Everything you’re feeling is normal. (Wink.)

Black Belt Test Week can be a highly charged, emotional experience. It's the culmination of years, months, weeks, days, hours, and minute-by-minute honing of a myriad martial arts and self-defense skills. You’ve huffed, puffed, and sweated bullets. You’ve downed millions of gallons of water and bottles of Gatorade to stay hydrated in an open-air gym (which you didn’t let scare you off). You’ve given and taken hits to the stomach, kidneys, ribs, head, chest, and even some shots below the belt, and you’ve gotten back up, shaken off the cobwebs, and continued.

Check it: The kind of mental, physical, and spiritual work you've been doing doesn't just come and go unnoticed.

You've learned a great deal in your time with me, and I want you to know today that I'M SO PROUD OF YOU I CAN HARDLY STAND IT! I am your greatest fan and will be rooting for you Friday and Saturday as you walk the gauntlet in your individual rites of passage.

Now, though, is your turn to pump yourselves up. A positive mental condition is essential to succeed in this endeavor – and amid life’s greatest challenges. Find a quiet spot somewhere in the house. Hot as it is right now in Austin, take a walk in the park or find a quiet hiking trail to explore. Spend some quality time every day between now and the test to quiet the body, mind, and heart and fill yourselves with positive affirmations.

Remember the following:
• You're mentally, physically, and spiritually stronger than your FIRST day in class.
• You can kick faster and harder than you did as a white belt.
• Your stamina and endurance (no matter WHERE it is today) is FAR BETTER than it was when you began this journey.
• You did that one extra pushup, sit-up, kick, and punch when you didn’t think you could – and you can do it again.
• OMG, you can break boards with your hands and feet! How many people in the school you attend, the office at which you work, or the grocery store in which you shop can say the same?
• Since you began your training, hundreds of students have quit and even more advanced belts have avoided this challenge. You remain.
• I told you to keep coming back, to suit up and to show up one day at a time – that that is what really turns a white belt into a black belt. You heard me, and you’ve been coming back FOR YEARS. Not surprisingly, your white belt has slowly darkened and is on the verge of becoming black.

There is so much for which to be grateful, so take stock in the next few days. Give a little thanks to those folks who’ve supported you along the way – parents, children, teachers, co-workers, even (and especially) your BFFs on Facebook.

Remember that not everyone in the world wears a black belt because this is HARD WORK. Martial arts pushes you physically. It pushes your mental buttons. It challenges your spirit. It makes you look yourself in the mirror, and ask the hard question: “Am I happy/satisfied with who I am?” If the answer is no, martial arts gives you the tools to transform yourself into the person you’ve always dreamed of being.

This has not been an easy road you have trudged. The journey has been long and hard. But you’re on the cusp of a very important milestone.

So go forth today with confidence, humility, and grace. Do your best on the test. Leave it all out on the mat this weekend. Let your performance be the bar you set for how you live your life from now on.

Most importantly, BREATHE...

Your greatest fan,
Cathy Chapaty

How to Make a Fist Strong

2010-07-08T07:25:00.000-07:00

The following fable was inspired by a real student.

Once upon a time in a town called Practice, Practice lived a young man called Flimsy Fist. Flimsy Fist was new in town. He was born in the nearby village of Neglectville, where he lived with his brother and angry parents. His mother and father beat him so bad that the State of Serenity had to take Flimsy Fist and his brother away. After living in one foster home after another, Flimsy Fist was finally invited to live with two kind and loving men who were committed to helping him heal from his physical and emotional wounds.

Although Flimsy Fist now lived in a safe and loving home, he still suffered from fear and low self-esteem. He didn’t think the two men would actually let him live with them forever. He thought that any day now they would kick him out—or kick him around—like his parents. He longed to feel brave and strong, but he didn’t know how.

Only one thing made Flimsy Fist feel better.

Every day on the way home from school, Flimsy Fist walked by a local martial arts school. He’d stop and watch as the students punched, blocked, and kicked like battle-ready samurais. He wanted the courage they had, but he was too afraid to ask how they got it. Besides, he thought he was too weak for martial arts.

One day, Flimsy Fist was especially awed by the student warriors, so much so that he didn’t notice that the master instructor, Fierce Fighting Spirit, was standing right next to him by the window. Fierce Fighting Spirit was well known in Practice, Practice for his physical strength, mental toughness, and peaceful spirit. He produced the town’s most powerful and promising leaders.

“Hello, son,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said in a deep, gentle voice.

Flimsy Fist looked up, eyes wide, not knowing what to say. He managed to eek out a weak, “Hi.”

“What is your name?” the master asked.

“My name is Flimsy Fist,” the boy mumbled.

“Hmm, interesting name,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said.

The master instructor stood before Flimsy Fist with his hands cupped together behind his waist. The teacher’s huge body blocked the afternoon sun, producing a halo effect around his head.

“You come here every day,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said, “but you never come in. Today, why don’t you come in for a lesson?”

Flimsy Fist’s face lit up, but he was afraid to show his excitement. “O.K. I guess,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“No, not O.K.,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said.

Flimsy Fist looked confused.

“Lesson No. 1,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said, holding up his forefinger. “When presented with an opportunity, do not decide beforehand whether you can succeed. Simply say, ‘Yes, sir!’ and try your best,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said.

“Oh, O.K. … I mean, yes, sir!” Flimsy Fist said excitedly.

With that, Fierce Fighting Spirit opened the door for the boy to enter the training hall. When Flimsy Fist walked into the dojang, he felt calmness come over him. The place was big and bright. U.S. and South Korean flags hung above a long line of mirrors, as did a rainbow of belts. Before the long line of mirrors, students kicked and punched with a force Flimsy Fist had never felt watching from the window outside. Their energy was electric, and Flimsy Fist wanted to feel powerful like them.

“Ready to train?” Fierce Fighting Spirit asked.

“Yes, sir!” Flimsy Fist said in a loud, confident voice.

“Excellent!” Fierce Fighting Spirit said. “Now you’re getting it.”

Fierce Fighting Spirit took Flimsy Fist in a corner of the room and worked with him, teaching him how to make a firm fighting fist: curling the first joints of the fingers, then curling them a second time, then pulling the thumb over the forefinger and middle finger to lock the fist.

Flimsy Fist immediately felt strong, like he could punch through a brick wall. But when Fierce Fighting Spirit held out a target and told Flimsy Fist to hit it with the first two knuckles of his fist, his punch was weak. Flimsy Fist hit the target hard, but he didn’t keep his fist tight and he hurt his hand.

“Lesson No. 2,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said. “Always make a firm fist before striking.”

“Yes, sir,” Flimsy Fist said, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Do not be discouraged,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said. “Focus and try again.”

Fierce Fighting Spirit presented the target pad and Flimsy Fist struck it again, this time with a much firmer fist.

“Good!” Fierce Fighting Spirit said. “Now, again. Punch.”

Pow! Flimsy Fist hit the target again, this time a little harder than before.

“Great!” Fierce Fighting Spirit said. “Again.”

“But I already did it,” Flimsy Fist said. “I want to learn something else.”

“Do this well first,” Fierce Fighting Spirit ordered.

“But I already did,” Flimsy Fist said, beginning to get frustrated and teary-eyed.

Flimsy Fist hung his head. Although he wanted to be strong and powerful like the other students, he didn’t realize how they became fierce. He didn’t realize that they had become strong and powerful only after spending many hours, days, weeks—even years—practicing the same blocks, kicks, and punches over and over. It had been so easy for Flimsy Fist to watch them train through the window; fantasizing about being strong was so much nicer than putting in the hard work necessary to actually be strong.

Fierce Fighting Spirit had worked with similar students before. He knew Flimsy Fist must have had a hard life so far, but he also knew that because he had lived through such a hard time that Flimsy Fist could be strong. Fierce Fighting Spirit would have to find the right words to help Flimsy Fist understand the value of practice, practice, practice.

The next day, Flimsy Fist returned to the school, ready to try again.

“Flimsy Fist, what made the Grand Canyon beautiful?” Fierce Fighting Spirit asked when the boy walked in the door.

Flimsy Fist didn’t know, and was afraid to answer incorrectly. He silently shrugged his shoulders.

Finally, Fierce Fighting Spirit said, “Water.”

Flimsy Fist nodded that he understood, but he didn’t. A second later, he asked, “But how can water make something so pretty?”

“Because water is strong,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said.

Again, Flimsy Fist didn’t understand. “How can water be strong?” the boy asked. “It slips through my hands when I wash my face at night.”

“Ah, but water is very powerful, especially when it practices,” the master said.

“How can water practice?” Flimsy Fist asked.

“How can it not?” Fierce Fighting Spirit said. “From the beginning of time, every day, water has flowed through the Grand Canyon. Every day the water runs the same path, and every day it wears a deeper and deeper path into the rock. After years of running the same path, water helps the canyon show its inner beauty and strength.

“Without practice, the Grand Canyon would just be a bump on the earth,” Fierce Fighting Spirit said. “Now, young man, which would you rather be: water or a bump on the earth?”

Flimsy Fist’s eyes widened. “Water!”

“Good!” Fierce Fighting Spirit said. “Now, hit this target.”

“Yes, sir!” the boy yelled.

From that day forward, Flimsy Fist worked hard, sweat a lot and felt the soreness of his forearms. Slowly, his techniques began to improve. It wasn’t as hard to focus on keeping a tight fist, for he had done it so many times, his fingers knew how to curl properly on their own. His forearms were as big and strong as those of Popeye.

One day, Fierce Fighting Spirit asked Flimsy Fist to again show him his punches.

“Yes, sir!” Flimsy Fist said, hitting the target with such great confidence and force that it knocked Fierce Fighting Spirit back on his heels.

Fierce Fighting Spirit smiled gently. “You have learned well,” he said.

“Thank you, sir!” Flimsy Fist said proudly.

“But now something isn’t right,” the teacher said.

Flimsy Fist’s heart sank. Even though he had made great improvements, he was sure he had disappointed his instructor.

Fierce Fighting Spirit put his arm around the young man’s shoulder. “Your name does not fit your new courageous character and strong fighting spirit anymore. So from now on, you will be known as Firm Fighting Fist.”

Firm Fighting Fist beamed with joy. “Thank you, sir,” he said humbly.

Fierce Fighting Spirit nodded, and then motioned for Firm Fighting Fist to join his classmates in the day’s punching drill.

Today, Firm Fighting Fist still lives with the two loving men, and one day at a time, he has learned to trust them more and more. He still studies martial arts, and today his perseverance and commitment to practice has become a deep thread that weaves in and around every aspect of his life—revealing his true beauty.

Understanding is Underrated

2010-07-07T08:25:00.000-07:00

Aristotle: "Those that know, do. Those that understand, teach."

Chinese proverb: "I hear; I forget. I see; I remember. I do; I understand."

Lao Tzu: "To realize that you do not understand is a virtue. Not to realize that you do not understand is a defect."

Me: "About the only thing I truly understand is that I'm happiest when I try to understand rather than to BE understood."

Teaching Meditation on the Fly

2010-07-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

Tuesday was a muggy, dark-clouded, wet mess. A hurricane was heading toward the Gulf of Mexico, and torrential rains poured outside. I didn’t think a soul would brave the storm to come to Taekwondo class, but, as usual, my students’ dedication amazes me.

The energy-rich, often-times wild and crazy Tiny Texans were the first to file in.

I thanked the parents and students for trudging out in the awful weather and promised I’d make it worth their while. What I didn’t realize is that I’d have a surprise teaching assistant to help impart an important lesson in focus.

We began class as usual – in meditation.

“Crisscross apple sauce,” I told the students, who immediately crossed their legs in lotus position. “Sit tall. Backs straight. Hands on knees. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Close your eyes. Try not to move.”

I lightly closed my eyelids so that I could still see the students.

There may be no cuter moment than when mini-martial artists try HARD to meditate. They squeeze their eyes shut. Wrinkles appear across their forehead. Their two eyebrows become one, firm with concentration. They take in and release deep, loud breaths. They try so hard not to try so hard.

Admittedly, it’s not easy to teach 3- to 6-year-olds to meditate, but if you think like a kid, anything's possible. I’ve found that young students will always work hard if the activity looks and feels like a game.

“It’s a contest,” I often say before meditation. “Don’t move even if a fly lands on your nose.”

On Tuesday, that mantra became a reality.

“Miss Cathy, there’s a fly on your shoulder!” 4-year-old Lev screeched when he opened his eyes after meditation. Everyone remained seated on the floor.

“So there is!” I said wide-eyed. I was about to shoo it away, thinking about all the disgusting little germs flies carry. But then I had an idea: Instead of swatting the fly away, I knighted the little insect as our official meditation and focus mascot.

“Let’s give it a name. How about Florence?”

“Florence the Fly!” one kid said.

“Yea, Florence!” another cheered.

“Florence is welcome to join us for Taekwondo class,” I said. “She can teach us a lot about staying still no matter what.”

The kids became excited and I could tell they secretly hoped Florence would land somewhere on their bodies so that they could demonstrate how to stay still.

As we began our warm-up, Florence continued to hover over me, and I used her as a teaching tool regarding how not to become easily distracted.

“There she is!” one student screamed as Florence landed on my right knee.

“Yes, and she can stay there as long as she does the splits like everyone else,” I quipped.

“Miss Cathy, you’re silly,” 5-year-old Lydia said with a grin.

As we readied to do the splits, Florence flew away and then quickly returned, landing this time on my ear.

“Florence!” the class gawked. “She’s on your face!”

“I know,” I said. “She’s testing me. She’s trying to get me to move, but I’m playing the Focus Game, and I’m not going to let her win.”

Everyone followed my lead and continued stretching. Florence soon lost interest and flew away, and we went on to the next drill of the day – “power stomp kick” training. I had narrow, ¾-inch thick whitewood pine boards left over from larger board cut for a promotion exam three weeks ago. I pulled the remnant boards out for the students to practice their kicks with.

These kids may be Tiny Texans, but they were giants in spirit on this day. Some of them broke their boards, and some did not, but they all focused and tried their best. As the last student prepared to break, Florence reappeared.

“She wants to help me break a board!” Lydia beamed to her classmates.

“Yea, Florence!” I said.

Lydia stood in a solid fighting stance. She faced two gray cinderblocks set a foot apart, over which laid a 3-inch wide piece of whitewood pine. Lydia took a deep breath and slowly lifted and lowered her hands in front of her chest as she’s seen me do when I mentally and spiritually prepare to break. She looked like a 5-year-old Zen master, clearing her mind and body of all distractions before releasing a thunder of chi. Finally, Lydia was ready.

“Shijak!” I said, giving her the go-ahead to break.

In a split-second, Lydia lifted her knee high and then smashed her heel down on the board with a loud kihap, breaking it square in the center.

Everyone clapped, hooted, and hollered. In all the excitement, Florence flew away, disappearing to another area of the still muggy dojang.

We bowed to the flags and joined hands for our end-of-class “Taekwondo: Don’t Quit” cheer. I could tell that everyone was wondering whether Florence would join us. She didn’t.

Class was over, and Florence was gone. She won’t be soon forgotten, though. In fact, I predict that Florence will reappear, at least in spirit, every time these Tiny Texans cross their legs, close their eyes, and still their bodies. I know how these mini-martial artists think. Inside their not-so-quiet minds, they’re hoping and praying that another Florence lands gently on their nose.

And you can bet they won’t move.

Overcoming Obstacles Quote of the Week

2010-06-29T09:39:00.000-07:00

"The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain."
- Dolly Parton,
Legendary country music singer and songwriter

The Magic Belt

2010-06-11T07:34:00.000-07:00

On their birthday, my young students create grand plans of fun and frolic with family and friends, but many make time to attend – of all things – Taekwondo class.

Let’s be clear: It’s not because at 7 or 8 years old they’re die-hard, dedicated martial artists.

It’s because they know they’ll get to wear the “Happy Birthday Black Belt.”

This two-inch wide piece of stiff black cloth – years ago embroidered in gold thread with the words “Happy” on one tail and “Birthday” on the other – seems to have magical spirit. In the past, it has given shy kids a booming, powerful voice; turned meek students into bold, confident junior instructors; and made pouters straighten their bottom lip and feel brave and unstoppable.

Yesterday, our school had another birthday in the house, and I got to see the magic happen again.

Meek and mild Eliza quietly stood by my side in the dojang before class, waiting her turn to talk to me. Eliza – with beautiful, wavy blond locks, a seemingly fragile body, and some missing front teeth – received the school’s “Sweetest Spirit Award” at our anniversary party in February.

“Miss Shapathy,” she said quietly, still trying to adjust to speaking clearly with her missing teeth, “I’m seven now.”

I beamed. “Well, then, I guess someone needs to wear the Happy Birthday black belt!”

As Eliza stood there, a wide smile curled on her face. In that moment, she was both the exceptionally sweet, gentle, and kind spirit she’s known to be, and yet just another kid excited about the chance to feel special.

I was happy to oblige. As I double wrapped the thick black belt around her waist – the tails almost touched the floor – her lips stretched wider still and then curved up at both ends. She was so proud of herself.

I was proud of her, too.

And then it happened.

Sweet, little Eliza stood in the front line with me, faced her classmates, and helped another student lead the warm-up. Her commands were strong and confident.

“Laps. Shijak!,” Eliza boomed, telling her classmates in Korean to follow her in a jog around the dojang floor.

I eyed her mom, who was watching from the lobby, and we both had to smile and give a little “Oh, my God!” chuckle. She was precious and impressive at the same time.

“She’s been telling me for weeks about wearing that belt,” her mother said while Eliza continued barking commands to her classmates.

“Stop!” Eliza yelled. “Switch directions. Shijak!”

Eliza had a blast as Leader for the Day. You could read it on her now-red-cheeked face. She soaked up every bit of being a temporary black belt. She got a sneak peek at what it will be like one day when, as long as she doesn't quit Taekwondo, I wrap a black belt around her waist – not because it’s her birthday, but because she earned it. She got a taste of how nice it will feel when, at the end of class, she won’t have to give the belt back.

Some traditional martial artists might balk at the notion of wrapping anything black around young students’ waists before they’re ranked as true black belts. They might call our birthday tradition sacrilege, or claim that we’ve cheapened the experience or lessened the importance of the rank. (Believe me: It’s not easy to get a black belt at ANY age at our school.) So why do it? I’ve found that the Happy Birthday black belt is one of our best motivating tools.

On every birthday, I get to plant a black belt seed in that special student – and in the days, weeks, and oftentimes years to come, I get to watch it grow, mature, and blossom.

Life doesn’t get more magical than this.

The Self-Control Trials of a 7-Year-Old

2010-05-30T11:10:00.000-07:00

Another one of my boys grew last week. Not in inches, but in indomitable and immeasurable spirit.

As chief instructor of a small martial arts school, it’s my job to keep everyone who enters the school mindful of our true goal: building better character everyday. Some come in thinking they’ll learn to kick and punch. They do. Others come in thinking they’ll learn to break boards. They do. But most don’t come in thinking that they’ll learn to be strong, honest, responsible, respectful, and compassionate people. But they do.

In my 10 years as an instructor, teaching character hasn’t been easy. Some kids are “teacher pleasers” – never failing to listen, follow directions, try their best, and do the right thing. Others are rebellious. Still others simply have fierce dragons – fiery emotions that they struggle to control.

I’ve demoted students – taken stripes away, bumped them down a belt (sometimes more) – for a variety of “crimes against character”. The first time I demoted a student, I thought it would break my heart. Or his. But neither happened, and today that kid is a second-degree black belt and sophomore at Yale University. (He also towers over me, which I think is quite unfair.)

Today both of us are stronger and better people. Yet teaching – and learning – important character lessons never gets any easier.

As much as I adhere to the Tony DiCicco “Catch Them Being Good” positive coaching philosophy, sometimes I have to be – apologies for the harsh language – a hard ass.

Like last week.

Little Z, all of 7 years old, was sitting on a metal folding chair in my office, his short legs dangling, not even long enough to touch the blue carpet. Tears welled up in his eyes. A sweet-hearted, hardworking yellow belt, Z was two weeks away from promoting to orange belt. But earlier in the day, he had a little problem with self-control. He let anger get the worst of him.

That morning, Z was at a neighborhood park playing a game with another kid when things turned ugly. Z got mad because the kid was physically bullying him, and not playing the game fairly. Z pushed the boy and then tried to hit him in the face. (Z missed, thank goodness.) When Z’s mother told him to apologize to the boy, he refused, and then threw a verbal fit.

Now, just a few hours later, Z was sitting in my office at the martial arts school, head hanging low and looking quite uncomfortable. Fresh from his sparring class, Z’s tussled, sweaty bangs hung above his big brown eyes. He was almost too adorable to punish. But I’ve learned that letting kids off lightly doesn’t do them any favors.

“Do you know why you’re here?” I asked him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he quietly and gently replied.

I asked Z to tell me what happened, and I was proud that his story matched the one his mother just told me. (Chalk up one point for honesty!)

I held Z’s dirty yellow belt in my hands.

“Z, you understand that we only use Taekwondo to protect ourselves and our families, right? Only when our lives are in danger?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tears welled up in both eyes, and a single one emerged and then rolled a slow, curving path down his left cheek. It stopped at his chin and hung there, waiting – just like Z was waiting with me now.

“Now, the way I see it, you made three really bad choices today,” I continued. “In Taekwondo, one of the five tenets is self-control, and today you lost that.”

He nodded sadly. The tear finally dropped to the lap of his white dobok pants.

“You tried to strike someone in anger. And that’s wrong. You know that, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His big, brown, sad-puppy dog eyes looked straight into mine, and I had to pray for strength.

I took his belt in my left hand as I slid open my desk drawer and grabbed a pair of scissors. “You’re lucky your punch missed. You’re lucky you didn’t hurt that young man. But because you tried to hit him in anger, that’s one,” I said as I snipped off one of two orange stripes from his yellow belt.

I tore off the strip of colored electrical tape and threw it into the trash can. “There goes a lot of hard work.”

He swallowed hard.

“Then you refused to apologize to the boy, showing a lack of respect to your peers, and a refusal to take personal responsibility for your actions. That’s two,” I said, snipping off the other orange stripe. I tossed it, too, into the trash.

Multiple tears began a NASCAR race down both cheeks.

“Z, you’re lucky you only have two stripes on your belt, because had you had three, you would have lost one more, because you were disrespectful to your mom.”

He nodded that he understood.

“You also don’t get to take the next test with the other yellow belts. Do you understand?”

“Yes…,” – tears were really gushing now from Z’s eyes, and he began sucking wind the way kids do when they’re really sad or hurt – “…ma’am.”

“Z, I know this is a hard lesson for you to learn, but it’s best you learn it from me than to get into real trouble someday because you can’t control yourself when you get mad.”

His eyes were a bloodshot red. He kept crying and sucking wind, crying and sucking wind. I knew that he was truly sorry for his behavior, and for a moment, I wanted to give him a big hug. I thought, “Geez, Cathy, he’s was only 7! Don’t be so hard on him.” I knew this was an important moment, though. The playground incident probably wasn’t the first time he’d lashed out in anger, but I needed to do my best to make sure it was the last.

As I looked at his yellow belt, I noticed a very bright yellow strip where one of the orange stripes had been. I showed it to him.

“Look, Z. Belts don’t lie. See here?” I asked, pointing to the bright yellow area. “You didn’t learn an important lesson here – that you have to practice self-control, that you can’t use Taekwondo when you get mad.”

He looked hard at the belt.

“Z, you’re good at Taekwondo. Real good. Already you could hurt someone with your feet and hands, and that’s why I have to do this today. But I want you to know that while I’m disappointed in how you acted today, I’m not mad at you. I just want you to learn self-control. I want this bright yellow part of your belt to match the gritty, gutsy, hard work, and good decisions of the rest of the belt. And I know you can do it.”

“Yes … (sucking more wind) … ma’am,” he said.

I invited his mother into the office, and together we agreed that the next time he sees the boy in the park, Z would apologize to him for his actions. Then Z, with his mom or dad by his side, would have to apologize to the boy’s parents, too.

I dismissed Z, and after he walked out of the office, his mom told me that this wasn’t the first time he’d lost his temper. However, it was the first time he’d done so in public.

As we both walked out of the office, Z’s mother turned around, looked me in the eye, and thanked me.

She. Thanked. Me.

How many parents these days will thank a teacher for being a hard ass to their kids?

I know we have a special school, but I again was blown away at the truly extraordinary relationships we build and maintain at Tao of Texas. And I felt validated that – although I never enjoy coming down hard on good kids – I’d done the right thing.

Out in the lobby, as Z sat on the floor putting on his little tennis shoes, he was still crying and looking very sad. I wanted to end our time together on a positive note.

“Z, I want you to know that I do love you, and I believe in you,” I said, smiling. “So you just keep coming back. Don’t quit.”

His lips turned up slightly – enough to show that a rainbow of resolve was likely to emerge at the end of his self-created storm – and he mouthed an inaudible, “Yes, ma’am.”

“See you next week,” I said smiling.

I’ve mentored enough kids to make these predictions:
• Z will learn to control his actions, to communicate with others in a respectful manner (even when they piss him off), and to verbally stand up to bullies instead of trying to physically go toe-to-toe.
• One day – sooner than I’d like – he’ll be a fine, outstanding and upstanding black belt who towers over me and heads off to some grand university, where he’ll face a new set of challenges.
• He’ll remember this day for the rest of his life. And I will, too.

Practice, Practice, Practice Quote of the Week

2010-05-18T10:16:00.000-07:00

"Excellence is not a singular act, but a habit. You are what you repeatedly do."
- Shaquille O'Neal,
NBA Superstar

It Takes a Tiny Texan Village to Raise a Child

2010-05-06T11:31:00.000-07:00

A new student joined our Tiny Texan class on Tuesday. He’s smart, energetic – and has a reputation (if you can actually HAVE a reputation at age 5) of being a bit out of control. One of my adult students referred his mom to me after the mom's last nerve frayed in frustration and exhaustion. Earlier that day, school officials called to report that her son had peed in the trashcan and then later tried to choke one of his classmates.

It's a no-brainer; he needs discipline.

His mother brought him to me. But what she didn't realize is that he will not just have me as a teacher. He has the support of a village of surprisingly awe-inspiring classmates who demonstrate their strength and wisdom as mini-role models on a daily basis.

I haven't met a kid yet who intuitively knew how to act in public. (Heck, I can think of a few adults who still struggle with this.) Kids have to learn social norms. They have to learn boundaries, respect, integrity, and many times, it can't just come from the parents. No one teaches children about acceptable and unacceptable social skills faster than peers.

So at my school, I use this fact to everyone's advantage.

I should point out that all Tiny Texans, and all parents of Tiny Texans, are pretty much the same. The parents bring in their children – oftentimes sweet, well-meaning, but ants-in-the-pants jewels in the rough who can't stay still, keep their hands to themselves, or pay attention for more than a second – hoping that I can help establish some semblance of serenity and normalcy. At the least, a moment's rest.

As soon as I agree to take on their child as a student, though, I often see in the parents' eyes the fear that their child is terminally unique - that my character-development-centered Taekwondo program will not help them grow into fine, upstanding, and outstanding young men or women. Many parents even offer a preemptive apology for their child’s initial lack of attention and wild ways.

“They’re three, four, five years old,” I tell them. “They all start out in Lala Land. Don't worry. They'll get better.”

The parents always smile and nod politely, but I can tell that inside they're doubtful that their child will EVER settle down.

Then the child comes barreling onto the dojang's mat, and they are all the same, too: firing off a string of seemingly unending questions and comments that have nothing to do with martial arts.

“Wanna see my pet frog?” the student might begin, rather sweet and innocently.

“I’d love to but first,” I begin, trying to ready them for the start of class.

“…do you wear glasses all the time?” they interrupt.

“Sometimes,” I say, but don’t get the chance to finish the sentence before –

• “I’m hot.”
• “Know what? I can set the table all by myself.”
• “I have to go to the bathroom.”
• “Did you know my mother takes out her eyes when she goes to bed at night?”
• “I can count to eleven-teen.”
• “What’s this rubber band for?”

At this point, my substitute instructors–in-training are looking a mix between panicked and comatosed. But for me, it’s show time. And the best part is that it's NOT my show.

I let the new student rattle on a bit, then finally get to the business of starting class. I call the students to line up.

"In 10, 9, 8, 7, 6..." I say, as the "veteran" students, some as young as age three, scramble into a straight line before I reach "1." I see out of the corner of my eye that the new kid has lined up with the rest.

Next, I call the class to attention. One girl whispers to the new kid, "You're 'sposed to stand like this." She puts her feet and heels together. The new student mirrors her movements.

During warm-up, I often remind my half-pint students how important it is to focus and to listen, and that I offer a stripe on their belt at the end of class if they:

• pay attention
• are respectful to their classmates
• work real hard, and
• say "yes, ma'am, no ma'am, and thank you ma'am" when and where appropriate.

Still, no matter how many times I gently remind and encourage my pre-preschool students to follow these basic rules, nothing compares to, or works as well as, good old-fashioned peer pressure.

Take the other day, when my newest Tiny Texan and his classmates were taking a water break.

We have a ritual. We always face the flags, stand tall at attention, bow, and then break for water. The new kid ran to the water fountain.

“No running!” one of my oldest Tiny Texans said. “Ms. Chapaty says not to run ’cause we could fall and hurt something.”

The new kid stopped in his tracks to look at his classmate, and I could tell that he was trying to decide whether to listen to her. Then he began walking to the water fountain.

In line at the fountain, the new kid began curiously touching the braids of the girl in front of him.

“You’re not ’sposed to touch people,” she proclaims. “Ms. Chapaty says we're ’sposed to ’spect each other's space and keep our hands to ourselves.”

He stopped fiddling with her hair.

By the end of class, the new guy got an earful from his classmates – "keep your eyes closed during meditation", "stand up straight when we're at 'tention", "shhhh, don’t talk when Ms. Chapaty is talking" – and, therefore, he was well on his way to earning his first stripe.

Parents come to my school all the time and tell me how impressed they are with how well I work with kids, as if I'm the shaman leader of the Village of Good Character. They spout phrases like “You have such a gift with kids” and “I don't know how you do it.”

O.K. I'll admit I have a gift. I enjoy working with kids. I love seeing them grow and learn and grow some more. But I'm not a magician, and the business of teaching character development isn't rocket science. What I do isn't that difficult, especially when you consider that the "gift" I have lies in an intimate understanding of the ancient principle of "pass it on" by way of positive (yin) peer pressure. My hardest work by far came with my first student, who then passed on what he knew to my second student, who passed on her knowledge of the rules of the road to the third, and so on. Each student demonstrated to the other, by how they treated one another, how to become honest, respectful, and responsible people. THEY did it all, and continue to do it every day.

Hillary Clinton wrote that "it takes a village" to raise a child. To that I say, "Here, here." But in our Tao of Texas village, our elders are not seasoned by age and experience.

Our finest, wisest members are just shy of four years old.

Now who has a gift?

Perseverance Quote of the Week

2010-05-03T07:08:00.000-07:00

“I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”
– Thomas Edison,
Extraordinary inventor

Self-Control Quote of the Week

2010-04-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

"Exaggeration is truth that has lost its temper."
- Kahlil Gibran,
Lebanese-American poet, painter, sculptor, writer, philosopher, and theologian

Mamma (Black Belt) Bear Rising

2010-04-25T10:23:00.001-07:00

Tick by tock, Friday evening became Saturday morning at the dojang, and I was still awake – on purpose. My students and I were about to wrap up another fun-filled lock-in, jammed packed with kids eating pizza, playing martial arts games until their little bodies were drenched in sweat, watching movies, and playing video games. Soon, I’d be sending a mat full of sleepy kids home to their parents. And though I was officially sleep-deprived, I also was very serene.

One by one, parents came to pick up their kids. I took out trash, wiped up sticky punch drippings, and began sweeping up kernels of popcorn strewn in the lobby like dandruff. Before long, only two students – and a chaperone still sleeping on the couch – remained. That’s when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man approaching the school.

Holding my broom with both hands, I walked out to meet him at the threshold of the dojang’s garage door. He was dressed nicely enough: blue jeans and an orange and white striped polo shirt. He wasn’t clean-shaven; but after all, this is Austin. What gave me pause was his rough, leather-tanned arms – with scratches, scars, and fresh scabs – and the pungent stench of alcohol seeping out of every pore of his body and breath.

At first, I was sympathetic. A recovering alcoholic myself, I understand that he has a disease, and a part of me wanted to be of service.

“Can I talk to the owner?” he began.

“That’s me,” pointing my thumb to my chest.

He didn’t look like he believed me.

“Well, my name’s Mark, and I don’t live in Austin. Well, I ... yeah I do live in Austin…” he slurred, about to launch into what I knew would be a long and winding monologue ultimately ending with a plea for money.

I cut to the chase.

“I don’t have any money if that’s what you’re wanting,” I said.

“No, ma’am,” he said politely enough, wavering in his stance. “I’m just looking for work.”

I looked out at the tall grass growing on the side of the school’s lot, and said, “I have some grass that needs cutting.”

“I can do that,” he said, slowly nodding.

“But you’ll need your own equipment,” I replied, remembering that our electronic lawnmower, which I neglected to chain to the fence, had been recently stolen.

“Oh, I don’t have any equipment,” he said gruffly, starting to stagger and stumble.

And that’s when I got a now-familiar gut feeling – one that has proven very accurate in the past – that I needed to get this guy off my property immediately.

“Well, listen, I don’t have any work for you, and we’re a family business,” I said, patting him gently twice on the shoulder. “I’ve got kids in there, and, buddy, you’re drunk, so I think you’d better go.”

His face shot out a squint-eyed leer, his lips pursed together, and I braced for what I knew was coming. I firmly stood my ground at the garage door, still holding my broom.

“I drink every day,” he said, then staggered again. “Every day! And you don’t have to push me!”

I simply nodded my head. I was bracing for a physical confrontation, but I tried to remain calm. I did not back up.

“I could push you right back. You know that?” he said, starting to stagger away. He was leaving, but I was still on edge. As he reached the middle of our parking lot, he turned and said, “You know I’m a black belt, too, and I can stomp on your feet and push you!”

I thought, “Why do drunks always tell me they’re black belts?” It’s not the first time this has happened.

I nodded my head again, trying to reassure myself that a potential crisis had been averted, and watched him as he wobbled down the street to the No. 1 bus stop. I didn’t move my position – or my hands on my broom – until he was out of sight.

I looked down at the broom. It didn’t occur to me until that moment that I had had a weapon in my hands the whole time. I no-doubt would have used it – my training would have kicked in – but it was probably a good thing I didn’t act as if I had a weapon. I didn’t give out that energy. If I had, I may have provoked a fight. Fortunately, all I had to do – and I don’t say “ALL I had to do” lightly – was stand up to him and insist he leave.

As I turned around to go back into the school, I saw one of two little girls left in the dojang sitting on the lobby floor tying her shoes. Our eyes met, and I realized then that she had witnessed the whole thing.

“I’m really sorry you had to see that,” I said gently.

“That’s O.K.” she said, looking down at her shoes.

“No, it’s not O.K.,” I said.

She looked up.

“It’s not O.K. for a drunk person to come to a place like this – or anywhere – with kids around. It’s not O.K. for them to yell at you and scare you.”

We were both quiet for a while.

As I started to sweep again, I added, “That’s why you’re here; so you can learn to stand up to people when they’re being inappropriate and disrespectful. Because it’s not O.K. to treat people that way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, then finished tying her shoes.

A little later, she and her sister sleepily said their thank yous and goodbyes and left with their mom. I kept sweeping, replaying the incident in my mind. Though centered and calm in the moment, I was now feeling ticked off at that guy for invading our space and scaring and potentially scarring an innocent young girl. When the chaperone awoke, I told her about the incident and how I wished my student hadn’t seen it.

She offered a different take: Maybe it was a good thing she saw it. More importantly, maybe she saw it differently than how I thought she saw it.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Maaaybe,” she said, carefully drawing out her thought, “it was good for her to see an example of a strong woman stand up to someone like that.”

I hadn’t thought of it that way. I told my young student that it was important to stand up to those who act inappropriately, and that’s why we train. So why was I unhappy about the fact that she had see an example of it up close?

I didn’t realize how strong I might have appeared to this little girl. That instead of seeing a scary drunk threatening a fight, she might have seen a strong woman remaining calm, confident – and firm.

As I locked up the school and headed home, I thought about what the chaperone said, and hoped that the morning's events might have planted the seed of empowerment in that little girl's psyche, one that will grow and blossom for the rest of her life.

And with that comforting thought, I could finally go to sleep.

“It Was the Right Thing to Do”

2010-04-22T09:03:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I asked a group of martial arts students, “Have you ever been scared to tell the truth?”

One girl shyly raised her hand and said, “I saw one of my classmates vandalize school property, and he told me that I better not tell anyone or he’d beat me up.”

After a long pause, I asked, “What happened?”

“I had to tell someone,” she said meekly, shrugging her shoulders. “It was the right thing to do.”

If a young girl can courageously stand up to her threatening classmate, everyone can stand up for what’s right.

Integrity Quote of the Week

2010-04-21T06:56:00.000-07:00

"If winning is everything to you, you will do anything to win."
– Anon

The Good Character Challenge

2010-04-12T07:25:00.001-07:00

Character development is the cornerstone of my youth martial arts program. Look around -- in department stores, groceries, schoolyards, street corners, and on the Internet -- and you'll see why. Our children are woefully lacking in good character these days. Just some examples:

Some Fort Worth, Texas, cheerleaders reportedly thought it was a good idea to spike sodas with urine and then gleefully give them to teammates.
Some teenagers in Massachusetts reportedly bullied a classmate to the point that she committed suicide.
Enough student athletes use steroids that some school districts now test, or are considering testing, for performance enhancing drugs.

We read about these incidents every day, and in the moment, we are shocked and appalled. But how many of us can go one day without:

telling a little white lie?
sticking company office supplies in our briefcase or purse "by accident"?
showing up late to work, or leaving early
spending way more on our credit card than WE KNOW we can repay
driving over the speed limit, taking a U-turn when the sign clearly states it is against the law, or turning right on a red light when another sign tells us not to?

Where has good character gone in this country? Is it no longer valued? Have we given up the good fight for honesty and virtue?

Alas, my stubborn nature is beneficial after all, for I haven't given up on people young and old doing the right thing at the right time for the right reason -- even when no one is looking.

Years ago, my Taekwondo grandmaster had his young students memorize 10 basic rules to live by. One problem was that he made the students memorize and verbally recite these rules, but never checked to see if they were actually adhering to them. The other problem was that each rule started out, "Children must....," as if only youths need character development. When I opened Tao of Texas Martial Arts Institute, I made a point to have guidelines that begin with "WE must..." because everyone, at every age, could have better character. Even, and especially, me.

Take a look at the rules my students must follow to qualify for promotion in my Taekwondo program. How many can you check off every day?

We must respect our parents and family members AT ALL TIMES.
We must greet family members when we come home, and say goodbye when we leave.
We must be honest and truthful AT ALL TIMES.
We must build and maintain a good relationship with our brothers and sisters AT ALL TIMES.
We must help with household chores.
We must wash our hair and body, and brush our teeth every day.
We must clean our room and keep it clean.
We must not rudely interrupt another’s conversation.
We must complete our homework (or project) and turn it in on time.
We must respect our teachers and peers AT ALL TIMES.

Heck, Congress could use a little of No. 10 right now! And did anyone get stuck on No. 8? I listen to adults talk to each other all the time, and it's like watching a constant rerun of "Interrupt-Ville." Few people know how to let others finish a sentence before they begin spouting their self-important point of view.

I ask my students which ones they struggle with the most, and overwhelmingly, it's keeping a good relationship with siblings. How are you doing in that arena? Personally, I still have a looooong way to grow. Due to my students' inspiring efforts, though, I've been making baby-step improvements and have been making regular attempts to call my two sisters more often and to be patient and compassionate when they are bickering with each other, which right now is all the time.

I struggle most with No. 1. I don't call my mom and dad enough. I'm working on that, but having been an absentee daughter in the past, it's a hard habit to break. Still, my students offer the inspiration for me to keep trying.

Last week, I dropped everything to go be with my mom as her sister was dying. She said last night that she was so happy that I did.

"I knew you'd come," she said. "You didn't say you were coming, but I knew you would."

It meant a lot to her that I came, and it meant a lot to me to hear her say it made her happy, for I have not always made her happy.

None of us is perfect. Every day is character in progress for me. Take this morning: I woke up, put the back of my hand to my forehead, and sighed, "I don't have a fever." I swallowed. No sore throat. I sighed again, thinking about the sometimes-boring work I do in the mornings at a publishing company, then resolved, "Well, I'm not sick, so I guess I'd better get going." Then I rolled out of bed to begin my day.

We all have our character defects struggles. Years ago, a friend of mine told me her boss had a "come to Buddha" meeting with her about the fact that my friend had been arriving to work every day about 30 minutes late, taking a longer lunch than allowed, and then leaving about 30 minutes early.

"Well no wonder she's upset. That's theft." I said deadpanned. "You're stealing from the company."

She looked stunned. My friend had never seen it that way.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked.

"Oh, maybe about a year," she said.

"Wow. That's a lot of money you owe the company."

Her jaw dropped. Her olive complexion became ashen. I told her how lucky she was that her boss didn't fire her on the spot. She thought about it, and later went home and calculated all the time she had "stolen" from the company. For MANY months afterward, she came in early, worked through lunches, and stayed late to repay all that time she took off. Her boss never questioned why she was working extra hours.

Another friend thought it was O.K. to pay for one movie ticket at the theater, and, after the movie was over, waltz on over to the movie across the hall without paying. She, too, didn't see that she was stealing from the movie theater. Now, though, when she goes to "the movies," she more specifically goes to see "a movie."

I have never been more proud of my friends.

I'd like to say that the friend who struggled to stay at work has never again failed to put in a good day's work for an honest day's pay, and I'd like to say I always call my mom and dad when I should. The truth? Neither of us is perfect. Everyone falls victim to their weak character defects from time to time, especially when hungry, angry, lonely, or tired. But now she knows that whatever time she fudges on, she must make up, and I know that I have no excuse ("it's too early/too late to call") for not keeping in touch with my parents.

I've made every character mistake in the book in my life. Today, though, I take these rules seriously, and my students know it. The penalty at the school for flagrant violation of our basic rules is loss of belt rank and possible suspension. Some students have indeed lost rank for various infractions: making Fs because they didn't turn in homework, being unreasonably rude to their siblings, talking back to their parents, blaming the broken vase on the dog instead of saying they broke it when they were playing frisbee in the house. Am I hard on them? Why, yes, I guess I am. However, I'd rather they lose rank in a martial arts school and learn a vital lesson about being a better, stronger person than lose a parent's or friend's trust through lying, or worse, make a mistake so large that they lose their freedom via jail time.

So enough already. Developing and keeping good character is simple. I'll admit it's not easy, but very simple. You just do the right thing -- whether you like it or not, whether you want to or not, whether it's politically popular or not -- because it's the right thing to do.

What this means for me is that I show up to work on time, and I don't leave early just because the boss is gone for the day. It means I'll suffer the societal pressure of being honked at by the driver behind me who wants me to turn on red when the sign says not to. It means I'm going to report the cash that student just handed me for a used uniform that wasn't in the school's inventory. It means I'm going to tell the truth about why I was late to meet my friend (I screwed up) instead of making an excuse that "sounds good." And it means I will have to let myself look bad from time to time. It means I will make mistakes and own up to them as quickly as possible instead of pointing the finger at someone else, rationalizing, or justifying my behavior.

Will I always feel better about telling the truth? Honestly, maybe not in the moment (because I'm a perfectionist who's all about looking good), but eventually, I will see the value in truth and be glad I owned up to it. (Plus, I don't have to keep lies straight in my head if I tell the truth the first time.)

If my students can follow these simple rules, everyone can step up to the big-boy Character Development plate, too.

So, I dare you: Take the Good Character Challenge. Follow the above-mentioned 10 basic rules for one week. And let me know how it goes.

Be honest....

The Way of the Peaceful Kindergarten Warrior

2010-04-09T08:55:00.000-07:00

Calvin was barely 3 years old when he first walked into my Taekwondo class – with wild and thick blonde hair, a pasty white face, and wandering attention. He was big for his age – stocky for a soon-to-be preschooler. We all knew he would be a big guy some day, just like his dad. But few suspected that one day he would stand taller than all of us.

Calvin walked to the beat of his own drum, but he liked to dress like his dad, Tony. The day I met Calvin, he and his dad were wearing matching white knit muscle T-shirts and camouflage shorts. Tony was a 6-foot-plus tall, broad-shouldered, tattoo-covered man with a long, scraggly, ZZ-Top-like goatee. It seemed out of place for such a tough-looking guy to gingerly lead this 3-year-old by the hand. I couldn’t help instantly liking them.

“Calvin, it’s good to meet you,” I said, offering my right hand to shake. He reached out with his left hand. “Are you ready to take martial arts?” I asked with excitement.

“Yeah-huh,” he said, his head nodding once and his eyes wandering around the room watching the other kids playing in the matted area. He picked his nose and then ate a booger.

“Cal, don’t do that!” Tony said.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, obviously embarrassed. “He’s going through this phase.”

As I continued getting ready for class, Calvin continued rattling off a barrage of questions. And although some instructors might have been annoyed at Calvin’s unending stream of curiosity, I found his little spirit endearing.

Calvin was one of my first “Tiny Texans.” He and the others were adorable in their half-pint uniforms – with belts that almost drug the floor – bowing, yelling, kicking and punching. They had amazing imaginations and unending energy.

I love all my students, and every night, I come home and tell stories about them all. However, Calvin stories were becoming an almost-nightly, over-dinner ritual.

“Oh my God, Calvin was so cute today,” I’d tell my partner, Marianna.

“What’d he do this time?”

“You know how we all hold hands in a circle at the end of class before we bow to each other?"

“Yeah.”

“Well, just before I took Calvin’s hand, he ran his palm under his snotty nose, then held out his hand for me to take.”

“Gross!” she said, as we both laughed.

I paused, looking at my hands. “I’d better go wash up before I eat.”

Calvin was interesting to watch grow. One day he walked into the dojang in full uniform – and some special accessories: green plastic frog rain boots, goggles, and a cap.

“Miss Caffee, do you know what I am?”

“I do not,” I responded. “What are you today?”

“I’m an ant farmer,” he proclaimed, grinning from ear to ear.

I had to break the news to him that day that he couldn’t wear his farming gear on the training floor. Another day, I had to explain to him how if he wore his Santa Claus hat while he trained, it would get hot and stinky from the sweat.

Everyday was an adventure in teaching this young man. He was a curious yet careful learner. He wouldn’t climb a rope if he deemed it too high. He wouldn’t roll backward at first because both feet had to leave the ground. A lot of his hesitant manner came from not have very good balance or body coordination. In the beginning, he would hold onto my index finger to do a kick. But because he kept coming to class, his balance and coordination improved. I never pushed him to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with, and slowly, eventually, he became willing to try new things. Soon, he was kicking without my help – pushing the offer of my index finger away. And he finally understood how he must bow before entering or leaving the mat area. One day, without me reminding him, he squatted oddly – his head up and his body bent over as if he had to poop – and then left the mat to go hug his mother. It’s what some parents and students at the school came to affectionately refer to as “The Calvin Bow.”

Like a 3-year-old, he struggled with paying attention to instructions.

“Calvin, look at me,” I’d say. “Listen to me.”

“O.K.”

“O.K.?” I’d repeat. “O.K. what?”

“Ah-me-ah, yes, man,” he’d finally say. Calvin still had trouble distinguishing when to say ma’am or sir, easily confused by the whole man-woman thing. At first, I couldn’t tell if he was calling me a man, or just had trouble saying “ma’am.”

But for what he lacked in gender identifications, he made up for in persistence. Every Tuesday and Thursday, unless he was sick, Calvin showed up for class. I had to remind him often to listen.

“Yes, man,” he’d say.

After a few weeks of me reminding him, though, he surprisingly became proactive.

“Are I listening, Miss Caffee?”

“Yes, you are, Calvin,” I’d reply. “You’re listening really well today.”

I could tell Calvin’s parents cared about their son, and worked with him at home to improve his manners and focus skills. Tony probably spent the entire car ride to the school reminding Calvin to listen to me in class, for Calvin seemed obsessed with knowing whether he was listening.

“Are I listening, Miss Caffee?” he’d ask repeatedly.

“Yes you are, Calvin.”

As the months and years went by, I watched Calvin grow taller and become more confident and coordinated. No matter how much martial arts he learned, his gentle spirit did not wane. While the other boys his age salivated over sparring, Calvin would have been content to chase butterflies if that were part of Taekwondo class. So when he began attending kindergarten, a bully mistook his calm, laid back presence as a sign of weakness – and he pounced on him.

One day, Calvin’s mother Christina went to the school to take Calvin his lunch. She watched in horror as a boy sat on top of her gentle son, trapping him on the ground. The bully took Calvin’s shoes, and then the bully and other boys began throwing the shoes around as Calvin ran in circles trying to get them back. Christina was in near tears telling me about it. Calvin, who loved school, wanted to go home immediately.

“Can you talk to him? I don’t know what to do. I keep telling him to use his voice.”

After class in my office, Calvin proceeded to tell me about the bully who picks on him at school.

“He took your shoes?” I asked.

“Yeah-huh,” Calvin nodded.

“O.K., Calvin. Are you listening? Because this is very important.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He had no trouble saying “ma’am” anymore.

“When that boy picks on you,” I said, “you need to say something, tell him to stop it. I’ll bet this boy won’t keep picking on you if you stand up to him. Most bullies are really just scaredy-cats anyway.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am?” he said, a little hesitant.

“You can do it. I know you can. Now, here’s another thing you could do. If that boy takes your shoes again, just tell him, ‘You must need those shoes more than me,’ and then walk away. Because he’s playing a game, trying to get you to go after your own shoes. If you don’t play the game, he won’t think it’s fun anymore, and I’ll bet he’ll stop doing it.”

Calvin smiled back; he seemed to relax.

“Then go to your teacher and tell her you need new shoes – and why. I guarantee you she’ll get your shoes back,” I said with a grin.

“O.K., Miss Cathy,” he said in a more confident tone.

A few days later, his mom pulled me aside.

“I kept telling Cal to use his voice. And you know what? Last week that little bully tried to cut in line and Cal screamed, ‘No!’ and the boy went to the back of the line. That little twerp hasn’t bothered him since.”

I smiled and nodded, but a huge happy dance was happening on the inside.

I’ve been a teacher for almost 10 years now. I’ve taught students how to kick hard, punch hard, and compete to win medals, ribbons, trophies, and plaques. I’ve taught some how to do a flying side kick over multiple people and others how to break boards. But as a teacher, I have a special place in my heart for the gentle, humble, and unassuming ones who are quiet yet powerful – the ones who are living proof that oftentimes the solution to life’s greatest obstacles is not a kick or a punch, but rather standing tall and using their voice.