Today's tale from the mat:
Six-year-old Michael has been a student for about a month. He's quiet, shy, and unsure of everything. He often forgets to kihap (use his spirit voice) while kicking and punching, and when he does remember, his voice is always soft.
Yesterday during knee kick drills, though, he FOUND HIS VOICE! Exxxxxxcept his kihap was more like a spewing, spitting "PpppppffffPOW!"
Do you tell a young man who's finally found his spirit to not spit in your face while you're holding a power kicking bag?
Eventually.
But not today.
Showing posts with label Punch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Punch. Show all posts
Friday, January 25, 2013
Monday, February 13, 2012
Austin Women, Don't Quit Now
Austin women, I’m so proud of you. Don’t quit now.
Our city has had a rough start to 2012. A rash of assaults and the murder of 29-year-old Esme Barrera early Jan. 1 shattered Austin’s sense of security. Women feared solo trips to the grocery store at night, jogging alone at sunrise, and walking their dogs in neighborhoods where they had once felt safe.
In 11 years as a self-defense instructor, I’ve learned that in times as these, women either become ostriches or rise to fight.
Austin, you rose.
As tragic and heartbreaking as Barrera’s murder was, it burst open a floodgate of moms, daughters, career women, and sorority sisters taking proactive steps toward self-protection. Women snagged free pepper spray and self-defense classes. (About 300 women signed up for just one of many free self-defense courses offered by local martial arts schools.) Women of all ages, sizes, races, and financial means were eager to feel safe again.
In Krav Maga, Taekwondo, Ving Tsun Kung Fu, and other martial arts studios across the city, women learned to become aware of their surroundings, set and enforce boundaries, and apply simple, effective strikes to vulnerable areas of the body. They learned to kick shins, knee groins, and stomp feet; scrape and gouge eyes and punch and break noses; use their voice with confidence (at least two recent attempted assaults were thwarted by Austin women who cried out for help), and identify weapons of opportunity (a comb end thrust into an attacker’s throat, lip balm jammed deeply into the eye, the firm edge of a credit card pushed against the base of the nose).
Students repeatedly asked me, “Do these techniques work? I mean, will they REALLY work against a big guy who’s much stronger than me?” Again and again, I replied, “Yes, as long as you don’t panic, target soft zones, are explosive and relentless, and don’t quit. When you’re free, run.”
I’ve never witnessed such massive transformations. Once scared and meek women stood taller, spoke louder and clearer, and grew stronger and more empowered. They shared stories of past assaults. Some revealed their trauma to another for the first time, found support, and began an imperfect path toward healing.
Many women were understandably relieved the night the Austin Police Department announced that James Loren Brown, the prime suspect in Barrera’s murder and a string of other assaults, had committed suicide.
However, the harsh reality is that Austin—and the nation—has more than one perpetrator. Consider these sobering U.S. statistics:
• One in six American women have been victims of rape—either by a stranger or by an acquaintance, according to the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network.
• More than 600 women are raped or sexually assaulted in the United States every day, according to a National Crime Victimization Survey.
• About 60 percent of sexual assaults are NEVER REPORTED to police.
Life amid so much violence can be overwhelmingly disheartening and terrifying. But Austin women, you rose. You chose not to be victims. You have thus far been determined to not become a crime statistic by being diligent and unreasonable regarding personal safety. And now some of you are turning to female neighbors and co-workers and sharing what you've learned:
• Make yourself a hard target. Be aware of your surroundings. Lift your heads from the text you’re about to send and look around. Who’s there? Who’s not there?
• Trust your intuition. When your gut is screaming that something’s not right, oftentimes, it isn't. Believe in what your body is saying.
• FIGHT. When awareness and escape fail, be explosive, vicious, and unrelenting. Use your hands, feet, voice, and any other weapon within reach. Don’t stop fighting until you’re free and safe.
"But seriously," women repeat, "do these techniques really work?"
Ask 7-year-old Brittney Baxter, who fought off a would-be kidnapper last week in the toy aisle of a Walmart in Bremen, Ga. She struggled and screamed until her attacker let go.
Violent individuals are in our world—in aisles of super stores, in parking garages, on hiking trails, and in other places you might least expect. A woman can be aware and safety-mindful, and perpetrators may still cross her path. For instance, I consider myself uber aware, and that didn't stop a scary incident from happening recently.
Last week while I walked home at night from the boxing gym, a man in a Chevy “Good Times”-like van with duct-tape covered windows tried to lure me toward him by acting concerned.
He drove by me slowly and stopped a few yards ahead. So I stopped walking.
“You all right?” he asked, careful not to stick his head out of the van or show his face. I heard only his voice.
“I’m fine. Keep going,” I said. I was still wearing hand wraps from boxing class; I was obviously O.K. But he didn’t budge. Neither did I.
“You all right?” he asked again.
A little louder and more firm, I repeated, “I’m fine!”
Finally, he drove away—slowly. Once the van was out of sight, I ran home and called 911.
The need for self-defense technology is real—necessary for average women and veteran martial artists alike. (I'm a third-degree black belt in Taekwondo. I can break stacks of boards and tile with the blade edge of my hand, but I still have to practice self-defense skills every day.) Last week, I was able to stay safe by keeping my distance, remaining strong, and speaking confidently. More women and girls need these simple, basic tools.
Austin women, I’m proud that so many of you have been proactive about your safety since New Year’s Day. You've refused to be paralyzed by fear. You've willingly stepped outside your comfort zone. But don’t let your guard down now. Don’t let Barrera’s murderer and other perpetrators threaten your future safety and steal your freedom. Austin women, you’ve come so far. Don’t quit now.
Our city has had a rough start to 2012. A rash of assaults and the murder of 29-year-old Esme Barrera early Jan. 1 shattered Austin’s sense of security. Women feared solo trips to the grocery store at night, jogging alone at sunrise, and walking their dogs in neighborhoods where they had once felt safe.
In 11 years as a self-defense instructor, I’ve learned that in times as these, women either become ostriches or rise to fight.
Austin, you rose.
As tragic and heartbreaking as Barrera’s murder was, it burst open a floodgate of moms, daughters, career women, and sorority sisters taking proactive steps toward self-protection. Women snagged free pepper spray and self-defense classes. (About 300 women signed up for just one of many free self-defense courses offered by local martial arts schools.) Women of all ages, sizes, races, and financial means were eager to feel safe again.
In Krav Maga, Taekwondo, Ving Tsun Kung Fu, and other martial arts studios across the city, women learned to become aware of their surroundings, set and enforce boundaries, and apply simple, effective strikes to vulnerable areas of the body. They learned to kick shins, knee groins, and stomp feet; scrape and gouge eyes and punch and break noses; use their voice with confidence (at least two recent attempted assaults were thwarted by Austin women who cried out for help), and identify weapons of opportunity (a comb end thrust into an attacker’s throat, lip balm jammed deeply into the eye, the firm edge of a credit card pushed against the base of the nose).
Students repeatedly asked me, “Do these techniques work? I mean, will they REALLY work against a big guy who’s much stronger than me?” Again and again, I replied, “Yes, as long as you don’t panic, target soft zones, are explosive and relentless, and don’t quit. When you’re free, run.”
I’ve never witnessed such massive transformations. Once scared and meek women stood taller, spoke louder and clearer, and grew stronger and more empowered. They shared stories of past assaults. Some revealed their trauma to another for the first time, found support, and began an imperfect path toward healing.
Many women were understandably relieved the night the Austin Police Department announced that James Loren Brown, the prime suspect in Barrera’s murder and a string of other assaults, had committed suicide.
However, the harsh reality is that Austin—and the nation—has more than one perpetrator. Consider these sobering U.S. statistics:
• One in six American women have been victims of rape—either by a stranger or by an acquaintance, according to the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network.
• More than 600 women are raped or sexually assaulted in the United States every day, according to a National Crime Victimization Survey.
• About 60 percent of sexual assaults are NEVER REPORTED to police.
Life amid so much violence can be overwhelmingly disheartening and terrifying. But Austin women, you rose. You chose not to be victims. You have thus far been determined to not become a crime statistic by being diligent and unreasonable regarding personal safety. And now some of you are turning to female neighbors and co-workers and sharing what you've learned:
• Make yourself a hard target. Be aware of your surroundings. Lift your heads from the text you’re about to send and look around. Who’s there? Who’s not there?
• Trust your intuition. When your gut is screaming that something’s not right, oftentimes, it isn't. Believe in what your body is saying.
• FIGHT. When awareness and escape fail, be explosive, vicious, and unrelenting. Use your hands, feet, voice, and any other weapon within reach. Don’t stop fighting until you’re free and safe.
"But seriously," women repeat, "do these techniques really work?"
Ask 7-year-old Brittney Baxter, who fought off a would-be kidnapper last week in the toy aisle of a Walmart in Bremen, Ga. She struggled and screamed until her attacker let go.
Violent individuals are in our world—in aisles of super stores, in parking garages, on hiking trails, and in other places you might least expect. A woman can be aware and safety-mindful, and perpetrators may still cross her path. For instance, I consider myself uber aware, and that didn't stop a scary incident from happening recently.
Last week while I walked home at night from the boxing gym, a man in a Chevy “Good Times”-like van with duct-tape covered windows tried to lure me toward him by acting concerned.
He drove by me slowly and stopped a few yards ahead. So I stopped walking.
“You all right?” he asked, careful not to stick his head out of the van or show his face. I heard only his voice.
“I’m fine. Keep going,” I said. I was still wearing hand wraps from boxing class; I was obviously O.K. But he didn’t budge. Neither did I.
“You all right?” he asked again.
A little louder and more firm, I repeated, “I’m fine!”
Finally, he drove away—slowly. Once the van was out of sight, I ran home and called 911.
The need for self-defense technology is real—necessary for average women and veteran martial artists alike. (I'm a third-degree black belt in Taekwondo. I can break stacks of boards and tile with the blade edge of my hand, but I still have to practice self-defense skills every day.) Last week, I was able to stay safe by keeping my distance, remaining strong, and speaking confidently. More women and girls need these simple, basic tools.
Austin women, I’m proud that so many of you have been proactive about your safety since New Year’s Day. You've refused to be paralyzed by fear. You've willingly stepped outside your comfort zone. But don’t let your guard down now. Don’t let Barrera’s murderer and other perpetrators threaten your future safety and steal your freedom. Austin women, you’ve come so far. Don’t quit now.
Friday, December 17, 2010
'Twas the Night Before Kung Fu...
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!”
‘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!”
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The Self-Control Trials of a 7-Year-Old
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.
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.
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