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.
Showing posts with label Business. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Business. Show all posts
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Monday, September 13, 2010
Tom Brokaw Would Love Tao of Texas
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.
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.
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