When Two Garage Doors Close, Another One Opens

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.

Mamma (Black Belt) Bear Rising

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.