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?" I replied.
"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.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Building Better Bodies Every Day
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.
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.
Monday, February 21, 2011
U.S. Open Opens World of Possibilities
Volunteering to do service work at Taekwondo tournaments
has enriched all our martial arts experiences.
On Friday morning, I led 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 gold-medal matches. 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 Olympic medalists were there—some walking around in uniform waiting for their turn to compete, some in inconspicuous street clothes. But seeing Olympic stars, hearing numerous foreign languages spoken, and seeing bright, colorful country flags flying overhead 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 athletes, countries they represent, and weight divisions. When we saw a paper with a winning athlete'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 senior female official was finalizing 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 knew she had a soft side.
"See that lady at the referee desk?" I asked Caroline. We were close enough for the official 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 as if 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 squeaked, a bit shyly.
The referee turned to us. "Here," she said with a kind smile, handing the paper to Caroline.
"How do you say 'thank you' in Korean?" I asked Caroline.
Caroline smiled at the referee. "Com sam nee dah," she said.
"Comsa Hamnidah!" the referee repeated, giving me an approving nod.
"You're starting them young!" she smiled.
"Yes, ma'am, I am," I replied.
"Yes, ma'am, I am," I replied.
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. "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!"
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Practicing Perseverance in Relationships
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Perseverance Quote of the Week
"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
— Tony Hawk
Skateboarder extraordinaire
Friday, January 21, 2011
If You Have a Voice, You Have a Choice
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.
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.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)