"The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain."
- Dolly Parton,
Legendary country music singer and songwriter
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The Self-Control Trials of a 7-Year-Old
Another one of my boys grew last week. Not in inches, but in indomitable and immeasurable spirit.
As chief instructor of a small martial arts school, it’s my job to keep everyone who enters the school mindful of our true goal: building better character everyday. Some come in thinking they’ll learn to kick and punch. They do. Others come in thinking they’ll learn to break boards. They do. But most don’t come in thinking that they’ll learn to be strong, honest, responsible, respectful, and compassionate people. But they do.
In my 10 years as an instructor, teaching character hasn’t been easy. Some kids are “teacher pleasers” – never failing to listen, follow directions, try their best, and do the right thing. Others are rebellious. Still others simply have fierce dragons – fiery emotions that they struggle to control.
I’ve demoted students – taken stripes away, bumped them down a belt (sometimes more) – for a variety of “crimes against character.” The first time I demoted a student, I thought it would break my heart. Or his. But neither happened, and today that kid is a second-degree black belt and sophomore at Yale University. (He also towers over me, which I think is quite unfair.)
Today both of us are stronger and better people. Yet teaching – and learning – important character lessons never gets any easier.
As much as I adhere to the Tony DiCicco “Catch Them Being Good” positive coaching philosophy, sometimes I have to be – apologies for the harsh language – a hard ass.
Like last week.
Little Z, all of 7 years old, was sitting on a metal folding chair in my office, his short legs dangling, not even long enough to touch the blue carpet. Tears welled up in his eyes. A sweet-hearted, hardworking yellow belt, Z was two weeks away from promoting to orange belt. But earlier in the day, he had a little problem with self-control. He let anger get the worst of him.
That morning, Z was at a neighborhood park playing a game with another kid when things turned ugly. Z got mad because the kid was physically bullying him, and not playing the game fairly. Z pushed the boy and then tried to hit him in the face. (Z missed, thank goodness.) When Z’s mother told him to apologize to the boy, he refused, and then threw a verbal fit.
Now, just a few hours later, Z was sitting in my office at the martial arts school, head hanging low and looking quite uncomfortable. Fresh from his sparring class, Z’s tussled, sweaty bangs hung above his big brown eyes. He was almost too adorable to punish. But I’ve learned that letting kids off lightly doesn’t do them any favors.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I asked him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he quietly and gently replied.
I asked Z to tell me what happened, and I was proud that his story matched the one his mother just told me. (Chalk up one point for honesty!)
I held Z’s dirty yellow belt in my hands.
“Z, you understand that we only use Taekwondo to protect ourselves and our families, right? Only when our lives are in danger?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tears welled up in both eyes, and a single one emerged and then rolled a slow, curving path down his left cheek. It stopped at his chin and hung there, waiting – just like Z was waiting with me now.
“Now, the way I see it, you made three really bad choices today,” I continued. “In Taekwondo, one of the five tenets is self-control, and today you lost that.”
He nodded sadly. The tear finally dropped to the lap of his white dobok pants.
“You tried to strike someone in anger. And that’s wrong. You know that, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
His big, brown, sad-puppy dog eyes looked straight into mine, and I had to pray for strength.
I took his belt in my left hand as I slid open my desk drawer and grabbed a pair of scissors. “You’re lucky your punch missed. You’re lucky you didn’t hurt that young man. But because you tried to hit him in anger, that’s one,” I said as I snipped off one of two orange stripes from his yellow belt.
I tore off the strip of colored electrical tape and threw it into the trash can. “There goes a lot of hard work.”
He swallowed hard.
“Then you refused to apologize to the boy, showing a lack of respect to your peers, and a refusal to take personal responsibility for your actions. That’s two,” I said, snipping off the other orange stripe. I tossed it, too, into the trash.
Multiple tears began a NASCAR race down both cheeks.
“Z, you’re lucky you only have two stripes on your belt, because had you had three, you would have lost one more, because you were disrespectful to your mom.”
He nodded that he understood.
“You also don’t get to take the next test with the other yellow belts. Do you understand?”
“Yes…,” – tears were really gushing now from Z’s eyes, and he began sucking wind the way kids do when they’re really sad or hurt – “…ma’am.”
“Z, I know this is a hard lesson for you to learn, but it’s best you learn it from me than to get into real trouble someday because you can’t control yourself when you get mad.”
His eyes were a bloodshot red. He kept crying and sucking wind, crying and sucking wind. I knew that he was truly sorry for his behavior, and for a moment, I wanted to give him a big hug. I thought, “Geez, Cathy, he’s was only 7! Don’t be so hard on him.” I knew this was an important moment, though. The playground incident probably wasn’t the first time he’d lashed out in anger, but I needed to do my best to make sure it was the last.
As I looked at his yellow belt, I noticed a very bright yellow strip where one of the orange stripes had been. I showed it to him.
“Look, Z. Belts don’t lie. See here?” I asked, pointing to the bright yellow area. “You didn’t learn an important lesson here – that you have to practice self-control, that you can’t use Taekwondo when you get mad.”
He looked hard at the belt.
“Z, you’re good at Taekwondo. Real good. Already you could hurt someone with your feet and hands, and that’s why I have to do this today. But I want you to know that while I’m disappointed in how you acted today, I’m not mad at you. I just want you to learn self-control. I want this bright yellow part of your belt to match the gritty, gutsy, hard work, and good decisions of the rest of the belt. And I know you can do it.”
“Yes … (sucking more wind) … ma’am,” he said.
I invited his mother into the office, and together we agreed that the next time he sees the boy in the park, Z would apologize to him for his actions. Then Z, with his mom or dad by his side, would have to apologize to the boy’s parents, too.
I dismissed Z, and after he walked out of the office, his mom told me that this wasn’t the first time he’d lost his temper. However, it was the first time he’d done so in public.
As we both walked out of the office, Z’s mother turned around, looked me in the eye, and thanked me.
She. Thanked. Me.
How many parents these days will thank a teacher for being a hard ass to their kids?
I know we have a special school, but I again was blown away at the truly extraordinary relationships we build and maintain at Tao of Texas. And I felt validated that – although I never enjoy coming down hard on good kids – I’d done the right thing.
Out in the lobby, as Z sat on the floor putting on his little tennis shoes, he was still crying and looking very sad. I wanted to end our time together on a positive note.
“Z, I want you to know that I do love you, and I believe in you,” I said, smiling. “So you just keep coming back. Don’t quit.”
His lips turned up slightly – enough to show that a rainbow of resolve was likely to emerge at the end of his self-created storm – and he mouthed an inaudible, “Yes, ma’am.”
“See you next week,” I said smiling.
I’ve mentored enough kids to make these predictions:
• Z will learn to control his actions, to communicate with others in a respectful manner (even when they piss him off), and to verbally stand up to bullies instead of trying to physically go toe-to-toe.
• One day – sooner than I’d like – he’ll be a fine, outstanding and upstanding black belt who towers over me and heads off to some grand university, where he’ll face a new set of challenges.
• He’ll remember this day for the rest of his life. And I will, too.
As chief instructor of a small martial arts school, it’s my job to keep everyone who enters the school mindful of our true goal: building better character everyday. Some come in thinking they’ll learn to kick and punch. They do. Others come in thinking they’ll learn to break boards. They do. But most don’t come in thinking that they’ll learn to be strong, honest, responsible, respectful, and compassionate people. But they do.
In my 10 years as an instructor, teaching character hasn’t been easy. Some kids are “teacher pleasers” – never failing to listen, follow directions, try their best, and do the right thing. Others are rebellious. Still others simply have fierce dragons – fiery emotions that they struggle to control.
I’ve demoted students – taken stripes away, bumped them down a belt (sometimes more) – for a variety of “crimes against character.” The first time I demoted a student, I thought it would break my heart. Or his. But neither happened, and today that kid is a second-degree black belt and sophomore at Yale University. (He also towers over me, which I think is quite unfair.)
Today both of us are stronger and better people. Yet teaching – and learning – important character lessons never gets any easier.
As much as I adhere to the Tony DiCicco “Catch Them Being Good” positive coaching philosophy, sometimes I have to be – apologies for the harsh language – a hard ass.
Like last week.
Little Z, all of 7 years old, was sitting on a metal folding chair in my office, his short legs dangling, not even long enough to touch the blue carpet. Tears welled up in his eyes. A sweet-hearted, hardworking yellow belt, Z was two weeks away from promoting to orange belt. But earlier in the day, he had a little problem with self-control. He let anger get the worst of him.
That morning, Z was at a neighborhood park playing a game with another kid when things turned ugly. Z got mad because the kid was physically bullying him, and not playing the game fairly. Z pushed the boy and then tried to hit him in the face. (Z missed, thank goodness.) When Z’s mother told him to apologize to the boy, he refused, and then threw a verbal fit.
Now, just a few hours later, Z was sitting in my office at the martial arts school, head hanging low and looking quite uncomfortable. Fresh from his sparring class, Z’s tussled, sweaty bangs hung above his big brown eyes. He was almost too adorable to punish. But I’ve learned that letting kids off lightly doesn’t do them any favors.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I asked him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he quietly and gently replied.
I asked Z to tell me what happened, and I was proud that his story matched the one his mother just told me. (Chalk up one point for honesty!)
I held Z’s dirty yellow belt in my hands.
“Z, you understand that we only use Taekwondo to protect ourselves and our families, right? Only when our lives are in danger?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tears welled up in both eyes, and a single one emerged and then rolled a slow, curving path down his left cheek. It stopped at his chin and hung there, waiting – just like Z was waiting with me now.
“Now, the way I see it, you made three really bad choices today,” I continued. “In Taekwondo, one of the five tenets is self-control, and today you lost that.”
He nodded sadly. The tear finally dropped to the lap of his white dobok pants.
“You tried to strike someone in anger. And that’s wrong. You know that, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
His big, brown, sad-puppy dog eyes looked straight into mine, and I had to pray for strength.
I took his belt in my left hand as I slid open my desk drawer and grabbed a pair of scissors. “You’re lucky your punch missed. You’re lucky you didn’t hurt that young man. But because you tried to hit him in anger, that’s one,” I said as I snipped off one of two orange stripes from his yellow belt.
I tore off the strip of colored electrical tape and threw it into the trash can. “There goes a lot of hard work.”
He swallowed hard.
“Then you refused to apologize to the boy, showing a lack of respect to your peers, and a refusal to take personal responsibility for your actions. That’s two,” I said, snipping off the other orange stripe. I tossed it, too, into the trash.
Multiple tears began a NASCAR race down both cheeks.
“Z, you’re lucky you only have two stripes on your belt, because had you had three, you would have lost one more, because you were disrespectful to your mom.”
He nodded that he understood.
“You also don’t get to take the next test with the other yellow belts. Do you understand?”
“Yes…,” – tears were really gushing now from Z’s eyes, and he began sucking wind the way kids do when they’re really sad or hurt – “…ma’am.”
“Z, I know this is a hard lesson for you to learn, but it’s best you learn it from me than to get into real trouble someday because you can’t control yourself when you get mad.”
His eyes were a bloodshot red. He kept crying and sucking wind, crying and sucking wind. I knew that he was truly sorry for his behavior, and for a moment, I wanted to give him a big hug. I thought, “Geez, Cathy, he’s was only 7! Don’t be so hard on him.” I knew this was an important moment, though. The playground incident probably wasn’t the first time he’d lashed out in anger, but I needed to do my best to make sure it was the last.
As I looked at his yellow belt, I noticed a very bright yellow strip where one of the orange stripes had been. I showed it to him.
“Look, Z. Belts don’t lie. See here?” I asked, pointing to the bright yellow area. “You didn’t learn an important lesson here – that you have to practice self-control, that you can’t use Taekwondo when you get mad.”
He looked hard at the belt.
“Z, you’re good at Taekwondo. Real good. Already you could hurt someone with your feet and hands, and that’s why I have to do this today. But I want you to know that while I’m disappointed in how you acted today, I’m not mad at you. I just want you to learn self-control. I want this bright yellow part of your belt to match the gritty, gutsy, hard work, and good decisions of the rest of the belt. And I know you can do it.”
“Yes … (sucking more wind) … ma’am,” he said.
I invited his mother into the office, and together we agreed that the next time he sees the boy in the park, Z would apologize to him for his actions. Then Z, with his mom or dad by his side, would have to apologize to the boy’s parents, too.
I dismissed Z, and after he walked out of the office, his mom told me that this wasn’t the first time he’d lost his temper. However, it was the first time he’d done so in public.
As we both walked out of the office, Z’s mother turned around, looked me in the eye, and thanked me.
She. Thanked. Me.
How many parents these days will thank a teacher for being a hard ass to their kids?
I know we have a special school, but I again was blown away at the truly extraordinary relationships we build and maintain at Tao of Texas. And I felt validated that – although I never enjoy coming down hard on good kids – I’d done the right thing.
Out in the lobby, as Z sat on the floor putting on his little tennis shoes, he was still crying and looking very sad. I wanted to end our time together on a positive note.
“Z, I want you to know that I do love you, and I believe in you,” I said, smiling. “So you just keep coming back. Don’t quit.”
His lips turned up slightly – enough to show that a rainbow of resolve was likely to emerge at the end of his self-created storm – and he mouthed an inaudible, “Yes, ma’am.”
“See you next week,” I said smiling.
I’ve mentored enough kids to make these predictions:
• Z will learn to control his actions, to communicate with others in a respectful manner (even when they piss him off), and to verbally stand up to bullies instead of trying to physically go toe-to-toe.
• One day – sooner than I’d like – he’ll be a fine, outstanding and upstanding black belt who towers over me and heads off to some grand university, where he’ll face a new set of challenges.
• He’ll remember this day for the rest of his life. And I will, too.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Practice, Practice, Practice Quote of the Week
"Excellence is not a singular act, but a habit. You are what you repeatedly do."
- Shaquille O'Neal,
NBA Superstar
- Shaquille O'Neal,
NBA Superstar
Monday, May 3, 2010
Perseverance Quote of the Week
“I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”
– Thomas Edison,
Extraordinary inventor
– Thomas Edison,
Extraordinary inventor
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Self-Control Quote of the Week
"Exaggeration is truth that has lost its temper."
- Kahlil Gibran,
Lebanese-American poet, painter, sculptor, writer, philosopher, and theologian
- Kahlil Gibran,
Lebanese-American poet, painter, sculptor, writer, philosopher, and theologian
Sunday, April 25, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
“It Was the Right Thing to Do”
A few months ago, I asked a group of martial arts students, “Have you ever been scared to tell the truth?”
One girl shyly raised her hand and said, “I saw one of my classmates vandalize school property, and he told me that I better not tell anyone or he’d beat me up.”
After a long pause, I asked, “What happened?”
“I had to tell someone,” she said meekly, shrugging her shoulders. “It was the right thing to do.”
If a young girl can courageously stand up to her threatening classmate, everyone can stand up for what’s right.
One girl shyly raised her hand and said, “I saw one of my classmates vandalize school property, and he told me that I better not tell anyone or he’d beat me up.”
After a long pause, I asked, “What happened?”
“I had to tell someone,” she said meekly, shrugging her shoulders. “It was the right thing to do.”
If a young girl can courageously stand up to her threatening classmate, everyone can stand up for what’s right.
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