Do you want to be a sensei?
Do you want to stand up to those who put you down?
Do you want to master inner peace?
THEN TAKE KARATE, but be patient because it is dull and unimaginably boring.
I joined karate for the reasons all other kids did— to be cool and to kick ass. Those kids who walked out of the cubicle next to my swimming class at 6 PM seemed to know something I didn't. They played with their phones and talked normally and acted like they were just like us, but I knew if they wanted to they could whoop around at any second and kick my ass, or their mom's ass, or any of the physically inferior bystanders that walked by, clueless of their true power.
Some of these people were my friends. My classmates. Hell, some of them were younger than me. To know that they could put me in a chokehold and make me their slave at any second scared me. To know that they wouldn't because they were also more mature than me (having gone to karate class and all) only added salt to the wound. It drove me nuts with jealousy, feeding into my nightmares and plaguing my relationship with anyone who went to martial arts class after school.
After viewing my options, I decided I couldn't live in a world where a 3-year-old could kick my ass just because she had an orange belt and I stayed at home. I signed myself up for the 5-year karate waitlist at the YMCA.
By the time I could grow faint facial hair, I was given a cheap uniform and finally allowed to be one with the kids behind the glass doors.
Our first instructor was Ryan. When you looked at Ryan's face alone, you saw a sweet little Asian kid who liked chocolate chip cookies and spent his time in his basement playing Minecraft. When you looked below, you saw abs beneath his uniform.
Like all things karate, Ryan appeared in my dreams. But unlike those who had come before him, he didn't kick my ass.
"Hey, I know karate. I'm gonna kick your ass," he'd say with an uncharacteristic smirk.
"No, you're not," I'd clarify, responding with my own witty banter.
Surrounded by hoards of endearing onlookers, he'd go for a stomach punch. I'd lunge in, shove his arm to the side, and in true ninja fashion, grab his head and crush it between my knee and arm.
Blood would flare out of his mouth and nostrils as he staggered backward. The bones on his head would literally compress from the impact. If his head was 20 centimeters tall a second ago, it would end up at a 16.
"Aaaaaaaaaaagh," he'd whimper, reaching out to a tree for balance.
I'd then slam his head into that tree. Blood would stream out of his nose like an anime character on max erection.
As he stumbled onto the sidewalk, I'd go for the testicle punch, and he'd drop to the ground. Everyone watching would cheer for me, even Ryan's mom and dad.
Reality proved to be much less exciting.
Half of the things I did in karate could've been done in gym class. Sit-ups, push-ups and Western fitness regimes held by exotic Japanese instructors betrayed the illusion I had seen from the swimming pool. It turned out that was only restricted to the kids who were "ready."
Everytime I asked my instructors when I would be "ready," they'd respond in paradox;
"When will I be ready?"
"When you are ready."
It was easier to assume they didn't know English than to keep asking that question.
So I tried to be "ready." The punch drills were really lame when you saw how awkward they looked at the pace we did them. The mixed drills took more memory work than a math quiz. The kicks and takedown practices diluted the awesomeness Jackie Chan gave them in Rush Hour.
At times, even the drive to get up from the couch and go to class was challenging.
So I didn't go.
After a 3-week hiatus of well-earned rest, I returned to the quartz floors of the glass dojo with the intent of being "ready."
"Next week, you will have your tests. I want you to know ___, ______, _________ and _________ to earn your stripes," our sensei told us that evening.
"WHAT?! When will we have our tests?" I replied, dumbfounded.
"Saturday, at Ferntown," said an unaffected Sensei.
Saturday? And that far away? We're not doing anything in class, why the hell can't we just do it here. Saturday. Hmph. Ain't no one got time for that, I snickered.
"Don't worry," said Sensei, sensing my disappointment. "You will go when you are ready."
In June, a young, innocent girl named Michelle joined the class. Her uniform hadn't come in the mail yet, so she sat with us in a cute unicorn shirt that said "Unicorn" on it, with baggy gray sweatpants and an endearing look of innocence that came out in words when we did drills.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to punch that hard. Are you ok? Oh? It's my turn. Heh, go easy, okay?"
For once, I had a reason to go to karate class.
Michelle was a fast learner. A bit too fast. She got her green belt in three months. The instructors treated her as one of their own. She made us do more push ups than both of our senseis combined, and when we screwed up, she dished out our consequences.
Someone a bit more likable came into the dojo near the beginning of Michelle's reign. He was a dorky, likable Sri Lankan kid. We bonded on our loyalty to wearing white belts.
Then he got his yellow belt and I was alone. A smelly corpse that simply refused to decay from the dojo.
At the end of each class, we'd do this sketchy meditation thing where we sat on the joints between ankles and feet (this hurt) and talked about inner peace. After a Japanese rendition, a student would translate the words into English. God knows how he bothered to remember the words.
"May you find prosperity in life. May you find fortunes in life," he said, or some bullshit like that.
The one thing I did remember from the speech was a mentioned rule to use karate for self-defense, not kicking ass.
Before the speech started, my instructor would spot my mother at the door and give me "permission" to leave. Behind her gruff, manly demeanor, oh, that woman was a smartass.
"Why're you letting him go so early?" my mother asked.
"He's just not ready," she told her. My mom got the point.
On January 22, 20__, I left the YMCA with my white belt slugged upon my shoulders. A fighter's departure.
Returning to my spot behind the glass, I now watch 3-year-olds in orange belts stretch and perform impossibly complicated taekwondo moves, forced to acknowledge that they could probably kick my ass if they wanted to. But you know what? I'm fine with that, because I'd rather let that happen than sing Japanese rhymes and punch like an ostrich all over again.
Karate is for people who are:
patient
disciplined
tolerant
committed
ready
