I think I have a black belt in Taekwondo.
Clarification: I definitely have a black belt in Taekwondo. It’s at my mom’s house in a box in my old closet. Possession of the item itself is not in question. I, with certainty, *have* a black belt.
What I mean to say is I don’t think my status as a black belt is in good standing, presently. I’m not a practicing black belt in Taekwondo. I haven’t been for nearly twenty years. I don’t even fake being a black belt for a few hours on Christmas Eve or Easter. When I look in the mirror, “guy with black belt in Taekwondo” isn’t who looks back.
It used to be.
When I was nine years old and as invested in Taekwondo and all things Karate as one could be, I wrote a letter to my instructor titled “What Being A Black Belt Means To Me.” It’s adorable and reads exactly how you think it might. Bursting with nine-year-old hubris, I wrote about not being afraid of BIG KIDS and being able to sit still for two whole minutes. You know, tough stuff.
In several points within the letter, I write about my friends. I made friends through Taekwondo and I would sometimes bring my friends from outside Taekwondo into my classes and try to punch them in the face. Sometimes they got me before I got them, which is embarrassing because I was doing Taekwondo and they weren’t.
That's the thing about fighting sports, especially when you're learning. If you're thinking too much about punching faces, you're probably not paying enough attention to keeping your own face from getting punched. Everyone has their own style and plays to their own strengths, but the goal of fighting is pretty universal: punch faces more often than getting your face punched.
When I was nine, the black belt was symbolic of having mastered that ratio.
A black belt was also about mastering the five tenets of Taekwondo, according to nine-year-old me in that letter. Courtesy. Integrity. Self control. Perseverance. Indomitable spirit. When I was nine, courtesy was about saying please and thank you. Integrity was about remembering to tell the truth, even when it was hard. Self control was sitting still for those two whole minutes, as was perseverance. Indomitable spirit was the last thing on the list and it sounded cool to say out loud.
If I had to write this letter as an adult, I expect a few things would change.
Today, courtesy speaks to how I want to put good into the world, even when the world is being kind of shitty. Sometimes, it's hard to remember to be kind, but like anything, it's easier with practice. Courtesy is being civil in disagreement and, failing that, not being too proud to apologize.
Integrity is still centered around honesty, but it’s also about being honest with myself about my expectations. Compared to nine-year-old-me, the focus of integrity shifts away from saying things that are true and towards being someone that people can count on. Integrity is about doing things I intend to do and being a constant in the lives of those with whom I interact.
Self control, in the martial arts sense, is almost always related to discipline. Discipline helps you prioritize your emotions. It takes an immense amount of discipline and self awareness to know when to listen to yourself and when to let emotions through. Sometimes, you need to be sad. Or angry. Or whatever else you need to be without letting the emotion send you into a downward spiral. Self control isn't pushing those feelings away, but knowing when and how to embrace them.
With perseverance, we identify and achieve goals. Little goals. Medium goals. Big goals. Big scary goals. Big scary far-away goals that seem too far out of reach or just outside the scope of what’s possible. The need for perseverance assumes adversity. The ship “perseveres” not over calm seas and under blue skies, but through the storm. To persevere is to know there are storms ahead and pressing on anyway.
"Indomitable spirit" is still cool to say out loud. It’s also demonstrative of how I perceive my nine-year-old self. I know how I would react today if any nine-year-old told me they wanted to be a black belt in karate. I’d smile, offer a word of encouragement, and chuckle after they’d left. In truth, that’s about how I reacted after reading the letter I’d written some 20 years ago. I also know, with absolute confidence, you could not tell the child who wrote that letter that he might fail. I mean, you could. You could say the words, but they’d be about as effective as telling him he would grow up to become a bowl of soup.
Sitting here now, I struggle to think of things I’ve pursued as stubbornly, as confidently, as passionately, or as earnestly as my nine-year-old self’s pursuit of this particular goal. I’ve set plenty of goals for myself since then and I’ve worked hard to achieve many of them, but nine-year-old-me was on another level. Is there some childish naivete to consider? Definitely, but maybe I could use some of that in my 30s.
I haven’t punched anyone in a long time. I guess I also haven’t been punched in that period of time either, so we’re still okay, per the ratio. Occasionally, I wish I had two minutes to spare, just to sit still. Kids don’t seem so big and if I’m being honest, the smallest ones terrify me the most.
Maybe being a black belt was never about any of those things. Maybe it was more about having a positive experience with setting a big scary goal and learning what the pursuit entails. Maybe those big scary goals aren't so big or scary when you're shown how to pursue them.
As an adult, my black belt is hardly indicative of my fighting prowess or repertoire of spinning kicks. Instead, it's a testament to everything I learned while on the path of pursuing my first big scary goal. Nine-year-old me closes his letter by acknowledging the need to rely on other people and that hard work pays off.
