By Aaron Shreve
Back in the first year or two of the 1980s, in Stockton, California, when I was but an eight year old asthmatic kid, my mother, like other mothers in our neighborhood, got pointed to a new opportunity: a new renbukai karate dojo was opening up run by Tom Schlesinger, a karate/ kickboxing celebrity associated with Ron Marchini. My mother saw this as an opportunity for her son to develop confidence, fitness, and armor against bullies. I was drawn in by the typical allure of martial arts: the pomp and circumstance, the cool atmosphere , the promise of learning how to fight. I do not wish to rob from the legacy of an esteemed martial arts instructor who earned accolades over his career for his teaching, . . . but I was one of the kids who slipped through the cracks. Whereas today, my asthma is kept under control through modern medication, back then, cardio workouts would invariably trigger an attack of constricting bronchial tubes, making it difficult and painful to simply breathe. I dreaded the full class workouts that would test us, some of us more than others considering the circumstances. I enjoyed learning techniques and practiced them, but eventually the class would move on to the other part of our sessions that I grew to dread: sparring. Mr. Schlesinger was a fine instructor, Iâm sure, but he was hopelessly outnumbered by his students, and relied on higher belt, older students as instructional assistants. When paired off for sparring, I often was set against kids who were older, more advanced, but sadly, not more honorable or disciplined. Rather than encourage, I remember opponents, lacking in proper adult supervision, mocking and taunting me, then slugging me in the chest, (these were still the days of no protective padding) compounding my breathing difficulties. Not surprisingly, my experiment in karate didn’t last. My mom set out to give me protection against bullying, not subject me to it on a weekly basis. Like so many other kids, I moved on to the next thing, making martial arts a wasted, abandoned opportunity.
As fate would have it, decades later, my wife enrolled my young son in a dance studio next door to Schaferâ’s ATA in Rohnert Park. After looking through the glass for awhile, Michael and I availed ourselves of the seats that were available to watch the class. As the cliche goes, the rest is history. I initially didn’t feel drawn to enroll along with my son, but as I observed the classes, I was able to deconstruct the old intimidation that was built by my childhood failure to persevere in martial arts. That, and, I was convinced I could execute techniques and exercises better than what I was watching my son do. But why else? Why endeavor to start over in my mid-forties, and set out to eventually chase down the black belt that was so hopelessly out of my reach in my youth?
Besides the obvious reason of wanting to be more involved as a father in a common activity with my son, I was eager to get into martial arts again for the immediate benefit of increasing/ reviving those physical attributes that once we allow to atrophy, are hard to reboot as the ravages of time and age march on. Or put more simply, as use it or lose it. I needed something to supplement the semi-regular pick-up basketball game in which I was participating. Unlike my father, I was never able to figure out a way to force myself to become a runner. The mind-numbing solitude and lack of accountability prevented me from keeping up a decent clip. (That being said, I did develop a fondness for long distance walking–but never felt like it was nearly enough in terms of maintaining cardio-vascular fitness.) Basketball, besides being fun to play, brought an accountability that I could not get exercising alone. Needing to feel like my teammates could continue to count on me, on both offense and defense, pushed me to keep running more than I could on my own. I immediately saw the similar benefit with taekwondo, as with any in-class exercise, shame will keep you pushing past your comfort zone where real progress and strength is fostered. I also found sparring, (my old nemesis), to be as intense a cardio workout as the basketball games in which I participated, if not more so. As I found myself partnering with my brother to encourage my 74-year-old not to settle into a sedentary final chapter, I found it easier if I was willing to hold myself likewise accountable, and practice what I preach. I found that participating in martial arts was helpful to fostering discipline in other aspects of my life, and with that, increased self esteem.
I’d hate to think that with a grandfather and mother firmly entrenched in the profession of education that my becoming an educator would be inevitable, but needless to say, that’s the line of work in which I’ve found myself. As an educator I have especially appreciated the professional development opportunities that allow me to switch roles and become the learner instead. This is especially true when I have found myself under the tutelage of extraordinary educators. This happened a decade ago when I was initially denied a spot in a math educators’ masters program at SSU and, upon my appeal, was told I could enroll so long as I also enrolled in a calculus class to fill in the perceived gaps in my math education. I found myself at thirty-something in a classroom with 18-year-old undergrads in a calculus class. Without getting into detail, I had as miserable an experience with calculus in high school as I did in martial arts as a grade schooler. This time around, however, I had a marvelous time. My professor, Dr. Morris, was near my own age at the time and was such a compelling teacher that I eagerly looked forward to his classes. The two aspects of teaching in which I found him to be exemplary were: wait time ( or think time) allotted, and the compassion for his students, especially if they were incorrect in their answers. For college level math instructors, I understood this to be unusual, as your position can be won and held by virtue of your math knowledge and research rather than with your command of pedagogy. I, of course, strived to emulate these examples in my own classroom. I experienced this exemplary teaching again in getting involved with Schafer’s ATA. However weird it may be, not wanting to appear to butter up the chief reader of this essay, it was an established consensus among all the other parents with whom we talked, that Nicholas Schafer exemplified the outstanding martial arts instructor, balancing strict demands of excellence, with kind and humorous compassion, taking the time to create personal relationships with each and every student. Not only did I want to strive to meet this example in my own teaching, but felt it easy to want to be a student myself. In addition, when I discuss being a taekwondo student with my own students, it lent me that humility and connection, (providing the realization that I willingly stepped away from the role of teacher to that of a student like them) that I couldn’t get otherwise.
I now find myself on the brink of completing the first journey of ATA, reaching first degree black belt. Chasing belts was not the priority when I started. I wanted to share a healthy activity with my son, prioritizing the reasons discussed prior. And yet, with the exception of a sticky axe kick that I couldn’t get to board break in three tries, I kept moving along and forward. I have to admit that I’m much improved from the white belt, middle-aged novice that started almost 3 years ago. I feel even prepared to complete a journey that I could say started almost 40 years ago with a half-hearted (half-lunged?) attempt at karate. Achieving the black belt represents a victory over that kid who quit, and a temporary victory over the immutable passage of time that threatens to slow us all down if we allow it to. The black belt communicates that steadfast perseverance, and denotes a period of time where the martial artist was committed to improving, collecting knowledge and experience along the way. Looking at the ATA studio to which I belong, I note the collection of black belt holders, and I see a great group of people, a group to which it would be my honor and privilege to belong.
1441 words
Aaron Shreve
2021
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