Martial Arts and The Bully

Daniel: Yeah, but you like karate.

Miyagi: So?

Daniel: So, karate's fighting. You train to fight.

Miyagi: That what you think?

Daniel:  No.

Miyagi: Then why train?

Daniel:  So I won't have to fight.

Miyagi: [laughs] Miyagi have hope for you.

When I first arrived at my old high school for the Taekwondo championships on Sunday I was afraid of certain memories coming back to life and choking me. The "incident" I was afraid of remembering didn't happen there. It happened at Woodrow Wilson Jr. High School up the street, but the characters in question still haunted that same gym when we got to high school.



I remember being in the gym locker room in junior high 7th grade.

I was the-girl-who-was-bullied.

A dork. A nerd.

A spineless doormat for abuse.

No student would even get near me except to abuse me.

I don't know how I managed to get anyone to

sit at the lunch table with me.

The other nerdy girls who were my friends knew

that they would be abused by association if they

were seen with me.

They kept their distance.

I was a target.

Being near me was dangerous.



Every day the tough girls would call me names,

throw spitballs at me,

and make me afraid to be in my own skin.

I don't know how I ever survived that chronic

feeling of being unsafe.



Well meaning adults had told me to let the bullies'

comments roll off my back like

I was a duck. "Ignore them," they said.

"Show them that what they're saying doesn't

bother you.

Be the bigger person."



One day, a girl named Tammy M escalated the abuse

beyond the verbal.

I tried to be tough and ignored Tammy's verbal assault.

She became louder and more insistent, furious

with me for ignoring her.

"Hey, I'm talking to you, bitch..." she bellowed

as she followed me to my locker.

I steeled myself against her shrill voice.

Sunday school had taught me to turn the other cheek,

so I did, silently ignoring her.

I was supposed to be the duck letting it

roll off my back, but ignoring a bully

can make things worse.



She reached the limit of her rage against me.

She came up behind me and

punched me, closed fist in

the middle of my back.

I didn't turn around

or look at her. I kept walking toward my locker.

She punched me again.



I kept my head down and prayed that she would

leave me alone.

She didn't.



"Look at this girl," she shrieked, "you can hit her

all you want and she won't

hit back!"

She flailed against me as I cowered.



Someone stopped her.

A girl

who had known me in grammar school,

Simone C, intervened for me.

I don't remember exactly how it went, but the

onslaught stopped.



The next time I was about to be bullied in the

same locker room, I looked at Simone

with pleading eyes, hoping she would work her

magic again and save me.

"You need to learn to fight your own battles,"

she admonished. "I can't bail you out

every time."



The rest is a blur.

I eventually had to drop out of public school

and enroll in the Catholic school across the street

just to avoid getting beat up on a daily basis.



I have great shame attached to these memories.

They all came flooding back to me on Sunday

when I went into that high school gym.

I had to sit and be alone with my thoughts

for a while on the bleachers as Andrew worked

his magic with his kids.

It took me a few hours before I could even

move to the TMAFC cheering section

to socialize with the parents.

(I'm glad I finally did. They are

a warm and welcoming bunch.)



Every time I tell this story people ask me

what I would do differently if I could

go back in time and face that bully.



I'll say every time,

"You're expecting me to say I'd hit her.

I wouldn't.

I never wanted to hit her.

I STILL don't want to hit her.

I only wanted her to stop."



Since 7th grade, at the time of the worst

bullying of my life,

I imagined having the strength to

have turned around,

grabbed her fist in mid punch

and said NO!



I wanted to make her stop

without revenge.

I never wanted to feel my fist

connecting with her flesh, never.

Never did I want to hurt her.

I just wanted her to fail

to connect her fist with

my body.

I wanted to overpower her

till she calmed down

and gave up.



I had no idea that that was actually possible.



If only the adults in my life had thought to

take me down the street to the karate school

my whole life would have been different.

If I had practiced martial arts

I would have been able to do

exactly what I was picturing.



I could have grabbed her fist

in mid air and said, NO!

and she'd have to listen.



Watching Andrew's pre-teen students

train and spar gives me great hope that

bullies might be stopped in mid air.

Teaching young people the philosophy

and skill of martial arts

is so essential for self-esteem.

The self defense aspect can spare

a lot of hearts and bodies

from the pain that I suffered when I was young.

The confidence it instills will make these

young people feel that they are worthy,

that they don't deserve to be mistreated,

and that they can use their own power

to draw lines in the sand that will

not be crossed.



Would you believe that I still suffer

self doubt? I still struggle with feelings

of unworthiness,

but seeing the young girls

in their Taekwondo belts

gives me hope that

worthiness can be learned,

for them in the present

and for me

many years

past those awful

pre-teens.



*Lisa's Video Pick of the Day*

Not sure if I posted this one already.

Hey, the deal was I'd watch a video per day

not a "different" video per day lol.

I anointed a patient with Young Living oils tonight.

Before I started, I soaked a towel in hot water

with epsom salts and put it on their sore spot.

click  here or click below

Transforming Fear

Chief Instructor Andrew Trento 

receiving "The Best School Award" 

for having the most students entered 

and for best show of support for the competition. 

I knew it would be a long day.

Andrew and 16 of his students competed in the 3rd American Open Taekwondo Championships held at Clifton High School in Clifton, NJ (my alma mater). The competition included forms, board breaking and sparring. He had students from age 5 through 18 competing, many for the first time. Andrew himself was going to compete for the first time in 4 years.



This would be my first time seeing Andrew practice his art. I was elated, but apprehensive. You see, Andrew wasn't just doing his forms, he was going to spar. This meant I'd get to see him on the offensive, which I knew would be glorious, but I'd also have to see him on defense. I told him I was nervous.

"YOU'RE nervous?" he asked feigning disbelief.

I responded, "I know, you're the one who has the right to be nervous, but if I see you getting kicked and punched I don't know if I can handle it. I'm afraid I'm going to die."

He laughed at me.



He warned me ahead of time that the competitions would go in order from youngest to oldest, meaning he'd be going dead last at the end of the day after all his students. For all the joy I felt watching his students compete I had an apprehensive pit of fear in my stomach thinking about how hard it would be to watch him on the receiving end of a beating from another Black Belt. It's not that I had no faith in his sparring abilities. I just knew that, no matter how good Andrew was, some of his opponent's blows had to land. That's how it's done and I'd have to shut off my empathy muscles in order to endure it.



Watching his students compete throughout the day distracted me from my fear. One talented, delightful kid after another competed and won medal after medal. It's not just that his kids are good on the mats, it's that they embody true sportsmanship. The camaraderie between them, the way they ran from ring to ring to stand on the sidelines and cheer for each other, the way they sincerely thanked their sparring opponents even if they lost, and their overall integrity just radiated from them.

His students are exemplary. I sat with the parents and beamed with pride. I may not have had a kid in the ring but I had an Andrew.



As the day progressed the crowd thinned out. Little kids left with their families as their age range finished competing, but not the kids from Andrew's school.

They stayed.

They stayed to support each other and to watch their teachers compete. Four of his Black Belts (who also teach at his school) competed and earned medals. The kids and parents cheered. For a more comprehensive report from the chief himself click here.



The anticipation for the final event for Black Belts over 18 was palpable. We were all anxious about the last set of challenges. We moved nearer to the ring where Andrew and his Black Belt students would be competing. The gym had really emptied out by then. Most of the audience that remained were from Andrew's school. There was plenty of noisy encouragement which gave us all the feeling of having the home team advantage.



Andrew's challenges were last because of his belt level and age. He would be sparring against other Do Jang owners and world class Black Belts.

I felt sick.

I tried to reassure myself that he would be an amazing badass and it wouldn't hurt to watch.



He began with his forms.

Just breathtaking.

I think I heard angels singing.

I sat with some of the mothers. We all cooed and said things like, "Gorgeous!" and "Amazing!" and "He really is talented."

Applause all around.



He went back to the sidelines to strap into his gear.

I prayed silently and tried to control my breathing.

It was time for Andrew to spar.



His opponent was taller and had longer legs.

I was worried.

I told myself to trust Andrew's ability. After all, we know it's heart that matters. Andrew has plenty of heart to go with his skill. He'd be fine, he'd be fine, he'd be fine...I told myself.

I didn't believe me.



The sparring began.

He was excellent on offense and defense. His opponent, who turned out to be an international competitor from the Egyptian national team, wasn't able to get his long legs to connect with Andrew. I swear Andrew did some Matrix maneuvers and whooshed backwards to avoid the onslaught of kicks.



Andrew was up 6 to 2 when the Egyptian, who was probably aiming for Andrew's helmet, threw a kick that connected with Andrew's neck...hard.



Andrew went down.



Oh, no.

Oh God, please no.

Anything but this.

Andrew fell back flat on the mat.

I broke.

I couldn't stop my tears.



Still down on the mat, he raised his arm in the air and did the come-hither motion to signal that he was hurt. People rushed to his aid. A medic arrived with an ice pack. Experts assessed his condition.

I dried my eyes and tried to see Andrew's face through the crowd.

Was he ok?



He was smiling.

Heck if I didn't know better I'd say he was laughing.

Laughing?

Yes, laughing.



He got hurt.

He fell on his ass

and laughed his way back up onto his feet.

He was not permitted to continue (good thing because he seemed a little punch drunk)

but he returned to the sidelines a hero.

He couldn't stop smiling as his little students squeaked and jumped up and down. The adults crowded around him voicing concerns of every kind.



He kinda glowed.



I was reassured but shaky.

I'd seen what I'd dreaded seeing,

but I survived.



A man from one of the other schools saw that I was upset.

He said to me, "Don't worry. It happens to the best of  us."

"He IS the best of us," I replied.

"I know, I've been watching him all day," said the man.

We nodded and smiled as Andrew stood on the sidelines receiving his adulation.



You may have read the title of this post thinking I was speaking of Andrew's fear. Thing is, he wasn't all that afraid. He was nervous. He had some anxiety over returning to the competitive sparring ring for the first time in 4 years, but he wasn't fearing the worst (I was).

He wasn't in it for the medal, he was in it for the experience.



He had the rare (hopefully rare) opportunity to show his students that even the best of us get knocked down. Even their beloved Mr. Trento was vulnerable,

but getting knocked down is an opportunity to get back up again with confidence that one can survive a nasty kick to the head and live to fight another day.



I swear, he couldn't stop smiling.



You don't get better by winning all the time.

If winning were all that mattered we'd compete with people younger and/or less skilled.

You get stronger by getting your ass kicked and figuring out where your weaknesses are

so you can improve on them and come back stronger.



If you're afraid to get the wind knocked out of you

the best way to overcome that fear is to

get the wind knocked out of you.

You survive it.

You gain confidence by surviving it.

You go back into the ring knowing that you won't be destroyed if you're bested.



I'd like to say I'll never cry again while watching Andrew compete, but I can't guarantee that,

But you never know.

Maybe I'll be crying for joy next time.



*Lisa's Video Pick of the Day*

Or maybe I just need to learn how to breathe.

click here or click below