"Mom, I want to quit karate."
With those few words, Ryan, my
thirteen-year-old son, declared war.
For two solid years, four times a week, I
had willingly driven thirty miles to the nearest karate dojo. In that
short
amount of time, Ryan exhibited a natural ability that quickly moved him
up the
ranks. He had earned the first black stripe on his Brown Belt. Only two
more
tests until he would have his Black Belt. And now, he wanted to quit.
The
lessons had been Ryan's idea, not
mine. To me, karate implied violence. To Ryan, they represented power.
"Mom, I'm a wimp. I'm tired of all
the bullies picking on me. I need to learn how to defend myself."
I
resisted. My excuses ranged from,
"I don't want you to get hurt. You'll never practice." And that
parental favorite, "We can't afford it."
I didn't give in until the day
he came
home with a bloody nose because of a bully who made him kiss the
pavement,
nose
first.
Karate
lessons began the very next day.
From
the beginning, I sensed something
special about the school. His Sensi, (teacher) did more than just teach
the
kids how to defend themselves against an enemy. He taught survival
skills for
life.
"Keep
your eyes open," Sensi
told them. "Be aware of what's going on around you. Set goals. Learn
the
skills needed to meet your goals."
Once
Sensi asked a class of thirty-five
kids, "How many of you consider yourselves average?" To his dismay,
almost every hand went up.
"Put
your hands down," he
yelled. "Never, ever admit that you are average. You have within you
the
ability to be anything you want, as long as you're willing to work at
it."
Even
sitting on the sidelines, his words
touched me, infusing me with a hidden strength. He made me feel like I
could do anything. And as adamantly as I'd been against karate in the
first
place, I suddenly became its biggest advocate.
Ryan
never missed a class or a test. With
the rest of the students, he performed monthly demonstrations in
parades,
shopping malls and fairs. When special seminars came around, I always
made sure
he attended. I bought him books and videos, then quizzed him on the
material.
In my mind, the more opportunities he took advantage of, the quicker he
would
advance to that all-important Black Belt.
But
along the way, I forgot to ask Ryan
what he wanted. So I felt shocked and disappointed when he told me
earning a
Black Belt no longer mattered to him.
"I'm
going to quit," he said.
"It's no fun anymore. Baseball season starts soon and I'd rather
practice
baseball than karate."
"But
you're so close to becoming a Black Belt," I insisted. "Why give up
before you reach your goal? Haven't you listened to anything Sensi has
tried to
teach you?"
"Yes,
Mom, I have. Sensi said
anything is possible if you're not afraid of hard work. I want to play
in the
Major Leagues someday. That means I have to devote my time to improving
my
baseball skills. I'd like to try out for the High School team, and
maybe play
winter ball, but I need to practice hard if I hope to make the cuts."
"Couldn't
you stay with karate for just one more year," I begged, still clinging
to
the vision of his
Black Belt.
Ryan
stood his ground and shook his head.
"I learned what I wanted to from karate. I know how to defend myself,
even
against people bigger than me. I'm not afraid of bullies or a gang with
knife,
because I know what to do and how to get away."
His
only other comment was, "If
getting a Black Belt is so important to you, Mom, maybe you're the one
who
should be taking karate instead of me."
His words shocked me, much like a bucket
of cold water jolts your system awake. That's when I stepped back and
took a
good look at my son. There had been no whining. He hadn't raised his
voice or
lost his temper. He had come to a decision based on the goals he had
set for
himself. Then he presented the facts to me in a calm and grown-up
manner.
No longer my little baby, but not quite a
young man, Ryan had taken the first step toward adulthood by taking
control of
his own life. Which, I think, was exactly what Sensi wanted to teach
him all
along.
Printable
version of
this article.
|
