You Can't Push A String!

On Friday mornings during the school year, I teach an hour-long "enrichment" karate class to a group of 4th and 5th graders at a local elementary school before I head into work for the day. It's usually a fun and rewarding class: I get to do what I love with a great group of enthusiastic and energetic kids. We practice kicks and punches, we talk about martial arts in the movies, we have great conversations about respect and discipline, and I teach a little about karate history and philosophy along the way.

Last week, however, I started to teach a new group, and it was a total nightmare: the kids were inattentive, disrespectful, and noisy from the very beginning. It must have been the nice weather on a Friday before a long weekend, or so I thought. The students' poor behavior spiraled quickly downward to the point that I felt that I could no longer conduct a safe class. I made several attempts to regain control, but I failed each time. So as much as I hated to do it, I retreated to my last resort: I brought the kids back into their classroom, and I directed them to sit down and read silently at their desks for the rest of the period. And at the end of the hour, I left the school feeling defeated and dejected.

Ugh.

So last night I found myself dreading returning to my Friday morning class to endure another frustrating and disappointing experience. While preparing dinner, I sighed and said to my wife, "Man, I just don't know what I'm gonna do with these kids tomorrow."

She simply responded with a smile as she chopped the vegetables for our salad. "Well, dear, you're going to teach them," she said.

And, bam, it hit me:

How ironic was it that I could be confident facing an armed aggressor, and yet be apprehensive about the prospect of engaging a small group of unruly 11-year olds? Had all my years of training taught me nothing? Where was the all fearlessness and determination that I've learned in the dojo? Where had my ability to endure hardship gone? Where was my mastery? Had I lost the desire to help and inspire others with and through my art? No!

So I put on a new attitude on my way to class this morning. I assembled a lesson plan that would engage and amaze even the most unimpressable child. I downed a cup of coffee, and headed off to class full of energy and excitement.

Within the first 5 minutes of class, I got some feedback:

"This is stupid."

"Can we do something else?"

"I don't like karate."

"This is so boring."

Then the side conversations started, followed quickly with fooling around that led to pushing and shoving and posturing among the children. %@*#&! I'd lost the class again!

Once more I stopped teaching, directed the kids back to their desks, and had each of them open a book for silent reading. And then I realized that that's probably exactly what they wanted to do this morning in the first place.

My sensei once told me, "You can't push a string." He's right. No one learns karate or appreciates what it has to offer unless they truly want to. It's something that can't be forced. You can't win 'em all, I guess. But what the heck am I gonna do for next week's class?

The Albert Einstein Theory of Self-Defense

I received an interesting phone call last night: A gentleman called our dojo to ask how long it would take him to become proficient at self-defense if he were to begin training with us. I resisted the urge to babble on about the history of our art. I didn't want to tout the effectiveness of the techniques that I teach when they are applied to "real-life street situations." And, I also didn't want to give a vague, "well, that depends on a number of factors..." kind of response.

I was curious, so I decided to listen.

"That's a great question," I said. "Can you tell me why you're asking it?"

The answer I got was interesting:

"Well, I just think that the way things are going in the world today, I think it would be a good idea if I learned how to take care of myself."

Hearing this, I asked a few quick probing questions to try to determine if the man on the phone was in any immediate danger. Given my background and experience, I feel an obligation to provide training, information, and resources to anyone in need. Physical safety comes first, before trying to enroll a new student or impress someone with my knowledge and/or personal skills.

But I got the sense that the man on the other end of the phone was not specifically threatened. Rather, he seemed to be feeling pessimistic and increasingly insecure about the world we live in. And who can blame him? There are shootings and muggings in the city every day. People are tense and nervous about the economy and its inevitable effect on civility. The evidence of impending doom is all around us, and it all gets piped into our homes in multimedia, full-color, high-definition — with stereo surround sound to boot.

I told the man that if he was interested in learning about physical self-defense and safety, we could certainly accommodate him. After all, we are a karate school, and we are in the business of teaching blocks and strikes to people of all ages and levels of ability. "But," I told him, "true self-defense is about awareness and avoidance of physical conflict, even if you are very good at punching people in the face."

Even as the words left my mouth, though, I was reminded of a quote often attributed to Albert Einstein, wherein he supposedly stated that the most important decision we make is whether we believe we live in a friendly or hostile universe. The thinking goes that one's answer to that question will determine one's destiny.

So, I then started to talk to the man on the phone about the underlying values of our dojo, and that while we take the study of our art very seriously, we are also committed to changing the world by making positive contributions to it.

"We also practice self-defense by getting involved in our neighborhoods and our communities and by hanging around people that share common values and a desire for peace. I believe that our actions make a difference, and that by taking these positive actions, we ultimately make ourselves — and our families and our communities — happier, and healthier, and safer."

Before he hung up the phone, the gentlemen thanked me, and he told me that he would consider coming in for a trial class.