Lucas continues down the Path of The Martial Artist; this past weekend, he tested for his Orange Belt. He approached his test with the blissfully ignorant confidence of a five-year-old boy; it was clear that he thought the test was a rubber-stamp process, a "gimme". His do-jon is not Cobra Kai; the kids learn to kick, punch, and block, and he's demonstrated that tang soo do is not a game, but they do so in a supportive, encouraging environment (just like the brochure says). Prior to Saturday he was unaware of what a test actually is: in the world of preschool athletics, everyone is a winner, everyone gets a trophy, and no one gets to lose. Beth and I were nervous. We were sure, even if he was not, that he wasn't going to pass. There were a few things that he hadn't yet mastered, and without that mastery... he'd experience his first major failure.
Don't get me wrong. I firmly believe that competition, honest competition where scores are kept and winners win and losers lose, is good for kids. And I know that failure can build character; it inspires us to do better next time, to know that nothing good ever comes without struggle, blah blah blah. But I'm a grownup, and I've learned this from experience, and only in looking back with some time and maturity under my belt do I fully realize this. Kids don't get it. All they see is something they want dearly, and their inability to obtain it. When you go out at night and leave your dog at home by himself, he gives you that look because in his mind, you're never coming back. When your kid loses his first soccer game, it's crushing: they don't really get that there will be others, and that they'll learn from their mistakes and play better next time. There is no perspective. All they know is loss. And so I found myself torn: I wanted him to pass, I wanted those instructors to see that he's only five and he tried his best and give him that belt. He's five; there will be plenty of opportunities for him to have his heart broken.
And at the same time, I wanted him to fail. I wanted him to know that he needs to work for things, to understand that very little in life is given to you, to know that the hardest earned victory is the sweetest. All those cliches that your high school gym teachers taught you, I wanted him to learn.
So, the test. He did most things well, and others, not at all. It was pretty obvious that he was at the mercy of the judging instructors; at the very least, they'd want him to demonstrate that he knew his Basic Form (
ki cho hyung il bu, in Korean - with some 22 separate moves, that's a lot to learn for a five year old), the thing he'd struggled with. "Dad, when do I get my belt?", he asked me as we were getting into the car afterwards. "I don't know; at the next Award Ceremony, just like when you got your Yellow Belt", I lied. In my gut, I knew he hadn't passed.
Later on that night, as I was tucking him in: "Dad, I don't think I'm going to get my Orange Belt." "Really", I said. "What makes you say that?" His brow furrowed, as it does when he's thinking about serious matters. "Well, I only did half of my Basic Form right. And I didn't do Strong Fist every time." In that moment, I was proud of him, so proud, for showing me something much more than a connected sequence of punches and blocks.
"Hmmm", I said. "Well, you remember in Star Wars, Episode 5, when Luke was learning to be a Jedi? He didn't get things right at first, but he kept working hard, and what happened?" (He knows the Star Wars movies by number, not name.)
Lucas thought about this. "Um, Darth Vader chopped off his hand?"
"Well, yeah, but no - he worked hard, learned all of his Jedi stuff, and became a Jedi."
"Oh yeah. Then that's what I'll do if I don't get my belt this time."
The next morning, we received the email from his instructors: he'd have to show that he knew his Basic Form this week, and if he did that he'd get his belt at the next award ceremony. I told him that. He gave me a simple, determined nod.
