SavageTimes

My son is my hero.  

He set a goal when he was only seven year old–to earn his Black Belt in Kenpo Martial Arts when he was 13.  Yesterday, he achieved that goal two weeks before his 13th birthday.

It has not been an easy road.  It was his choice to start lessons when he was seven, but practicing in an open dojo where any other student or passer-by could see him, mistakes and all, was hard on him.  Silent tears ran down his face during private lessons for at least the first month and a half.  Group lessons crowded him: he had a difficult time making friends or being comfortable around strangers.  But there was something there, in that dojo, the he wanted, perhaps even needed.  Maybe it was the structure, the high expectations.  Maybe it was a glimmer of recognition of who he was or who he could be.  maybe he just, down deep inside, had fun. 

So he persevered.

A few years later, he wanted out.  He was bored of the routine.  He was tired of the process.  He was being asked to work harder than he had before, and he wasn’t used to working hard.  We let him “quit.”  Two weeks went by and he asked to go by.  He missed it.  He didn’t like his life with out that structure, those expectations, the physical and mental demands.

He could have stayed “gone.”  He could have ignored his own instincts and tried baseball or  football or just become a couch potato.  But, as he told me, he felt alive when he walked into that dojo.  He felt like he WAS somebody.  

He knew the road going forward would only get more difficult.  But he listened to himself, and he went back.

Yesterday, he was terrified going into that test.  I’ve never seen him so scared, even when he was five and sliced his ear open and had to have stitches.  Not even when we were roughhousing and he roundhouse-kicked me to the ribs and I had to go to the ER.  Not even when he thought his dad and I might divorce.  

I’ve never seen him so terrified. He’d been told by other kids the test was 9 hours.  That he would be half dead but would still be asked to throw a kick or run a mile.  That he could wash out if he didn’t try hard enough or be humble enough.  

But he got dressed.  He put together his gear.  He asked for a moment in the car when we arrived.  Then he squared his shoulders, lifted his chest, and he went in.

Every moment of this journey I have been proud of him, but never so much as in that moment.  At least, not until  four hours later (it was NOT 9 hours) when he sat in meditation, eyes closed, listening to the Grand Masters while the other Senseis distributed belts and certificates.  But his eyes were closed–he didn’t know if he’d achieved his goal or not. 

I could see it on his face: the doubt, the terror, the potential shame.  When the Grand Masters asked who felt if they did a good job during the test, he did not raise his hand.  When they asked who thought they could do better, he raised his hand, his face trembling from sheer effort of not crying.  

He was the only one who admitted to thinking he could have done better.  

The Grand Master thanked him for his honesty.

Five minutes later, they told the students to open their eyes.  He found me the second his eyes opened, and I knew he didn’t want to look down on the floor in front of him.  But he found me, and I gave him a nod–no facial expression.  He had to find out for himself.  I just gave him the strength to look.  And he cast his eyes down, and the relief on his face was something I will never forget.  Tears sprang to his eyes and he struggled to contain them.  He looked up again, found me, closed his eyes, dipped his head…and his shoulders squared, his chest came up, and there he was: my beautiful, amazing son who is his own harshest critic, who truly believed he would never be in that moment until that very moment., and yet kept going nevertheless.  

Even though he truly believed he would never get THERE, he kept going. 

My heart soared.

It continued to soar that evening when, after we obtained his requested tacos for dinner, he went upstairs and got my drink where I’d left it.  He was in pain, exhausted, and he got up off the couch, climbed the stairs, and did that for me, even though I was halfway out of my seat myself.

This morning, he is hurting more than ever before. His upper chest is a quilt of bruises and scratches from being punched.  He can’t raise his arms over his head.  And yet he is laughing.  

Laughing.

He is my hero.