I Nearly Broke My Hand Trying To Impress the Teacher

The hardest lessons are the ones that stick

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

The martial arts studio was only a half mile from my house. After walking at least a dozen times past a sign offering a free lesson, I decided to sign up.

I was a 15-year-old high school athlete and figured I’d impress the instructor with my strength, coordination, and flexibility. They’d be begging for me to become a student by the time that first lesson was over, I was sure.

The place was empty when I walked in. The white walls were bare and there was one solitary counter with a bell on it just inside the door. Behind the reception desk a shiny black wrestling mat covered the floor, but instead of smelling like gym class, the lingering odor of sandalwood drifted in the air.

I tapped the silver service bell and a short, friendly man with jet black hair in a karate uniform emerged from the back hallway and greeted me with a bow. I should have bowed back, but the formality felt awkward and unfamiliar to my North American upbringing and particularly out of place in the southern state of Arkansas at the time.

My athletic skills made me a fast learner and the first lessons I’d had in gymnastics, diving and other sports had all been overly explanatory and boring. Experience had taught me to expect a tediously slow introductory session.

My instructor apparently knew very little English. He motioned for me to follow his short staccato footsteps into an adjacent hall. He pointed to the middle of the room and made a motion with his hand a dog owner might make when directing their mutt to sit.

I went to the center of the mat and complied.

The man quickly retrieved four cinder blocks and a three-foot wooden plank from the periphery of the room and set them up in front of me; the cement blocks supporting the board on each end, which was now suspended in front of me.

The instructor stood back expectantly, his arms folded over his chest.

“You break,” he commanded.

“Holy crap. How cool is this,” I thought to myself, thrilled at being given a worthwhile challenge.

I grinned and composed myself inwardly to unleash the explosive strike I imagined would be required to snap this board in half. I was confident. I knew how to focus. I had this. I waited until I had brought my inner intensity to its peak before rising up to my feet, rearing my hand high, and bringing it down with a shout.

Two things happened.

One, it hurt like hell.

Two, the board remained completely undisturbed.

My instructor thought this was hilarious.

My bruised ego thought he was an asshole. Clearly he had set me up to fail miserably at this first task. It’s probably a trick board, I thought, and wouldn’t have broken no matter what.

He came over to where I was nursing my aching hand—pointed to my eyes, and drew a line toward the floor, directly beneath the board. He did this several times—seeming to indicate that I should focus beyond the obstacle I was trying to eliminate. The whole scenario was right out of Karate Kid, but ten years before the movie was made.

“You strike here,” he said, tapping the spot on the floor that was a foot below where the wood was suspended.

I got the idea.

I tried again.

This time the board bent under the force of my strike, but sprang back on top of the blocks, again without breaking. Now my hand was in true distress.

Before I could give much attention to the discomfort, he made me set up immediately to try one more time. He repeated the same motion with his hand, showing me where to focus my eyes. Then he sat up tall, and demonstrated with his own bearing and movements the correct posture and fluid continuity of a proper strike.

Once I saw what it looked like, something clicked.

Before I could think, I pulled back, and mimicked the follow-through of his motion. Not only did the board actually break, but it didn’t hurt my hand at all.

This isn’t a story about my natural prowess. It was about what a good teacher can do with a blank slate.

There’s a unique potential in the beginner who stands for a brief time at the crossroads of naivete and enthusiasm. There’s something to be said for not knowing what shouldn’t be possible, and a skilled instructor can take advantage of that mindset.

I didn’t know that this lesson would stay with me for a lifetime—that problems are often not solved at the level of the problem itself, but through connecting to a principle or truth beyond the apparent issue.

For instance, I’ve found that:

Conflicts with my spouse are overcome more easily when I keep my focus on the mutual respect we’ve developed in our relationship.

The legalities and paperwork of being self-employed are less burdensome the more I attend to work that is uniquely mine to do.

The sharing of ideas leads to better conversation and less debate when I express them through storytelling and the language of direct experience rather than holding forth with concepts and opinions.

So many problems are not solved, but rather dissolved when they’re seen in a broader context.

Friends of mine who’ve trained in martial arts have told me how highly unusual this was. Board-breaking ought to have been part of a future belt test. But I didn’t know any better, and I suspect the instructor saw right through my arrogance and decided to cut to the chase by, literally, teaching me a lesson.

There’s no free lunch, as the saying goes. And as it turns out, if you want to actually learn something, there’s no free lesson either.

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This year I started a writing cooperative for authors and professionals who want to use storytelling and personal expression as a vehicle for personal and professional development and to create authentic connection with others.

My thanks to fellow members

Genie Joseph

,

Matt Cyr

and

Kathy Ayers

who provided helpful feedback on this story.

If you’d like to learn more about our group, visit Write Hearted to learn more.