I Want My Belt Painted Black

The Long, Winding, And Unexpected Road to Black Belt

At one point or another in our studies, we’ve come across one version or another of this question:

“How long does it take for a normal person to get their black belt?”

Well, normal people don’t get a black belt. We all hear that starting out as white belts. As time goes on and we work through the ranks, we see fellow students fall by the wayside and one day stop showing up for class and disappear. Then we chuckle to ourselves when we hear or tell that joke because we’re still here.

As luck would have it, 3 days ago I become in the Karate sense “not normal.” It’s something I am genuinely proud of. I can say with certainty how long it took me to get my black belt: 25 years.

Now, I admit wholeheartedly that those 25 years were not in constant study. I was one of those who didn’t show up for class one day, fell off the radar, and disappeared. It was a lucky confluence of events that brought me back, and the reasons I came back, stayed, and succeeded can only really be looked at through the lens of where I came from.

I am from a rural part of Iowa, and any sort of martial arts class was hours away from where I grew up. I was a farm kid as well, so my afternoons were not for sports; they were for work. Up until college, my life was quite regimented. Then college came along with truly unfettered freedom, and I didn’t handle that freedom well.

At 21 years old I decided to join a martial arts class with one of my best friends in college. It was for one semester of academic credit, and they had a club you could go to in the evenings if you enjoyed it. The first few classes were all it took; I was all in. Go to my classes or go to the dojo? Dojo it was. Stay and get my homework done or go work out? I worked out. I had rationalized every reason in the world to do martial arts instead of going to class. The reality of that situation was rapidly catching up with me.

The upside to all my time there was ripping my way through the ranks with a quickness. I was young, immature, and immortal. I could do no wrong. Every time testing was available. I did it and got my next belt. But it wasn’t long before everything came to a halt and everything fell apart.

I was in the middle of my brown belt testing, and I was asked to do a kick I’d never done or seen before, and I couldn’t do it. I got my belt, but the condition was that I had to do a demo of that very technique at the next testing. My lack of academic achievements was also catching up with me. I was out of school, out of the dorms, and due to my lack of maturity, out of martial arts. What capped it all off was I was working as a cook at a restaurant soon after that, and my instructor saw me and made sure the server gave me a tip. My life imploded. I quit that job, moved 1000 miles away and tried to put that all behind. See, balance means more than your weight distribution on your feet. I ended up learning that the hard way.

That was what I meant when asked just 3 days ago during my black belt test why I stopped the last time. I told my instructors I was young, immature, and out of money. That was the short version of that whole wall of text above.

Three jobs, three states, and years later I got an excellent job, got married, had three kids, and found my balance. Then my daughter got the bug to go into martial arts from her school, and my oldest son was having problems getting bullied at school. My wife found me the school where we all go to now, and we all go through it together. Balanced. In time, I found myself leading classes just like before; teaching beginners, just like before. However, this time I’m old. Mortal. I feel the years in my knees. There are things this body can no longer do with ease. My passion, though still there, is tempered with a hefty dose of humility and sometimes the fear of following down that road as I did 25 years ago.

I’ve been through many belt testings. It generally didn’t phase me. Tuesday I didn’t feel worthy. I revisited a lot of my own insecurities. At 46 years old, I should be over that, but I wasn’t.

The end of this story is just the beginning of another. Tuesday night I am going to take my gear bag out of my office, change in the restroom, then walk out the building with gi jacket and belt in my bag so it’s hidden away while my co-workers chuckle to themselves that “Eric’s going to go get beat up by kids again ha ha ha ha,” just like I’ve done for the last few years. This time it will be different as I stand in front of that intermediate class for the first time in my black belt and bow them in.

Not the end, but the beginning. To be continued…