More Than Fabric: The Day I Got My Black Belt

Thirst danced on my tongue as sweat became like a layer of clothes. My body screamed that it was ready to give up and go home now. My mind, however, was in opposition. “You can do this…almost done…just two more rounds…” 

I had spent the three previous years to accomplish this goal. Tonight was the true test to determine whether I wasted those three long years or not. I was the only girl, but that only drove me harder. I was fighting with all I had to defeat what they called “the wall”. I put myself through years of pain, discipline, injuries, long hours of practice, and for what, a piece of fabric? No, this was my dignity, pride, respect, and strength. This was my black belt. 

At only the age of fourteen, I stood at five feet and was among the shortest in my young adult class. As a freshmen in high school, I lived two lives. One concerned with the newest fashion trends and popularity, the other focused on high kicks and sparring moves. 

When I first started to spar, the instructors placed me with girls my age. That did not last long. I had found true pleasure in sparring. The fact that you could attack someone else, yet not do too much damage because of the safety gear. The girls would complain if they had to spar me and began to immobile themselves during a round to suffer the least damage possible. 

I began to spar more frequently with the weaker boys of the class. That too did not last long. Although they had more strength than the girls, they were also slower making them an easy kicking bag. All of them of course had listened to their mothers and would approach me like a dainty doll. One round kick to the head let them know where I stood. Tears welled up in most of this group’s eyes as their face disfigured in pain. To this I always answered with a sweet, innocent girlish smile and apologized thoroughly.