Musings on Sport Taekwondo

Sophia caught me off-guard at the ATS xifan lunch on Sunday. We were chatting casually when she suddenly asked me, "Why do you do taekwondo?"

My mind blanked for a second before I impulsively blurted, "Because it’s fun." It was an easy answer, what I’d heard Ryan, a friend and fellow yellow belt, say. The question continued to simmer in the back of my mind afterwards, though. Inside I was bothered by my answer, and thinking about it later, I realized that wasn't how I felt.

For me, taekwondo is not fun. Or not fun in the usual sense of the word. It has its rewards, but I don’t go to practice for the sake of lifting my spirits. In fact, I tend to leave frustrated, especially on Sundays. As an example, during warmup this Sunday, Bobby led us in footwork across the workout room floor. He demonstrated first, and everyone then followed in lines. While it made sense when I watched, when it came time to replicate it, I had to think hard to get my feet in the right place. I was the last one in my line, and each time we did a different set, everyone had to wait as I finished because I kept messing up. Alicia behind me would explain again, and eventually Anye came up beside me and did it step-by-step with me. And everyone watched. I could sense at least one member’s impatience—his body language said, "Why are you so slow?" I had the same question. I didn’t like slowing everyone down, but worse than the embarrassment and guilt was the self-resentment for my clumsiness. It seemed like the three other yellow belts were doing okay. Later when we worked on double kicks, I watched Ryan hitting them consistently despite his injured leg. After two weeks, I’m still not able to do them, and I can’t figure out why. This isn’t a physics problem where I can solve for velocity.

Part of the reason for my difficulty with taekwondo may be that I haven’t been an athlete since ping-pong, swim, and tennis teams in middle school, and I’m now unused to coordinating my whole body. I never felt a need to nor trained to excel at sports when I did them, since my parents mainly emphasized academic success. In high school I ran by myself in the development behind my house, which didn't require unusual skill. It’s not that I don’t understand muscle memory and agility, since I’ve been a violinist for the last ten years, but the muscle memory is probably concentrated in my left hand and right arm.

So perhaps from disuse, my full-body muscle memory takes longer to kick in, as I was fine doing the same footwork on Sunday when we revisited it an hour after. I just have to put the motions into a filter of thought for longer. Still, I’m frustrated with myself because everything I do is ultimately controlled by the brain, and I feel like the dumbness of my motions is a reflection of the dumbness in my brain. I am improving gradually, compensating for my lack of talent by putting in more time. Eventually I may feel good about myself after practice, but for now, taekwondo isn’t fun. Something else keeps me going to practice eight hours a week, then.

As disappointed as I may feel about myself after practice, I have to admit I feel good physically. Exercise decreases cortisol levels and increases endorphins, etc., etc.… but that doesn’t apply specifically to taekwondo and doesn’t explain why I’m not rock climbing instead. Well, there is a clear, maybe lame reason for why I’m doing taekwondo in the first place: Scheduling. Dumb luck. I needed a phys ed class first quarter, and almost everything else conflicted with classes or wasn’t interesting (e.g. square dancing).

Why I’ve stayed is another issue. I didn’t expect to fall for my first phys ed class, and I can’t say I stayed at first for the sport. Up through the yellow belt test, I thought the forms were robotic and uncreative, the sparring brutal and crass. I was an artist at heart, not an athlete, and I wasn't attuned to the beauty in this physicality.

Instead, I stayed for the workout. I stayed because the yellow belt felt like an invitation and a shame to just put aside, because Master Chuang worked with the yellow belts after the belt ceremony and I felt I could really learn something if I stuck around. I stayed because Kim told me the club was well-organized, one of the best experiences I would have with taekwondo. Most of all, though, I believe I stayed at first for the people. I met a few club members I immediately liked, was surprised by the number I already knew, and could sense that the club was close-knit.

That was initially. At the xifan this Sunday, though, I should have told Sophia, "Because it’s beautiful." Actually trying to do the steps and kicks and realizing how hard they are have increased my admiration for the sport and its practitioners. The difference has been akin to the change in how I felt about Shostakovich's first symphony (which I initially failed to recognize as music) once I played it as opposed to when I first heard it. This appreciation has slowly creeped up on me. I remember it starting a bit in phys ed; I was impressed by Master Chuang's turning kicks—how he'd look so relaxed, hop to the target, and in a flash, POW! So much power curled into that foot. Two and a half months later, I find myself enjoying watching taekwondo done well. I don't even know how I know it's good or not, but it's an impression I get. Last week, Shammi was practicing her form with Master Chuang in the center of the mats during a water break, and I thought it looked so good that I stood there, eyed glued. Her movements were so sharp and fluid, it seemed like she knew exactly where her arms, legs, and body had to be in space, and delivered them there with cold efficiency. It was quite beautiful. In the end, athlete or not, I'm still an artist at heart, a slave to beauty.

What gets me in trouble is when I also see beauty, in the broadest sense of the word, in people. I don't want the same thing that happened to me elsewhere to happen to me here. In the past, I found people interesting, joined activities without knowing what I was getting myself into, and spent weeks doing things I ultimately found I had no passion for. I had just been working to live up to people, and after my interest died, extricating myself became a thorny undertaking, resulting in awkwardness with those I once worked with and a feeling that I'd abandoned them. This kind of situation would be the worst thing to happen to me at taekwondo, just as I'm starting out. I want to stay focused, because this is something I can already feel myself liking for its intrinsic challenges. I want to know that I'm here for the taekwondo, and that everything else is extra. I suppose this attitude is appropriate for the sport; it contains the element of self-discipline ingrained in the martial arts.

So never mind that the most handsome guy I've seen in a long time does taekwondo. I've never spoken to him, and even so, he is the biggest distraction at practice. His taekwondo is beautiful too, and it's impossible to watch his taekwondo without looking at him. He's every temptation I'm fighting wrapped up in one. But I don’t want this to be about the boy. I want to be, need to be here for the sport, for myself.