Evan and I both tested for our next taekwondo belts today. Evan got his “Tiger Red” belt, the highest belt in the children’s program at our dojang. Note:  Evan would, at this point in a live conversation, solemnly inform you that he also received a medal. Next he’ll jump straight to testing for his gold belt, the tenth level (”gup”) along a 12 level path to black belt (count down from twelve to one). It’s always fun to watch the younger kids in class, there’s always so much well-directed enthusiasm.

After Evan’s test I tested for my green stripe (seventh gup). And I was surprised and oddly encouraged to discover that for the first time the instructors were actually failing a few of the students. I have had a number of minor beefs with our dojang in the year we’ve been going. However, the only significant issue that has consistently bothered me is my perception that the instructors often wave students along to a higher belt than their ability really supports. Today there were some tears from a few of the more disappointed students (and a really unfortunate and unnecessary post-test moment where a 12 year old girl’s dad chastised her in front of one of the instructors for “also slacking off at home”). But somehow I felt like my weekly efforts are suddenly more… valid. I feel like it actually means something to get that cursed back hook kick down cold, because my progression towards black belt suddenly depends upon more than simply attending the requisite number of classes.

Is that mean and curmudgeonly to leap straight to the silver lining within an emotionally-vulnerable pre-teen girl’s mortal embarrassment? Yes, I think it is. I’m a bad, bad man.

But I’ve got a mean back hook kick to show for it.