Not The Next Karate Kid
Over the summer, the JCC where Elijah attends preschool leased its gym to a gymnastics center for kids called The Klub. Within days, The Klub began renovating the gym, which had pretty much been ripped wall padding and hoopless backboards since before the Yitzhak Rabin assassination. Soon, the bathrooms had a coat of fresh paint, there was a comfy sofa in the foyer with end table and current magazines, and also a Starbucks vending machine.
Soon, an unhealthy competition sprung up among school parents to get their kids into gymnastics classes. There were waiting lists for waiting lists. Fuck it, I thought. The facilities are nice, but the Pollack waits for no one. I was going to enroll my son in an activity he could call his own. Fortunately, there was a Thursday karate class in the upstairs dance room.
Karate would be perfect for Elijah, I thought. He spends a lot of time chasing butterflies in his mind. This is fine to a point, but the boy needs some physical discipline. Also, if he's anything like his old man, which he appears to be, in about three years, kids are going to start attacking him on the playground , just because he's sensitive. I wanted him to have some self-defense. Also, I wanted him to travel back in time and beat up my former assailants, though I realized that was unlikely.
For a while, it appeared that my thesis held. At home, unbidden, Elijah would jump into a ready position and shout "horse stance!" Or he'd suddenly thrust out a fist and exclaim "KEE-YA!" Perhaps, I thought, he'd found his calling. When he could snatch the pebble from my hand, it would be time for him to leave. I realize that's a kung-fu reference, but it kind of applies here, I guess.
He told us he enjoyed karate. When the instructor gave out a free DVD starring the "Kick Time Kids," and a lost-to-Kiddieland history character called "Kirby The Clown," Elijah watched it several days in a row, occasionally trying out the moves, though admittedly, and much to my dismay, he shows much more enthusiasm when confronted with the theme song to "Go Diego Go."
On Thursday, I went to school with checkbook in pocket, prepared to re-up Elijah for another session. I got there a few minutes early. This was fortunate, because as I walked through the security gate, I saw the assistant teacher, clad in a black uniform, walking Elijah down the stairs.
"Where are his shoes?" the instructor said to me, when "how's it going" would probably have done just as well.
"Elijah's really enjoying karate," I said, after I'd found Elijah's shoes.
The instructor snuffled dismissively. What the fuck was his problem?
A few minutes later, the main teacher came down the stairs, with the rest of the students.
"Next week is the last week of class," he said.
"Yes," I said. "And I've brought..."
"I think Elijah should skip a session. The discipline's going to pick up, and he isn't ready."
"OK...." I said. "He seems to be getting something out of it, though."
"It's like eating a piece of cake," said the teacher, "when he should be eating the whole cake."
This was rather cryptic, but I sort of understood. Elijah was pretty young. He could take some time off, and come back to karate when he was four and a half, fresh and ready to break boards. My dream of seeing him receive his brown belt would only be deferred, not destroyed.
In the car, I said,
"So, how was karate?"
"They made me sit off to the side," Elijah said.
"Why?"
"I put my hand in the electric."
"What?"
"I said, I put my hand in the electric."
"You put your fingers in the electrical outlet?"
"NO! My fingers wouldn't fit in the hole."
"Did you try to put your fingers in the electrical outlet?"
"My fingers were too big."
"I would hope so," I said. "But did you try?"
"Yes."
When I got home, I said to Regina, "Elijah got kicked out of karate because he tried to put his fingers in the electrical socket."
Her face registered no surprise. The previous week, sensei had told her that we weren't getting much "bang for our buck." We didn't really care, because karate essentially meant an extra 45 minutes of day care for us. But we didn't want our kid to get electrocuted.
For some reason, Elijah's early karate failure has affected me. I feel guilty, because it's the exact kind of thing that used to happen to me when I was a kid. I would have traded in all my self-awareness in the world if I could have executed a perfect layup just once, or climbed a rope by myself, or simply carried myself with enough confidence to avoid getting beaten up. I'm afraid that this is the legacy I've left for my son.
It's bad enough that my son was born into a country ruled by a theocratic dictatorship, onto a planet nearing irreversible environmental collapse. Now, I realize, he's not even going to be able to enjoy the final ten years of human civilization with alpha-male confidence. In advance, Elijah, I apologize.
Then again, there is this strange old Japanese man down the street from us who keeps winking at my son. I don't think he's a pervert. There's something else in his gaze. Oh, please let him turn out to be a retired karate master!
Wax on, wax off.