The Test

July 13, 2013

Pop!

An excruciating pain resonated throughout my entire leg and I hit the ground.

An hour-and-a-half prior, I was bowing in to start my Brown Belt test in Kensho-Do, an art I’ve been studying since I was 19 years old. I had returned to my training full-time in 2009 after an eight-year hiatus due to a brief move out of town, a tour with Cirque du Soleil, a marriage and a divorce. I had tested for my Green Belt in February 2011 and my test for Brown Belt was a pivotal moment for myself and for Kensho-Do in general, as no female had ever earned a higher rank than Green Belt in the system. It’s not a style for sissies or the weekend warrior. Nor is it a hobby. This art is a lifestyle and I have always felt blessed, yet unworthy, to be a part of it. Less than 15 men hold the rank of Black Belt in Kensho-Do, and as one can imagine, achieving a high rank in this style is not to be taken lightly. I had even more at stake, knowing that I better be on point if I wanted to stand toe-to-toe with and be accepted as “one of the guys.” 

Let me preface by saying that I am extremely hard on myself. I expect near perfection and I honestly freak if I don’t attain it. Everything I’ve ever done, from moving to a different city where I didn’t know a soul, to striking up conversations with new people, to public speaking, to starting an array of successful businesses from the ground up, to packing my car and literally running away with the circus, has always come relatively easy to me. I’m a type-A, self-motivated, go-getter and rarely ever need a push…except for when it comes to my martial arts training. That is my crutch, my hang-up, my handicap. And that is why, months before my Brown Belt test, I was a nervous wreck.

I made myself physically ill almost every day worrying about the test. I developed rashes under my arms. I had bad dreams about it. My stomach was in knots daily. I sweat. I shook. I imagined what would happen if I just didn’t show up. 

I didn’t know what to expect the day of the test but I had decided that I was going to do my best and give it all I had. And I did. 

We started with basics, techniques and forms. Then it progressively got harder with application, locks, holds and rondori (which really wore me out). Honestly, I surprised myself. I didn’t throw a fit, stomp my feet or try to quit. I dug deep, worked hard and kept going. And I was doing really well.

Then came sparring. My first fight got me tired. The second pushed me even harder and took the majority of my air. By the third fight, I was exhausted. And in my fourth, I was getting thrown all over the mat. I’d get back up and get thrown again. By the sixth time I’d been thrown, I felt like a rag doll. 

Everyone was yelling. “Go get it Tiff!” He’s got your belt!” “Come on Tiffany!”  

I felt my body start to go over his leg but I was rooted so my foot remained planted on the mat. The throw twisted my entire body and forced me to the ground. Then the pain…my scream…and then, silence.

I grabbed my knee and screamed again. The majority of my Black Belt panel, and Richard, ran to my aid. I laid there crying with a debilitating pain in the back of my knee. I laid there for a long time, crying. Richard took my gear off and slowly, with help, I got to my feet. A quick assessment by one of the members of the panel determined that I may have strained some muscles. I wanted to finish. I had come too far to stop now. I picked up my gear and put everything back on. Richard helped me hobble over to the middle of the mat. The spectators started clapping and cheering as I bowed to a new sparring partner, my fifth fight. I thought to myself that I’d fight left side forward to protect my right leg, and I would only use hands. I remember telling him, “I feel like the goddammed Karate Kid.” We both had a chuckle but in a split-second, my leg gave out and I collapsed to the floor. 

I sat there, head hung, tears stinging my face. It wasn’t the pain. It was the disappointment. I had come so far. My partner knelt down. “You want to finish this? Come on, Tiff.  Let’s go.” We exchanged punches on our knees. My leg was screaming and the pain was agonizing. Once the match was stopped, Richard helped me back up and I stood there, now standing across from and staring at my Sensei. In all Kensho-Do tests, he is the final fight, the match that determines a student’s perseverance and strength of character. And I wanted it. I was struggling against the pain, crying and looking at my Sensei. He stood in front of me, silent. Gently, I pushed Richard’s arm away from me and put in my mouthpiece.

My Sensei, tears streaming down his face, told me that my test was over. 

I was awarded my Brown Belt that day.