Belt Testing

Would my aggression rise to keep me alive, even though I was injured, tired, or concussed?

The following is an excerpt from a series of essays about my experience earning a black belt in the Israeli self-defense system, Krav Maga.

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Each test pushed me beyond my capacity to absorb abuse. The higher the rank, the harder the test. Each test was unique, so I could not predict or prepare for what was coming. Some tortured my body, and some my thoughts. Some tests made me think quitting was the best option. But I never wanted to give up. My sons were watching. Each time I considered giving up—for whatever reason, I could have wrapped in a rational, even elegant excuse—I would not. With each test I struggled through, my reserve of determination increased, and I grew more self-assured. I stopped considering quitting.

Testing means learning. I learned about myself, my abilities, and the responses of others. No one is insignificant. Anyone can be a threat. Size, attitude, and looks only camouflage willpower and skill.

One night, I was the only one testing for my rank. I had made it through the fitness and technique sections of my test. Now, I lay on my back with my eyes closed, waiting for the inevitable attack from another student. My heart throbbed, and my chest rose with each pulse. I worked to keep my eyes closed, attentive to footsteps across the mat or the slightest touch against me. I heard whispers. I listened keenly, trying to decipher the lisping consonants. Though I listened, I did not notice the footsteps nearing.

My body contracted with the sudden force thrown against my torso and head. My two youngest sons pounced on me in a spasm of aggression and adolescent enjoyment. I have not expected two assailants or the two to be my sons.

I quickly rolled, throwing one off while the other grabbed my neck. I blocked the attempt at a rear naked choke, slipping him over my shoulder. He rolled onto the mat, bounced up, and attacked again. I began to rise to my feet, but my other son quickly grabbed my legs. As I tried maneuvering out of his grip and onto my feet, the one I had thrown over my shoulder jumped on my back in a renewed choke attempt. I threw him off again and was free of them for a moment. My legs quivered from fatigue as I reflexively tried to rise. Both attacked again, sticking to me as I struggled to gain enough space to stand. Though they were children, they were aggressive and persistent. I was bigger and stronger, but without using brute force, I could not stop them. My instructor called time.

We all laughed after that test. I laughed uncomfortably. The exercise had not been about technique but ethics. What was I willing to do to get home alive? What about attackers that were not obvious, assailants that did not match a stereotype I had created? Underestimating two boys could have killed me.

Some tests did not dive into the psyche; they were about withstanding punishment. How much abuse could I take? Would my aggression rise to keep me alive, even though I was injured, tired, or concussed?

The last belt test before my black belt exam was dauntingly physical. What I practiced for three years was examined under the blunt weight of multiple attackers. It was a blur of kicks, punches, and grabs. My memory of this test is a strange amalgamation of blurry movement, acute sounds, and the metallic tang of blood.

I went to the center of the mat with the mistakes I had made moments ago flickering behind my eyes. I didn’t care about a belt test now.

I was nervous. I wanted to do well on this test because it was an obstacle to my black belt. I could only go forward through the challenge. Though the physical requirements of each test became increasingly strenuous, and introducing another person increased the stress, only I could make me quit.

My test began with one assailant. There were no boxing gloves; this was not sparring. I stood with my hands by my side, resting with eyes closed, and he attacked.

I was used to one attacker. We practiced one-on-one situations during most classes. But now, as soon as I defended myself from one, another attacker rushed in and grabbed me. I used techniques without thinking. There was no time to prepare or consider what to do. Adrenaline raised my heart rate, and the floor, the walls, and even my attackers became abstracted.

My instructor then told me to lie on my back in the center of the mat. My heart rate was up, but I panted as many lungfuls of air as I could before the next assault fell on me. It would not be long.

Five classmates loosely formed a circle around me as I lay prone on the mat. They tightened their boxing gloves or adjusted the heavily padded mitts that we all used for punching drills. The mitts were also for striking and made a thick, satisfying thump when you hit someone. In a moment, they would be on me. I closed my eyes and breathed slower to lower my heart rate. Without warning, they all attacked.

My leg rose to a striking position reflexively. My hands went up in a jerking flash to protect my head.

I was at ground level while the attackers bent over me. Punches and slaps hit my body and head. They struck with a sting, but a shallow faint throbbing replaced it. I was aware of the dull discomfort, but my adrenaline pushed me to climb out of the danger. The sound of the strikes was sick music, but my perspective showed me options.

Their legs were exposed and unguarded to the brutality that I was willing to mete out in a flash of anger. I shot a straight kick out and near the closest knee. I didn’t strike it—this was a test—but I wanted to. Knees were within easy reach of a debilitating strike. I heard, in a faraway voice, someone say, “Watch your knees!“ Despite what was happening, I had options. I was not a victim.

I spun my backside out and tucked my legs under me, my back arched, catching the flurry of punches and slaps. Covering my head with both arms, I tucked one leg under me, ready to raise me off the floor. In a blur activity, I looked for gaps to spring through and escape the ring of attackers. My delusions of standing against five men who wanted to punch and kick me trickled out of me like the beads of sweat soaking my shirt.

I covered the side of my head with my left arm, bending at the elbow to cover the top. The right folded on the other side of my head. My hand grabbed the back of my neck. My elbow stuck out in front of me like a blade with a limited but effective range of movement. It was crucial to protect my head. I struggled to one knee, lifted my other knee off the floor, and crouched briefly.

I looked for the gap between attackers. My elbow drove into mitts and arms. My upper body pushed through the ring as I wriggled to free my legs, now tangled with the group determined to keep me down. I raised my knees and struggled forward, stumbling as the punches drove into my back. I ran off the mat, spinning around with my hands up in a defensive position while I looked for another way out. My instructor yelled, “OK. Stop. Let’s do it again.“

I went to the center of the mat with the mistakes I had made moments ago flickering behind my eyes. I didn’t care about a belt test now. I wanted the beating, even in the relative safety of a gym, to end faster. It had taken too long before. Now, I had another chance.

I was on my back again when I saw them move toward me. This time, I didn’t pause. I looked for any advantage. I didn’t wait for their kicks and punches. I struck quickly at their knees, backing one or two of them up enough to give me room to stand. This time, I was more aggressive. I had escaped previously—now, I wanted to cause regret. My strikes were purposeful, and I took space. I still had no desire to fight five men, but I was determined to attack as I broke through the ring. I made it through, and as I turned to back away, another attacker with a knife ran at me from a different direction. This was a new threat—he had a knife.

Without thinking, I took a step toward the running attacker. He held the knife low and stabbed at my gut. I blocked his thrust, but when I tried to lock his arm in my grip and against my side, my sweaty arm slipped, and I felt the knife move down the outside of my forearm. It would’ve made an obscene gash if the knife had been sharp. His arm and the knife were loose again. My technique failed. He kept stabbing at me. I grabbed his wrist and squeezed with a death grip, spinning him around as he struggled to pull back the knife. My heart slammed like a piston. My peripheral vision blurred as my sight tunneled. I had his wrist, but he still had the knife. My arm drew back in a rage, fist tight and shaking with anger as I tugged the attacker closer. I wanted to leave him and the knife in a heap on the floor.

My instructor said, “Stop.” I don’t think I heard him the first time. My attacker was still struggling. “Stop! Stop!” the instructor said. I did.

Standing still, I tired quickly, spent of energy. My body throbbed with spasms. We took a break, and I drank water, gulping to slake my thirst. My body let down with a shudder, making me aware of the scrapes stinging with the sweat and the knots forming into bruises.

I found a deep satisfaction in those scrapes and cuts. While they still hurt, they would remind me of what I accomplished, what I learned, and what I could do when needed. I passed the test. It was difficult in a deeply transformative way, as much body and soul as the brain. Most people don’t experience more than the palliative glow of a screen. I do not want that kind of life.