Our move from the land of cheese curds and abundant wild rabbits (more on that in this "P for Pets" installment) to the promised land of better schools, superior culinary options, and a more familiar urban buzz was, shall we say, a mixed bag.
While Jon and I were excited for the change, our daughter, Zenya, found the transition tougher. In good ol’ Wisconsin, she had made genuine friends and, at the tender age of six, was a tiny-but-mighty orange belt at her martial arts school.
After a hot mess of issues selling our WI home, we landed in Illinois in October. We took the end of the year to get Zenya settled into her new school, unpack the endless boxes, and explore our new stomping grounds. High on the priority list was finding a new martial arts home for Zenya (and maybe for us, too!).
There was a Taekwondo school conveniently located across the street in a small shopping center that seemed promising, but its perpetually closed doors had us looking elsewhere. Then we discovered a Kung Fu school that looked hard-core and ridiculously cool at the same time.
They boasted performance teams that had even graced the halftime show of the Chicago Bulls and dragons that danced at the Chinese New Year Parade in Chicago.
Any age was welcome to class, as long as your rank matched the class rank range. When we first swung by, we saw more than one family taking the beginner class together. Despite the 25-minute drive, the prospect of the three of us cheering each other on as we advanced as a family sealed the deal.
I pictured fun bonding sessions and the opportunity to dust off my long-dormant Tae Kwon Do skills (I had been 4 months from my black belt test when I quit at age 14). However, fate, in the form of an icy deck and my unwavering Texan belief in the year-round appropriateness of flip-flops for all outdoor excursions, had other plans.
My hopes of starting Kung Fu class in January, along with my ankle, shattered spectacularly on Christmas Eve. The saga of my broken ankle and the ensuing mountain of medical bills is a tale worthy of its own HOP story, so we’ll leave out those details for now.
In short, I found myself confined to a giant boot and a rather bulky wheelchair for eight long weeks. In a moment of questionable comedic genius (or perhaps just to appease my simmering frustration), Jon procured a clown horn, which he gleefully attached to my wheelchair.
The ability to make others pee their pants when they wouldn’t get out of my way offered a small measure of comfort during my chair confinement. It was also useful to keep my dogs at bay while rolling myself around the main floor of our home.
I was utterly gutted that I couldn’t join Jon and Zenya (read her whirlwind childhood story here) for their first three months of Kung Fu classes. But, ever the supportive (and slightly jealous) matriarch, I wheeled myself to every single practice.
The first class was ridiculously adorable. Jon, bless his newbie heart, was clearly exhausted, while Zenya looked utterly bewildered by the rapid-fire instructions, the counting in Mandarin, and the sudden introduction to a Bo staff – her first encounter with any kind of weapon.
The highlight, however, was Sifu’s post-class question to Zenya: “How many for candy?” We all chuckled when Zenya confidently declared she wanted two pieces, only for Sifu to patiently explain the concept of “Kung Fu candy” – exercises performed in exchange for sugary rewards. Thirty push-ups, thirty sit-ups, and thirty squats later, she earned her single, coveted treat.
Eventually, I traded my wheelchair in for crutches, but my participation remained strictly in the realm of enthusiastic sideline cheering. I watched them practice, a yearning to join them growing with each passing class.
Kung Fu operates on a slightly different belt system than other martial arts. You don’t just receive your white belt; you earn it through a formal test, typically after about three months of dedicated practice. By the time my ankle was finally deemed fit enough to start class, Jon and Zenya had already tested for and achieved their white belts. Thankfully, the no-belt and white belt ranks took the same beginner class, allowing me to finally join them on the mat, albeit significantly behind the curve.
Let me tell you, that first class was BRUTAL. A “full one-hour class” in this Kung Fu dojo translates to a near-death experience disguised as exercise. It begins with six laps around the practice mat (a generous 50 by 30 feet, give or take). Then follows a relentless barrage of across-the-mat exercises and Kung Fu movements: “swimming running,” cross runs, one-legged jumps, crab crawls – you name it, we did it, for a solid 20 minutes of non-stop cardio.
Having spent the previous six weeks engaging in the rigorous activity of… gentle physical therapy stretches… I genuinely thought my lungs would leave my body in protest. I couldn’t even complete the entire warm-up at first. Post-warm-up (if you could call it that), we moved on to stretches and split practice, culminating in the dreaded bridge.
While my flexible offspring could already execute a respectable bridge, I barely had the energy to hold a shaky arch for a single second, let alone the required count to 20. Yet, despite feeling like I was voluntarily signing up for a daily KO, the thought of quitting never crossed my mind.
This was our family thing, and that brought a strange sort of determined joy. So, when I finally tested for and earned my white belt, the same day Jon and Zenya proudly donned their yellow ranks, a genuine sense of collective accomplishment washed over us. Sure, none of us were exactly Bruce Lee in the making, but we were getting stronger, both physically and as a unit.
The yellow belt phase for Zenya involved a serious commitment to achieving her “kick up,” a move requiring speed, strength, and raw willpower. Weeks, bordering on months, were dedicated to this singular goal. Then, one glorious day, she nailed it.
Her dedication earned her an invitation to join the younger kids’ performance team. Simultaneously, Jon, with his natural athleticism and surprising grace, joined the prestigious Dragon Team. I, meanwhile, was still happily (and breathlessly) plodding along as a white belt, my focus primarily on memorizing the seemingly endless forms and kicks.
By the time Zenya and Jon achieved their red belts, and I had (rather surprisingly) passed my yellow belt test with a decent score (demonstrating sword form, two hand forms, bo staff form, 30 sit-ups in 30 seconds, 30 push-ups in 30 seconds, multiple stances and kick types, plus two self-defense patterns), a newfound confidence began to bloom.
I still lacked Jon’s impressive stamina (honed by nightly sets of 200 sit-ups) and Zenya’s seemingly inexhaustible energy, but my unique strengths emerged. I had burst speed and good reflexes, a lifelong compensation for my almost complete lack of depth perception. As we honed our skills, we got to try more advanced moves, weapons, and forms.
There’s a black belt move in Kung Fu where you hold a plastic chopstick in your fist at waist level in a horse stance, then rotate your torso and punch. If executed correctly, the speed of your movement will snap the chopstick in two. Despite knowing that my chances of pulling it off were next to zero, I tried anyway. To everyone’s astonishment (including my own), I broke the chopstick during practice. In fact, I’ve managed to do it multiple times since, and each time has felt like a huge win; when I tell myself I can do it, I can.
Another demonstration move, typically reserved for the Kung Fu booth at public events, involves filling a beer bottle with water and bringing your palm down sharply over the opening, the force causing the bottom of the bottle to burst, sending shards of glass safely into a waiting trash can. I nailed it on my first try.
Again, it was about speed, but also about a certain mental fortitude. Growing up riding (and falling off) horses had instilled in me a certain scrappiness, a willingness to embrace a bit of controlled chaos. Smashing a water-filled beer bottle wasn’t exactly a terrifying prospect; it was another thrill.
Throughout all of this, we were each other’s unwavering cheerleaders, attending every performance, hauling water bottles and equipment, and simply reveling in our progress. Eventually, I tested for and earned my red belt.
While the belt color itself wasn’t the ultimate goal, it did mean we had to take different classes, as red belts are considered intermediate level. I was thrilled when our schedules finally aligned again, allowing us to train together. In the two years since we embarked on this Kung Fu adventure, Jon has shed over 30 pounds, my flexibility has improved to the point where I can do the splits, and Zenya has blossomed into one of the strongest and most disciplined people I know.
Kung Fu isn’t just a hobby; it’s been a transformative journey for our entire family. Yes, the injuries have been plentiful (my ankle is currently encased in a brace as I type this), but I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything.
Have questions? Want to share your own journey?
As always (even though I usually forget to say this because I have no manners and no memory), thanks for reading!
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