I don’t often bring up my bro because it starts a longer conversation that is often off-topic to whatever point I’m trying to make at the time. And some days, I’m just not interested in having that particular conversation. But here goes.

Me and my bro.

My older brother Erik has cerebral palsy. We are now supposed to say that he is “Developmentally Delayed” (which seems a cruel joke to me, as though someday he will catch up). We used to say he is severely mentally retarded. Erik’s mental capacity is such that he doesn’t care how you refer to him, but I do, so be nice. He doesn’t speak and communicates basic needs through a limited collection of sign language.  He is also physically disabled; he does not walk and uses a wheelchair.

He was born two months premature, probably contracting a virus as a fetus (though we don’t know for sure, and will probably never know). He lived at home with us until he was in his early twenties and now lives in a community placement home with other adults with disabilities. He went to a special school, and now goes to a day program where he gets physical therapy and they continue to keep up his “life skills.”

The thing is, I can’t really tell you much about my brother until we get past these basic facts. Nothing else about him makes sense until you have this context. Not the funny things he did growing up, not his intrinsically sweet nature, not the mischief he got into, and not what we all learned from him.

I had a teacher in high school who once told me that I probably didn’t understand yet the impact my brother had on my life; that I would be unpacking that particular bit of my life for years to come. A prophetess, that woman.

I am a very verbal person. I love language, I love words, I have trouble remembering movements unless I name them, have trouble solidifying my thoughts until I speak or write them — so how do I process a whole relationship in my life that is essentially non-verbal?

Not too long ago, my parents sent me some old family videos they had recently had transferred to digital. There was one from when my brother and I must have been about 4 and 6. Erik was in leg braces, valiantly trying to walk using a homemade set of parallel bars. I know what the people in the video do not: it would be a fruitless endeavor. Erik would never walk, but that didn’t stop him from trying, putting every bit of effort into hauling himself along, attempting the impossible, because his parents asked him to, and in the video you can hear my parents cheering him, encouraging him.

And I’m there too, in the background, in a little pink dress, and I’m dancing away, leaping and twirling on my fully functional, if not particularly graceful, legs, trying to get my parents’ attention. And watching this as an adult, I realize I internalized then that nothing I do in my whole life will be as difficult nor as brave as my 6-year-old big brother trying to walk. Not if I became a prima ballerina or discovered the cure for cancer. It doesn’t mean I don’t put effort into everything I do — but though I am able to accomplish more, it comes easier for me. I recognize the grace I have been given to have a fully functional body and mind, and the humility to know that I have done nothing in particular to deserve them. I was lucky. The virus caught my brother, but not me.

And in a larger sense, there is the recognition that we are all only one virus, one car wreck, one skiing accident, one gunshot, one slip-in-the-shower away from disability. As a society, we have only in the last 40 years started to recognize that people with disabilities have a place in our society. When Erik was born, it was not uncommon for parents to leave severely disabled children in state institutions as a matter of course. That school Erik attended? We fought for the legislation to make sure he was educated, and we fought for its implementation and enforcement. For a bus that could take him there. For respite care, so my mom could do the shopping, go to school, and go back to work. Where he lives? Fought for that too.

I have heard some people say that it seems like a disproportionate amount of money is spent on one group of people, particularly those who may never “give back” to the community. I hear people complain about having to spend extra money when renovating a business to comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act. And the crowning touch: able-bodied people complaining about not being able to use disabled parking spaces. But here’s the thing: people with disabilities are a part of our community. They are not some separate entity. And unless you are comfortable with the idea that they should be left on a mountainside at birth, or shot like a lame horse, (and if you are, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know you) then you do for people with disabilities what is required, the same as you do for everyone else. As you would want done for you, should you become disabled. If you are fortunate enough to have a body that works reasonably well, and a mind not hampered by injury, then you are not just “normal,” you are incredibly fortunate. And with that good fortune comes the responsibility to care for those not as fortunate as you.

When I have to park on the far side of a parking lot, and I walk back past the empty disabled slots, I know this is the moment when people scoff, frustrated, angry even, that they are inconvenienced. I know this is when people hatch plans to “work the system,” borrow their relative’s disabled placard, trick their doctor into authorizing one for them. There is an estimated 50% fraud rate in disabled placard use. To be fair, I never confront people in parking lots because I am well aware some legitimate disabilities are not visible at first glance. But I do think about our old van, and my father hauling Erik’s chair out of the back, wheeling it around the side, and helping him into it, and I’m glad the parking slot is available for another family. I know that is one less challenge they will have to face that day, in a sea of daily struggles. And I’m grateful for my legs that carry me across the parking lot. And those days I’m in a hurry, when I’m late?

I’m even more grateful I have legs that can run.

Comments are disabled (ha-ha, see what I did there?) because people on the internet are jerks, and I’m not giving them a platform on my own website. You are welcome to send me your thoughts through the contact form.

This gym will soon be filled with competitors, families, judges, instructors, coaches, and fans.

This past Saturday I competed at the Bryan Hawkins Kenpo Karate Invitational Tournament in Granada Hills. I won some, lost some, cheered my friends, explained the formalities to newbies, offered advice when requested, commiserated when things didn’t go our way, contributed to the fundraiser—about the only thing I didn’t do was chow down on the yummy hot dogs they were selling.

In short, I had a blast.

The tournament is about competition, but it is also about camaraderie, community and sportsmanship, something we see too infrequently in professional sports. I met some lovely people from other schools, often while we were competing against each other. One incident stuck out, however, mostly because it was such an anomaly.

As I was warming up, I overheard a young man, maybe 18 or 20, coaching a little 7-year-old student. The young man was a black belt from another school I was not familiar with.

“You’re doing it wrong. Do it again. No, it’s still wrong. Again.” His tone was angry, harsh and full of contempt. The little boy executed an imperfect spinning kick, and was rewarded with, “That’s not good enough. Do it better.”

I moved away from this pair and looked around to see other black belts gently coaching their youngest students, smiling and nodding, giving firm but kind final advice. I saw teams of young people working together to make sure they were in sync. I saw mothers and fathers checking uniforms, tying belts and whispering encouragement.

Later, I saw the young black belt in competition. His kata was beautiful, his weapons form impressive. But I couldn’t forget his interaction with the young boy earlier. I’m certain the black belt placed well in competition. And though he performed flawlessly, he blew the most important moment of the day—beyond the trophies, beyond the amazing execution of physical skill, he failed his young student.

Rei

Karate beings and ends with rei. Rei means respect. It is one of the Seven Virtues of Bushido. It is why we bow at the start and end of every class, every sparring match and every round of competition. It permeates the culture of a healthy dojo. It is the antithesis to contempt. Respect is both given freely and is earned. Respect can only be two-way; students respect the knowledge and character of their teachers and good teachers respect the dignity and efforts of their students. When “respect” is demanded without being returned, all a student can give is fear.

The masters of many different martial arts know that the purpose of training was never simply to be the best fighter. Hollywood may try to convince us how cool it is to have to the best fighters, but the purpose of the martial arts has always been the improvement of one’s character, to be the best human being one can be. By challenging ourselves physically, mentally and spiritually, by learning to accept loss with dignity and victory with grace, by learning patience and trust, by forgiving others for their mistakes and by becoming part of a community of people on different legs of a similar journey—all this and more is part of the perfection of one’s character.

When competition makes us forget our purpose, the art is lost. We become part of a martial sport—much like the UFC—focused on winning first place and demolishing our opponents. I take no issue with martial sports for adults, but they hold only a limited interest for me, and have no place in the way we teach our children.

The culture of a dojo comes from the top. The character of the grandmaster, chief instructor or school owner shines like a beacon to their students. Every student, but especially black belts, is a reflection of the ethos set by their leader. When the ethos changes from becoming better people to winning at all costs, there is no winning to be had at all.

I saw plenty of true ‘wins’ at Saturday’s tournament that had nothing to do with trophies. I saw kids (and even a few adults) who fell on their butts jump up, dust themselves off and keep going. I saw moms and dads teaching their children who didn’t place how to accept defeat without letting it define their self-image. I saw first-time competitors pledging to come back next year, filled with new ideas about how to train. I saw young girls put on their pink (gah!) sparring gear and take on the boys—and the boys being totally ok with that. I saw an entire community rise to their feet to honor and applaud a martial artist, who, having given a lifetime to his students, was now facing medical difficulties. I saw my teacher turn part of the day’s profits to assistance for his colleague and friend.

Winning feels amazing.

We tell lies to children.

Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy — that’s just the beginning. Later we get creative. My aunt Sylvia told my eight-year-old self that the reason her fingers were so bent was because she slammed them in the car door. She figured a child couldn’t handle the concept of arthritis. (But I was super careful about car doors for the next twenty years – that’s how long it took me to figure out that she was fibbing.)

My mother came up with “Burpman”.

“If you don’t say ‘excuse me’ after you burp, the Burpman is going to get you.”

I envisioned Burpman as Batman’s younger brother – all the cool super-hero jobs were taken so he got stuck with chasing down impolite children who failed to excuse themselves after public belching.

We teach children that it is wrong to tell lies, that the bible even says it in the ten commandments (OK, well, it really is talking about bearing false witness, which is more like lying under oath – but we all know, semantics aside, divine beings don’t want us telling fibs).

And yet, we lie, lie, lie – oh the shams, the deceits, the pretenses, the mendacities, the falsehoods.

As indignant ten-year-olds we solemnly promise we will NEVER tell our children lies; we will always be completely honest.

And then it happens. The earth-shattering event that forever divides us from the ranks of youth, when we realize we are on the “other side.”  We have joined the enemy. We have crossed the Rubicon. We grow up.

We are adults.

That pivotal moment happened for me on an October morning at a High School in Hayward. I was fresh out of college and had just started substitute teaching. I thought I could be the cool teacher, the one who treated the kids with respect, like they were equals; after all, I wasn’t that much older than them myself.

But the whole “treating kids with respect” thing didn’t work out so well. Particularly when the computer class somehow managed to pry up the keys on the keyboard and rearrange them to read “FUCKYOU.” That’s when it hit me. I was no longer one of them.

I was an adult.

I had things at stake that depended upon my being able to make children behave in a socially acceptable manner. I had “responsibilities.” And children don’t care about adults’ “responsibilities.”

That is when I started lying to children.

It started small, with “arbitrary rules” while I was still subbing.

“No, Judy, you can’t go to the restroom. Mr. Gibber left a note saying no one was allowed a hall pass. No, I don’t know why. Well, you’ll just have to hold it. Well, if you mess yourself you’ll feel pretty embarrassed, won’t you?”

It was self preservation. Nothing to be proud of, just get me through the day without letting the students wreak havoc (which is what all children secretly hope for — that chaos they can achieve when the adult in charge loses control of their evil little mob). Just get me to the next paycheck without getting fired for allowing Johnny to set off the fire alarm and sprinkler system.

But you can only do so much with teenagers. They know too much (or at least they think they do). They are too wary. They’ve discovered at least one truth about Santa Claus, they know their parents aren’t perfect, and they can deal with technology faster than most people over the age of thirty. They are arrogant. You can’t tell any really big whoppers to teenagers.

It’s the little ones we really mess with.

A few years ago I was working as a martial arts instructor for kids, mostly under the age of ten, and my ability to tell falsehoods excelled. Soared. I became a master fibber.

I suppose it runs in the family.

My grandfather told my mother that his father (her great-grandfather, for those paying attention) was, in fact, an Orangutan. This was to explain why he (my grandfather) had orange chest hair. Mind you, he told her this when she was a wee bairn, maybe five or six. It didn’t occur to her to question this fabrication until she was sixteen and sitting in a science class, when the teacher told the class that animals couldn’t mate outside their own species. She sat in stunned silence as the truth dawned on her: she was not descended from Orangutans.

My grandfather was the master prevaricator. He mixed truth and falsehood so well you never knew where reality ended and the pretense began. He was in the OSS during WWII, he had a Geisha Girlfriend, he knew Jimmy Hoffa (after his death we did find a lighter with Mr. Hoffa’s name etched in it).

We used to play a game with him called “Bullshit” (most nice people called the game “Cheat” – but that was not nearly as fun as having an excuse to cuss). In the game you put cards face down in a certain order and declared out loud what they were. If someone called ‘Bullshit’ on you, you had to reveal the cards, and if you cheated, you had to take the whole pile. Grandpa always cheated.

So now I continue the long and venerable tradition of lying to children. I consider it an art form.

While I was teaching martial arts I worked barefoot and, as I have two toes stuck together on my right foot, my mutant digits frequently incited questions from my pupils. My explanations ranged from the silly: “I dropped glue on my toes and they stuck!” to the ridiculous: “It means I am part fairy, but I left my wings at home” to the alarming: “I didn’t listen to my teacher and this is what happened.”

I lie to children for many reasons. Many times, it’s just because I can; I delight in watching their little faces light up as I, the great and powerful adult, tell them something fanciful and unbelievable about their world and swear it is so.

I lie because, like my Aunt Sylvia, I think the truth is sometimes just too complicated for them.

I lie because it is not my place to discuss certain things with a child I’m not related to. (“Ms. Wendy, what’s the difference between boys and girls?” “Uh…”)

And I lie because the world is a horrible place. There are wars, and rape, and divorce, and kidnappings, and hurricanes, and tsunamis, and cancer, and terrorists, and Santa Claus doesn’t actually know or care who was naughty or nice; he doesn’t actually give children who are good more presents. Wealthy Christian kids get lots of toys whether they are good or bad, and poor Christian kids get fewer toys, if any; non-Christian kids don’t even get Christmas but still have to put up with six weeks of Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” at the mall, and the world just isn’t fair, after all, and if I can give them one more hour of peace and calm before they, too, have to cross over to this side, to the grown-up side, well, I can live with being a liar.

I might even try to get really good at it.