Sparring, outside of class

My new schedule is odd, in that I have an earlier lunch by an hour, but I share that period off with kids and have the room free, so there is time to hang out—much like last year, come to think of it, Alfred decides to linger; I’m glad because earlier in that period he’d almost gotten into a verbal altercation with one of the taller Bangla students, perhaps over his dimunitive stature or some other sort of macho posturing I didn’t quite catch. At registration we’d had an extended conversation about what he’d done over the summer—he started working at a florería on Horace Harding and I asked him the typical math teacherly questions, such as which flowers are the most popular, how much do they cost, et cetera. From last year, my image of Alfred is as a student who’s interested and engaged but also conscious of his own image in the eyes of his classmates, but altogether a responsible kid who happily and affectionately juggles his baby sister at parent-teacher night.

Anyway, for some reason the conversation turns to why he’s tired—I offer that perhaps the flower shop is wearying, but he says no—he was at TaeKwonDo practice the night before; unsure as to whether he’s aware of my own association with the martial arts, I start asking him some questions—where is the dojo, what is practice like, how long have you been doing it, how old is your Sabhuhim, how many other people are there, how many times do you go a week, and so on. He reveals that in his three months he’s gotten a few stripes, that classes are leveled, and that last night was the first time that he’s stayed for the more advanced class, sparring as a brand new and kind of threatening experience. I draw some contrasts, discussing some of the salient differences with the kendo I do. It now makes more sense, why he was fronting against his rival, but it’s good I nipped it in the bud—TaeKwonDo is pretty fierce.

I’m glad that eventually I’ll be able to more deeply share a very important part of my life with one of my kids.