The Carbon Copy

by Christopher R. Martin

Chapter 4 – My mother, my sensei


As the right sleeve of my gi slips over my arm, I look myself in the mirror from multiple angles, admiring how well this thing still fits me. Snug as a glove. I never thought I'd be wearing this again, but I am. The excitement almost gets the better of me. I can't help but laugh jubilantly at the feeling of this fabric around my person.

I calm myself eventually and move closer towards the mirror. I stare at my reflection dead in the eye, casting aside my childishness. Fists clenching on either side, my smile slowly transforming into a fierce gaze. There's power behind it, and the key is fully unlocking it. I want to channel it from my face to my fists.

To my right is the black belt that Mom bought along with the gi. I think about tying it around my waist, but decide against it, choosing instead to wait until the time I can rightfully wear it. For now, baby steps. One small step at a time.

I can do this. I want this. No rush. Let everything come naturally.

Pumping my fist with resolve, I proceed down the stairs and to the backyard. Across the grass and to the tool shed I walk. I still don't understand why Mom asked me to come down here.

That question is answered when I carefully open the door. The tools are nowhere in sight. The shelves have been taken down and set aside by the wall ahead of me. On that wall hangs a banner that has Japanese letters on it. The language is supposed to have more than one alphabet, but seeing as I don't know the first thing about the Japanese language, I can't tell which of these letters is which.

It reads 吉田りゅ空手

In the middle of the shed is my mother dressed in a karate gi of her own, down on both her knees with her paws rested on them. Her eyes are closed, and a focused glower graces her face. Her chest contracts and expands from her breathing, which is also paced and controlled like her entire body.

I want to palm myself in the face for not considering the obvious. Unless of course this is what she meant.

A black belt is tied around her waist, and both of its ends also have Japanese letters on them. One ends has the same letters as the banner's embroidered on it, while the other has a different set.

五段

"Step forward, Gumball," says Mom without even opening an eye. I do as I'm instructed, quietly judging the distance between me and her. "Kneel down." My left knee is the first to bend, followed by my right. I take on the same posture as her, resting my paw on my knees. "Now do as I am doing. Breathe in, breathe out." Her eyes remain shut as she tells me what to do.

I follow her obediently, close my eyes and breathe. I do my best to match her pace, but I have a feeling that I haven't quite gotten it right. Either I'm too fast or too slow, or I might be off in another respect.

She and I continue to inhale and exhale for thirty seconds. And by then…

"Yame!" grunts Mom.

Not knowing what she just said, I peek through one eye and stupidly go, "Um…"

"It means 'stop'. Meditation is over," says Mom softly. "You can sit easy."

"Oh." Nodding my head, I relax myself and tuck my feet underneath my butt. Just to be sure, I add, "So what's the purpose behind this?"

"You want to learn karate don't you, my son?" Mom slightly lowers her head as she asks me.

"I do." That is my solemn answer to her question.

"Take a look at this, Gumball." She presents me the end of her belt with the different set of letters. "In Japanese, this is pronounced Godan. Or 'fifth dan'. Or a fifth-degree black belt. This gives me the right to teach what I've been taught. So if you want to learn, I will allow you, but on the condition that I be the one to teach you, and no one else. Do you understand?"

She leaves me no choice on the matter, not that there really is another choice. She's dead serious. The way her face hardens even more just gives it away. As she said a while ago, she doesn't want her authority to be questioned, especially not by her kids or her husband.

Not that I would ever question it. Not that it has ever crossed my mind. When I think about it, this might be for the best. Who better to learn from than my own mother?

"Yes, Mom," I reply in acknowledgement and bow to her, thinking that it's definitely a customary thing to do.

Mom chuckles. Apparently this is amusing to her, and only proves to her that I have quite a long road ahead of me. A road that is laden with difficulty, with different kinds and degrees of pain.

"I guess you have the right idea," she says. "Let's begin you first lesson in Yoshida-Ryu Karate." She rises to her feet, and so do I. She bows to me, and I attempt to do as she did, thinking on each step. Feet together, bow with the entire upper body and come back up.

I might be thinking about it too much because in trying to stay as stiff as possible, I end up shaking instead.

"We'll work on that. For now, show me your fighting stance," Mom orders, folding her arms.

The fighting stance I go into is rather clumsy. My feet are basically an afterthought. All I focus on is putting my fists up, and I feel like such an idiot. My fists are up in front of me, alright, but it feels and looks awkward. If someone threw a punch at me, it would dart past my arms and leave me with a broken nose or jaw, or send my teeth flying out of my mouth.

It turns out that my feet are also a big deal, because when Mom moves over to inspect my pose, she taps my left leg with her foot and causes it to wobble. As she circles me with her arms behind her back, like a drill sergeant at a boot camp, she stops in front of me. Then in one swift move, she thrusts her paw at me and forces a flinch out of me. It goes by in such a blur that it might not even be there, not a part of her body.

I'm…not out cold? Somehow, I'm still standing. I don't feel any kind of pain. All I feel is strands of my fur going erect.

Cautiously I open my one eye and proceed with opening the other. Mom's fist is an inch away from my nose. Except, it's not a fist. Her thumb and middle finger are joined like she's about to…

Flick! One small act is enough to break me out of my stance and have me clamping my nose with both paws. It doesn't hurt that bad, but it caught me off guard. Badly. I then think, what guard? These spaghetti arms? Yeah, right.

"That was embarrassing," I admit, a nasal flair added to my words as I rub my nose free of the sensation.

"You will learn, my dear gakusei," adds Mom. Does she really know Japanese to some extent, or she doesn't and is just saying these foreign words just because they sound cool? Not that they don't. "First of all, your feet. Foundation is an essential element of any martial art, not just karate. A good karateka always maintains a firm foundation. Always.That kind of posture will leave you susceptible to being swept off of your feet."

She moves her arms and legs in a slow yet fluid fashion, her feet gliding along the floor as they move into position. Every action she takes drips with conviction, with concentration. The resulting pose is far more refined than the one I tried.

Her last sentence just now is starting to make some sense.

"As a karateka, that is the last thing you want to happen," she says deeply. "Pay attention to how I'm standing. Notice how my legs are apart in a one hundred and five degree angle? Notice where my back foot is facing? How my back is straight and my knees are bent at all times? How my knees never go past my toes? How I'm maintaining my center of mass? This is what a good stance—or datchi—a good foundation looks like."

I take everything in—my mother's words, every little detail about her stance—and show my understanding with a nod of my head. I look over all of them repeatedly until they are burned into my head. Into my consciousness.

Mom stands easy and puts up the same clumsy pose that I put up not a minute ago, except…well, clumsier. I assume it's for the purpose of this lesson, since she beckons me to approach her.

"Try and move me," she says.

"Okay…?" I give her a small nudge on her stomach.

After I push her, she goes into the correct pose that she showed me. "Alright, now try moving me again."

I still don't see what this is for, but that changes when I push her again only to find that I can't. I exert more force, more strength, but all that effort does nothing to get her to budge. Her feet are firmly planted on the floor, and her upper body is upright and rigid.

"Can't move me, huh?" asks Mom with a smirk.

She stands normally and bows to me, which I promptly return. "This is why we must never neglect our datchi," she then explains. "Now, give it a try. Give me the best datchi you can do."

Bowing to her, I take a deep breath and revisit the pictures I took in my head. I envision myself in place of my mother, assuming the stance precisely. Giving off an aura of strength, an aura of respect and dignity. I can do this.

My movement is deliberate, my arms and legs shifting in a feather-like motion. Sliding into position, knees bending at just the right angle, back straightening. I keep my head straight and stare in front of me. The way my fists are raised is a far cry from my initial attempt: one poised just a few inches away from my face and the other a little farther away. I relax my paws and curl them, relax my shoulders and widen them.

I ensure that my breathing is neither too fast nor too slow, which is how Mom did it. I narrow my eyes a bit and clear my head of all other thoughts, but at the same time refrain from putting too much thought on how I'm standing. That's all there is to it. Let it come naturally.

I hold this posture for a minute or two. Or three. And in those minutes, a strain starts to build on my legs and somewhere around my butt. The longer I stay standing like this, the harsher this strain becomes. But still, I do not let myself falter.

Once more, Mom inspects me, circling me in the opposite direction this time. I continue looking forward. From the one glance that I afford her, I notice that she's starting her inspection at my feet and then working her way up. I also make note of her nod of approval as she walks around with her arms behind her and rubs her chin. Coming around from the other side, she affects a ghost of a smile.

"Yame!" Mom commands, and I believe the word to mean 'stop', so I revert back to my original stance. "That was good, Gumball. How did you find it?"

"I'm kinda sore around here," I answer, rubbing my legs and my butt to tell her where it hurts. "Was that normal for you, Mom?"

"It was. But it'll go away when your datchi becomes second nature. You'll get used to it, Gumball."

"You think so?" I utter, feeling a sense of comfort and encouragement.

Mom smiles at me with confidence. "I know so," she responds. "Before I teach you your first technique, always remember to stand with your feet apart shoulder-width, your toes facing inwards and knees slightly bent. Like so." She forms an 'x' with her arms and slowly brings them down to both side, her paws clenched into fists all the way. Her feet are as she described they should be.

"Right, got it," I acknowledge and mimic her as close as possible.

"No, no, no, sweetie. The right response to use is hai!"

"Oh. Okay, then. Erm, I mean…hai!"

"Good. With that done, let's continue. The second lesson for today is a simple straight punch." Mom throws her fist out in a single quick strike while her other arm is tucked in behind her. "Give it a try."

The punch I throw out is nowhere near the precision and power of Mom's. I have the 'staying as still as possible' part down, but it's not yet spot-on.

"Like this?" I ask her tentatively, awaiting her to correct me.

Rubbing her chin, Mom nudges her head to the side. "You're on the right track, but it can be better. Tell me, Gumball. Where do you think the strength of a punch comes from?"

Even though I'm certain I'll be wrong, I go with an obvious answer anyway and say, "The arm?"

Mom shakes her head and throws another punch with the same arm. She alternates between her fists when letting her strikes loose. "It comes from the core," she elaborates, patting her stomach with one paw while her outstretched hand stays at its spot. "A stable core will allow you to direct that strength where it should be directed while you also retain your balance. That means ensuring that not just your arm is straight, but your back is straight as well, just like with your datchi."

"Hai!" I exclaim.

"Taking what I've said to you to mind, let me see the best punch you can throw!"

Breathing calmly, I spread my legs apart and bring my arms together in an 'x' before letting them down. My paws curl into fists, and I thrust my right paw out while my back stays straight throughout. I feel a flow of power coursing from my core and towards my arm, as my mother described. It seems as though that my core is doing most, if not all, of the work. My arm is more of a tool, an instrument, than anything, just as a gardener is the one pulling his weight, and his tractor, his trimming shears or his rake are there to make his job easier.

Nonetheless, I'm amazed by this. By this strength that's in me. By the fact that I can—that I do—have more control over it than I recognize. It might have always been there—that was my hunch, anyway—but the real mystery is the extent of it. With this in mind, it's a miracle that anyone who's ever made Mom angry was lucky enough to leave with their lives. I can consider myself, and this whole family, for that matter, lucky.

If this is what power is, what it means to have it in your possession, then I don't ever want to lose it. I can take myself farther with this strength. If I foster it, nurture it, put it to use constantly, I might be able to go places I've never dreamed of going.

"Not bad, Gumball," Mom smiles and nods approvingly. "And for your other arm."

Um… Hm. There's a method to this. I couldn't make it out when Mom gave a demonstration, so I decide to simply wing it for now, thrust my left arm out and tuck the right one in.

Darn it! I'm doing something wrong. I knew it. But what am I doing wrong?

Her lips pursed, Mom addresses my right arm and turns my fist over. She also lifts my head up by the chin and fixes my posture. The last thing she fixes is my arm, which is tilted at a tiny angle. If that part wasn't that important, she might have left my arm alone.

"Make sure the back of your paw is facing downwards as you bring it in," she explains. "And when you punch, turn your paw like so." She extends her arm and turns her fist. "It's one"—she demonstrates a few more punches—"swift"—to elaborate on what she means—"move. The moment of impact is where all that power in your punch comes out. As your fist turns and makes contact, the entire weight of your punch will be felt. So, that being said, one more time."

"Hai!"

From my starting position, I punch with my right paw. I stay still for a moment and breathe, counting the time in between each inhale and exhale. In a blur, I extend the other arm and pull in the one that's already out. I take my mother's advice into consideration and turn my fists in their respective directions, making sure that they happen simultaneously. The attack is sharper, more refined, the strength from my core to my arm flowing better.

Back at the center of the tool shed, Mom folds her arms and beams at me. "Good, good, you're getting it down," she comments. "I'm impressed, gakusei. But this is only the beginning. The next thing I want you to do now is a drill. At my count, perform your punches at your fastest and strongest, taking into account everything I've told you so far. Ready?"

"Hai!" I respond diligently, hardening my face into a scowl.

"Hajime! Ichi!"

I throw a right punch…

"Ni!"

…and then a left…

"San!"

…alternating between the two.

"Shi!"

I don't think about doing it or how to do it.

"Go!"

Actually, I don't think about anything, period.

"Roku!"

I simply act these punches out…

"Shichi!"

Going with the flow.

"Hachi!"

The process coming naturally as a result, gradually becoming as much a part of me as my arms and legs.

"Kyuu!"

Narrowing her stare, Mom tilts her head down and notes every aspect of my current stance. "For your last strike, I want to hear a kiai from you. Let every ounce of power explode from your core and out of your fist with the sound of your scream!" There's a dedication in her words that is pronounced. It's infectious. It carries over from her to me. If my heart wasn't already racing, then it is now.

Every beat of it rolls along my chest. I can't still it, so I let it beat, beat and beat.

"Kiai juu!"

My final punch is accompanied with a resounding scream that pierces through these walls. Breath after encumbered breath exits my lungs. My fist burns from the exertion – a good kind of burn. A sensation that lingers and dies down in time, though I don't want it to. I want it to last. I want to revel in it. To relish it and perhaps spread it all over my body. Feel it in full.

Mom's scowl softens into a smile. I mean, she was already smiling, but it's taken a more compassionate turn. This one is more along the lines of 'I'm so proud of you', whereas her harsher expression before it seems to say 'good work' and nothing else. If it was to make me feel satisfied, then it worked.

A mother she may be, she doesn't forget that she is my teacher, my sensei, and prompts me to bring my feet together, bow to her and stand at ease.

"You did very well today, Gumball," Mom commends.

"Wait, does that mean that we're done for now?" I ask her, somewhat confused as to where she's going.

"Why, do you not want to continue?" She lifts one of her eyebrows, my confusion becoming hers.

"No, I'm just being sure. I'm not saying I don't want to continue." In fact, I'd go on until the middle of the night.

"Good to hear, because we have some more ground to cover. Shall we take a short break for now, or shall we continue?"

"I can continue," I declare, closing a fist for me to pump.

From now until the sun sets for the day, our lesson runs the remainder of its course. The pain may not cease, but neither will I. The road is shaping up to be long and difficult, nigh-unending, but I will traverse it. These are the words that I imprint in my mind. That I imprint in my chest. If ever my conviction is on the brink, if ever it dwindles, I will search for these words and utter them to myself so that I don't lose sight. So that I don't lose that conviction.


Author's note:

Turns out that Gumball is learning at a respectable pace. Remind you guys of anyone?