Testing for Black Belt
by Mike Litrel, M.D.

It's not enough that he beats me on the golf course - he wants to beat me with his fists, as well.

But there is a more profound meaning to the study of Tae Kwon Do. In Eastern philosophy, Tae Kwon Do is considered "a way toward enlightenment," with humility as its cornerstone. Everyone bows when entering the Tae Kwon Do school, upon leaving, and to each other. Bowing is the concrete action by which the serious student demonstrates humility toward, and profound respect for, the teacher, the Art, and one's fellow students.

Humility has been the hardest part for me. That's saying a lot, because I'm not so hot at the physical part, either. Before studying under Master Jeong, I had trained in other styles for almost 10 years. Even so, there are students with far less experience who easily surpass my physical skills. All the teenagers are better than me. It's their youth, I tell myself. But then there's Andy Faust and Rick Whittacker, both older, who displayed more talent on their first day of study than I will ever have. Andy can leap through the air like a gazelle and break three boards with three separate kicks. I tried to duplicate this once and nearly broke three bones.

Master Jeong is in a league by himself. He recently demonstrated his awesome skill by shattering an apple with his foot. The apple, I should mention, was skewered on the end of a sword held well over his head, and Master Jeong did a back flip to accomplish this amazing feat.

Humility is not a subject taught in medical school. But for arrogance, there are plenty of role models. Many doctors believe that they themselves - not God - heal the patient. I've thought about this for years, as I've trained in both medicine and the martial arts, and I have struggled against my strong natural tendencies to be an overly confident jerk.

And this is what I now understand: At the roots of arrogance are fear and insecurity. At the roots of humility are self-confidence and an acknowledgement of one's Creator. Only through humility can you begin to comprehend your purpose in life. Only through humility can you be the person God wants you to be.

It's been more difficult for me to earn my promotion to black belt than to become a physician. Time and again I've started over as a white belt in various schools. The frustrations have forced me to mature. For years I felt earning a black belt would help me like myself more, or other people admire me or respect me, or something... I can't describe the feelings precisely, but trust me - they're immature and shallow.

It's true that students are encouraged to work toward each promotion, to eventually earn their black belt. But the origins of the belt system are ancient and profound. The new student was given a white belt simply to keep his uniform from falling open. White symbolized purity and innocence - the beginner. As the student worked for many years, the belt, worn and sullied from use, turned brown. This signified the change, the promotion. After many more years the belt eventually turned black, the symbol of the expert.

What is not commonly understood is that after decades of further training, the black belt would become worn and frayed, losing its dark color. It became white again. This represented the full circle, from beginner, to master, back to beginner. So earning my black belt is not the mark of becoming an expert. It is the mark of becoming a serious student, a step toward the ultimate goal - becoming a white belt once more.

The truth of this has been said in many ways - once, by a man some 2,000 years ago. "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself... is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 18:3-4.

Respectfully submitted to Master Yong Jeong and the members of the Georgia Tae Kwon Do Promotional Board on December 8, 2002 by Michael Joseph Litrel, Ist Kup.

Dr. Litrel is in practice at Cherokee Women's OB/GYN in Woodstock and Canton and is a Clinical Assistant Professor at Emory University School of Medicine. He lives in Towne Lake with his wife Ann and their two sons Tyler and Joseph. (mikelitrel@attbi.com)

During my internship, the year after graduation from medical school, I performed about fifty cesarean sections. Eventually the operation became pretty routine, and I began to anticipate the more difficult surgeries that would come my second year - especially emergency c-sections. These can be real life-and-death dramas. In my fantasies I was the cool, proficient surgeon, the James Bond of the operating room, saving life after life without even ruffling my tuxedo.

But when my first one finally came, I was more like Homer Simpson. My hand shook with fear over the patient's abdomen as I waited for the anesthesiologist to crash the patient. Each second seemed like a year. My mouth was dry, my chest was tight, and all I could think was that three inches under my knife a baby was dying - maybe was dead already.

Somehow it wasn't as much fun as I'd thought it would be.

There had been no lecture in medical school about what to do when you're paralyzed with fright. So I fell back on what I had learned from martial arts: stay centered in the midst of the fight, breathe deeply, focus on each movement.

Deep breath. The patient's body jumps as I make the incision. Deep breath. Open the uterus with the scalpel - quick, but don't cut the baby. A gush of blood and amniotic fluid. Deep breath. Suction it away, widen the incision. Deep breath. Pull the baby out... The baby gasps as I cut the cord. Alive! Only eleven seconds had passed - eleven wonderful seconds.

Joe Caggiano was the reason I first became interested in martial arts. I wanted to beat the tar out of him. Big, hairy, with a low sloping forehead, Joe was the Junior High School Neanderthal. He felt good when he made you feel bad, and I hated his guts. I was also afraid of him - and afraid to go to school.

So I started martial arts training. I wasn't good at it, but without even realizing it, my self-confidence began to grow. One day six months later, I stood my ground against Joe for the first time. I can't remember exactly what he said, but the next thing I knew I was punching him as fast and as hard as I could.

Unfortunately, it was in the middle of class. The teacher pulled us apart before a clear victor had emerged, and there were significant disciplinary consequences. But the other kids patted me on the back, Joe never picked on me again, and I stopped being afraid. In retrospect, I can see it was wrong to throw that first punch. But let me confess right now, decades later, just remembering that fight still puts me in a good mood.

For the past four years, I have studied under Master Yong Jeong at Yong-In Martial Arts Academy in Woodstock. Master Jeong is an exceptional teacher and world-class martial artist. This month, along with several other students, I am honored to be testing for my first degree Black Belt.

The literal translation of Tae Kwon Do is "the Art of Kicking and Punching." Of course, I no longer study because I'm afraid of being beaten up - although parenthetically speaking, a surgeon friend of mine has been begging me to spar with him ever since starting his own training at a different school.