San Dan

by Mark Binder
January 1999

I passed. In August of 1998, when I took my third-degree black belt test and failed (click here to read about it). I spent the past six months testing. Preparing. Learning the weapons routines that I didn't know in August, and trying to figure out how to demonstrate the Aikido that I already knew -- but hadn't known how to show.

The August test is still vivid in my mind. I remember every moment, every detail. The test I took two weeks ago is much less clear. I remember very little. Mostly I remember dropping somebody on my leg, feeling my knee bend inward, and having the realization that passing a San Dan test at the cost of a leg wasn't a trade I was willing to make.

After the test, exhausted, with ice on my knee, people told me that I had done well, but I really didn't care. I didn't intend to be stand-offish, but I found the smile on my face was forced. I remember thinking at the time, "I should be happy," but I wasn't. Nor was I sad, worried, upset or anything else. There was an interval of perhaps an hour between the time my test was finished and the results were announced. People shook my hand, I smiled. I folded my hakima and drove home.

Probably I should have scheduled a celebration -- but it was difficult. On Sunday I drove up to Chelmsford and back by myself. The feeling of accomplishment wasn't robbed, nor was it empty, but its energy was different. It wasn't smug satisfaction. It wasn't the ebbulent joy I might have hoped for, that kind of sparkling feeling of happy relief. (I wonder if this is how I will feel when I finally sell a novel, or the book hits the stores, or reaches number one on the New York Times Bestseller's list. I hope then that I will have the sense to jump with joy.)

At about 1am on the Sunday night after the test, I finally began to celebrate. I realized that I'd done it. Six months of testing was over. I had nothing left to prove -- not to myself or anyone else. I was free. Unfortunately, everybody was asleep at that point, so my hit of glee went unshared.

So, now I write this to you with a quiet smile.

On to the next.