It’s been a little over a year since I was asked to become an instructor at White Dragon. Granted, I had been studying Kung Fu there for over 10 years and I was finally old enough to work, but I was surprised to be asked all the same. Communication had never come easily to me, probably because I mostly just talked to either my brothers or my dog, neither of which often gave me intelligent responses. Still, helping out other people is what I’ve always strived to do, so I figured, why not?

So I gave my commitment to my Sifu, who would soon become my boss. You know that feeling you get when you’re on the high diving board, looking over the edge thinking, “I’m not really sure that I actually want to do this,” but you jump anyway? Now imagine that you’re jumping into a lake where you can’t see the bottom or what’s in it, and the fall would last about seven months. Oh, and you’re enduring continuous mental and physical challenges pretty much the entire way down. That’s Instructor’s Training, or at least, that’s how my weak-willed mind viewed it, anyway.

I’ve had people come up to me and ask what type of teacher I would like to be: funny, knowledgeable, strict, etc. I have always had the belief that on that first day, the minute you open your mouth is when you make your decision. And that’s pretty much how my first session of training went. More or less.

It was going pretty well. The Sifu that was teaching us was giving some basic information regarding what was to be expected of us during this time. It was about nine-ish in the evening, and after having a long day, my brain was somewhat fried, so I was happy for the lecture and note-taking. That is, until he told us to take turns teaching in front of the group of twenty trainees. Great.

Personally, I think it began just fine, though I was so freaked out at the time that the beginning is a bit of a blur. As long as I stuck to the basics, I knew I’d be fine.

I didn’t stick to the basics.

I had this extraordinary idea to explain why one must yell from their diaphragm, even though I know that no one honestly cared. It was just my way to filibuster my time until I could think of actual substance to say. When I finished explaining that small fact, my “student” looked at me and said, “What’s a diaphragm?”

That’s when I stopped talking, somewhat shell-shocked at one: he didn’t know what a diaphragm was, and two: I had no idea how to explain it. I glanced over at my Sifu, who watched patiently.

“It’s, um, I dunno, it’s like, an organ or something?” I sputtered out.

Ouch. I heard a few snickers from the circle of people around me.

“No wait, it’s a box! Yes, it’s a box, inside your body…a voice box…” I trailed off. There, now I sound so much smarter. Like I mentioned before, I had the communication skills of a cabbage. The worst part is that that is one legitimate definition of the of the diaphragm, but I said it in such an awkward fashion, no one would ever believe it.

And that was about when I was cut off from teaching more and was told to sit down. Later, I was told that our Sifu found me amusing, though I’m not so sure that was really a good thing. Out of all the types of teachers I was willing to establish myself to be, a flustered, somewhat dimwitted individual wasn’t really in my top ten.

I look back at that moment and laugh, not because I looked absolutely ridiculous then compared to now, but because since then, I’ve done so much worse. But that’s a different story.