• printer friendly
• mail this article
• iPod format
• digg

Surprisingly, my Korean vocabulary now stands at five words. Horrifically mispronounced words, sure – including one that I have absolutely no idea how to go about – but the fact still stands.

I am, against my best efforts, becoming trilingual. My tae kwon do ignorance is becoming more precious as it dwindles into nothing. Or at least, I hope that’s the case.

Cha-ryot.

That was definitely not the first word out of fifth-year senior and UCLA’s Tae kwon do Club founder Sean Yee’s mouth a few Mondays ago (It means “Attention.”). In fact, he doesn’t start any class that way. Tae kwon do at UCLA is relaxed and easygoing despite the brutal subject matter.

Even though I had previously exposed myself to the sport, however briefly, and even knew the instructor, there were still a few butterflies in my stomach as I waited for the first class to begin.

This happened a few weeks ago, just so you know. Second week, to be more or less precise.

I was semi-properly attired for the occasion; I had no uniform, but no one else really did, either. We were but a mishmash of young college kids hoping to be transformed into warriors.

Our feet would be deadly, as would our hands. Or at least, that was my chief sentiment.

Kumg-nae.

The first class was much too slow for my liking.

It definitely had something to do with the complete lack of instruction in matters of punching and kicking. Also, there was a tedious amount of stretching and warming up.

Still, class was fun, and Sean said we’d do more in the learning-to-fight department next time, so I wasn’t worried. Maybe I should have been, because my hamstrings and back were sore for a week.

Wednesday was a completely different experience (for those of you keeping score or a time line at home, this is two weeks ago Wednesday).

Class started fast. We only warmed up for half the time, and got to the good stuff quickly. Sean had promised this, and I enjoyed it.

“Cha-ryot. Kumg-nae.”

He snapped off the commands for “attention” and “bow” like a drill instructor and put us into ready stance.

Choon-bi.

I now know somewhat how a racehorse might feel. Sean had us alternate between attention, ready, and fighting stances. And then, with barely a word of warning to cull my growing boredom, the pent-up aggression of years received a conduit.

“We’re going to start with a punch to the chest. Ready. Begin.”

We started counting, kiai-ing (yelling) and punching to a rhythm. It was extremely therapeutic. Then, after we finished the first set, Sean explained the idea behind the punch to the solar plexus, and that ruined 95 percent of my expectations for the class.

“If you hit them in the solar plexus, you can collapse the ribs. We don’t want you to do that,” he said with a nervous laugh.

Come on, I thought. You’ve already given us the university police spiel.

“We’re trying to teach you how to hit someone as a last resort. You hit them, and then you get away.”

I was very disappointed.

One of the greatest draws to tae kwon do was the defensive philosophy that I heard from the many laymen I had encountered. Tae kwon do was supposed to be about kicking the snot out of the other guy so he stopped hurting you. Not this nancy crap about running away.

But those people also told me tae kwon do was only about kicking, which was obviously incorrect. We did do some kicking, but that was after we had rehearsed inserting our elbows into the temples of imagined attackers.

Still, despite the complete destruction of those precious preconceived notions, I managed to make it through that class. Surprisingly enough.

Know more Korean? Alleviate ignorance by e-mailing Earnest at

jearnest@media.ucla.edu.