Ernestine Whitman

Lost Arts 

 

My career as a professional flutist was over. One day when I picked up the flute to practice, my lips rebelled.  Each time I tried to sustain a note more than a second, my lips closed, cutting off the sound. In a panic, I went from doctor to doctor. One physician told me, "Your problem is that you're doing something unnatural with your body. It's like those women who cram their feet into stiletto heels, two sizes too small. The cure is simple: stop playing the flute." He shrugged his shoulders. I wondered what advice he'd give a surgeon. After more discouraging appointments I began to face two facts: my lip condition was probably permanent, and I would be encouraged to retire. In a panic, I made an appointment with a psychologist. His advice was also straightforward: "Using one hundred to represent your pre-injury level, each day after practicing, record a number representing how close you came to that goal. Over time, reduce your expectations to a reasonable number and eventually your goals will align with your achievements."

 

Achievements? The only way his method would work was if I reduced my goal to sounding like a fifth grader. Did he think a marathon runner would be happy walking around the block?

Eventually, I went to the Mayo Clinic where I received an accurate diagnosis of focal dystonia, a type of task-specific paralysis. Focal dystonia is a permanent, usually career-ending condition; when it strikes the lips, the odds of playing again diminish even further. In my late 50s, I was far from ready to retire. (Musicians' careers often continue into their 80s). For decades I'd structured my daily schedule around practicing and performing. Without that ballast, I was suddenly adrift. My self-confidence plummeted, and I began to slip into depression. If I was no longer a flutist, who was I?

 

Two months after the trip to Mayo, I went to a UPS store to mail a package. Right before entering the store, I saw a lithe, energetic teenager walking towards me. He asked if he could speak to me briefly and handed me what me what appeared to be a business card. It was, he explained, a voucher for a free martial arts lesson in Tae Kwon Do.

 

But," I protested, "I'm almost sixty and have never done anything like this." Unimpressed by my excuse, he insisted I try it. Why not? I thought. Being unable to practice flute created a gaping hole in my daily schedule. My life seemed empty; maybe trying something new would offer a little distraction. Two days later I arrived at Champions School of Martial Arts, wearing lounge pants and a loose-fitting top.

 

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Whitman." Though he was a foot taller than I, Master Tassoul's friendly manner put me at ease immediately. Maybe it helped that we were both barefoot. Tassoul exuded the confidence of a master, but without the macho swagger I'd feared was part of every highly ranked, male martial artist. In his late thirties, with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a neatly-trimmed Fu Manchu, Tassoul set a relaxed tempo for my introductory lesson. His enthusiasm for my taking on this venture only increased when I told him my age.

He demonstrated the basics of how to punch and throw a round house kick, which was challenging. Though decades in the past, seven years of ballet had trained me to turn my leg out, knee pointing to the ceiling, whenever I raised it to the side. My first few kicks landed ninety degrees off the mark, thrusting upward instead of forward. Not a brilliant start. But when Sensei Tassoul offered me a contract for only six months, I signed it, leaving the dojo with a pristine white belt and uniform, and wondering what the heck I'd just done.

Starting any new skill in middle age is intimidating. At my first class, we warmed up with twenty pushups. No wimpy, from-the-knees imitations allowed. Arms trembling, breath ragged, I made it through six. Still, I had expected that, and welcomed the physical demands. What I hadn't anticipated were the mental challenges. After the embarrassing pushups, I tried to follow the class doing Cheon-Ji, the most basic Pumsae. (Poom-what?) All students except me blocked and punched their way in one direction, as soon as I headed that way, they abruptly switched directions. Like a dimwitted puppy dog, I followed faithfully, never quite catching up. But I was delighted by Master Tassoul's excellent teaching. For decades I'd been a teacher, interacting almost exclusively with students and other teachers. I appreciated Tassoul's gift for demanding a lot without intimidating students. He respected and encouraged everyone, gave clear instruction, and obviously loved martial arts.

 

The first few weeks I left class confused and frustrated, but on the drive home, in my mind I replayed the moves we'd just done. As I pictured which way to turn, I could almost feel new neural pathways developing in my brain. Maybe there were some connections in there left over from ballet, but the series of moves in a Pumsae is more like a high school drill team routine. Alas, I'd been the nerd in the band, not the popular girl on the drill team.

 

Six months went by quickly. Although struggling to keep up, I found being in the dojo liberating. During the day I was surrounded by musicians, including my oboist husband, who talked about and worked towards future performances. As a non-performer, I was now an outsider. But as soon as I bowed in to the dojo and stepped onto the dark blue, cushioned mat, I shed the stigma of failure. So what if I was ten years older than the next oldest student, four times the age of some? Young and old, male and female, blue collar worker and college professor, we all looked the same in our pajama-like garb. I might not become an outstanding martial artist, but I would be treated with respect. My self-confidence began to return.

In martial arts I had discovered a different world, with new mental and physical challenges. New rewards, too: stronger muscles, better balance, greater flexibility, more stamina, improved memory. Most of all, I'd found another discipline that, like music, had goals, required practicing, and offered the chance of getting better at something, even at my age.

When the six-month contract ended, I signed up for three years. I mastered more Pumsaes, worked harder on endurance, and spent more time outside practicing—Tai Kwon Do, not flute. As I worked through the belt ranks, I had an absurd thought: perhaps I could earn a black belt in my sixties. It seemed do-able except for one thing: the test included doing one hundred pushups and one hundred sit-ups, no rests. When I voiced my doubts, Sensei Tassoul suggested I check out the one hundred pushups.com website. And there it was, a ten-week plan to work up to one hundred pushups. The test was eight weeks away; I figured I could get pretty close.

 

Just like preparing for a flute recital, I worked towards my goal in incremental steps. The website suggested doing two or three sessions of pushups each day, like my advice to students to divide their daily practice hours into two or three sessions. The black belt test was in late May, the busiest time at the college where I taught (on the quarter system). To get in the daily reps, I scheduled my students' lessons ten minutes apart. As soon as one student left, I dropped to the floor of my office and did pushups till the next student arrived. When students heard I was attempting to earn a black belt, they thought it was cool. If I was breathless at the beginning of their lessons, that was cool, too.

 

The black belt test took all day. We performed nunchuk and bo staff routines plus twelve open-hand (no weapons) Pumsaes. We ran a mile, broke boards with punches and kicks, and responded immediately to requested sequences of moves. For instance, a judge might say, "Do two round house kicks, an upward elbow strike, a side kick and two outward knife-hand strikes, pivoting 180 degrees." Boom-boom-boom-boom. No time to think. For the pushups and sit-ups, pairs of candidates covered the entire length of a large gymnasium floor. One counted while the other did the pushups and sit-ups. I paused briefly at pushup #74 but managed to power through the rest. When I finished, a number of candidates—including males half my age—were still doing sit-ups. At sixty-three I was by far the oldest, but not the slowest, candidate. Almost as satisfying as a recital performance.

 

At Champions, the second-degree black belt training included lots of tumbling, something my inner ear didn't like. Feeling sad but grateful, I bade farewell to the Champions School.

Martial arts training had become a way of life, as much a part of me as practicing the flute had been. After trying several martial arts schools, I found Soto's Martial Arts Academy, which was mostly Karate plus some eclectic weapons training. Like Tassoul, Mr. Soto combined clear instruction with genuine support for each student, whether young and gifted or old and determined. I also liked his droll humor.

 

"In this self-defense sequence, grab your opponent's hair; if he doesn't have hair, grab behind his head; if he doesn't have a head, grab him carefully."

Starting over as a white belt, I progressed through the belt levels quickly. I would've tested for a Karate black belt in two years had I not gotten injured. Perhaps because he was in his fifties, Mr. Soto made sure we older students didn't push too hard, especially when recovering from injuries. Knee problems, stressed hip flexor and plantar fasciitis made the second path to a black belt bumpier, but at sixty-nine I earned a second black belt.

 

Among the many parallels between martial arts and music, I love that both offer continuous, limitless paths. In both disciplines, many practice or train into their nineties. My devotion to performing and teaching flute had remained fresh, for decades, because each day brought the possibility of improving. In martial arts, the same thing is true. Age might take its toll on flying sidekicks, but even older students can continue to improve—twirling the nunchuks faster, or fine tuning the timing of the round house kick for more power.

Despite my drive and passion for the discipline, I wasn't one of the lucky ones who could train into her nineties. When a forward palm heel strike broke my wrist instead of the board, and a bone scan revealed progression in osteoporosis, my physician suggested it was time to hang up my keikogi. Not as devastating as giving up the flute, but still, a loss. I crave goals, the more immediate, the better. Now what?

 

Losing my performing career, then losing martial arts, made me think back to another loss. At age twenty, I won an audition for the second flute position in the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, which landed me right beside the first flute, my former teacher and beloved mentor. It was my dream job—performing great orchestral literature beside the man who'd helped me become a successful flutist. But a year into the job, this man turned against me. After tolerating his insulting comments four more years, I finally left. It took a long time to recover from his abuse. Maybe I could write about that.

 

After taking a basic memoir course in my hometown, I attended a Murphy Writing workshop in January of 2020. Surrounded by excellent, seasoned writers, I returned home thinking it was too late for me to become a writer. But hadn't I thought the same thing about martial arts?  A few weeks ago I completed a draft, and She Writs Press has agreed to publish it, The problem is, what do I do now?