I quit Tae Kwon Do in 8th grade, I think. After being promoted to a red belt, something killed my motivation - I felt that was good enough, so I stopped going. My instructor, a black skinny man in his 50s with more energy than a teenager on redbull, always said he saw something special in me, so I didn't talk to him or say goodbye before leaving because I thought I'd feel too ashamed. Ashamed that after four years, I didn't really care about karate anymore.
This man was something else. I can honestly say I have never met anyone like him before in my life, and I'm sure I never will again. His stories, his insanely long, crazy stories made half of who he was. He never, ever stopped talking. As low-grade middle schoolers, Marina and I laughed and complained about how he never shuts up and takes 40 minutes just to tell his students goodbye for the day. But man, we'll never forget his stories. He'd tell them over and over and over again, forgetting he'd told them differently the other 17 times. They were stories about his childhood, whether motivational or just ridiculous, but I was amazed at how such a busy man had enough time to retain and retell these magnificent stories with millions of details.
It wasn't until the funeral and the funeral's speeches that I realized time was what he centered his life around. Time, the only thing in the world that we can't alter in any way, this sacred bittersweet concept that just runs and runs as we all live inside of it. His goal in life, at least one of them, must have been to spend as much time with people as possible before we run out of it. And, if he's lucky, in that time he could say or do something that would be a positive influence on someone's life.
And you know what? Every single person that went up to talk that afternoon - his wife, his son, his best friend, his jazz band members, the national Martial Arts instructors, his students, his fans, of absolutely all races and ages - all said he had changed their lives for good.
He was completely healthy. He could do every possible stretch and position karate required of you, and he'd always tell us to take our vitamins. "Don't forget to take your vitamins," he'd yell as we walked out the door drenched in sweat and maybe sporting a bruise or two. And then one day, his heart failed.
A stinky blog post is not enough to describe this man. Even if you ask me in person, I will not find words to describe this man. That Saturday afternoon, all I could think about was Why did this have to happen to him? He could have passed on his unique gift to so many more people. It wasn't his time yet. A very tall, black man with a gruff voice bawled like a baby as he stood at the open casket, telling us about Mr. Foreman's god-sent presence in his life. That's what got to me. I hate crying in public places, but this was brutal. It was too much; standing next to Marina, also sniffling, I felt more alone than I ever had.
And then they sang. A woman came up to the microphone and started an a capella version of The Staple Singers' "I'll Take You There", and Mr. Foreman's band members brought in the instruments. She asked all of us to join in as well. At first, everyone was either too shy or uncomfortable to belt out along with her, but after the chorus she had the whole room clapping to the beat and repeating the key line. If you don't know which song I'm talking about, check it out here. This is a few of the lyrics:
Oh . . . mmm
I know a place
Ain't nobody cryin'
Ain't nobody worried
Ain't no smilin' faces,
Mmm, no no
Lyin' to the races
Help me, come on, come on
Somebody, help me now
(I'll take you there)
Help me, ya'all
(I'll take you there)
Help me now
(I'll take you there)
Oh!
(I'll take you there)
Oh! Oh! Mercy!
(I'll take you there)
Oh, let me take you there
(I'll take you there)
She concluded by saying she believed this is where our teacher and friend is now, at this place. An aura of tension relief and hope was almost tangible as it spread out among the attendees. In a room full of strangers, I felt like something now connected me to each of them. Moreover, for that moment I felt connected to every person on this earth - because ultimately, we all want the same thing: happiness and the peace of mind that comes along with it.
We had to leave the funeral a bit early to make it to my mother's office on time, but I felt strangely redeemed. Someone like Mr. Foreman must be in a place like that, he deserves nothing less. It would be an understatement to say his time on earth has gone toward a great cause; we will always remember his lessons, and when the time comes, we'll pass them on to our children. Thank you for everything you have done, even to those who didn't appreciate it at the time.
1 comment:
Aww I like the way you wrote this Mashik. I can't belive you remember like every detail of the funeral, like what the song is called lol But it was still pretty interesting to read. :)
-Marinka
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