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On Testing for Shodan by Heidi Albright Ah, to have a black belt... since childhood the desire has been pulsing inside me. But sometimes I wonder how much of that desire was tied up in the American conception of a black belt in the martial arts. In order to get a sense of popular conceptions of yudansha rank, I asked some undergraduate students at the university what they thought having a black belt in the martial arts means. The responses were varied, and I was pleasantly surprised at some of their responses. Of course, I did get the expected that one has achieved the highest level of skill or mastery of the art, but I also received some more insightful answers. One student said that it means a person is not only knowledgeable of the art, but of humanity as well. Overwhelmingly, the most common response was that a black belt implied a level of discipline and dedication to learning: it means having focus and commitment over a long period of time. I began studying Kokorodo karate at the age of nine. I was one of several children in a large class of adults taught by Sensei Lance Shader. He impressed me with his command of the class, his sense of humor and his knowledge of the art. Most significantly, his black belt contrasted sharply with his white keikogi and spoke of some distant and absolute power. I immediately wanted to achieve that same level, and to become yudansha. My motivations were based on a limited understanding of what it means to have a black belt: no one can mess with you, you know all there is to know about the martial art. Needless to say, like many young martial art neophytes, my dedication wavered. I became interested in other things (though I continued to try to beat up boys in school) and I never made it past the rank of yonkyu (fourth level white belt) in karate. When I was twenty I started aikido, and my passion for martial arts was renewed, this time with a different intent. I no longer saw the black belt as the goal of my training. Not only was aikido difficult to learn, but achieving rank did not appear to be the ultimate end. Instead, it was only a step on the path to self-evolution. I fell in love with the beauty and strength of aikido movements instead of some supposed, eventual mastery. Even now having reached an important transition in my training, aikido continues to be difficult to grasp. I see now there is no end to this path, and perhaps I have only arrived at the beginning. Martial arts are not only about fighting, they are also a method of self-cultivation and self-evaluation. Testing has never been easy for me. That may be one reason I stopped doing karate. I couldn't stand the sensation of all those eyes on me at once, and even though the tests were not long or difficult, I dreaded each one I had to take. Aikido tests have been even more nerve-wracking for me; I never overcame my stage fright. But I have found that as I progress in my aikido training, testing has become a powerful experience, one of intense clarity and focus rarely felt in daily practice. For me, progress in my technique means that I am deepening my understanding of my body-mind, the connection between mental and physical tension/relaxation. Every time I step on the mat I face my greatest opponent: myself. I create my own limitations by getting angry or frustrated. Aikido has taught me how my emotions can transform my world around me. Feeling fear or anxiety can leave me open for attack, while joy and openness invites positive strength and power. Perhaps this is what it means to be yudansha: to have an open mind and to see yourself for who you really are. My shodan test was not everything I wanted it to be. I wanted it to be perfect, and it was far from that. I am the first student from our dojo to test for shodan under Sensei, and I felt tremendous pressure to do well. But the best part about it was that I felt focuses on my uke and not the 400 pairs of eyes that were watching me test. I had finally come to some place of stillness, a calm within myself and an acceptance for where I am in my aikido. After months of struggle, frustration and feeling like I wasn't progressing at a fast enough rate, I had a strong test. Perhaps now my path is more difficult because instead of learning in leaps and bounds, I must quietly refine what I have learned so far. And my biggest lesson in taking my shodan test has been that I have not achieved mastery of the art. I don't know everything about aikido and never will. I am accepting my slower pace of learning that requires a deepening of commitment and focus. I now have a greater responsibility to my kohai (junior students), to show compassion and understanding and to encourage others when I feel most discouraged. Testing for shodan has marked a very important transition for me, in my life and aikido practice. My first and most difficult task is to remember that I am only a beginner. If I think I have nothing left to learn, I will miss learning from life itself.