He sat quietly, robed in white, amongst his classmates dressed the same. One by one they were called to the center of the room and offered up a one-inch thick piece of wood to break either with their fists or with a well-placed kick. He was the youngest student by at least a year and he was nervous. His instructor had started this portion of the test by announcing to the audience of parents and relatives that he had been unable to procure three-quarter inch boards and the test would therefore demand much more from each of the students. By merit of his last name, he was one of the final students to be called to the center. He bowed, he got into proper stance, and he struck. His fist met the board and bounced back stinging and swollen. His instructor raised the board up and said, "Try again." He brought down his fist again and was again unable to break the board.
"Try a kick this time."
He took a new stance and, lifting his leg up, his knee almost to his chest, kicked his foot straight out into the center of the board. The force of the kick went into the board and was dealt back to him sending him toppling over onto the linoleum. His instructor extended a hand and said, "That's alright, next time." And he returned to his plastic chair, humiliated.
Months later, as he sat in the passenger seat of his mother's truck he saw the building where the test had taken place being lifted off of the ground and set on the backs of immense trailers. He was at first awestruck and then immediately dejected. The building uprooted; there would be no next time.
