My Dojo Served Grit for Supper

We were all crammed in there—no less than eight of us from the Dojo at the Atlanta Boys and Girls Club. Country music was the only thing on the radio. Not by choice, mind you. My parents are from the ’70s, and I grew up in Stone Mountain...shawty. But there we were, rolling through the land of Kentucky, with George Strait serenading our ride.

And for reasons beyond me—and the entire squad—the best Judoka on our team, Dante, knew every word to every song. Every. Single. Word. I can still see him glancing over his shoulder, cool as a cowboy, encouraging us to sing along to “All My Ex’s Live in Texas.” We didn’t know a dang thing about the exes or Texas, but it was Dante. So, we sang.

There was only country on the radio because we were in Kentucky—birthplace of one of our heroes, Mr. Fly Like a Butterfly, Sting Like a Bee himself. Though let’s be clear, weren’t no butterflies or bees that day. It was snowing.

We’d driven all this way from Atlanta to hand-deliver a can of whoop-ass at this tournament. My second one ever. I was still salty from my first, where I brought home a bronze medal—but there were only three kids in my weight class, so you can do the math. It wasn’t just bronze; it was Shame, wrapped in paint. I was hungry for redemption. I could taste it, feel it. I couldn’t sleep.

When Sensei finally pulled up to the arena and George Strait stopped singing, the older black belts gave us a rallying speech. Something about “showing them what Atlanta’s all about.” It sounded good, but I was already laser-focused. I forgot to mention—I was the only suburban kid in the entire dojo. Everybody else was from Mechanicsville. But don’t tell them that.

The moment we walked in, I could feel it. The stares. It was clear: we were the only Black kids in this whole tournament. It didn’t matter to me, though. John, Bob, or Rob was getting his ass whooped.

My teammates? The pressure was starting to get to them. Me? I had Jasmine to thank for my resolve. She was a middle school girl in our dojo, and she beat my ass on the mats every single practice at 7 pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tossed me around like laundry. There’s no way I was going to lose to some kid from Kentucky after surviving Jasmine.

Dante went first. He tore through his opponents with ease. Gold medal...loading.

My turn.

I bulldozed my way through every Jim Bob Tom. I felt like Negro Lee. But one match still sticks with me. I don’t even remember his name. All I remember is that as I repeatedly threw him to the ground, Johnny started to cry. Cry. I couldn’t believe it. Is this kid crying?

He tapped out, tears and all, then ran straight to his momma. What?!

That was a no-no in our dojo. You get your ass whooped, and you get up, brush yourself off, and get your ass whooped again. Jasmine made sure of it.

I watched in disbelief. Sensei didn’t say a word. Dante just shook his head. And me? I knew then and there—whatever else happened that day, I was bringing home my medal and pride. No crying. No running to Momma. Just Atlanta-style, dojo-taught grit.

That day wasn’t just about winning medals or showing Kentucky what Atlanta was made of. It was about learning what resilience means. It’s not just about how many times you throw someone to the mat—it’s about how many times YOU get back up after being thrown yourself.

There's always a Jasmine somewhere. But she may not always be on your team.

It’s about finding your inner grit, even when the odds, the stares, and the unfamiliarity of the moment feel like they’re against you.

Here’s the twist: resilience isn’t just toughness. It’s learning. It’s adapting. It’s deciding, in the heat of the moment, that you’re going to face whatever comes next with courage and determination. Crying? That’s fine. Running to Momma? Sure, everyone needs comfort sometimes. But if you’re really about it, you get back out there. You face the next challenge head-on, not because you’re unshaken, but because you’re unyielding. You grow. You get better. You make sure the next time you’re on the mat—or in life—you’re stronger, smarter, and ready for whatever comes your way.

That day, I brought home the medal. But the real prize? The lesson. You can’t always choose what knocks you down, but you can choose to get back up.