emotionally explosive. “What? … Myung Soo Kim!” he exclaimed before retrieving a framed photo of himself and my previous master from his wall of pictures. The photo showed two young men assuming full rotation reverse punch stances in front of a rock building. Identifying the young man pictured there as my master practically brought tears to his eyes. Master Rhee told me that he and Kim had many years before been students together in Seoul. In response to his inquiries, I told him about his long lost friend’s current endeavors in Bangkok and Switzerland.
Master Kang Rhee sent me off to spar with one of his instructors. He then asked how much Master Kim had charged for instruction. “Only 20 dollars a month,” I replied, and the cost of my contract was instantly lowered to that amount. I began my training under him as brown belt.
Later that year, my former teacher Grand Master Myung Soo Kim became the founder of Tae-Kwon-Do in Switzerland. The following year, Master Kang Rhee was contracted as the martial arts instructor for a rather famous student.
When I was seven years old, I had once seen Elvis Presley from a distance when he was processed into the Army at Fort Chaffee in western Arkansas, where my father was then a company commander. Twelve years later, I again saw Elvis at the Kang Rhee self-defense studio in Memphis; Master Kang Rhee had become his instructor. I have no idea how much he was paying for his training, but I suspect it was more than the $20 a month I was paying.
Summertime Blues And Dues
My first college school year was pathetically measured out by the number of Falling Rain cigarettes I had left. Fortunately, the late spring of 1969 brought a package, courtesy of my younger brother Steve, God bless him, posted from Thailand without my asking. When I opened it I found a bundle of ganja – two dozen Thai sticks.
That summer, my long time ISB friend and fellow House of Lek companion Dennis came down to Little Rock from the college he was attending in Kentucky. My mom had moved back to Little Rock while Dad was back and forth from Thailand to Vietnam. My brother Steve had gotten the whole family (excluding my father) deported from Thailand by the State Department because of his heroin use. He was just one of many ISB kids who were found to be using drugs and had brought the same humiliating fate upon their families that year.
Failing to find good summer jobs, Dennis and I went from Little Rock to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, where his father was stationed. Sergeant. Major K, a man you did not say “no” to, already had summer jobs lined up for us: washing pots and pans at the NCO club. We obligingly accepted. Dennis’ older brother Marvin, who had no high regard for me or his brother, would take us to Georgetown in his VW Bug on the weekends, drop us off, then pick us up later and berate us with his silence on the ride home. I always admired him despite his disdain for two stoners like us.
We spent the Woodstock festival weekend in Ocean City, Maryland, as Dennis and a couple of other Bahn Pee Lek aficionados were too stoned to make the trip up to New York state for the now legendary rockfest. A week later, I called my mother, who said she was on her way to Columbus, Ohio, to see my brother Steve. Steve was in a hospital ICU, having tried to commit suicide seppuku kari style while on LSD. He claimed that a face on a record album cover that looked like our father had told him that the “good people” were rising up to kill all the “bad people”. He decided that he would rather kill himself than have his own father do the deed.
He recovered, but years later, after a life spent in a schizophrenic torment, he would be shot dead, fleeing from a drugstore robbery. I have always considered it an unforgivable, cowardly act to shoot Steve in the back as he fled the scene.
The following Fall semester back at Arkansas State University was really boring. I tried fraternity life for a bit as an Alpha
Master Kang Rhee sent me off to spar with one of his instructors. He then asked how much Master Kim had charged for instruction. “Only 20 dollars a month,” I replied, and the cost of my contract was instantly lowered to that amount. I began my training under him as brown belt.
Later that year, my former teacher Grand Master Myung Soo Kim became the founder of Tae-Kwon-Do in Switzerland. The following year, Master Kang Rhee was contracted as the martial arts instructor for a rather famous student.
When I was seven years old, I had once seen Elvis Presley from a distance when he was processed into the Army at Fort Chaffee in western Arkansas, where my father was then a company commander. Twelve years later, I again saw Elvis at the Kang Rhee self-defense studio in Memphis; Master Kang Rhee had become his instructor. I have no idea how much he was paying for his training, but I suspect it was more than the $20 a month I was paying.
Summertime Blues And Dues
My first college school year was pathetically measured out by the number of Falling Rain cigarettes I had left. Fortunately, the late spring of 1969 brought a package, courtesy of my younger brother Steve, God bless him, posted from Thailand without my asking. When I opened it I found a bundle of ganja – two dozen Thai sticks.
That summer, my long time ISB friend and fellow House of Lek companion Dennis came down to Little Rock from the college he was attending in Kentucky. My mom had moved back to Little Rock while Dad was back and forth from Thailand to Vietnam. My brother Steve had gotten the whole family (excluding my father) deported from Thailand by the State Department because of his heroin use. He was just one of many ISB kids who were found to be using drugs and had brought the same humiliating fate upon their families that year.
Failing to find good summer jobs, Dennis and I went from Little Rock to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, where his father was stationed. Sergeant. Major K, a man you did not say “no” to, already had summer jobs lined up for us: washing pots and pans at the NCO club. We obligingly accepted. Dennis’ older brother Marvin, who had no high regard for me or his brother, would take us to Georgetown in his VW Bug on the weekends, drop us off, then pick us up later and berate us with his silence on the ride home. I always admired him despite his disdain for two stoners like us.
We spent the Woodstock festival weekend in Ocean City, Maryland, as Dennis and a couple of other Bahn Pee Lek aficionados were too stoned to make the trip up to New York state for the now legendary rockfest. A week later, I called my mother, who said she was on her way to Columbus, Ohio, to see my brother Steve. Steve was in a hospital ICU, having tried to commit suicide seppuku kari style while on LSD. He claimed that a face on a record album cover that looked like our father had told him that the “good people” were rising up to kill all the “bad people”. He decided that he would rather kill himself than have his own father do the deed.
He recovered, but years later, after a life spent in a schizophrenic torment, he would be shot dead, fleeing from a drugstore robbery. I have always considered it an unforgivable, cowardly act to shoot Steve in the back as he fled the scene.
The following Fall semester back at Arkansas State University was really boring. I tried fraternity life for a bit as an Alpha
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