Sundays, Wellington city

What were you doing last Sunday morning, perhaps after a second cup of coffee? Browsing the farmers’ market? Feeding your sourdough starter? Listening to a sonata while mulching the plants?

I was fighting a five-year-old in front of his parents. His wrist felt tiny when I grabbed it, and his shirt went baggy when I gripped it. He should have been easier to overcome, weighing less than my family dog, but he nailed me several times. Then he lost interest and walked over to his friends, who were as pint-sized and deadly as he was.

Oh, there’s truly no limit to the humiliations of your first karate class, when you are the novice and there are children in the room who could stop you with an elbow, then easily break your nose.

The indignities pile up before instruction even begins. First, you’re not wearing what everyone else is wearing. They line up in crisp cotton outfits - white and uniform, like a tray of meringues, their belts tied so the ends are even, their faces expressionless and their hands in fists. Meanwhile, there you are at the end of the row, in cheap leggings and a T-shirt saying Saturdays, New York City. You’re self-conscious about your bare feet and about to find out that your hair will slip loose at the first command, which is to jog on the spot with raised knees. It’s obvious. You’re the only slob here.

Next, and you’d better get used to this, you’re no longer free to move as you like, and your thoughts are of little value either. For the next hour you’re under the influence of your instructor, or sensei - in today’s class, there are two. They are black belts, married to each other. On any other day of the week this would fascinate you but there isn’t time to think about it, because you’re now on your knees bowing to them. Palms on the floor, forehead to the planks. You’ll bow like this three times.

Each time the sensei bark a statement, the class shouts back, Hai! You can’t bring yourself to join in - it feels presumptuous, as you’ve only been here a few minutes. Also, there are parents around the edge sitting on hard chairs, observing you with varying degrees of interest. If you were one of them, you’d be watching someone like you, too.

You line up along blue lines marked on the floor - this is a school gym, swept before you arrived - and follow the sensei’s example. Lunge! Punch! Lunge! Punch! Soon you’ll be shown how to front-kick with your toes peeled back, and how to use the fat part of your forearm to smack away an attack. Hai! Hai! Hai!

There will be a small pause - a chance to look around at your classmates. Your half of the class consists of first timers; novice white belts, most of them under six; and the more seasoned yellow belts, among them your son, who can now count to ten in Japanese and likes to high kick in the lounge while everybody else tries to watch TV.

The other half are more experienced orange and blue belts - a smattering of teenagers, one family group, some in middle-age, and a woman over seventy, who impresses you most of all. As they move together through familiar drills, they seem like a small flock of white birds, their tunics snapping as they lunge forward, pushing a flat palm outward against an imagined opponent before drawing it back, slicing it against their ribcage like a blade.

There’s something mesmerizing about watching a good martial artist. Their self-command, coiled energy, perfect balance, watchfulness, and above all, their restraint. “This is to be used only in self defence!” the sensei emphasizes, as she demonstrates how to round an elbow into an assailant’s face. She shows us how to break a hold in a way that will knock an abuser off kilter. “And then we can run away!” she says, with meaning. A martial artist doesn’t make trouble. A martial artist makes herself safe.

You line up with your classmates to front-kick a cushioned pad. Beside you is a slight girl of about ten, her earrings covered by plasters; she is sweet-faced and kicks harder than a racehorse. Behind you is a man about your age, here to help his five-year-old make it through the class. You exchange raised eyebrows, as if to say, can you believe how hard this is? It’s odd being so capable in every other aspect of life, and yet so uncertain at this, as you try to master new combinations without losing balance. Eventually you’ll humble yourself, by punching with the wrong hand, or forgetting to protect your face (“Keep your guard UP!”) or even by being told off.

“Nice try,” the sensei says drily, as you suggest to your sparring partner that you’ll throw the first punch. “You don’t get to decide what to do.”

Later, a man you’ve never met before will tie his belt around your thigh. He holds the belt taut, and you have to lean sideways towards him and kick roundly over the top with your free leg, returning to position without touching the fabric strip. It’s exhausting. You manage five, and you’re all over the place. When you’re allowed a drinks break, you gulp water in a loud and slurpy way that reminds you of your dog. In the car on the way home your son will say, “Yeah so if you need water that much, maybe martial arts isn’t the thing for you.” But in class he says, “Good job!” and offers a fist bump you’re too weak to return.

Of course you joined class for him, this lean, small boy with a flopping fringe. You came to support him and to be closer to him, to experience something new at the same time as he does. But you’re also here for other reasons, inchoate ones.

You remember your Dad, younger than you are now, practicing his drills in the lounge while you tried to watch TV. He’d go into a trance, making furious whistling sounds (zyit! zyit!) and side-kicking with precision. The air would snap around him. He was charismatic, a skilled tradesman and well-read, your father. This was just another example of his mastery of things - including the future. He could see what lay ahead, and he was ready to meet the challenge.

When he felt you were old enough, he taught you how to punch, gouge an eye, escape from someone grabbing you from behind. The shared understanding was that when such an attack came, it would be from a man. This is how to fight off a man.

By doing this your Dad taught you that your body was yours and its power, latent. Your age and size didn’t matter. This class restores that long-ago feeling. There’s a shared understanding here that every person has the right to their own space, and everyone should live free from physical fear. It’s rare to extend a child the same respect as any adult, but this class - this strange hour - offers everyone here complete equality, at five or seventy-five.

At the end, the class kneels. You close your eyes. The room is perfectly quiet, even with the many small children here. There’s a distant buzz of a scenic plane over the suburb and in a few minutes, you’ll return to the flow of traffic along Karori Road. But for now, here you are - three generations of a family, present in body, mind and spirit. Let’s reflect on everything we owe each other, the silence seems to say. How honourable it is to be a teacher. How worthwhile it feels, to learn.