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On Fitness By Richard Seven

Great Expectations

A tough-love trainer is teaching karate kids 'the right way'

SENSEI CLIFTON Jackson barks one-syllable commands inside his compact, unadorned Central Area karate studio. Each order prompts a rustling from students snapping punches and breaking into precise stances.

One boy named Bryson, about 8 years old, wears a yellow belt tied around his gi. He's at the early phase of this training, and his form is off just a bit. His right hand is too low, and his right foot is not balanced enough.

Jackson uses his powerful voice to let the boy know. The kid's head sags.

"Now why do you always act like that when I correct you?" Jackson asks, walking closer. "Why do you always look down? Don't you know I correct you because I care about you?"

The boy's lower lip seems to jut out even farther.

"If I didn't care about you, I'd let you do whatever you want, and I'd let you act any way you wanted to out there, too," he says pointing to the street.

Jackson presses the palms of his hands on each of the boy's cheeks and lowers his voice to a whisper. He rubs the top of his head and the boy's high-wattage smile returns.

You see a lot of tough love in Jackson's dojo, the training studio he opened at 28th Avenue and South Jackson Street three years ago. A native of the area and a longtime counselor as well as a martial-arts champion, he moved his Northwest School of Karate to the Central Area because he thought kids and families there could most use his philosophy of conduct. Kids will sometimes peer in the window during class, and more often than not, Jackson or one of his students will ask them if they'd like to give it a try.

"Kids will rise as high as an adult holds the bar," he says. "If we help them do better, they will. If we treat them as if they will never amount to much, they'll do that, too."

Jackson, 42, graduated from Washington State University and has been a social worker the past 20 years. His work as a sensei is just part of his Bruce Wayne dual existence. By day he directs a group home for foster boys.

In all his years working in social services, he always felt something lacking, especially for kids in his community. So he established Children's Services Northwest and his own group home in the Central Area. The four boys in the home — "throwaways," he calls them — have specific, sad stories. One's mother chose an abusive boyfriend instead of her son. But there are rays of hope, too. One boy was returned to his parent, and so far so good.

Jackson believes if the boys are going to have long-range futures within families they first must be taught family life skills.

"You can do the best therapy and have the best case-management plan, but kids have to have the skills to live as a family. That's what we emphasize."

Jackson never argued with his dad, growing up in the city and in Kirkland. If his dad asked, "you're wearing that?" Clifton knew he better go change. He also knew that there was no negotiation on when he would be expected home at night.

Jackson's 9-year-old son, Zach, won both weapons and open-hand competitions in the 2004 Junior Olympics, but he fits right in with the other kids.

Sue Andersen, a sensei who worked with and taught him at a Kirkland dojo, says Jackson embodies the true spirit of karate. "He is a tough guy and a national-level competitor, but he would never humiliate an opponent," she says.

Lessons and living by a code seem more important than belts and tournaments. Students are expected to generalize their lessons of discipline, respect and consequences throughout their life. That's why he gets picky and isn't shy about lecturing.

"We do things in here the proper way," he tells the students after being unimpressed with movements. "We don't do them the easy way. People on the street will offer you the easy way. 'Hey man, carry this package down the street to that guy and I'll give you some money.' That's the easy way into trouble. So we do things the right way here.

"OK, don't let me preach like that. Let's get back to work."

Little Bryson, who takes classes with his two older brothers, got in trouble with Jackson awhile ago because he fought right outside the dojo. So Jackson made a production out of the news that the boy had been awarded "scholar of the week" in his class the previous week.

"Why'd you wait so long to tell me that?" Jackson asked in an offended tone.

"I wasn't here last week."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I don't know your number."

"Well, your mom does. You got to tell me something like that sooner next time! OK?"

The kid beams. "I will."

Richard Seven is a Pacific Northwest magazine staff writer. He can be reached at rseven@seattletimes.com.