One of the most rewarding experiences I have had during my time in Japan has been my weekly karate lessons, at which I have learned firsthand the meanings of honor, perseverance, trust, and of course physical pain.

I attend karate class with students from a local branch of the Japan Karate Association (JKA). I was initially excited about lessons because I'd actually already studied karate as a child, having made it all the way from white belt to yellow belt at age seven or so. But I quickly learned to stop telling people here that story—they would often laugh so hard that they could not continue our conversation.

So, I figured I'd better start over at the beginning, a lowly white belt. And there I have remained for over seven months. I am the class's oldest, tallest and worst student. Consider that most students attain their black belt within 3-5 years, often while still in elementary or middle school. But no-o-o, not me. Pint-sized brown- and black-belt kids punch and kick through the air all around me with the greatest of ease, while I quietly attempt the mastery of a simple step forward. I am routinely reprimanded in class for forgetting my kiai, the emphatic "Ay-y-y!" we are all supposed to shout after a set of moves.

Knowing more Japanese certainly would help my case. A typical scenario: Tomizuka-sensei calls out for us to take a ready stance, which we carry out in unison with a hearty shout. But then, one by one, I notice the students nearby looking at me in horror. Finally, one gathers the nerve to whisper: Ku-ri-su! Ashi ga hantai! Oh, I see. I look down at my feet; sure enough, I am the only person with his left foot forward instead of the right.

So even though my unplanned antics are no doubt an endless source of alternating embarrassment and amusement for everyone else, I do in fact serve a useful purpose in the class: the younger kids, who live in fear of reprimand for incorrect moves or a weakly thrown punch, can figuratively hide behind me, as I am so bad that I make any of them look good.

But most interesting of all is the alarmed looks the other students put on when Tomizuka-sensei pairs one of them off with me for one-on-one sparring. Full contact is forbidden in karate training; in theory, punches and kicks should always land very close to—but not actually hit—your partner. Obviously, this is not always the case. Rarely have I seen anyone's eyes open as wide as the time one of my partners accidentally landed a stomach punch, prompting a flurry of embarrassed apologies and no doubt concern for future international friendship between the U.S. and Japan.

At last weekend's regional karate championship meet in Yonezawa, I sat on the sidelines cheering on my classmates. Months ago, I had puzzled over the philosophical irony of adopting karate as a hobby and yet generally eschewing violence in any form. But after seeing two black belts whirl around each other in a blur and execute perfect flying roundhouse kicks, I realized: nobody in my class, not one person, is studying karate to be able to defend themselves in a dark alley. They are instead merely attempting to perfect their chosen art form, nothing more.

And for the same reason, I look forward to earning my own black belt someday soon as well.