Owning and/or managing a dojo is hard, but if honored, if you do it the right way, it is so worth it.
In 2007 I left my job as a real estate appraiser for the City of Alexandria for a minimum wage job at a karate school. This was less a matter of logic than intuition and opportunism.
One day the city was having its annual fair, which employees were encouraged to attend. As our director mandated that we remain at our workstations, I planned accordingly and kept to my work. Suddenly, a coworker approached and informed me at the last second, that we’d been given permission. So, I rose from my desk and took the last shuttle from City Hall to the event center, where most of the tables and tents had been broken down as the vendors were leaving. With five technical minutes remaining, I discovered a woman dressed in a karate uniform seated behind a table, who asked if I’d like a free lesson. On the spot, I committed to meet with her the next day at the dojo roughly eight blocks from City Hall, in Old Town, Alexandria.
I was unfulfilled working for the City, suffering mild depression, gaining weight and eating too much. For the first time since college, I broke a sweat under the instruction and encouragement of a coach-like figure. I remember doing “tiger kicks,” where you kneel on one knee and rise at her command, kicking the bag, and then returning your knee to the ground. After twenty or so those, I was pooped. But inspired I was too, having been coached by Sensei Hope that day, so much so that I signed up.
As group classes were at 7pm, I’d stay late for work and then walk to the dojo on the 800 block of North St. Asaph Street for class, where I’d change into my uniform (called a gi), and undergo some of the most rigorous workouts I’d ever experienced. Once I earned a purple belt, I was invited to join their “academy,” to which I was amenable. This was a depository of black belts, with whom I’d practice with for two hour stretches, honing better skills.
Another facet of being in the academy was volunteering at the dojo for between 3 and 5 hours a week, assisting with lessons, cleaning, and answering phones. I volunteered for 8, spending Monday evenings and Saturday mornings/early afternoons in the capacity of an assistant instructor. One day, I was on my knees cleaning behind a toilet when Sensei Hope addressed me from over my shoulder, “Do you have a minute?” That is when she asked if I’d like to take a full-time job as an instructor.
Meeting with her husband, the owner of their two locations in Northern Virginia, we discussed hours, expectations and wages. I was told directly that it was a sixty hour a week commitment, six days a week, without sick days. He would match the salary I had with the city, minus taxes, which was not enough to live in the area. I was going to be poor, essentially.
But, he assured, if you sign people up, you get bonuses and if you grow the dojo, your wages will increase accordingly. On the flip side, after four weeks, my wages would drop to $400/week, as my income would become more “bonus-based,” relying on sales. I asked him if I could think about it.
Driving around the Old Town cobblestoned blocks in circles, I took a phone call with my father, who had spent his life promoting government due the element of stability. Here I was, asking his advice about a minimum wage job that might soon turn into straight poverty-level if it didn’t prove fruitful. Attentive to my emotional state while working at the City, he recommended taking the risk. I too, sounded like this in my head, “Mike, you are 26. You don’t have kids. Now is the time to take the risk. Now is the time to either blow it up, or mess it up.” I took the job.
It was horrible. I spent most of my days pacing or standing upon street corners, handing out flyers, pestering locals repetitively, “Would you like to try a free lesson? You seem like someone who would like karate. How about a free karate lesson?” I kept a “lead pad” handy for circumstances where a pedestrian showed interest, in which case I was trained to get their number and set a lesson time. Very, very few people proved interested in a flyer, and almost no one stopped to talk to me, let alone cough up their personal information. Even harder, was signing them up when they actually did show up for a lesson. Turns out that not too many people want to pull their wallet out and hand a stranger donning a novice rank, and dressed in strange looking pj’s, $250/month plus a $295 enrollment fee.
I became poor, fast. And things got worse.
The Old Town dojo was uniquely large and located in a prime location. These attributes were aberrative in the karate industry, and were reflected in an extremely high overhead. Sensei Hope and her previous assistant failed miserably towards the goal of paying the rent and additional expenses, so every month they were going deeper into debt. For this reason, an immense amount of pressure was placed on me.
Hope and I proved successful, however.
The most students Hope and her previous assistant had obtained was 84, but in time, our team developed a chemistry that grew into the hundreds, maxing at 116, seemingly on cruise control. And then she got pregnant.
I was a blue belt, replacing a beloved 2nd degree black belt head instructor. Not only did I struggle with management responsibilities due to a lack of experience, but 70 students quit in the wake of her leaving. Day after day, as a new instructor tasked with floating this expensive dojo, students turned in their notices amid comments like, “I’m sorry, Mike. But when is Hope coming back?”
This was a do or die situation. I had to make it work, somehow.
The owner relied on a system of marketing where you hand out flyers all day, and call the ones who give you their number three times a day, for three weeks. He was a salesman and this worked for him. So, I’d get up early and hit the streets with hundreds of flyers before tending to my duties at the dojo, where I’d spend useless time on the phone, pestering locals.
One time, my girlfriend and I took a staycation at the Dupont Hotel, just for one night. Enjoying cocktails in the lounge, a stranger strikes up conversation. He was an Old Town local, and it didn’t take long for him to identify me, “You are the guy who keeps trying to hand me a flyer on the street every day!” Yes. Rain, sleet, snow or heat index warned, I fished for leads throughout the streets of Old Town, annoying locals. I understood his sentiment.
I stopped using the phone and relying on flyering.
Instead, I paid attention to the assets I had—the students who stayed after Hope left, and my people skills. I poured my attention, energy and love into the space of the dojo. I got to know my students, who the owner depicted as “adversaries.” His perspective was they had money that they didn’t want to give us and that our job was to pressure them into buying more apparel, lesson packs, or anything that would add to the revenue. But I increasingly saw them as family-like members of the community I was building. I figured, that if I loved them and was good to them, that they’d spend more of their time and money with me, because they wanted to.
One month, I presented him with $16,000 of extra, non-tuition-based revenue, from selling extra lesson packs. He couldn’t believe it. The “greatest” salesman had never seen that before. I was increasingly depicting a better way to run the business, by treating my students like family as opposed to adversaries.
While I was succeeding, he’d intervene in my operations, randomly showing up remarking, “Why aren’t you on the phone! Where are your lead slips? Why aren’t you out on the street flyering?” One day I asked him, “Sir, would you like me to grow the dojo?” He replied, “Yes.” I responded, “Ok. I need you to leave me alone. Stop coming over here. And please stop calling to remind how to do the job.”
In time, the dojo began to grow organically. Families told other families who told other families. At one point we made a joke that I “owned” South Fairfax Street, as I was teaching kids and parents in virtually every home on a couple block stretch.
Instead of paining over sales tactics intended to manipulate prospects into a sale, I’d expose them to a group class after which they’d become so inclined to sign up, that I’d have volunteers do the sales instead of me. Upon our weekly staff meetings, which we’d hold after Thursday morning workouts, we’d present our “numbers.” Two aspects of these were attrition rates (how many people quit) and “presentation-to-sales” ratios, which measures how many people signed up (paid us) after presenting them with tuition and fees. My numbers set records, national ones, as their dojo was a part of a national chain.
Upon dropping by one day the owner sat at my desk, sifting through the office, trying to locate the things he’d be relying on to grow the business if he were in charge. Finding nothing of value, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and said, “Mike, I am mind boggled, over how successful your dojo is given your philosophy of management.”
Good workers are hard to find, as one gathers from the hours, lack of sick days, poor wages, and degree of difficulty of making rent. In addition, knowledge of karate, as well as an ability to teach it to children and adults, adds to this degree of difficultly. Finally, the manager is responsible for the dojo’s appearance and cleanliness, assuming the role of housekeeper, HVAC overseer, or even plumber. An owner is always on the hunt for quality labor, which is near impossible to find.
The academy was a well in which he’d pressure volunteer instructors to come on full time, and Jen was one he’d tried to hire repetitively. A kindergarten teacher with a master’s degree, she specialized in “reading recovery,” teaching children, mainly immigrants, how to read. She was an exemplary volunteer. Short, unassuming, cute, and self-motivated, she would hit the streets with flyers and actually come back with leads. A former acrobat in the Florida St. circus, she was athletic, and her status as a kindergarten teacher lent a comfort with children. There is a saying in the industry that if you can teach a child, you can teach anyone. So Jen made for an ideal candidate.
One day, I asked him, “Sir, would you like me to hire Jen?” Of course he did.
I approached her, “Jen, do you like teaching kindergarten?” She replied affirmatively. I inquired why, following up with, “In the dojo, you get a four-year-old. You spend time with them. Get to know them. Develop love for them. You get to know mom and dad, and become a part of their family. Unlike the school system, you don’t pass them off and never see them again. You keep them when they turn five, six, seven…until they get their driver’s license, and then go to college. Often, their little siblings sign up. Mom and dad sign up. It’s a way more rewarding environment.”
Jen had been spending time in my dojo, even though she technically volunteered in another one. This became a pattern, as students of other dojos began taking the longer trip to visit Old Town, because of the family element that was so undeniable. The vibe was so welcoming and laid back, she became persuaded to leave her stable job with the school system and begin management of a dojo a few miles down the road. Like with new students, I “sold” Jen on the family element.
Eventually, I left Old Town to open my own dojo, Urban Kempo in Clarendon, which I operated successfully from 2013 – 2023 before leaving to write this book and spend some time working in a mental health rehabilitation environment at the Meadows in Wickenburg, Arizona, which complemented this endeavor. In reading Petals, you’ll learn about both of the dojos that inspired this work. They were special places. So special, in fact, I think we might change the world with the so many stories cultivated from within their walls. Stories oriented around family, healing and a unique community-base that enabled, happiness.
Hope to get it to you soon,
Mike
