When I was coming of age in the Surreal Seventies my friends and I disagreed on what type of combat training best prepared one for ‘street-fighting’. All of these debates took place in the cinematic shadow of the new martial arts movie genre pioneered by Bruce Lee. And, even where martial arts movie street-fighters were concerned, there was disagreement.

Of course everyone on the karate scene knew that Bruce had beaten up Mohamed Ali; or Ali had declined to fight him; or Ali would not have a chance, etcetera. But Ali was just a boxer, and only a heavyweight. Everyone knew with absolute certainty that the smaller a fighter was the more deadly he was. So, although Ali, a mere heavyweight compared to Bruce’s bundle of lightweight sinew, therefore had no chance in any conceivable matchup, how would Chuck Norris do? Chuck was only a middleweight. But since he was only inferior by two weight classes, perhaps Chuck could beat Bruce—but, no, he clearly lost the fight in that ancient Roman hallway…

And so such debates raged between us teenagers aspiring to combat proficiency. There was always doubt, probable defeat for any of our cinema-proven heroes at the hands of the other. There was also much debate over whose instructor could beat who, and these debates must be perpetual also, since it would have been rude for the instructors to fight one another. Why that would have put them on our level; just guys that beat each other up.

There was, however, one incontrovertible truth, that none of us doubted. The fact, as we all knew it, from our senior martial artists, and which was always repeated by our fellows, and even none martial artists, was that every black belt in karate had ‘his hands and feet registered as deadly weapons’ with the ‘authorities’. This did a lot to explain why these men could not fight each other, because any such act would essentially be a gun fight! It also proved that, even if Ali had not been submitted by Bruce in their secret fight [in a hotel room I think it was supposed to have been] he most certainly would be. Ali, a mere boxer, only had his ‘hands registered’ not his ‘hands and feet’. He would not have a prayer. So, you see, the government had determined that karate guys were twice as dangerous as boxers.

This line of reasoning might seem strange to you modern MMA fans, but not to punks of my generation. Our parents had grown up thinking that an actor [John Wayne] was the toughest man on the planet. We held the theoretical combat effectiveness of an NFL player in the same awesome light that modern people now equate with Navy SEALS, James Bond, Jason Bourne and any character played by Jason Statham. Back in the Surreal Seventies appearances and perception was everything. People even assumed that bodybuilders were naturally dangerous combatants. They just did not box, because they didn’t want to hurt anyone in the gym.

We believed that martial arts black belts and pro boxers had their hands registered as lethal weapons in the very same way that handguns were registered by their owners in large cities.

My brother and I were clamoring for kickboxing opportunities, and it just so happened that our father was mentoring a man in his twenties named Ivan. Ivan was six-five and about 200 pounds, and a Tang Soo Do black belt. He agreed to teach us in return for some unknown consideration from my father, which probably involved counseling or halfway house placement.

I was a welterweight, so was able to spar with Ivan and my little brother ‘Tango’, who was five feet tall and 70 pounds. Tango and Ivan was a freakish mismatch. So, Ivan brought over another young man of 18 or 19 years. This fellow was a TaeKwonDo black belt with the uniform and all. He was about five-four and 120 pounds.

After the bow in, Tango and his sparring partner had barely began to circle when the guy slapped my brother across the face with a reverse crescent kick, and sunk into a cat stance with a very Bruce Lee like ‘Meow’.

Tango got red, snarled like an animal, and charged, precisely like he was coming off the line of scrimmage to make a block for a running back. He slammed the stunned Meow Man with either his palms or wrists, back up against the paneled basement wall, and then shot in for a clinch. I forget if he used a wing block, checking hand, or under-hook to stabilize his victim against the wall. But he growled furiously with each right hook as he beat the guy in the ribs and face. His victim was wiggling helplessly, trying to get off the wall, when Ivan pounced and pulled the two apart like Mom peeling static-cling socks apart.

Tango was pacing like a tiger psyched for a second round, while Ivan took Meow Man out on the patio, where the black belt ‘adult’, old enough to get drafted, cried!

Lucky, one of the noncombatant neighborhood kids, looked over my shoulder and said, “Is he a fag? I mean is it okay to cry if you’re a black belt if you do that?”

I had no answer, being 90% meathead at the time. But, I did make a mental note that the Black Belt Registry was suspect. But then again, they had a magazine for black belts. Maybe it was just a list of subscribers?

I just could not imagine that little sissy standing before a police sergeant in some government building as he was entered into the ‘human weapon’ arsenal of the municipality.

But, ‘wait’, I thought, ‘maybe it’s a Federal registry, and just done by mail. Uncle Robert is always going on about how evil the Federal Government is. Maybe it’s just a program like Selective Service, to target draftees for Special Forces and Marine recruiters?’

As the years wore on and I matured, I began to take notice of some facts that cast doubt on the existence of the Black Belt Registry.

First off, I found out about the process by which boxers registered with the state athletic commissions, and that this was all more or less a sanctioning fee; and a check on the possibility of fighters in poor health being put into competition. It was like a combination physical exam and marriage license application.

I also noticed that black belts that I knew had never been registered; had never been approached by a sunglassed man-in-black and put on some government watch list.

Furthermore, I read up on case law and found nothing about statutory boxer or martial arts lethality. I did, however, find references to cases in which boxers faced stiffer penalties at trial because of court judgments that their nature and skill did constitute a disparity of force. So really, being a boxer or martial artist, in the eyes of the law, seemed to bring increased sentencing penalties in line with the use of the shoed foot to stomp a downed person.

It was clear by my mid-twenties that the Black Belt Registry was a mythical farce, a fantasy. But, up until 2003 I still heard people talking about the Black Belt Registry. I will now record its last known mention as a matter of record, with a deep sorrow in my heart, like an anthropologist writing about the death of the last speaker of an aboriginal language in his field notes.

I was on the #10 bus, headed out to the Redneck Riviera, when it passed Master Livingston’s Chinese Health and Fitness where I coached agonistics and boxing. Three young men between 16 and 20 were sitting around me when one noticed the sign, and asked the oldest in the group about it, “What about dem? What dey do—dat UFC shit or sometin’?”

The sage like elder of 20-odd-winters raised his voice, “Naw dude, dey death mastas!”

The third youth spoke, “Death mastas, like Jet Li en shit?”

The man now had his audience in hand, sitting on the edge of the rocking seats of the clanging bus as it tore down the potholed road, “Naw, naw Yo; dey ain’t ‘bout no UFC—shit too deadly fo dat. Ain’t about no Jet Li—shit too real fo all dat.”

“Fo real Yo?” said the first boy.

“Fo Real! Dem dudes is serious; serious as shit Yo! Shit dey hands all registed as lethal with da govoment Yo. Shit be serious up in dare! Dey gots a bald white masta [Edgar Livingston, kickboxing & Tai Chi] dat pluck en eye out!”

“Dammm!” the audience responds.

“Shit dey gots a Pota Rican mo fo [Arturo Gabriel, Wing Chun & FMA] dat o jack yo shit up!”

The first youth agrees, “Yeah, dem Pota Ricans be off the hook, all Scar Face en shit.”

“En dare dis dude [James LaFond, the guy that was sitting next to him], dat ya neva even see—doin’ his thing up dare in da dead a night; machetes en shit—say he walks in a trench [coat] en was a pro boxa. Nobody can even hit dat dude he so evasive. Yo y’all it like a movie up in dare; en day all on da govoment list; ‘registed human weapons’.”

You know Yo, I really appreciate the props. And I really wish it had all been true, particularly the part about me being impossible to hit.

For related fantasies see Rhee, Ali, Lee and Me, farther down on this page.

If you have heard a ‘Black Belt Registry’ claim that postdates the 2003 statement of Yo, please add it to the comment section below.