What derived from Carly became Harley, and then it was CJ.
It was 2001. I’d just turned seven. I was in first grade at Grissom Elementary School—one of the few schools in the area still raising young scholars. Luckily, I’d had a lot of amazing teachers who helped bring me up. Three still hold a place in my heart. One in particular was my first-grade teacher. What a great soul she was to me.
I was an ornery kiddo in her room, though.
We had a check system. If you got in trouble, you’d receive the following in this order:
- Warning
- One check
- Two checks
- Three checks
- Four checks — which meant a detailed referral and a free trip to the principal’s office.
It wasn’t entirely uncommon for me to receive four checks. You might find that surprising—especially if you saw the look on my mom’s face when she pulled up to the curb and I held up four fingers, proudly letting her know what kind of day I’d had.
The check system used clothespins. When you got one, you’d walk to the front of the classroom, to the blackboard. You’d find your colored smiley face—the one with your name on it—and clip a clothespin to it.
Honestly, the walk to the board felt like a runway to me.
The Class Clown Gets a Karate Gi
I was your typical class clown—mouth that never stopped, attitude loud and confident.
So my parents signed me up for Karate. Gōjū-ryū, to be exact. Something about self-defense and learning “discipline.”
I remember the drive there like it was yesterday. We’d always take the Muncie Bypass—a miniature highway, as I called it back then. I was fascinated by it. The wind in my face, the rush of air, and those wild smells that hit your nose when the windows are down.
We’d turn left on McGalliard from the Bypass—the part that feels more like a highway than a city road. That stretch would take us close to the main light that split the four-way intersection. But before we got there, we’d turn right into a plaza. My Karate studio was in the middle of it.
You could enter the walkway to the front door by stairs on either side, both lifting you about eight steps above the ground. There was a pet store at the corner of the plaza. I begged most nights to go in and see the animals. Some nights weren’t a no.
From Carly to Harley to CJ
My Sensei could never remember that my name was Carly—but he could remember Harley. Then one day, he called me CJ.
Over time, I learned: CJ was my name. Harley was my name when I was in trouble.
My parents loved snitching on my behavior to my Sensei, which usually ended in:
- wall sits
- bag punches
- kata repeats
- sit-ups
- or worse, sitting out a session
I stayed in Karate until I was about twelve. Eventually, my Sensei started flirting with my mom, and just like that—my time in the dojo ended.
But what a run it was.
Bloody noses. Punches to the stomach that led to me needing chest gear for every sparring session. A second place in Kata. A first place in Kumite at a national tournament. I reached 1st kyu in brown belt—just two ranks away from black—before stepping away.
The name CJ faded after Karate.
A Reintroduction
It wouldn’t return until years later—when I moved to Charlotte, North Carolina, looking for a fresh start in a big city.
I told people back home, “What better time to introduce myself as CJ?”
I wasn’t wrong. CJ became my stamp for the next year.
And when I moved back to Indiana in June 2019, it followed me home.
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