Are belts in martial arts just a money grab?

This is a question I hear all the time.

Most often, it comes from one of two places: the backyard martial artist, or someone who trained for a short time, walked away, and decided to do their own thing. And while everyone is entitled to an opinion, if you’re passing judgment on instructors who charge for testing or belts, there are some real-world factors you need to consider first.

Let me be clear right up front: I absolutely understand that there are schools out there whose business model revolves around selling belts. I’m not pretending that doesn’t exist – we’ve all seen it.
What I am saying is this: just because a school charges a testing fee does not automatically make it a McDojo, and it doesn’t automatically mean it’s a money grab. That kind of blanket thinking ignores how legitimate schools and organizations actually operate.

Now let’s talk about one of the most basic – and often overlooked – factors: the cost of the belt itself.

When I was coming up, belts cost three to five dollars. No big deal, right? Except at the time, that was my hourly wage at my day job. Fast forward to today, and basic color belts start at $10, with many costing $20, $30, or more. And the cheaper belts? They’re cheap for a reason. They’re poorly made and don’t hold up.

If a belt is meant to represent years of effort – like a diploma – I want it to reflect that effort.

I also hear, “Well, what if it’s only a couple of people?” When I only had a handful of students, I didn’t worry about it. I absorbed the cost. But once you’re testing 20, 30, 40, or 50 people – multiple times a year – that adds up fast.

Let’s do the math.
Fifty people at $10 per belt, three or four times a year, is $1,500 to $2,000 annually. Over ten years, that’s $15,000 to $20,000 coming straight out of your pocket just to promote others.

The knee-jerk response is usually, “That’s what tuition is for.” But tuition already goes toward rent, utilities, insurance, equipment, and maintenance. Those costs don’t disappear. I remember when I had a 3,000-square-foot facility and paid $1,500 a month in rent. Promoting a large group of students could cost me the equivalent of an entire month’s rent.

Over the years, I’ve gone back and forth on including testing fees in tuition. Ultimately, I found it wasn’t the right move if I wanted to keep tuition reasonable. Yes, some schools include everything – uniforms, equipment, testing – but they’re charging $400 or more per month, when the national average is closer to $160. If someone walks into a school and hears $400 for their first month, most are already thinking about the exit.

There’s also another layer to this conversation that often gets ignored.

I’ve always belonged to an organization. That means a portion of testing fees goes to headquarters. That’s my role now. When members of our organization test, a portion of that fee supports the organization itself. That’s not a money grab – it’s how the organization functions.

I intentionally separate my school finances from the organization. The organization maintains a website, promotes active schools, lists events, and supports growth. Those funds have allowed us to develop new territories. For example, my initial trip to Brazil was funded by the organization – and thanks to the hustle of our Brazilian director, that investment was paid back in full.

If this were about padding my pockets, paying for vacations, or buying cars, I’d understand the criticism. But that’s not what’s happening.

With our overseas members, we recommend charging organizational membership and testing fees—but I don’t take a dime of that. Instead, I encourage them to reinvest those funds into strengthening their region and their education, whether that means virtual classes or traveling to headquarters for deeper training.

I know not everyone will agree with this, and that’s fine. But more often than not, the loudest critics are backyard martial artists or people who were burned once and now assume every school and organization operates the same way.

I’m always open to real dialogue. I’m willing to change my mind – if the other person is willing to give me the same opportunity. That’s how conversation becomes dialogue instead of a monologue. Even if we ultimately agree to disagree, at least we walk away with a better understanding of why each side thinks the way they do.

That’s how disagreements stay intellectual instead of turning personal.

Respectfully,
Datu Tim Hartman
Modern Arnis Tribal Chief

#martialarts #modernarnis #filipinomartialarts 

To Belt or Not to Belt? The Real Issue Isn’t Rank – It’s Honesty

Every few years, this debate resurfaces: Should martial arts have ranking systems at all? And once again, Filipino Martial Arts finds itself in the crosshairs.

The common refrain is predictable: “Skill is rank.” It sounds good. It feels pure. But it’s also incomplete.

Skill is performance. Knowledge is understanding. Experience is context. Teaching requires all three. Pretending otherwise is romantic, not practical.

In a small, tight-knit group – where everyone knows exactly who the teacher is and who the students are—rank is irrelevant. That’s how my early Balintawak Eskrima training worked. There was no confusion. No need for labels. Just teacher and student.

But that model doesn’t scale.

Once you start teaching larger groups – once you take on the responsibility of educating the masses – you need a way to identify levels of knowledge, proficiency, and readiness. Not for ego. For safety. For efficiency. For clarity.

We already accept this in every other form of education. Kindergarten through high school. Undergraduate degrees. Graduate degrees. Doctorates. No one argues that a PhD invalidates intelligence – only that it marks depth of study.

And let’s clear up another convenient myth: I didn’t create a belting system to “modernize” Filipino Martial Arts. My teacher, the late Grandmaster Remy Amador Presas, implemented it decades ago. At a time when Filipino Martial Arts were bleeding students to karate and judo, he adapted – not by watering the art down, but by making it accessible. That decision is one of the reasons FMA survived and spread globally. History supports that, whether people like it or not.

Ironically, many who criticize belting today belong to systems that copied the same structural ideas – sometimes openly, sometimes quietly. Even now, numerous martial arts programs in the Philippines use literal belts. This isn’t foreign. It’s familiar.

What’s truly puzzling is the selective outrage.

If a system has multiple instructor levels, titles, chevrons, sashes, bandanas, or color-coded identifiers of any kind, then it already has a ranking structure. The argument isn’t really about belts – it’s about aesthetics and personal bias.

From an educator’s perspective, rank is a tool. I can glance at a student and immediately know what knowledge base they should have. That matters when teaching techniques that require safe falling, timing, sensitivity, or cooperative skill. I’m not going to put a beginner into advanced throws or high-level drills just to prove a philosophical point. That’s not tradition – that’s negligence.

Then comes the favorite accusation: “Belts are just a way to sell rank.”

No. Issuing belts does not mean belts are for sale. Awarding rank and selling rank are not the same thing.

And if we’re going to talk honestly, there are plenty of “grandmasters” in Filipino Martial Arts who hand out lofty titles to people who have never trained under them, never tested with them, and sometimes barely met them. No belts involved. Just paper, prestige, and politics.

So let’s stop pretending this is a belt problem.
It’s an integrity problem.

Rank can be sold through belts, instructor certifications, honorary titles, letters after your name, or a framed certificate on the wall. The delivery system is irrelevant. The ethics are not.

Here’s my position, clearly stated:

You don’t have to use a belting system. But if you use any structured levels and then condemn belts as illegitimate, you’re not taking a moral stand – you’re being hypocritical.

And hypocrisy, not rank, is what does real damage to the arts.

Datu Tim Hartman
Modern Arnis’ Tribal Chief

#martialarts #modernarnis #selfdefense #filipinomartialarts

The Road He Walked, the Path I’m Still Finding

Not long ago, I was on a transfer bus in Germany – one of those shuttles that takes you from the plane to the terminal. I was staring out the window, tired but content, when it hit me: This is what Remy used to do. I felt this small, quiet smile creep in. Moments like that pull me right back into memories of my teacher… my friend… the man who became a second father to me.

I think about him constantly. And I often wonder – if Remy were still with us today, how different our conversations would be. How much deeper. How much more I would understand now.

Since his passing, I’ve stepped into a version of the life he led: leading a global community of Modern Arnis practitioners, teaching in 28 states and 18 countries with more still ahead. I run a full-time Modern Arnis school, so when I’m not on the road, I’m on the mat. The workload is intense – similar to his, but also very different. And sometimes I catch myself asking, How on earth did he manage all of this?

Because here’s the truth: I have technology. Smartphones, tablets, laptops, endless apps that organize my world. Online calendars. Digital backups. Email. And at the end of a long trip, I come home to the same bed. Remy didn’t have that. He lived on the road – truly lived on it – teaching 30 weekends a year, often running two seminars each weekend, plus all the training camps on top of that. He was constantly on the move, from one city to another, carrying the art with him everywhere he went.

When I talk to the newer generations, they sometimes struggle to understand why things unfolded the way they did back then. But they don’t realize that Remy passed away in 2001. His last attempt to teach a seminar was at a camp in Germany in October of 2000. Back then, everything – and I mean everything—was done on paper.

The internet was just starting to catch on. Maybe a third of households even had a computer. There were no smartphones. No YouTube, Facebook, TikTok, Instagram. No apps. No digital backups. No instant communication.

Meanwhile today, I’ve got travel apps that make my life easy. If something goes wrong, someone emails me the fix. If I need a boarding pass, I print it in the hotel lobby. Remy didn’t have that luxury.

I remember around 2002, traveling through Germany, Sweden, and Denmark. Someone accidentally locked our plane tickets inside an apartment. When I got to the airport, they had no record of anything. I had to buy brand-new tickets on the spot. Today? I just give my ID and everything appears in their system. It’s a different world.

Because of social media and modern tools, I’ve taught in more countries than he did. Internationally, I’m busier. But domestically? I haven’t met anyone whose schedule matched his. What he did – he did with grit, hustle, and heart, not gadgets.

I don’t pretend to walk in his footsteps. Instead, I follow the trail he left behind and then make my own path forward. But oh, how I wish I could talk to him now. Not just because I miss him – though I do – but because I understand so much more today. About Filipino culture. About the hardships of constant travel. About the depth of the art he carried and protected.

Our conversations would be richer, fuller. I’d have better questions. I’d understand his answers.

He equipped me well. My success in Modern Arnis is largely because he did his job – and did it extraordinarily well. He taught me. He guided me. He showed me what leadership looks like. Despite the language and cultural barriers, despite the differences in our worlds, I feel closer to him with each passing year.

Not comparing myself to him as a martial artist, but understanding him – the man. The pioneer. The builder of this phenomenal art that changed my life from the moment I walked into the Filipino Karate Academy and saw his poster on the wall.

That moment set my life on a course I could never have predicted.

Thank you for letting me share these reflections about my teacher, my friend, and my father in the arts –
the late Grandmaster Remy Amador Presas.

Respectfully yours,
Datu Tim Hartman
Modern Arnis’ Tribal Chief

#modernarnis #martialarts #selfdefense

The Truth About Rank in Modern Arnis

People love to ask, “Who are the highest-ranked black belts in Modern Arnis today?”
On the surface, it sounds like a simple question. But the truth?
Most people aren’t prepared for it.

When Professor Remy A. Presas passed away, he took with him the only legitimate authority to promote anyone further in Modern Arnis. He was the founder, the source, the standard. His authority didn’t get transferred, inherited, or absorbed.

It ended — full stop.

Years ago, I had a conversation with Rene Tongson that confirmed exactly what I already knew. He said,
“Tim, the only person who could promote in Modern Arnis was Remy. After he passed, all we can do now are recognitions.”

And that’s the distinction most people conveniently ignore.
A promotion carries the authority of the founder.
A recognition carries the opinion of peers.
They are not equal — not even close.

Grandmaster Ernesto Presas made that crystal clear as well. After years of training with him, he promoted me to Grandmaster — in Kombatan, his art. Not his brother’s. He told me directly:
“Tim, I cannot promote you in my brother’s art. Only in mine.”

That’s integrity. That’s boundaries.
And that’s exactly what’s missing from many of today’s rank discussions.

Because let’s address the elephant in the room:
When Professor was alive, rank meant something.
To earn a Modern Arnis black belt, you got it from his hands.
Not from a committee.
Not from a council.
Not from a popularity vote.

Today, a lot of promotions happen — but far too many mean absolutely nothing.
Some groups have turned advancement into a you-promote-me-and-I’ll-promote-you arrangement. It’s an echo chamber of titles built on convenience, not contribution.

Let’s be real:
When people promote each other just to climb the ladder, the ladder isn’t worth climbing.
Rank earned that way has the shelf life of a cardboard sword.

If your rank comes from effort, sacrifice, teaching, and building the art — that has value.
If it comes from group politics, handshakes, or “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine” — it’s just embroidery on a belt.

Here’s what actually matters:
What have you done? What are you doing? Who are you raising to the next level?

For context: I was one of Professor Presas’ highest-ranked black belts, outranking roughly 99% of his students except for a few quiet promotions in the Philippines. But that’s not what defines my legacy — and it shouldn’t define anyone’s.

This past May, during my birthday camp, I saw something that did define it. Not the celebration. Not the attendance. Not the milestone.

But this:
Four generations of black belts in my lineage on the floor, training side by side.

That is something a certificate can’t manufacture.
That is something politics can’t create.
That is something no self-appointed council can grant.

That is legacy.
That is the real measure of rank.
That is longevity in action.

Because titles fade. Paper fades. Belts fade.
What remains is the community you build, the students you train, and the generations you inspire to continue the work.

The best way to honor Professor Presas isn’t by chasing higher stripes.
It’s by doing the work he modeled:
Teach. Build. Share. Spread the art.
And prepare the next generation to surpass you.

That’s the kind of rank that actually matters — the kind that will outlive all of us.

Respectfully,
Datu Tim Hartman
Modern Arnis’ Tribal Chief

#modernarnis #filipinomartialarts