Mean kids called him "one-ear" and "retarded."

Clay Johnson was born with cerebral palsy. He had no left ear, twig-like legs that were contorted to the right, and only his right arm was fully usable. He didn't like himself, and figured no one else did, either. People call him different names now.

Three nights a week, he sits in a wheelchair at the front of a room in a gray cinder-block building on the outskirts of Covington. Bruce Lee watches from framed portraits on the wall. Students bow courteously when they enter Johnson's martial arts school.

They call him sensei, sifu, guro - teacher.

From his chair, he barks out the school credo, and the students repeat it: "To build true confidence through knowledge and mind, honesty in the heart and strength in the body; to keep friendship with one another and build a strong and happy community; never fight to achieve selfish ends, but to develop might for right."

Johnson, 42, gives and gets what 20 years of devotion to martial arts have taught him to give himself: respect.

On Friday, Johnson traded his second-degree karate black belt for a rented tuxedo, the first he's ever worn. At a 6 p.m. ceremony in Lynchburg, Johnson was inducted into the American Freestyle Karate Association's Hall of Fame and was named instructor of the year.

The crowd who saw him go up to accept his plaque learned what he knows more than anyone is true: Martial arts changed his life.

Teased unmercifully

"What are you going to do with him?" people would ask Johnson's father when they saw the disfigured toddler. "I'm going to keep him," Ernie Johnson would say.

Ernie, a Westvaco worker, and his wife, Smitty, a nurse, did what they could with limited means to help their son. Before he was 18, Clay had 30 surgeries on his legs, feet and jaw, including attempts to create a crudely fashioned ear.

They sent him to public schools, but say they were ill-equipped physically and emotionally to deal with a child who has disabilities. He spent most of his time inside his parents' brick ranch in Clifton Forge, the only place he has ever lived.

Schoolmates picked on Clay unmercifully; frequently they extorted him for his lunch money, he said. Until junior high school, he had no friends. "I was lonely a lot, but I was happy," he said.

Johnson roamed the Heights section of Clifton Forge on a three-wheeled bike he peddled jerkily with feeble legs, followed by a mutt dog named Joe. Mostly, he watched television and projected himself into what he saw.

He watched "Starsky and Hutch" and wanted to be a cop. He watched "Kung Fu" and felt connected to its lonely, drifting, misunderstood protagonist.

When he was 10, he saw a sports program about a man with no legs and witnessed the guy whip five able-bodied opponents in a karate match.

Johnson figured maybe he could do that, too. "I thought, if I was able to pop somebody, I'd get left alone."

But except for one Alleghany County sheriff's deputy who trained him briefly, no one wanted to teach a man with disabilities. Some even laughed at the suggestion.

The first who didn't was Eddie Thomas, owner of American Free Style Karate in Salem. Thomas strengthened Johnson's upper body, sparred with him like any other student, and entered him in competitions to help Johnson overcome his shyness.

Johnson excelled in the "kato" competition, where contestants attempt to demonstrate perfect form. But he never did much as a fighter. His wheelchair made him a human punching bag, Johnson said.

He sought to punish opponents who disrespected him, though. In his first fight as a black belt, he sensed his opponent was babying him. He grabbed the man by the back of the head and knocked him semiconscious with a blow to the face.

"I never expected to win fights," Johnson said. "As long as I get a good shot in, and they respect me, that's OK."

Maybe one in 500 of Thomas' students earn their black belt, though not all seek it. Thomas predicted it would take Johnson six years to get his. Johnson made it in five.

Award a 'big deal'

Johnson retired from competition in 1991.

He has run his own school since 1987, but he's never done more than break even on it, he said. It gets him out of the house. It also gives him a place of respect, though that still doesn't come easily.

He sees concerned faces when he meets potential students or their parents: "How's he going to teach me?" they wonder.

Johnson's credentials should be convincing enough. He's a certified instructor in American Freestyle Karate, Thai boxing, Filipino martial arts and Lee Jun Fan Gung Fu, the art developed by the late martial arts legend Bruce Lee. Johnson has studied with Dan Inosanto, Lee's protege, who took the helm of Lee's martial arts school when Lee left to make movies. Johnson has trained nine black belts himself.

Still, new students are unsure, so he gives the first three lessons for free.

"It didn't take but a couple of classes to see it [Johnson's disability] doesn't matter," said Terry Clemons, whose son Brian, 7, is in Johnson's beginners class.

"Out of all the stuff I know how to do, I can only do about 10 percent of it myself," Johnson said. But he can still teach it.

Though he can walk on crutches, Johnson mostly stays in his chair. He instructs students verbally on form, occasionally adjusting their position by hand. He addresses everyone as "sir" or "ma'am." But Johnson tolerates no laziness. "If you want to trade places, you take this chair and I'll take your ability and go off," he will tell a slack student.

He mentions Thomas often, telling students how Thomas taught him. It was Thomas who nominated his former student for the AFKA hall of fame, which recognizes mostly East Coast martial artists.

"It's a big deal . . . because it's people recognizing him for his work and tenacity," Thomas said. "His determination is pretty inspirational to a lot of people."

Johnson knows that. But the real benefits of his life in martial arts have been for himself.

Karate didn't save Johnson's life, but it saved it from loneliness and anonymity.

"It actually gave me my identity," he said. "I tried to gauge myself by what I saw on TV when I was little. Now, it's more like, 'I'm me.' "