The train clanked and rattled through the suburbs of Tokyo on a
drowsy spring afternoon. Our car was comparatively empty - a few housewives with
their kids in tow, some old folks going shopping. I gazed absently at the drab
houses and dusty hedgerows.
At one station the doors opened, and suddenly
the afternoon quiet was shattered by a man bellowing violent, incomprehensible
curses. The man staggered into our car. He wore laborer's clothing, and he was
big, drunk, and dirty. Screaming, he swung at a woman holding a baby. The blow
sent her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that she
was unharmed.
Terrified, the couple jumped up and scrambled toward the
other end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old
woman but missed as she scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he
grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of
its stanchion. I could see that one o f his hands was cut and bleeding. The
train lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.
I was
young then, some 20 years ago, and in pretty good shape. I'd been putting in a
solid eight hours of aikido training nearly every day for the past three years.
I like to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my martial
skill was untested in actual combat. As students of aikido, we were not allowed
to fight.
"Aikido," my teacher had said again and again, "is the art of
reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the
universe. If you try to dominate people, you are already defeated. We study how
to resolve conflict, not how to start it."
I listened to his words. I
tried hard. I even went so far as to cross the street to avoid the chimpira, the
pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. My forbearance exalted me.
I felt both tough and holy. In my heart, however, I wanted an absolutely legiti
mate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the
guilty.
This is it! I said to myself, getting to my feet. People are in
danger and if I don't do something fast, they will probably get hurt. Seeing me
stand up, the drunk recognized a chance to focus his rage.
"Aha!" He
roared. "A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!"
I held on
lightly to the commuter strap overhead and gave him a slow look of disgust and
dismissal. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to make the first
move. I wanted him mad, so I pursed my lips and blew him an insolent
kiss.
"All right! He hollered. "You're gonna get a lesson." He gathered
himself for a rush at me.
A split second before he could move, someone
shouted "Hey!" It was earsplitting. I remember the strangely joyous, lilting
quality of it - as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for
something, and he suddenly stumbled upon it.
"Hey!" I wheeled t o my
left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese
man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting
there immaculate in his kimono. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly
at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to
share.
"C'mere," the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the
drunk. "C'mere and talk with me."
He waved his hand lightly. The big man
followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the
old gentleman, and roared above the clacking wheels,
"Why the hell should
I talk to you?"
The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so
much as a millimeter, I'd drop him in his socks. The old man continued to beam
at the laborer.
"What'cha been drinkin'?" he asked, his eyes sparkling
with interest.
"I been drinkin' sake," the laborer bellowed back, "and
it's none of your business!" Flecks of spittle spattered the old
man.
"Ok, that's wonderful," the old man said, "absolutely wonderful! You
see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife (she's 76, you know), we warm
up a little bottle of sake and take it out into the garden, and we sit on an old
wooden bench. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon
tree is doing."
He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling. As he
struggled to follow the old man's conversation, the drunk's face began to
soften. His fists slowly unclenched.
"Yeah," he said. "I love persimmons
too." His voice trailed off.
"Yes," said the old man, smiling, "and I'm
sure you have a wonderful wife."
"No," replied the laborer. "My wife
died." Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to
sob. "I don't got no wife, I don't got no home, I don't got no job. I am so
ashamed of myself." Tears rolled down his cheeks; a spasm of despair rippled
through his body.
Now it was my turn. Standing there in well-scrubbed
youthful innocence, my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I
suddenly felt dirtier than he was. Then the train arrived at my stop. As the
doors opened, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically.
"My, my," he
said, "that is a difficult predicament, indeed. Sit down here and tell me about
it."
I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled on the
seat, his head in the old man's lap. The old man was softly stroking the filthy,
matted hair.
As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had
wanted to do with muscle had been accomplished with kind words. I had just seen
aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. I would have to practice
the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I
could speak about the resolution of conflict.
Terry Dobson
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