"A Kind Word Turneth Away Wrath"
by Terry Dobson
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 laborers 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 he 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 of 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 legitimate 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 ear splitting. 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 to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared
down at a little old Japanese. 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. "Whatcha been
drinking?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest.
"I been drinking sake," the laborer bellowed back, "and it's none
of your business!" Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.
"Oh, 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. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry
about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree
had done better than I expected, though especially when you consider the poor
quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out
to enjoy the evening - even when it rains!" He looked up at the laborer, eyes
twinkling.
As he struggled to follow the old man's conversation, the drunks
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.
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 laborers 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 he 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 of 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 legitimate 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 ear splitting. 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 to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both stared
down at a little old Japanese. 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. "Whatcha been
drinking?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with interest.
"I been drinking sake," the laborer bellowed back, "and it's none
of your business!" Flecks of spittle spattered the old man.
"Oh, 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. My great-grandfather planted that tree, and we worry
about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Our tree
had done better than I expected, though especially when you consider the poor
quality of the soil. It is gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out
to enjoy the evening - even when it rains!" He looked up at the laborer, eyes
twinkling.
As he struggled to follow the old man's conversation, the drunks
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.
