A turning point in my life came one day on a train in the suburbs of Tokyo. It was the middle of a languid spring afternoon and the car was comparatively empty- a few housewives out shopping with their kids in tow, some old folks, a couple of bartenders on their day off poring over the racing form. The rickety old car clacked monotonously over the rails as I gazed absently out at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows.
At one sleepy little station, the doors opened and the drowsy afternoon was shattered by a man yelling at the top of his lungs. A string of loud, shocking, violent oaths filled the air. Just as the doors closed, the man, still yelling, stumbled into our car. He was a big man, a drunk and exceedingly dirty Japanese laborer. His clothes were stiff with dried vomit, his hair matted and crusted with filth. His eyes were bloodshot, neon red, and his face was apoplectic with hatred and rage. Screaming unintelligibly, he swung at the first person he saw- a woman holding a baby. The blow glanced off her shoulder but sent her spinning across the car into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed. The couple jumped up and scampered towards the other end of the car. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the aged grandmother. “YOU FUCKING OLD WHORE,” he bellowed. “I’LL KICK YOUR ASS.” He missed and the old lady scuttled safely beyond his reach. Beside himself with rage, the drunk grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train rattled on, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.
I was still young back then and in pretty good shape. I stood six feet, weighed 225 and had been putting in a solid eight hours of Aikido training every day for the past three years. I was totally absorbed in Aikido. I couldn’t practice enough. I particularly enjoyed the harder workouts, the ones with the badass college jocks where teeth pattered on the floor like hailstones. I thought I was tough. Trouble was, my skill was yet untried in actual combat. We were strictly enjoined from using Aikido techniques in public unless absolutely necessity demanded the protection of other people. My teacher, the Founder of Aikido, taught us every morning that Aikido was nonviolent. “Aikido,” he would say over and over, “is the art of reconciliation. To use it to enhance one’s ego, to dominate other people, is to betray totally the purpose for which it is practiced. Our mission is to resolve conflict, not to generate it.” I listened to his words, of course, and even went so far as to cross the street a few times to avoid groups of lounging street punks who might have provided a jolly brawl in which I might test my proficiency. In my daydreams, however, I longed for a legitimate situation where I could defend the innocent by wasting the guilty. Such a scene had now arisen. I was overjoyed. “My prayers have been answered,” I thought to myself as I got to my feet. “This…this… slob is drunk and mean and violent. He’s a threat to the public order and he’ll hurt somebody if I don’t’ take him out. The need is real. My ethical light is green.
Seeing me stand up, the drunk shot me a look of bleary inspection. “AHA!” he roared, “A HAIRY FOREIGN TWERP NEEDS A LESSON IN JAPANESE MANNERS!” I held onto the commuter strap overhead, feigning nonchalance, seemingly off-balance.
I gave him a slow, insolent look of contemptuous dismissal. It burned his sodden brain like an ember in wet sand. I’d take this turkey apart. He was big and mean but he was drunk. I was big but I was trained and cold sober. “YOU WANT A LESSON ASSHOLE?” he bellowed. Saying nothing, I looked coolly back at him then slowly pursed my lips and blew him a little kiss across the car. He gathered himself for his big rush at me. He’d never know what hit him.
A split-second before he moved somebody else shouted, “HEY!” It was loud, ear-splitting almost, but I remember it had a strangely joyous lilting quality to it- as though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something and he had suddenly stumbled upon it.
I wheeled to my left, the drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at this little old man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, immaculate in his kimono and hakama. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important 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 and the big man followed as if on a string. The drunk was confused, but still belligerent. He planted his feet in front of the old man, and towered threateningly over him. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT, YOU OLD FART-SNIFFER? he roared above the clacking wheels. The drunk now had his back to me. I watched his elbows, half-cocked as though ready to punch. If they moved so much as a millimeter, I’d drop him in his tracks.
The old man continued to beam at the laborer. There was not a trace of fear or resentment about him. “What have you been drinkin’?” he asked lightly, his eyes sparkling with interest.
“I BEEN DRINKIN’ SAKE, GOD DAMN YOUR SCUMMY OLD EYES,” the laborer declared loudly, “AND WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF YOURS?”
“Oh that’s wonderful,” the old; man said with delight, “absolutely wonderful! You see, I just love sake. Every night me and my wife (she’s 76, you know) we warm up a little bottle of sake and we take it out to the garden and we sit on the old bench that my grandfather’s student made for him. We watch the evening fade and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, you know, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Persimmons do not do well after ice storms, although I must say ours has done rather better than I expected, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. But anyway, we take our little jug of sake and go out and enjoy the evening by our tree. Even when it rains!” He beamed up at the laborer, his eyes twinkling, happy to share the wonderful information.
As he struggled to follow the intricacies of the old man’s conversations, the drunk’s face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. “Yeah, he said when the old man finished, “I love sake too…” His voice trailed off.
“Yes,” said the old man smiling,” and I’m sure you have a wonderful wife.”
“No” replied the laborer, shaking his head sadly, “I don’t got no wife.” He hung his head and swayed silently with the motion of the train. And then, with surprising gentleness, the big man began to sob. “I don’t have no wife,” he moaned rhythmically, “I don’t got no home, I don’t got no clothes, I don’t got no tools, I don’t got no money, and now I don’t got no place to sleep. I’m so ashamed of myself.” Tears rolled down the big man’s cheeks, a spasm of pure despair rippled through his body. Up above the baggage rack, a 4-color ad trumped the virtues of suburban luxury living. The irony was almost too much to bear.
And all of a sudden I felt ashamed. I felt more dirty in my clean clothes and my make -this world —safe- for -democracy righteousness than the laborer would ever be.
“My, my,” the old man clucked sympathetically, although his general delight appeared undiminished, “that is a very difficult predicament, indeed. Why don’t you sit down here and tell me about it?”
Just then, the train arrived at my stop. The platform was packed and the crowd surged into the car as soon as the doors opened. Maneuvering my way out, I turned my head for one last look. The laborer sprawled like a sack on the seat, his head in the old man’s lap. The old gentleman was looking down at him kindly, a beatific mixture of delight and compassion beaming from his eyes, one hand softly stroking the filthy, matted head.
As the train pulled away from the station, I sat on a bench and tried to re-live the experience. I saw that what I had been prepared to accomplish with bone and muscle had been accomplished with a smile and a few kind words. I recognized that I had seen Aikido used in action, and that the essence of it was reconciliation, as the Founder had said. I felt dumb and brutal and gross. I knew that I would have to practice with an entirely different spirit. And I knew it would be a long time before I could speak with knowledge about Aikido or the resolution of conflict
