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| A
Soft Answer |
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Magazine has wanted to post this
article for some time and thanks
to Riki Moss who was Terry Dobson's
partner for eight years in Vermont
we can at last show this wonderful
story. As Riki pointed out there
are many sites showing this article
and some with better intentions
than some, but in the true spirit
of Aikido and as homage to a great
person we present Terry Dobson
wonderful story of conflict and
resolution. |
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Resolution of Conflict
A turning point came in my life one day on
a train in the suburbs of Tokyo, in the middle
of a drowsy spring afternoon. The old car
clanked and rattled over the rails. It was
comparatively empty-a few housewives with
their kids in tow, some old folks out shopping,
a couple of off-duty bartenders studying the
racing form. I gazed absently at the drab
houses and dusty hedgerows.
At one station the doors opened, and suddenly
the quiet afternoon was shattered by a man
bellowing at the top of his lungs, yelling
violent, obscene, incomprehensible curses.
Just as the doors closed, the man still yelling,
staggered into our car. He was big, drunk
and dirty. He wore laborer's clothing. His
front was stiff with dried vomit. His eyes
bugged out, a demonic, neon red. His hair
was crusted with filth. Screaming, he swung
at the first person he saw, a woman holding
a baby. The blow glanced off her shoulder,
sending her spinning into the laps of an elderly
couple. It was a miracle that the baby was
unharmed.
The couple jumped up and scrambled toward
the other end of the car. They were terrified.
The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating
back of the old lady. "YOU OLD WHORE!"
he bellowed, 'I'LL KICK YOUR ASS!" He
missed, the old woman 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 and in pretty good shape. I stood
six feet, and weighed 225. I'd been putting
in a solid eight hours of Aikido training
every day for the past three years. I liked
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.
My teacher, the founder of Aikido, taught
us each morning that the art was devoted to
peace. "Aikido," he 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 other 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 wanted
to quit fighting. I even went so far as to
cross the street a few times to avoid the
chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around
the train stations. They'd have been happy
to test my martial ability. My forbearance
exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In
my heart of hearts, however, I was dying to
be a hero. I wanted a chance, an absolutely
legitimate opportunity whereby I might save
the innocent by destroying the guilty.
"This is it!" I said to myself as
I got to my feet. : This slob, this animal,
is drunk and mean and violent. People are
in danger. If I don't do something fast, somebody
will probably get hurt. I'm gonna take his
ass to the cleaners."
Seeing me stand up, the drunk saw a chance
to focus his rage. "AHA!" he roared,
"A FOREIGNER! YOU NEED A LESSON IN JAPANESE
MANNERS!" He punched the metal pole once
to give weight to his words.
I held on lightly to the commuter-strap overhead.
I gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal.
I gave him every bit of piss-ant nastiness
I could summon up. I planned to take this
turkey apart, but he had to be the one to
move first. And I wanted him mad, because
the madder he got the more certain my victory.
I pursed my lips and blew him a sneering,
insolent kiss. It hit him like a slap in the
face. "ALL RIGHT! he hollered, "YOUR
GONNA GET A LESSON." He gathered himself
for a rush at me. He'd never know what hit
him.
A split-second before he moved, someone shouted
"HEY!" It was ear splitting. I remember
being hit by the strangely joyous, lilting
quality of it--- as though you and a friend
had been searching diligently for something,
and he had 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 and hakama. 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 towered
threateningly over him. "TALK TO YOU,"
he roared above the clacking wheels, "WHY
THE HELL SHOULD I TALK TO YOU ?" The
drunk now had his back to me. If his elbows
moved so much as a millimeter, I'd drop him
in his socks.
The old man continued to beam at the laborer.
There was not a trace of fear or resentment
about him. "What'cha been drinking?"
he asked lightly, his eyes sparkling with
interest. "I BEEN DRINKING SAKE,"
the laborer bellowed back, "AND IT'S
NONE OF YOUR GODDAM BUSINESS!" Flecks
of spittle spattered the old man.
"Oh, that's wonderful," the old
man said with delight, "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 the old wooden
bench that my grandfather's first student
made for him. We watch the sun go down, and
we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing.
My 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 that ours has done rather
better than I expected, especially when you
consider the poor quality of the soil. Still,
it most 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, happy to share his delightful
information.
As he struggled to follow the intricacies
of the old man's conversation, the drunk's
face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched.
"Yeah," he said slowly, "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." He hung his head. 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 don't got no money, I don't got nowhere
to go. I'm so ashamed of myself." Tears
rolled down his cheeks, a spasm of pure despair
rippled through his body. Above the baggage
rack a four-color ad trumpeted the virtues
of suburban luxury living.
Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well-scrubbed
youthful innocence, my make- this- world-safe-for-
democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier
than he was.
Just then, the train arrived at my stop. The
platform was packed, and the crowd surged
into the car as soon the doors opened. Maneuvering
my way out, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically.
"My, My," he said with undiminished
delight, "that is a very difficult predicament,
indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it."
I turned my head for one last look. The laborer
was sprawled like a sack on the seat, his
head in the old man's lap. The old man looked
down at him with compassion and delight, one
hand stroking the filthy, matted head.
As the train pulled away, I sat down on a
bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle
and meanness had been accomplished with a
few kind words. I had seen Aikido tried in
combat, and the essence of it was love, as
the founder had said. 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. |
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Interview
with Student Arjan Stavast
by Paul Swainson |
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Spotlight
on Your Dojo
by Paul Swainson |
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Aikido
Poem
by Jim Gilbert |
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Jutsu
or Do
by Lynn
Reafsnyder |
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