I found this on the web, but it closely follows "A Kind Word Turneth
Away Wrath" by Terry Dobson in Aikido and the New Warrior
edited by R. S. Heckler. The book chapter reads better; what follows
sounds like a early draft. ---SAP
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 the 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 on 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
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.
"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
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
"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
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.