My pacifist roots served me well some
months ago when I literally ran away from my one-and-only nemesis in life while
in a shopping mall in Hong Kong following a minor surgery. I was wearing flip
flops and still in my pajamas (because you can do that in Hong Kong) when I
encountered her cumbersome (not, in this case, a euphemism for fat), familiar
form in a book shop. Up until that point, I thought I had forgiven her for her
breaches on humanity, but upon seeing her, a blind panic overtook me and I
bolted, as though I was in Pamplona and a bull was hot on my heels.
Regrettably, in addition to being in my flip flops, I was also wielding a
rolling bag and might still have been mildly sedated. I ran for all I was
worth, mowing down some poor shoppers' unsuspecting tootsies and tearing my
meniscus in the process. Yes, I blame the flip flops. But I also blame my
shocking lack of enlightenment after fifty years of hardcore living. Up until
that point, I had been blissfully unaware of any simmering resentment and
thought I was quite well along in my evolution of self.
Fast forward several months to today. Again
I was wearing flip flops. It is the second-to-last day of school. I am mildly
elated, well-fed on Middle Eastern dips and copious amounts of bread from our
third grade "meeting," and excited to go home and finish packing for
our summer holiday: traversing the continent in our 1991 camper van complete
with one hippy husband, one pre-pubescent daughter who is prone to near-constant
car sickness, and another daughter who will need stops every 10 minutes to
practice her kung fu, kickin' it moves.
I digress. I am in a stuporous state:
excited, slightly worried, and distracted. My friend, Sara, and I flag down an
illegal Beijing black cab (only this one was white) to get home from our last
full day of work. Sara is brimming over with boxes. The illegal driver pulled a
"U"ie and picked us up. We didn’t negotiate
the price to our housing compound because it is always the same: 40 kwai. He dropped her off first and then
brought me to my house. I only had a 50 kwai
note and he didn’t give me change, telling me that he dropped two people off so
it was 50, not 40. I argued in my poor Chinese, but he already had my money.
Almost always, people in China are very honest and kind. I shouldn’t have let one
renegade driver and 10 kwai bother
me, but he was rude and insistent. My lesser instinct took over.
I got out of the car and slammed the door as hard as I
could, which wasn’t hard enough to indicate my anger. Remember (this is
important): I was wearing flip flops, and with them, I feebly kicked the car
door in retaliation for my not-hard-enough slam. It was a pathetic kick. I know
so because I remember thinking, “Damn, I wish I was wearing my boots so I could
have really nailed the door.” As referenced earlier, I have pacifist roots from
my Mennonite upbringing, so it surprises me when the violent warrior woman
shows up, which, fortunately, is seldom.
The driver hauled-ass out of the car when he heard the
kick and came after me, right up the steps of my house. He started yelling,
saying I had damaged his car. He showed me the smudge on his car where my flip
flop had impacted. I brushed away the dirt to reveal nothing. Next, he pointed
to some small indentation above it, obviously not caused by a flimsy shoe
attached to a weak leg, and started to demand compensation. By this time, my
children were outside, our ayi was involved, and he was practically forcing his
way into our house.
I realized I had passed the threshold of reason and
was now operating on adrenaline and fear. Rage and fear together are not a good
combination because there is no room for reason. I just kept shouting, “Go” in
English (because there were only primal first-language guttural utterances to
be had), and I came dangerously close to shoving him. Finally, I slammed
(another slam!) our house door, locked it, and stood tearfully at the window
with my daughters wrapped around my legs, while he took an agonizingly long
time to leave the premises.
The irrational part of me feels terrified that he will
come back and try to murder my family for my flip flop felony. If he feels as
vengeful as I did, he is capable of doing something dreadful. The thing is, I
know I didn’t respond well. His rage was probably as well placed as mine. I
shouldn’t have kicked his car, even if I didn’t kick it well, and obviously, I
shouldn’t get in a car with a stranger, though that is what you do in China if
you need to get home from work and you missed the bus. Usually, it’s no
problem. You live with a bit of faith and hope for the best.
But suddenly I don’t feel so full of faith for
humanity and especially for myself. When I reflect on my regrettable reactions,
it’s like watching a bad movie that I can’t walk out of because it’s oddly
compelling and I paid for the double-butter tub of popcorn and it’s all about
me, after all.
I don’t want to be the person in that movie. People can
end up in jail for heat-of-the-moment actions; it’s the reason guns shouldn’t
be legal anywhere on the planet; and it’s the kind of behavior that has me
thinking I should join a Thai monastery for a year or two, only I can’t sit on
the floor and meditate because it hurts my sacrum too much, and instead of
becoming enlightened, I’d only become grumpy and even more crippled than I
already am. I want to breathe deeply from my diaphragm on a regular basis, and
smile like I mean it (I most always do), and say, “Keep the change,” which is
what I will definitely do next time.
Maybe it’s just time for summer vacation. As luck
would have it, that would be tomorrow. I’ll be wearing flip flops and
meditating. In the camper van. Wish me luck.