Guardian-Warrior Stories (by various authors) first story as told by Tamarack Song "Timber Nigger!" "Spear an Indian, save a Walleye!" "Hey Geronimo, get a job!" The crowd closed in on us. We were surrounded. We didn't have to see the beer cans in their hands; we could smell the alcohol on their breath. A wall of signs, echoing their epithets, surrounded us, forcing us to huddle tighter and tighter around the boat landing. Even though a stone, or beercan, or wad of spit might come flying our way we dared not react, less we detonate the bomb that engulfed us. We were a group of four dozen Natives and supporters, exercising our treaty right to continue the tradition of spearing fish during the spring spawning season. They were 200 or more Northwoods sportsmen and women who came to protest. A half-dozen spearers just went out in their boats after a ceremony, honoring the spirit of the fish, smudging the spearers and their equipment. Around their dinghies swirled the speedboats of protesters, trying to create waves big enough to capsize the small boats. Sandwiched between water and seething crowd we had no option but to maintain our presence. We stood tall and yet non-threatening. Without making eye contact, without responding to the harassment, we maintained our presence. We spoke not a word, either among ourselves or to our tormentors. Our purpose was to give them no indication that we were intimidated, and at the same time no incentive to come down upon us. We were each painfully aware that at the least ripple in this tenuous standoff we could be literally trampled. A Drum and chanting voices far off - was it an illusion? - my desperate effort for strength and focus in the face of crisis. No, it grew louder, and heads began to turn. The swaggering and murmuring continued as six chanting drummers, surrounding a large social Drum, and followed by two dozen or so women and elders, walked through the crowd as though it did not exist. Walking straight and tall, but not arrogant, and making no eye contact or other recognition of the mob around them, they could just as well have been walking through a tranquil meadow with only the grasses to hear their song. When they reached us, we joined in the chant. Not defiantly, not boisterously, but in the spirit of a people who belong, and who will walk their given path in serenity and purpose, no matter what the adversity. We continued until the spearers came off the water, and led them out through the crowd and away from the landing without incident. As told by Terry Dobson in his book The Teachings of 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 laborer's 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 she 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 earsplitting. 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 man. 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. "What'cha 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. "Ok, 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 drunk's 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. As told by Ted Parvu: I found myself at my first Pow Wow staring into the flames of our camp's fire. I had been welcomed at a re-enactment camp and it was here that I had stayed. I was bothered that I had come to an Indian Pow Wow and yet found myself at a camp of white people dressing up like Indians of old. Still, they were good people and I felt at ease with them. The real Indians appreciated a traditional camp at their Pow Wow. So much so that they were paying the re-enacters to be there, even though they would have done it for the sheer pleasure. There were two members of the local Indians sharing our fire. I surmised they were a father and a son. They sat across the fire from me, engaged in discussion. I became aware, that the son was bringing to his father's awareness, something in a document he was reading. As I brought my awareness to their discussion, it seemed they were discussing a new constitutional draft for their nation. As I understood it, it seemed the council was placing limitations on who could be a member of the nation. The elder shook his head sadly and said, "We have always welcomed anyone who wished to share our fire." I nodded in agreement with his sage words. The elder looked at me with eyes that seemed to pierce straight into my heart while at the same time to be viewing a scene somewhere very far away. The elder soon returned to his conversation and I was relieved to lower my eyes back to the flames. A short while later I felt and smelled someone standing next to me. My nose wrinkled in distaste as I looked up a short distance to the bearer of the offensive odor. My eyes met a short, fat, scraggly bearded man whose head bore a baseball cap emblazoned with a confederate flag. As I looked at this man I felt my muscles tense and I thought what sort of backwater, coal mining, hillbilly would come to a Pow Wow wearing a confederate flag? I glanced at his fat, trashy, wife, pushing their equally rolly poly baby in a stroller as a string of unpleasant superlatives ran through my mind. The confederate looked at me and asked if anyone here could read Comanche. I looked at him and was about to say something unpleasant, when I heard the elder's voice pipe up, "Them were some fine boys." I looked to the elder wondering who he was talking about. The elder continued, "Yep, those confederate boys were brave warriors. We sure could use some people like that in these days." What was he saying? He was complimenting this racist? The elder's face was lit up with a big smile as he continued, "I can read a bit of Comanche, what you got?" The confederate began to tell him about a watch he had bought that he had been told was faced in Comanche. The elder called him over and soon they were chatting away as if they were old friends who hadn't seen each other for many seasons. As I watched, I felt ashamed at my rash judgement of this man's character. To think, I had just agreed to welcome all who would share our fire. I watched them for a moment longer and lowered my gaze back to the fire to think on the lesson this Guardian had just demonstrated not by his words — but by his actions.