The long way home

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Truth You Live In quiet moments there were things that came back to me sometimes-things from my life before this nightmare started. I thought a lot about my karate teacher, for instance: Sensei Mike.

Sensei Mike was just about the coolest guy I ever met. He'd been in the army for a long time and had fought the Islamic extremists in both Afghanistan and Iraq. He even got a medal from the president of the United States because he once helped hold off an attack by a hundred bad guys with a.50-caliber gun mounted on an armored truck. He never talked about that, but I looked it up on the Internet and found out what happened. He'd been wounded in the fight and had to come home and have a piece of titanium put in his leg. He never talked about that either.

But he did talk about a lot of other things. About karate mostly, of course. How to fight-and how to avoid a fight if there was any possible way you could. How to control your emotions and your body. How to harness your fears and transform your nervousness into energy and focus. He talked a lot about focus, about paying attention-not just to karate but to everything, to the people you loved and the people who needed you, and just to everything you were trying to accomplish, to life in general.

"Here's the deal, chucklehead," he told me once. "God wants you to have a big, full, terrific life. And you can't have that kind of life unless you're paying attention."

I guess Mike was somewhere in his thirties. He was about my height, but with broader shoulders. He had this thick, black hair that he was very proud of. He always kept it neatly combed, even when he was working out. He had this big drooping mustache that he was proud of too. If you looked carefully, behind the mustache and into his eyes, you could usually see him smiling, as if he found everything kind of funny. After everything he'd been through, I don't think there was really very much in life that Mike took seriously. Only a few things. Only the things that really mattered.

Anyway, this one time, something happened in the dojo… Well, it all ended up in the dojo, but it started before that. It started that morning in history class with my teacher Mr. Sherman.

I had Mr. Sherman in history two years running. He was a trim, fit, youthful-looking guy, handsome in a sort of bland way with a friendly smile and intelligent eyes. I never thought he was a bad person or anything, but, to be honest, I did think he was kind of a doofus. My problem with him-the thing you could say sort of constituted his doofy-os-itude-was that he fancied himself some kind of big-time radical. He was always trying to get us to "question our assumptions." And look, there's nothing wrong with that as a general sort of thing. It's just that Mr. Sherman sort of took it to the Crazy Place, if you know what I mean.

See, Mr. Sherman's point of view was that nothing was really good or bad, it was just a matter of how you thought about it. Now that didn't make any sense to me, but I have to admit I sometimes found it hard to argue with him.

That's what happened this one morning in class. We'd been having a discussion about current events. Mr. Sherman was sitting on the edge of his desk, tossing one of the whiteboard markers in the air and catching it. "The problem with this country," he was saying, "is that too many people believe blindly in absolute morality, absolute truth. Our country was founded on absolutes: truths that are supposedly 'self-evident.' And because we believe our truths are absolute and self-evident, we're only too quick to hate other people and impose our truths on them. Absolutism is the meat of tyrants. Real morality is always changing. It depends on your situation and your cultural tradition."

Now there were so many things about this statement that I thought were false, they kind of got jammed up in my brain as they tried to get to my mouth. For one thing, there are a lot of countries in the world that hate other people and attack other countries without reason, or that try to force even their own citizens to believe things whether they want to or not. America never does that. But before I could even get to that point, I blurted out:

"Wait a minute. You're talking about the Declaration of Independence, right? The only truths it holds to be 'self-evident' are that all men are created equal. And that their Creator gave them the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

"Ah, I knew we'd hear from Charlie on this one," said Mr. Sherman, looking around at the rest of the class. "Charlie is a True Believer. I can always count on him to follow blindly along with the crowd. The All-American Zombie." He put his hands out in front of him like a zombie and let his mouth hang open. "Night of the Living Charlie."

This was another thing that always annoyed me about Mr. Sherman. When you argued with him, he didn't exactly use facts and logic. He just tried to make fun of you and change the subject and tangle you up with words so you looked bad or the class laughed at you and you got flustered and couldn't make your point. And another thing that annoyed me was that a lot of times it worked.

I glanced around at the rest of the students. They were all laughing at Mr. Sherman's zombie routine. Even Rick Donnelly, one of my best friends, was laughing over at his desk near the window. I knew Rick agreed with me about Mr. Sherman. He thought this was a great country and even wanted to go into politics when he grew up. But he was the kind of guy who never argued with teachers, who was always trying to please them and say what they wanted to hear so he would get good grades. Maybe that's how you get to be a politician.

"So what part of the Declaration don't you agree with?" I asked Mr. Sherman.

Sherman stopped waving his arms around. He smiled. "Ah, my zombielike friend, that's exactly the wrong question. The question is: What part of it can you prove to be true? Prove that we're created equal. We don't look equal to me."

"That's not what it means. It means that we're created with equal rights."

"Prove it, Charlie. You can't. It's just something Americans have come to believe, that's all. Other people believe other things. You can't even prove that we were created, that we have a Creator in the first place. It's just something you were told and so you believe it. Go on, Zombie Guy-prove it."

I opened my mouth to answer, but I couldn't think what to say. I didn't know exactly how you would prove something like that. Sherman made the class laugh at me again by opening his mouth and making stuttering sounds to imitate my confusion: "Uh, uh, uh!"

Then the bell rang. That was the end of class.

"All right, that's it," said Sherman, "unless you guys want to stay behind and listen to Charlie sing the national anthem."

That made everyone laugh again. And they were still laughing as they filed out of the room.

So I guess Sherman won that argument or at least got the last laugh. And yeah, it bothered me. I felt bad that the kids laughed, and I felt especially bad that I hadn't been able to come up with a good argument for what I was trying to say. It made me angry-because I knew I was right and he was wrong.

I guess I was still a little angry when I went to the dojo that afternoon for my karate lesson.

Here's what happened. There was this other kid, Peter Williams. He was taking a lesson that day too. Sensei Mike decided to have us do some kumite. Kumite is sparring without protective gear, without soft gloves and helmets and shin pads and everything. In kumite, you just dress in your gi-your karate outfit-and you use your bare hands and feet with your head and body unprotected.

So, of course, with kumite, you have to be extra careful. You strike with the open hand and not the fist, and you make sure to pull all your strikes and kicks so no one gets hurt. It's an exercise meant to teach you control-and also to teach you not to be afraid of getting hit from time to time.

Sensei Mike told us to begin and Peter and I started to circle around each other, looking for an opening, ready to fight. Now, Peter went to a different high school than I did and I didn't know him very well, but he always seemed like a good enough guy. He was smaller than I was, but wiry, muscular, and very fast. He had good high kicks that could catch you on the shoulder or even the head if you weren't careful. And he was hard to hit because he knew how to dance around and dodge.

I knew Peter liked to stay away from you and then suddenly dart in for a strike. That way he could use his speed to his advantage. My strategy against him was to stay on defense: stay back, stay focused, keep a good eye on him, and try to figure out when he was about to make his rush. That way, I could usually stop his attack and come back at him with a counterattack of my own.

The first time Peter rushed me, this strategy worked really well. Peter dashed at me across the carpeted dojo floor and launched a front ball kick at my stomach. I managed to dodge out of the way, but he followed up quickly with a slap at my head. I blocked the slap with my arm and then sent a sort of backhanded slap of my own into his belly. Again, we were unprotected, so we only used our open hands and were careful not to hit too hard.

Peter retreated, circling and dancing too far away for me to reach, looking for another opening into which he could rush again. I waited him out. I was paying close attention. I was ready for his rush. But none of that mattered. He was just too quick this time, too good. He rushed in with a fake, pretending to strike low. Then he came up fast at my head. I fell for it. I blocked him low and he came in over the top of the block and landed a good solid slap to the side of my forehead.

Peter kept full control of his strike. He didn't hurt me or anything, so there was nothing wrong with it. If you spar, sometimes you get hit, that's just the way it is. As Sensei Mike always told us, "You gotta lose to learn."

But there was something wrong with what happened next. There was something very wrong about it.

I felt a flash of anger go through me. Even though he hadn't injured me, I didn't like getting fooled and I didn't like getting hit. It hurt my pride. And I guess the thing is, too, I was already angry when I came to the dojo. I was angry because of what happened in Sherman's class. Having Peter outfight me like that just set the anger off.

Before I even had a chance to think, I snapped back at him. I ducked under his guard and shot my forearm into his midsection. It landed with more force than I meant-a lot more. I heard him say, "Oof," as the air rushed out of him. I should have pulled back then, but it was too late to stop. I was already moving, already bringing the back of my hand up toward his face. It was an openhanded strike and all that, but my knuckles cracked against Peter's chin. His head flew back and he stumbled away from me, dazed.

I didn't stop then either. I was still angry. I charged right after him, ready to deliver another series of strikes to his gut and to his face. I took-I don't know-maybe half a step.

And then, Sensei Mike came between us.

He moved so quickly I had no time to react. In one simultaneous combination, he grabbed my arm, hit me in the chest with his palm, and used his foot to sweep my leg out from under me. I went down hard, my back landing on the carpet with a bone-shaking thud. Mike's move took me by such surprise that I just barely managed to slap the floor, breaking my fall. Even so, the air was knocked out of me. I lay there for a moment, winded.

Mike turned his back on me and went to Peter.

"You okay, buddy?" he asked him.

Peter rubbed his chin and gave the sensei a lopsided smile. "Oh yeah. I'm fine. It's nothing."

"Good man."

I climbed slowly to my feet. Mike didn't say anything to me. He didn't have to. I already felt terrible. What a stupid thing to do.

"Hey, Peter, I am really sorry, man," I said. "I totally lost control. Way, way out of line. No excuse. I'm just sorry."

Peter shrugged. He smiled. "No problem, bro. Heat of battle. It happens."

I guess that was true enough. It was the heat of battle, and these things do happen. But that still didn't make it all right. When you train with someone, you're on the same team, even when you're fighting. The idea isn't to hurt him, it's to help him learn by forcing him to compete and get better. I felt really bad about what I'd done. But I felt even worse-a lot worse-about what I would have done-what I meant to do-if Mike hadn't stopped me.

We continued our lesson, even doing a little more kumite before we moved on to practicing katas. Sensei Mike didn't say anything more about my slipup. He didn't yell at me or lecture me or anything like that. I guess he could see how bad I felt about it already.

After the lesson, though, after Peter had left and I had changed back into my street clothes, I came out of the changing room. I was carrying my karate bag and kind of dragging my feet, keeping my head down, still feeling bad.

I came out of the dojo and into the little foyer. I stopped by the open door of Mike's office. He was sitting in the swivel chair behind his gunmetal-gray desk. He was looking over something on his computer.

"Hey, Mike, I really am sorry about the kumite," I told him.

He glanced up. "Yeah, I heard you the first time. You apologized like a man and Pete forgave you. You don't have to torture yourself about it. Like he said, it was the heat of battle. It's not like you really hurt him or anything."

"I know," I said. And then I said, "But I would've. I'd have kept going after him, if you hadn't stopped me."

Mike shrugged. "That's what I'm here for, chucklehead." "Yeah, but you won't always be there."

He tilted back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk and his hands behind his head. He laughed and his eyes kind of laughed with him. "Sure I will. I'm your teacher. I'm in your head, double-ugly. You'll never get rid of me. That's why you have to be careful who you learn from."

I couldn't tell whether he was kidding around or not. It was like that a lot with Mike. He would say something that sounded serious, but there'd still be that laughter hiding under the 'stache.

"Why don't you tell me what's biting your butt, anyway?" he said now. "What got you all angry today? It wasn't Peter, that's for sure. I saw there was something stuck in your craw the minute you started working out."

I don't know why I should've been surprised by this. It was a weird thing about Mike. He could watch you practice karate and know almost exactly what you were thinking. I'd seen him do it a dozen times.

I sighed. I figured I might as well tell him. "I have this teacher at school…" I said. And then I laid it all out, explaining about Mr. Sherman and what he'd said in class and how I couldn't figure out how to answer him.

When I was finished, Mike did this thing he did a lot, where he would sort of smooth his mustache down with his thumb and forefinger for a long time. That way, you couldn't see him smiling at all, though you always suspected he was.

"So let me ask you something," he said. "Do you love your mom?"

"What?"

"Your female parental unit. Your mom. You love her?"

"Yeah. Sure, I love my mom. I mean, she worries too much, but basically she's a really good mom. In fact, I love her a lot."

"Prove it."

I laughed. "I… I mean… I can't… I…"

Mike opened his mouth and went, "Uh, uh, uh," pretending to make fun of me the way Mr. Sherman had.

"All right," I said finally, "I can't prove it, but there's, like, stuff I do, you know. I mean, she knows I love her."

"Sure she does. 'Cause you treat her with respect. You try to make her proud of you. You give her a little affection when no one's looking. Maybe clean your room every fifty, hundred years or so."

"Yeah. Right. Stuff like that," I said.

"See, that's the thing, pal. There are some truths you can't prove," Mike said. "There are some truths you can only live. Most of the really important truths-like the ones in the Declaration-you take them on faith at first. But then you live them, and that's how you find out they're really true."

"Okay," I said, thinking it over. "That makes sense, I guess. But then you might make a mistake, right? You might think something's true at first and then live it and find out it's not."

"You not only might-you will. Everyone does. That's how you learn to do better. No one starts out with the answers. You figure them out as you go and you learn from the people who figured them out before you. Like I said, it matters who your teachers are."

"But then, Mr. Sherman's right, in a way: if you might be wrong sometimes-if you might be doing something wrong right now or your country might be doing something wrong-then maybe you just think you're the good guys when you're really the bad guys. I mean, how can you tell whether you're the good guys or not?"

Mike didn't answer right away. He went on stroking his 'stache a long time. Then he said, "Put it this way, chucklehead. Say you got a bunch of people and they're all chained up in a dark place, a pitch-black place, stumbling around in their chains. But there's a light far off in the distance. And one day, some of the people start talking to each other and they say, 'Hey, we're tired of living in the dark. Why don't we break these chains and head for that light?' And at first, they can't figure out how to do it. So they talk about it some more and argue about it and even fight about it. But after a while, they come up with a way to get themselves loose and they start walking. Now remember, it's still dark where they are, so they stumble a lot and take wrong turns, and they've still got some of those old chains on them, and that makes them stumble too. But they keep moving, keep trying to get the chains off, keep heading for that light, no matter what, no matter who tries to stop them. And people do try to stop them- a lot of people. Because a lot of people like to be in the dark where no one can see what they are. And a lot of people even like to be in chains and they want to put other people in chains with them. But our guys, these people we're talking about-they keep moving, some faster, some slower, still stumbling, still half blind, half chained, still arguing about the right way. But whatever happens, they keep moving toward the light."

Mike pressed his mustache down one last time and held it there, so I couldn't see whether there was a smile on his lips or not. There was a smile in his eyes, though. I could see that. His eyes were laughing.

And he said, "Who do you think the good guys are, chucklehead?"