x
"True self-defense is not about harming others, but about protecting yourself and others from harm. It is about using your skills and knowledge to de-escalate a situation and avoid violence whenever possible. If violence is unavoidable, use the minimum amount of force necessary to protect yourself and others. Remember, your ultimate goal is to walk away from the situation safely, not to win a fight."
Grand Master Choi Hong Hi, Taek Won Do founder509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVN1Wu4RXzF
509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEmK7vV2nwc
509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLjyhGQAVVL
"The ways of the tiger and the dragon are complementary, not contradictory. The tiger is a symbol of strength, courage, and power. The dragon is a symbol of wisdom, flexibility, and adaptability. To be a true Taek Won Do practitioner, you must embody the qualities of both the tiger and the dragon.
The tiger's strength will allow you to overcome any obstacle. The dragon's wisdom will help you to make sound decisions and avoid unnecessary conflict. The tiger's courage will give you the strength to stand up for what is right, even in the face of adversity. The dragon's adaptability will allow you to change and grow in the face of challenges.
By embodying the qualities of both the tiger and the dragon, you will become a complete Taek Won Do practitioner."
Grand Master Lee Kwan Ho, Taek Won Do master
509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8OWWEygQxo
509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡELCH8ltup1
CALIFORNIA 1876509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡd1pF3wu44o
509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4ZVugSOxh1
509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPx11NtBGa7
The heat of the desert came up around him in suffocating waves but Robinson walked through it in a kind of serenity. He had been walking for a long time and now he had merged with the landscape itself, the heat, the landscape only aspects of self, not external, not to be fought but accepted. But he was glad that he had reached the town. In the practical sense, he knew that he must have shade and water or risk physical damage.
He was about thirty. If anyone had been looking out from the shabby buildings of the town, towards his approach, they would have seen a slim, tall redheaded man of vaguely Oriental appearance wearing the working garb of that period, denim pants, loose-sleeved shirt, a thin cowboy hat, the garb somehow incongruous on the man who wore the clothing as if it were silken robes.....And then they might have taken a second, longer look. There was something about him that marked him, set him apart---a look of strength, a look of having suffered. But people came and went---both Yellow men and White men. The traffic of the frontier was casual and identity, for most of the workers, did not exist....and this, Robinson thought as he trudged slowly, was one of the reasons that this was the best place for him. Here he might appear as another Asian among wretched thousands who had been imported for the people who ran these towns. Enough. It was too hot. He walked into the town.
First, there was desert and then there was the town itself; there was no gradation between the two, no sense of moving into civilization but only the bare, bleak buildings of the little town, the rutted streets cleaved around them....and fifty feet from the enclosure there was nothing at all, just the desert. The town looked as if the wind itself could destroy it, Robinson thought. There was a building with swinging doors at the tip of one street; he knew of such places. He went through the doors into a cooler, shabby enclosure, a few men grouped around the counter and at the tables talking in a desultory way; in one corner a poker game. A man behind the counter came toward Robinson, rubbing his hands on a towel. Robinson noted his uneasiness and then discarded it. All fates, ultimately, were individual and he could do nothing for this man, as little enough could be done for him. The man looked at him through careful, shrouded eyes and said, "Can I help you, son?" He is afraid, Robinson thought, but then of course, fear, for many, is like breath itself.
"I'd like some water, please, if it's not too much trouble," Robinson said quietly. His voice was unaccented, the English flat and expressionless but it did not, somehow, sound like his native tongue.
"That's all you want? Water?"
Robinson nodded.
That man shook his head. "That's an odd request," he said, "at least around here it is." He went to a shelf, took a pitcher standing there, and, putting a mug in front of Robinsons, filled it. Robinson reached for his pouch.
The bartender caught the motion and raised his hand in a gesture of refusal. "No," he said, "water's free around here." He seemed fascinated by Robinson. "That's perfectly all right," he said, "don't thank me," and made a move to go down the length of the bar, then did not, merely turning sideways, looking out through the doors. There seemed to be the slightest tremor of his fingers on the counter.
Robinsons looked at the fingers and then at the mug of water. Reaching into his pouch he drew out some herbs which he dropped into the water. It turned brown. He drank it slowly, feeling the liquid merge slowly with his body. He had been very dry, he thought. Another few hours in that desert might have killed him. But he had needed desperately to make distance...
"Where did you come from?" asked the bartender. Robinson swiveled his head and looked at the man, his line of vision carrying him past a glimpse of a rough-looking man who sat alone in a corner, glaring at Robinson. Interesting, he thought, noting the man's position. "You don't look like you come from around here."
"I came from the desert."
"You don't say," the man said. "Now, just how did you get across that desert?"
"By walking."
The bartender made a sign of disbelief. He leaned forward and gestured towards the door. "Through that?" he said.
Silently Robinson inclined his head: yes.
The bartender shook his head. "You're lying." He turned to the other men at the bar. "You hear that? Ain't nobody----" He broke off, seeing an elderly Japanese man standing at the door of the saloon. Robinson's eyes met those of the older man and he read the warning in them. At the same moment, one of the poker players rose menacingly to his feet.
"Hey, you!" he shouted at the man in the doorway. "You with the funny hat. You know I don't like no hills in a white man's bar."
Fearfully the old man backed away. The poker players laughed raucously.
Robinson, in that moment, caught the whole sense of the scene, saw too what must happen, but stayed motionless.
"Y'know," the poker player said almost conversationally to the bartender, "we seem to have an invasion of hills here. One at the bar, one at the door." He coughed almost delicately for effect and put a palm to his mouth. "You know how I feel about hills coming into my saloon," he said.
Robinson stood at the bar looking into the water, the herbs streaking the emulsion from brown to crimson. The change of colors like the change of seasons....he could look at this or much else for a long time with no feeling of impatience. But the man was moving on him slowly now, still talking. Robinson had the impression that all of this had happened before, the others in the saloon were familiar with this man and had watched this too many times. The poker game was suspended, and the other players watched intently, obviously expecting their leader to provide them with fresh amusement at Robinson's expense. Robinson still stood there. There was, after all, nothing else to do.
The man came to his side. "My name is Cash," he said to Robinson, his voice tracking down a few levels into a deathly quiet. "Maybe you've heard of me."
He paused.
Robinson looked at him, but he didn't speak.
"Everybody hears of me eventually. I've got a nose for hills, friend, and you smell a little yellow to me."
Robinson still said nothing. The man did not need a response; he had worked all of this out somewhere inside himself and Robinson was little more than an object. Sadness....this man did not even see Robinson. "I said I don't like hills," the man said.
Robinson tilted up the glass and drank again. He deliberately turned from the man.
"Don't want to talk, eh?" Cash said. "No speaks da English? Well, I don't speak da---whatever." He moved closer. "Out," he said.
Robinson did not move. If by moving he could have pleased this man he would have left the saloon at once; it did not come from defiance, then, this desire to stand, but the simple realization that nothing he could do would please this man. Whatever happened would have the same effect. The man would pursue him from the saloon and continue to abuse him there. Better not to move, then, to stay in accord with his principles which, Robinson thought, were quite simple; he did not want to fight with this man.
"You know," Cash said with feigned patience, "I can't seem to make the point reasonably. So I'll just have to show you what I mean. International language," he said, turning, addressing the men behind him. Nobody said anything.
As Cash moved forward, Robinson brought his stein of water up in a light gesture, so delicate that it might have been accidental, except that the stein now rested against Cash's shirt, stopping his advance.
"You know," Cash said, "that's mighty unfriendly."
He slapped at the glass.
In one fluid motion, Robinson moved the glass away and brought his elbow sharply into Cash's shoulder, sending him reeling back toward the poker table. His cohorts shouted with laughter.
"All right, hill," Cash said, grabbing a chair and raising it over his head, "I'm gonna bash your head."
As he started to swing the chair, Robinson grabbed it by its bottom rung and simultaneously lashed out with his foot, sending Cash sprawling into the poker table. It tipped over in a chaos of chips and cards, and Cash, struggling to his feet, heard the building laughter. At him. It was intolerable, he thought, the laughter and that hill standing there looking so calm. But he could stop the laughing and the calmness.
From its sheath on his belt, he pulled out a hunting knife. Holding it at gut level, he turned towards Robinson, who stood there unarmed. "Now!" Cash thought, but as he lunged forward, Robinson's foot flashed out. In the sudden silence of the saloon, the onlookers saw the knife fly through the air and imbed itself in the ceiling while Cash clutched at his empty hand. Nobody moved or spoke as Robinson returned to his mug of water.
Suddenly the water and herbs tasted bitter to Robinson, curdled in his mouth. He put down the mug, the bartender over in the corner looking at him open-mouthed, his hands flat on the wooden surfaces to show the absence of aggression and, nodding at him once, Robinson walked out of the bar, past the silent men and into the street. Here, disgust along with remorse came at him; he had come to this town in flight, seeking destiny, as it were, and what had he found?----pain, once again. He looked out towards the mountains. It was a long way that he'd come; a longer way yet to go. But there was nothing else to do.
The Japanese who had been abused by Cash, the one who had ducked out of sight behind the swinging door, was by his side suddenly, a small man with bright penetrating eyes. He lifted a hand and then dropped it as if unable to decide upon an approach and Robinson tried to erase his problem by smiling, showing the man that he had already noticed him and that he did not blame him for whatever had happened. This energized the other. "Are you, perhaps, from the Land of the Morning Calm?" the Japanese man inquired, his voice tinged with curiosity.
Robinson looked through the swinging doors. Dust, blackness, no sign of activity. They would not come after him, not now. "Yes, I am from Korea," he replied. "Why do you ask?"
"I have heard stories of the great martial arts traditions of Korea," the Japanese man said, "but...." and then broke off in embarrassment. He pointed behind him towards a small wagon, a tethered horse. "These are mine," he said.509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡacDpEFl7Iv
"Yes," Robinson said. "Then you have more than I."509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9WLOJOX7S6
"I merely wanted to warn you of what might happen," the man said. "That's why I looked in the place. But...."
"But brought trouble on yourself," Robinson said. "I am grateful."
The Japanese looked down at the ground. He felt respect, Robinson knew, but there was something beyond that, some impulse for connection that did not merely come from what he'd seen in the bar. An impulse to share souls....he smiled bitterly. "I am Yoshihiro," the man was saying.509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy2LRz3SUfO
"Yes."
"And you?" the Japanese said after a pause. "Do you have a name?"
"I have had many names," Robinson said, "but for now have chosen that of Robinson."
"Ahhhhh," the Japanese said. He seemed uncomfortable again and back-pedaled a step. Robinson looked past the shabby buildings, into the recesses of the town. At the end of the street, a group of men dressed differently from those in the bar seemed to be talking urgently and one of them suddenly came out of the conference, walked towards them rapidly, shaking his head. Yoshihiro saw him and lifted a hand in a signal. "That's the supervising engineer," he said, "for the railway construction. I've been waiting for him."
"Then the wagon and the horse are not yours?"
Yoshihiro shrugged. "I possess nothing. I possess everything. I have what I need."
"That is a wise attitude."
Yoshihiro gave Robinson a long, penetrating look. "You know much of these things, don't you?"509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ180wouqNHM
"A little," Robinson said, "a little," and turned from the man as the one he had been watching came up the street closed the distance and came to Yoshihiro. He was indeed a different kind of man than those in the bar, Robinson thought, subtler and gentler of feature....but what drove them drove him as well as it seemed to almost all of the people in this strange and terrible country. "The railroad needs men," Yoshihiro whispered to him. "You don't mind railroads, do you?"
"What is a......railroad?" Robinson said.
Yoshihiro's face became a mask of wonder. "A railroad is----is---you will find out for yourself." And then the American was upon them; Yoshihiro was, in a stumbling way, performing an introduction. "This is Mr. Thatcher," he said to Robinson, "the supervising engineer for the detail on which I and some others work. Mr. Thatcher, this man is Robinson, a friend."
"Howdy," Thatcher said, looking at Robinson with some humor. "You look like you've come a long way."
Robinson inclined his head forward in silent acknowledgment.
"He seeks your permission to ride with us," Yoshihiro said. "I thought there might be work for him."509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ71GMzy2ywr
"At the camp?" Thatcher said. He gave Robinson another, longer look; Robinson met those eyes levelly. Yes, this man was honest. "Do you know what you're getting into?" the American said with a smile.
"Does it matter?" Robinson said.
"Yes and no." Thatcher looked at Yoshihiro. "He's welcome," he said abruptly, "if he wants."509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg6P470M0DT
"Good," Yoshihiro said, "good," and in a bound he was in the wagon. The man named Thatcher more ponderously joined him and only Robinson was left standing out in the street. He looked up and down, peered once more into the interior of the bar from which there was still no movement, and then in one easy bound Robinson was in the wagon moving, the horses kicking up little plumes of dust from the beaten roadway....and they were on their way to the camp. At least, Robinson thought, there was a feeling now of some motion, of progress. Motion was a state of mind, naturally. But he was very glad, already, to leave this town.509Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8U9bbxqrAW
