In Lu of Western Thought...A perfect 100

Having a kid in college equals serious hardship for a single parent family. The kid fails, you fail, too, or at least are left to pick up the pieces, which generally means spending money you don't have and have no way to get. But as we learned a few weeks ago, the pain can fade to great fun for short periods of time. Of course, even my college student called me a geek when I was so enthusiastic about helping her with the paper that would count for one-third of her grade in Western Thought. Maybe I didn't help so much as write it myself, but, hey, my kid sat right by my side most of the time, looking at me strangely as I chuckled evilly and smashed out dialog.

The topic was so alluring that I couldn't help myself: The major Chinese philosophers walk into a bar...The only rules were what they had to drink and the philosophical elements they were to touch upon. I loved it and I don't care if I am a geek!

In hindsight, I suppose I have done a bad and deceitful thing. But the Western Thought professor is a tough PhD with a reputation for being stingy with his kudos. All the students hate him and I figure his rep rests on the sad fact that he is sick of reading college-level writing backed by no real understanding of the subject matter. Maybe I wasn't so terrible; maybe I made the good Doctor's day. Despite this, I do not think he would jump for joy if he knew the truth. Oh well...

When the grade came in today, Teresa/Jessica got a perfect 100, something the prof had never awarded before. LOL! And on the back of the paper was the notation that the little story was a "delight" to read. I don't know if the old boy believed Jessica wrote the paper. We aren't looking a gift horse in the mouth.

I know, I am awful and my kid is not helped when I substitute my intellect for hers. But she did read the paper and approve every word. She even took out some stuff when I got a bit long-winded. I like to think of the exercise as a collaboration rather than my own work. No rule against geek mamas helping their daughters with fun papers, is there?

At any rate, the award-winning term paper follows, for your reading pleasure. Like most of my work, I tend to think of it as just a little story, this time about Eastern philosophy. And, yes (to Jessica's amazement), I have a copy of the I Ching and know where to find it. FYI...Lu is the area in China where Confucius was reportedly born, somewhere along the Yellow River.

The Kuai Hexagram: Remain steadfast. Act too quickly, without a good plan, with sufficient thought, and you will make mistakes. Be alert, perceptive, and no evil can befall you. Take a firm stand, openly, but not too aggressively – the time is not right for it. Be courteous, not antagonistic. You may be misunderstood at first, but this will pass. Resist the wish to use excessive force. When provoked, you tend to lose control. You must be dedicated if you hope to overcome major obstacles. Success is within reach but you cannot achieve it alone. The same problem you now face will appear again in the future.

The I Ching

Prologue

Beijing, China, October 2007…

A late season weather front blanketed China’s southwestern coast, dumping torrential rain on the ancient city’s gritty streets. Lightening splintered the dark day and thunder rumbled. A large group of students ignored the rain to march purposefully along the road fronting Beijing Normal University. The American President had just awarded the Tibetan Dalai Lama the Congressional Gold Medal despite official protests from the Chinese government. Renowned student activist Mao Kung braved the threatening Beijing police lining the streets to lead the group of dissidents in their protest against religious oppression.

Tempers flared as Kung and his followers refused to heed strident orders from the police to disband the protest immediately. The students continued to march in the face of drawn police weapons and ever louder demands. Suddenly, Kung’s foot slipped into a rain-filled crevice in the uneven street, the sodden sign he carried dipping toward a heavily armed policeman as Kung fell awkwardly forward. The students marching closely around Kung stumbled over their leader.

To the sounds of storm and screams, Beijing police opened fire on the group, slaying Kung and nine of his fellow students in the street.

In Lu of Western Thought:

Near the Yellow River, Shandong Province, China, October 2007…

Han had tended bar at the Ching all his life, ownership of the small establishment handed down through generation after generation of his family. Business was slow that late evening in October with only a handful of patrons sipping glasses of the Yellow wine for which the area was famous.

Han yawned as he listened to the rain fall. The weather had been wet and dark for days throughout the entire province. Mist rose from the river that ran a stone’s throw from the outside deck of the roadhouse.

Crack! The lightening flash startled Han into immediate wakefulness and he sighed as the electricity flickered and then died, leaving the place lit only by a few small candles Han had set around the bar earlier in an attempt to dispel the chill. Thunder crashed, causing a couple of Han’s customers to open the door to peer out into the rapidly descending darkness to monitor the weather.

“Looks like the heavens are about to open up again,” one patron noted in rapid Chinese, eyeing the dark clouds and rising wind. “I think I have just enough time to dash home before the rains start again.” The few others near him mirrored his sentiments.

“I’m thinking of calling it a night anyway,” Han announced. “The lights show no sign of life.”

As his customers fled, Han stood on the Ching’s small porch, breathing in smells of the river and the coming storm. The arrival of the storm was quick and furious and lightening struck four times in quick, snapping, succession as Han struggled to close the door against the driving rain.

The smell of smoke suddenly caught Han’s attention and his heart quickened as he hurried back to the bar. Had the lightening caught something afire?

Han skidded to stop when he saw four traditionally dressed Chinese men sitting around a table in front of his bar. Smoke like the river mist rose around the four, who did not appear to have been touched by the rain.

“Sirs?” Han asked incredulously as he looked upon the men.

“Sorry for the abrupt arrival,” the older of the men said. “We were just in the vicinity. Would your name be Han?”

“Yes, sir.” Han stammered.

“Thought so,” remarked the elder. “My colleagues and I,” the man indicated his table companions, “were here many years ago. What would you say, Xunzi, two hundred years ago?”

“Could have been,” responded a man whose dress was also traditional but appeared from a different period than the clothing worn by the elder. “I think the bar man’s name was Quon Han, if I remember correctly.”

Han gulped. His great-great-great-great-great grandfather’s name had been Quon Han. Han recalled a family legend passed down through the years much as the ownership of the small bar. One of his ancestors had died at an advanced age, babbling about one rainy night when four of China’s most revered philosophers had appeared in the empty bar during a furious thunderstorm. On his deathbed, Han’s grandfather many times removed had deliriously described how the heated debate of the philosophers had touched on the very core of Chinese existence. The old man was never the same. Han gasped. Could these be the same men, brought by the wind back to the homeland of Confucius?

The elder spoke again, “Forgive my rudeness, Han. We are not really strangers appeared out of the black storm. Let me introduce myself and my fellows. I am Laozi, a simple student of the Tao. He is Mozi; he Xunzi; and this one,” Laozi indicated with a wave of his arm, “is Kongzi. In our own distinct ways we are a group of men at once students and teachers.”

Kongzi laughed and turned his head to Han. “Do not let the Old Sage fool you, young one. Laozi embodies the essence of the Tao. He possesses the understanding of wu-wei, has no ambition and can therefore never fail. The Old Sage was a teacher of mine although I do not embrace all his lessons.”

Mozi interrupted, “Perhaps we trouble this boy with our words. We came here, after all, to have a drink and discuss important matters. Should we not get on with it?”

Han was galvanized into action. “May I serve you?” He asked eagerly, realizing now that his tale of this night would put to shame any story told by his dying grandfather.

“Thank you, young man,” Laozi said kindly. “We sampled your grandfather’s Yellow wine when we were here before. Perhaps a round of that, if you would?”

As Han rushed off to bring his best bottle of Yellow to the sages gathered at the table, Kongzi turned to his colleagues. “There are students to bury in Beijing, dead at the government’s hand.”

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The group waited to engage the discussion until Han returned with two bottles of Yellow wine and his finest glasses. Then, as tradition demanded, the elder Laozi sipped his wine, sighed in appreciation of its fine taste and spoke first. “So the students are dead. Death is a normal occurrence in nature, whatever its cause. Death is little recognized in the natural world, which moves on around death. A society removed from nature has created a recognition of death that does not exist in nature. The police killed those students because both the police and the students were wrong. They had strayed too far from the path of nature and were too much involved with the world. I say move on. Those who engage in unnatural actions deserve no honor,no funeral, just as they would receive no honor in the natural world. I am saddened by their deaths but society is better served by moving on toward the purity of nature.”

“I am wont to side with you, Old Master,” Xunzi sighed. He drained his glass and seemed to look inward before he spoke. “Both sides of this argument, the police and the protesting students, were acting with unfettered desires that proved disastrous for each group. The police have perhaps forgotten the required social forms. I suspect the students had not yet learned them. While I understand the need society has for such rituals as funerals, these are truly not a natural occurrence. No god to stand in judgment on the students sits in any heaven waiting to receive them as martyrs or waiting to bless the police for killing them. If a heaven exists to which a funeral would send these dead students, then it is likely that heaven looks much like eternal nature. I say let the people move on and try to get it right in the future.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Kongzi called out, loudly enough to cause Han look at the group with some alarm. The famous teacher smiled an apology at the young bar keep and interrupted his planned oration to note, “Han, speaking of funerals puts me in mind of beer. I’ve recently become quite fond of Tsingtao Beer. Would you have some in the house?”

“Of course, Confus… I mean Kongzi,” Han announced proudly. “A round for everyone?” Han asked, noticing how quickly the sages had gone through the bottles of Yellow wine. Han hoped their discussion would drift onto the topic of how mixing different types of alcohol might affect the balance of each man’s yin and yang.

Han kept cold beer on hand for the occasional Western visitor but knew without being told that the philosophers would prefer their beer warm in the traditional manner. Knowing that Han was secretly hanging on their every word, Kongzi began his dissertation even before the bar man finished opening the bottles. “Each man involved in the incident in Beijing today believed he was right. The destiny of each man was pre-ordained. We may have varying opinions about their actions and motivations, particularly about students defying the police, but we must first exercise compassion. Now that these students are dead, they enter the spirit world and are therefore perhaps more deserving of respect, despite their folly, than when they lived. True, they did not exercise the expected restraint but that does not justify depriving them, or Beijing at large, of the symbol of the funeral as the transition into the spirit realm. It would be bad for everyone if no funeral were held. Funerals are very important, and not just to the dead kids.”

Satisfied that he had put the topic to rest, Kongzi leaned back in his chair, lit a Red Pagoda Hill and puffed deeply. Damned dependency on rituals and social forms. The other men pondered the smoke rising from Kongzi’s cigarette.

Mozi, the quietest of the group thus far, drained his bottle of beer and smacked his lips. He chewed a mouthful of the salted peanuts that Han had thoughtfully placed on the table and then said, “I suppose that society demands a funeral for the students killed today. I agree with Kongzi that the dead boys, their families, the city and even society at large demand it. Burying the students with some recognition is expected and this expectation has therefore become part of the social order. I question what I consider to be the students’ deviation from the expected moral standards and their lack of respect for order but Heaven views them all equally and I do not begrudge them their final ritual. The ritual may even do some good. Perhaps it will remind people that their highest aspirations should be to submit to the Will of Heaven. It is Heaven’s mandate that individuals in society strive toward universal virtue. It is Heaven’s role to sit in judgment of those who have not acted in virtue. A funeral might just shake a few people up on this issue.”

Mozi fell silent, clearly thinking. Kongzi gulped the last of his beer and pondered the empty bottle for a few moments, stroking his long mustache. “Han,” Kongzi called out and the young bar man was instantly at their table, glad to have a reason to get so close. “Han, a few years ago in New York City , I had the most wonderful drink. It’s called an Appletini. It’s definitely an American drink, but it’s good. I don’t understand Americans because, on the whole, they don’t understand themselves. But it is necessary to practice the concept of “ren,” is it not? To have compassion and love for others even if they have no li, no self restraint or understanding of the rules of proprietary behavior. So, Han, can you make an American Appletini?”

“Confucius, there is nothing I cannot make for you,” Han said in awe and turned to construct a New York style Apple Martini.

“While you’re at it, boy,” Xunzi called out loudly, “bring me a ball point pen and a bar napkin. I’m feeling artistic.”

Realizing he did not have to understand the request to honor it, young Han trotted over to the table with the requested implements before returning to the Martini.

Xunzi gripped the pen firmly in his right hand and carefully etched a symbol on the thick, white napkin. “This,” he stated to the others, “is Te, the Chinese symbol representing power, strength and inner essence.” He sat back in his chair proudly as if he had just issued a great proclamation, smothering a hiccup.

“We know that,” chorused the other three.

“What’s your point?” asked Laozi.

“The Te of the individuals involved in the incident today was obviously out of balance,” Xunzi explained. “And perhaps more than the question of whether the dead students deserve a funeral or ritual burial or whether this has any importance to society at large is why the Te got out of whack in the first place. As I tried to explain in the first six chapters of my book, pride and excess bring disaster for a man. When these students dared to question the instructions of the police to disband, they engaged in excess pride. As if their demands had some merit in light of society at large. Respectfulness and moderation guard against sinful excess. Words of praise to another are the highest action a man can engage in. I think none of these students uttered words of praise. Why? Why did they not turn to their inner essence and accept rather than making an external show of strength? Why are they out of balance?”

“With all those questions, you sound like Socrates,” Kongzi laughed. “I never met him but I heard he was around about the same time that I figured out what Heaven had meant for me and for the rest of mankind. I was already an old man, maybe 50, when that happened.”

Han approached the table, balancing four American Martini glasses filled to the brim on a wooden tray. “An Appletini for each of you, gentlemen.”

Xunzi tasted his drink. “I’ve never been to New York City like Confus..., I mean Kongzi here. But this is a fine drink. Join us, Han. You have earned the honor. Your use of the word gentleman…Had those students today been gentlemen, they would not now be dead.”

“Yes, please, young man, sit with us,” intoned Laozi the elder and Han took a seat beside the sages, barely able to contain his excitement.

Kongzi also sampled his Appletini. “This is absolutely lethal, Han. And, Xunzi, I think I can answer your question.” Kongzi raised his Martini glass. “Han, just so you’ll know, the students’ Te was out of balance and they likely died because they failed to pay the required respect to society’s rules and expectations. As you have likely guessed, I am the founder of Confuscianism and I know about these things.”

His own glass in hand, Mozi leaned forward and spoke around a mouthful of peanuts to address Han. “Han, I want you to know the truth. Those students died today because they failed to be obedient to the Will of Heaven. The expectations of Heaven are far more important than any rule human society might create.”

“Harrumph,” Laozi cleared his throat loudly to interrupt Mozi and then swallowed a gulp of his Appletini. “Han, I am the oldest here and the founder of Taoism. Those students died because they were not in harmony with the Tao, the way of nature that is the indefinable source of all things.”

Han felt out of place at a table filled with men much wiser than himself. The eyes of the sages turned upon him, seemingly waiting for a response. Being first Chinese and secondly a bar man, Han had learned long ago to speak carefully. “You have one common point,” he said hesitantly. “Balance in all things is everything?”

Kongzi smiled a little as he finished his Appletini. Laozi rose to his feet a bit wobbly with a sip or two left in his glass. The other two philosophers leaned against one another as they too stood.

“There will always be questions,” said Kongzi and the others nodded. “Thank you for your generous hospitality, Han. We will return to visit your establishment again someday.”

That said, Han smelled the same scent of smoke and water that had accompanied the storm. Suddenly the sages were gone and the electricity flickered on, illuminating a table littered with empty wine flasks, a host of depleted beer bottles and four Martini glasses. Before Han could move, the Ching’s front door burst open and his wife stood eyeing him accusingly. “What in the hell are you doing out here this late?”

Han stood and stared back at his wife. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”