Categories
Philosophy

Mr Yamaguchi

[dropcap]T[/dropcap]sutomu Yamaguchi had a cushty job. He worked for Mitsubishi, in Japan, where he was an engineer in the shipbuilding division, designing oil tankers.

It was World War Two.

He was away on business when it happened, stepping off a tram, before heading to a shipyard that nestled among flat potato fields on either side. It was the final day of a three month work trip, the day before he was due to go back home, back to his wife and new born kid.

Some punk in a plane dropped a ruddy Atom bomb on his head.

Mr Yamaguchi had taken a work trip to Hiroshima, and that is where, at 8.15am, on August 6th 1945, the US B-29 Bomber dropped an Atomic Bomb. The bomb had a name – “Little Boy” – what kind of person calls a bomb little boy? It was the first nuclear weapon to ever be used in warfare, killing somewhere between 45,000 and 83,000 people on the first day, with those numbers doubling over time.

Tsutomu Yamaguchi was stoic by nature. He was knocked out by the blast. When he regained consciousness, he was met by total devastation, total carnage. People burned, bodies in the river, skin dripping off the walking dead.

He got on the train and went back home the following day, after spending the night in an air raid shelter. Back to his wife and new born kid. When he returned, he even took a couple of days off to let his wounds heal, which seems reasonable.

“Home,” he maybe thought, “home at last.”

nagasaki

On August 9th, he went back to work at Mitsubishi, this time back to his regular office and now swathed in bandages. “No more business trips for a while, after that!” he might’ve muttered, as he arrived at work.

At 11am, Tsutomo was discussing the bombing with his supervisor, when another little punk, from high above again, dropped another ruddy Atom bomb on his head. Because Mr Yamaguchi lived in, worked in, had a family in, and had just returned back to, Nagasaki.

The bomb hit. A 25-kiloton plutonium bomb, called “Fat Man.” It was the second time, in history, that a nuclear weapon had ever been used in warfare. One has never been used since. It killed somewhere between 19,000 and 40,000 people in the first day, and again, as in Hiroshima, that number doubled over time.

Mr Yamaguchi was Atomic Bombed in one place, put on some bandages, went home, and then got Atomic Bombed there too.

Damn.

Is that good luck or bad luck?

navyphotogshiroshima

He lost hearing in one ear, had a fever for a week afterwards, and his bandages were ruined. His wife battled illness from then on, because of the radiation posioning. Most other members of his family too. He also developed radiation side-effects throughout his life and lived much of it, whilst it was long, in agony.

Later in his life, Yamaguchi become an avid proponent of nuclear disarmament, wanting a complete abolition and arguing his case at the UN. “The reason that I hate the atomic bomb,” he said in one interview, “is because of what it does to the dignity of human beings.” When looking back on the two blasts that he’d been part of, he sat on stage in his wheelchair, and said, “I sincerely hope that there will not be a third.”

If in doubt, when it sucks, and when life gives us lemons or atomic bombs – Maybe we shouldn’t make lemonade, maybe we should take a purpose from it and be more like Mr Yamaguchi.

Images courtesy: commons.wikimedia.org

Categories
Philosophy

The Debt Collector & The Heathen

The debt collector was incessant.

He wouldn’t go away. For a week, there he’d be, waiting outside school and becoming increasingly angry. Classic debt collector.

I was 9. He was 10, going on 11.

Adam was his name, and he liked football too. He was in his final year. It was a small school and only a few people played football. Adam was a midfielder and so was I. He wanted to go pro and so did I (either that or a fighter pilot). We were arch rivals and hated each other. 

Today’s game was intense. The score was 0 – 0. Just a moment left.

The whistle went. The end. A tie. Back to class.

“Penalties after school to decide the winner,” Adam said.

We all ran back inside to learn about gravity for the first time. 

Miss asked the class, “so if the earth’s spinning at 465 meters per second, then what holds us to the ground?”

A kid called Michael tentatively put his hand up.

“Yes Michael,” said Miss, “what do you think it is?”

“The carpet?” he answered.

penalty

It was the penalty shoot out. The decider. Adam was up. He scored easily. I was next.

“Bet you miss,” he said.

“Oh yeah? No way.” I snapped.

“£2 says you miss,” Adam snapped back.

“Fine. £2.”

I stared intensely at the goal, decided where to aim, and ran. I struck the ball with all my might and willed it into the back of the net. It was not enough to want it, you had to will it. It flew and flew through the air, soaring calmly and beautifully like an eagle before gravity returned it to Earth. Beckham would’ve been jealous.

And then it went wide. Well wide. A miss.

We’d lost. Adam’s team had won. And now I owed him £2, which is a lot when you’re 9.

“Pay up, kid.” Adam shouted, as though he was Jack Nicholson in The Departed.

A deal was a deal. But I didn’t carry around that kind of cash. Are you crazy?

“Gotta go,” I said nervously, just before running away, “I have a swimming lesson.”

There was no such lesson that evening, though. The swimming lesson was an excuse to get out of having to deal with Adam. He was scary. Not someone to mess with. It was okay to mess with him on the pitch but not okay on the playground.

Adam suddenly went from football rival to savvy debt collector. And he wasn’t just a businessman. He was a business, man. Every day not paying Adam incurred an interest rate of 20p per day. Real loan shark rates. I had to think this through.

cowgirl

Misslette The Singing Cowgirl started to tear up, soon after she demonstrated the art of yodelling in a small room in Texas.

“I could’ve taught Heathen 101,” she said, as the memories came flooding back. “I was a shining example of a Heathen. I did all sorts of things that I’m not proud of. But when I was serious, I cried out to God. And I said ‘If you are really God, prove it to me.’”

“And on September 28th 1992, at 7.10 in the morning, I was staring at my ceiling, and just thinking ‘my life is out of control, I can’t quit drinking’. My skin would burn, my nose would burn. I would have to wake up and put liquor in my coffee. I cried out to God and said ‘I need help. If you’re real, help me.’ And that morning, I heard the audible voice of God. And you know what He said to me? ‘DO NOT DRINK TODAY!’, that’s all He said. And it scared me to death.”

Anyone can feel like they’ve hit rock bottom. Whether it’s addiction, work, a debt collector, physical health, not getting picked to go pro, anxiety, depression or any other countless thing that is taboo and doesn’t get talked about.

Clearly those things suck. But when we notice them, even when our days have become bleak, we are presented an opportunity to act, clean up, move on and get better. Because regardless of the specifics or our beliefs, it’s easier to be moved to action from a personal experience, even if it’s a terrible one, than to be moved to action from anything else. So it’s not all bad, it’s just a learning experience.

“People can think I’m crazy all they want,” Misslette half-joked, “but 20 years later I still haven’t had another drink.”

wheelbarrow

It was embarrassing, as a 9 year old, to a) lose at penalties and b) be a target atop a 10 year old’s debt collection list. So I didn’t dare tell anyone about the reason behind starting a very sudden refreshments company.

On the Saturday morning, I filled up a jug of water, then raided the cupboards at home and eventually found some plastic cups, a foldable table, and two bottles of concentrated juice. Throwing it all into a wheelbarrow, I walked to the nearest field.

The field had a footpath through it, which attracted a decent amount of leisurely walkers on a weekend. I unfolded the table, propped up a sign that read ‘Drinks For Walkers – £1 each’ in all capitals, and then sold 6 drinks to some thirsty walkers.

Adam was waiting at school on Monday. I handed him the money, which had gone from £2 to £3 with interest.

“Yeah, whatever loser,” he said, irritated that he wouldn’t be able to keep profiteering, the savvy little shit. “Another penalty shoot out at the park tonight? Double or quits.”

“Can’t. Got a swimming lesson.”

We never spoke again, and then I quit football forever and spent the remaining £3 on stick-on biker tattoos.