Spiritual Terrorism

vi⋅o⋅lence [vahy-uh-luhns] –noun
1. swift and intense force: the violence of a storm.
2. rough or injurious physical force, action, or treatment: to die by violence.
3. an unjust or unwarranted exertion of force or power, as against rights or laws: to take over a government by violence.
4. a violent act or proceeding.
5. rough or immoderate vehemence, as of feeling or language: the violence of his hatred.
6. damage through distortion or unwarranted alteration: to do editorial violence to a text.

ter⋅ror⋅ism [ter-uh-riz-uhm] –noun 1. the use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, esp. for political purposes.~Dictionary.com.

Words have saved my life.

I remember a time when I did not have them. A time when I did not have words to describe my observations, my feelings, my purpose. During this time, I almost believed that the words I sought did not exist. When I could not find the words, I questioned whether I existed. This was not a lofty, philosophical question. I could not make sense of my reality, so I often felt unreal. At the very least I lived this way, simultaneously seeking and struggling any sense of self. During my high school senior year, I began to find the words. It was a clumpsy find. Yet, when out of desperation, I abandoned all fear, the words soon embraced me. I learned to invite them to which they responded more easily and freely overtime. I discovered that the right words validated me and my existence.

After seventeen years, I finally learned the truth: I was not crazy after all.

This week reminded me that sanity is a delicate proposition. I warmly welcome it everyday because I understand that many of us take it for granted. Our well-being is earned in this way; our mental, emotional, and psychic wholeness rests on our continual acceptance of a simple yet profound idea that we are here. This means that I am able to locate my spirit and reflect it to the outside. If our spirit feels mortally wounded or if upon reflection our spirit is unrecognizable then we are no longer here. Writer, Ralph Ellison, powerfully described this existence in his haunting novel, Invisible Man. The novel's narrator experiences a permanent existential crisis because he is affixed with anxiety, absurdity, and alienation.* I call this spiritual terrorism.

American racism is a form of spiritual terrorism. Racism is as strong as it sounds. It is not a mere offense or sensitivity. Nor is it a proclivity toward victimhood or attention-seeking. It really is systematic soul suffocation--constant and continual spirit-violence to your reality. Ironically, racism is raceless but amasses power by racelessness. Every person who lives within a racist society succumbs to its grip from which we more or less wiggle free during our lifetimes. Eventually, we may identify the its self-generated lie: denying our individual uniqueness--our experiences in their totality--is how we can overcome racism. What a compelling untruth! Of course, none of this makes sense. This is why some of us leave ourselves and sometimes, the collective world entirely.

I've shared with many of you about an intense conflict within my Buddhist community here in Washington. Our People of Color sangha is under siege at the hands of another person of color and his white allies. This conflict has simmered for 8 or so weeks but I was not truly touched by it until last Sunday. After a lovingkindness lecture, I was a witness to spiritual violence in the form of a harsh argument with a bitter final twist. Post-encounter, me and my friends held the heaviness of spiritual terrorism in our hearts for sometime after. I always feels a coldness that chills my insides whenever I see violence. Worse yet, this violent event was of a familiar kind.

So I tried to find the words to describe what I saw. (See #6, above: violence is damage through distortion or unwarranted alteration, i.e. a forceful and threatening attempt to convince you that you are crazy.) An IMCW board member engaged an IMCW teacher in a conversation about the sangha conflict. The exchange slowly evolved into an argument. One person, feeling deeply misunderstood, asked for the other to stop speaking to listen for a moment. The other person persisted in protest over the other until both were screaming at one another. One person stormed away, choosing distance over silence. This person, while rushing away, named the other as a silencer in so many words, "you people." When the other person responded by claiming that the other was wrong for feeling the way they did, we knew that racism had done its work.

I described events to trusted friends as "you people" not meaning "White People." Instead, "you people" who did not allow me to speak--impose burdens on me when I do speak--deny my words when they do not conform to your views--speak on my behalf without my permission--and label me as "damaged" when I become frustrated--is a very kind name for this deed. This person was not crazy. :shaking head: No. All of this happened. This person, however, was resisting racism's demeaning logic. I believe that with us, together, this person was able to tell the truth after the event. We chose against living the Lie.

This is why this week has been full of writing. I have been truth-telling with my sangha. We've are collectively healing from spiritual violence and are challenging the crushing effect of spiritual terrorism.

You must understand that this is not my chosen political battle or my fanciful external diversion. This is my reality. Where political is personal, is suffering, is struggling, is happening, is healing, is being. In this way boundaries between inside and outside or spirituality and politics are untrue.

Yes. I've let this go or else I would not be vitally alive. I survive spiritual violence everyday. But I will never let that go--spiritual terrorism, which fundamentally threatens us all.

What better existence than discovering liberation with you?

*It's been years since I've enjoyed Invisible Man so I borrowed three adjectives from Wiki's "Black Existentialism" entry.

That Which Flows: The Color & The Light

That which flows in us and through us never stays and always goes. From the moment it enters us we will transform it. The substance containing our mind, body, and spirit is ever-changing, yet for a brief time we can show the world what we're made of. It sees our color as we try to see its light...

Yesterday I attended my first LGBTQ sangha. Our dharma talk topic was one of the Eightfold Path branches, "Right Speech." When La offered several teachings to guide our discussion. One saying which La described an idea that between the moment we hear and the moment we act lies our freedom. This idea remained with me as we began discussion.

To my surprise the first half of the dharma talk was dominated by contemplative silence. Many members shared that as same-gender loving or gender non-conforming folk, right speech was the most challenging aspect of the Eightfold Path. Several gay men expressed their struggle with falling into the gossipy-queen stereotype. A few people told about how they said dishonest things to fit into conventional culture. Several others wrestled with meanings behind truthfulness. I was moved to speak once La spoke about a recent experience involving a well-intentioned mentor mishearing La's sadness about a situation for which this person was responsible. They were able to meet each other because La was able to express hurt without blame. For them, right speech ultimately deepened their friendship. I wondered: what does right speech (actually) mean for me?

I don't share much at any sangha because it is my way of practicing right speech. I try to be "lean of expression," only speaking when I can contribute.

This time I talked about my evolving relationship with one of my housemates. She and I were never close and at times, caused a great deal of anxiety in one another. We are very different in our lifestyles and outlooks so that household issues were underscored by our divergent personalities. Finally, she and I went on a housemate date to a restaurant. Mostly I listened to her emotional struggle with winter that brought on seasonal depression. Admittedly I could not relate to her but I listened closely. And I listened our understanding into existence. Since dinner our relationship has been easier. I learned that the better I understood her, the more my heart opened from which right view and right speech flowed. The other half of right speech is right listening. I began a particular practice since learning about right speech a year ago.

When I hear things I find freedom in a smiling pause. Sometimes I smile inwardly, but when faced with difficult speech, I smile for others to see. During this pause I consider four forms of speech. If I am hurt, feel a reluctant heart, or poised toward unwise speech, I practice Noble Silence. If I am confused or simply do not understand, I ask to practice right listening by saying, "I don't understand. Can you tell me more?" If I feel an open heart, I engage right speech by sharing a loving-truth. I am able to share my truth in a loving way, while at the same time acknowledging their own truth. I do not privilege either truth, instead, I choose to observe every one. Lastly, if my heart is open and full, I engage in "extra" speech, where I do not say too much but I do say more. Something positive, meaningful, or loving that can inspire joy. I tell a good friend how much I love them or I tell a family member how much I appreciate them or I tell a person I am getting to know about a good quality I've noticed. Training myself to pause, see these four aspects, and choosing among them, I often practice right speech.

That is not say that I don't hurt people or say unwise things. But accompanied with right intention and right view, most often I believe that my words heal rather than harm.

After my sharing I noticed the sangha began imparting other techniques! Visioning was the most prevalent in which people imagined themselves talking to a lover, child, themselves, or even a cash prize-offerer. La suggested at the end that observant non-action is a way of engaging right speech. Non-action is not silence; it's unwise speech. However, if we cannot cultivate lovingkindness for a person and see this much, our awareness is a right-speech "seed." Perhaps as we understand this person, we can call on our compassionate mind in the future for right speech. Or if we train ourselves through metta meditation, our future exchanges may become more positive.

All in all I enjoyed the talk even though it was a very different flavor from the POC sangha. Afterward, feeling shy, I kept to myself and prepared to leave. One woman noticed me and introduced herself. We briefly discussed how long we'd attended IMCW sanghas, then, our conversation just stopped. We stood in silence. She was thinking so I smiled waiting for her. She finally said, "Just one thing: you should speak up more, I could not hear you. I should have said something but I did not want to interrupt."

So there, I paused, looked down, and smiled. About ten seconds passed. Looking up I said, "Some days I'm able to project and some days I find myself unable to speak. You are not the only person to mention my soft-spokenness. Today it was hard to speak but I will be more mindful to project in the future...Thank you." We said our goodbyes, and I smiled walking upstairs amused by the reality that we can practice right speech even in the most awkward of conversations :)

We're able to see the light no matter the color.

R.

L'amour est nous et nous sommes amour

Mom's text message, 2/19, 12:07pm:
I love you more than yesterday.

My text message, 12:09pm:
:) That's very romantic, mommy. I love you as we are the same.

Please Hold My Hand

My grandmother, great grandmother (now passed), myself at about one year, and my mother.


"Soccer dad Bob with young Richael at match with "Aces" or "Phoenix."

"That which is appearing is complete." - Read by Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara.

I was given these pictures over the last two months. I hardly recognize myself at one or eight years old. (Squinting at both photos.)

I have sharpened some of my views about perfection and continuation this week, beautifully summed up by a quote shared by Roshi Pat Enkyo O'Hara, a Zen Buddhist teacher-activist in New York City. In a Tricycle Magazine Podcast she conveyed this quote written by a Japanese monk (whose name was unable to remember but will be sure to retrieve and post).

This axiom manifests a wise teaching that "things are as they are" and instructs us to accept them as so. Acceptance is not a mere observance--it is a careful recognition. Perhaps, a way to finding momentary peace. But I did not understand this lesson from Roshi O'Hara's recorded dharma talk. Instead, this quote struck me after a week full of little people :)

My dear friend, Catherine Chu, had invited me into her first-grade, Northeast classroom in November. She is very proud of her kids and she wanted a chance for me (and her other friends) to meet them. We were able to schedule a date last Friday. My bill: Ms. Faithful, our guest, is a community organizer like Barack Obama! (And she's in law school now.) We planned to discuss things we can do when we grew up. Undoubtedly a topic as useful to me as it was for her first-graders.

Getting there was a new experience. I have not ventured much of the city outside Northwest on the bus. The trip lasted over an hour and a half, first traveling south to Chinatown, then east past Union Station. Both rides were uncomfortable. to say the least. Much unlike my trips to wealthy Tenleytown each morning. I told one friend that I didn't realize so many Black people could fit on a single bus. We were on top of one another, weaving through construction, sites and but still crawling over and barely escaping enormous potholes. I practically rolled out of 26th Street. While dusting myself off I was reminded that I need more opportunities to discover D.C..

I entered Browne passing through a metal detector and signing in with the officer-on-duty. I checked-in at the main office and proceeded to Ms. Chu's First Grade Class. I thought I discreetly slipped inside the classroom but little did I know that 7 and 8 year olds notice everything. I was spotted--a dozen of wide eyes stared me down!

Ms. Chu was finishing reading time so she asked two little ones to read a chosen book to me. Both were really good. The second student who read an advanced book with larger words needed a little help. Ms. Chu came by and helped me, help him, by sounding out the words in parts. I'd never taught any person to read before. I witnessed his gradual reading of "thirteen" as a sort of miracle. Not long ago my mom disclosed to me that I was "behind" when I entered first grade in Virginia. I didn't know how to read anything. Until this day she credits Ms. Birmbaum with catching me up and teaching me how to read. If you ever read this, Ms. Birmbaum, a profound thank you for your generosity.

The morning went on with great prosperity. Our sharing took place in a group circle on the floor; I said a few words about how community organizers help people help themselves; each little person shared his or her dream job (teachers, police officers, and a lawyer/doctor); they shared with me their class motto; and then they returned to their desk for a subtraction lesson.

Shortly after I left. Ms. Chu had the class thank me for seeing them. I thanked them for having me as a guest and living up to Ms. Chu's promise that they were the smartest first graders that I knew. Those little people had SO much energy and vitality. I remembered how quick life was sixteen years ago.

I call children little people because that is their true name. They are very little (one student hugged me--he embraced my leg and reached my hip). They are very much people, not very different from me. In fact little people may be the wisest among us. They know so much which adults over time are willed to forget. Our struggle to remember. As Tara Branch aptly puts it in her book, Radical Acceptance, our own awareness and goodness are within us. Once we rediscover how knowing and compassion fuse our minds and hearts together again.

Being with Catherine's little people sparked an inner-light. Each of them was beautiful and perfect. In this way imperfection does not exist. How could I look into any of their eyes and tell them otherwise? No. They are beautiful and perfect, therefore, we are also beautiful and perfect. I could not lie to them.

After all, little people are a continuation of ourselves. I look just as small in my over-sized red shirt and shorts. Often I am physically distant from young people, which I hope will change, yet my belief persists: we have always been and always will be. When a little person held my hand to our sitting circle, physically our hands joined and spiritually we merely continued the past, present, and future.

They are young in this lifetime but they are here and complete people. We are here and complete as we are. As I told a dear friend some months ago: we are our very own Perfect.


Metta,
R.