These Times Are Our Times

[from "Taste of Chicago Buddhism" July 2018]
In the adaptation of Buddhism from Asia in the West, one thing that has gotten lost is the sense of community. I can’t speak for other Asian ethnicities, but I’m trying to understand why so many Japanese Americans, most of whom identify as Buddhist, are against social justice issues. I can’t get into their heads but I can talk about why the presentation of Buddhism in North America has given rationalization for dismissing all marginalized persons as freeloaders and criminals.

Back in Japan, people identified with their communities. Villagers and farmers were expected to help each other – caring for the sick, contributing labor for their neighbors’ harvests, repairing roads together after natural disasters. In many ways the modern Japanese government has included these community concerns in its programs such as national health care and infrastructure maintenance (however, they haven’t done a thorough job of meeting the needs of the 2011 tsunami victims). For the first waves of immigrants from Japan to the United States, there was a sense of banding together for mutual aid societies (primarily to share the costs of burial as people died in the U.S. far away from their families). But from early on, they were under the weight of assimilation – “You people better do things like regular Americans and give up your uncivilized customs.” Our temple like so many others still follows the “church” format for Sunday services which was set up to seem as Western as possible – using readings and songs based on Christian models. So for Japanese American Buddhists, the message was: Act as much as you can like White Anglo-Saxon Protestants and you’ll be considered worthy to be in this country.

Becoming like WASPs also meant one follows the WASP disdain for those who don’t fit the majority’s image of “true American” – the blacks whose ancestors where forcibly brought to the U.S. as slaves, the indigenous peoples, the Catholics from Ireland and Italy, and the Jews. When the Japanese Americans were interned during World War II, it didn’t make them identify more with oppressed people, but rather made them feel indignant, “We’ve been trying to be good Americans (i.e. like white people as much as we could), so why lock us up?”

When I went to assist Rev. Gyoko Saito at the Los Angeles Higashi Honganji after my three years of study in Japan, I saw the disconnect between the teachings of hongan (all beings are taken up in the aspiration for oneness) and how the Japanese Americans thought. In the 1980s, the influence of Cesar Chavez and United Farm Workers movement was still strong in California, but the L.A. members who owned large farms said, “I take care of my Mexican workers – they get food and a roof over their heads. Why should they get more than we had in camp?” It showed that the Japanese Americans thought they were “tough” for having survived the internment camps and the migrant workers were “weak” for wanting more than shacks to sleep in.

In Chicago after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, many Japanese Americans were swayed by the xenophobic view of Muslims. To try to offset this, I scheduled a guest speaker from the Muslim community to speak at our Sunday service. He spoke about the humanitarian concerns in both Buddhism and Islam, but unfortunately he got questions such as, “If you guys have all the oil, why do you attack us?”

Even as recently as our 2017 interfaith service when we had American Islamic College professor Shabana Mir as our guest speaker, members were telling me, “Make sure she doesn’t say anything political.” She gave a brilliant talk that diffused a lot of tension with humor but still I get push back about me doing “too much” for “those Muslims,” hearing that they all support terrorism and should be banned from our country.

[Activist Ryan Yokota at the June 30 rally against immigrant family separation. Regrettably I had to tell him that our temple could not be one of the sponsors of the Japanese American contingent.] 

As much as I criticize the elites who dominate the Western Buddhist groups, it’s many of the Japanese American temple members who believe in what I call “Ayn Rand” Buddhism – “What I own is karmic reward for my own hard work. Why should I share with those lazy blacks/immigrants/homeless etc.?” Too much of the Buddhism in our Japanese American temples talks of personal responsibility and karmic reward/punishment – blaming the poor and disadvantaged for bringing on their own suffering due to their bad choices instead of recognizing our participation in a system that limits their opportunities.

I know what I need to do (before it’s too late health- and career-wise) is speak more about the essence (shinshu) of the Buddhist teachings of liberation from our self-serving ego, awakening to the reality of our lives intertwined with all lives. It’s not some abstract concept but as I’ve experienced – we become truly alive when we go into action together with others. It makes more sense that as Buddhists who respect the worth of all beings, Japanese Americans would be involved in the struggles of those who feel marginalized, instead of identifying so strongly with the privileged who want us to act like them and abandon our Asian heritage.

Hongan as Merton's Description of Love

[Since December 2018 was the 50^th memorial of Merton’s death, here is an excerpt from December 2015 “Taste of Chicago Buddhism”]

For a handout at an interfaith dialogue event, I took some Thomas Merton quotations from this Huffington Post article: "10 Thomas Merton Quotes To Celebrate The American Monk's Birthday”

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/01/31/thomas-merton-quotes_n_4703411.html

And there I found this passage:

The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves, the resolution not to twist them to fit our own image.

At first I thought it was a great way to describe “love” that would relate to the Buddhist concept of compassion. Then it struck me – the passage is hongan, the innermost aspiration expounded in the Larger Sutra.

In the story Shakyamuni Buddha tells of the seeker Dharmakara, whose teacher directs him to confront his own heart/mind and question why he keeps categorizing other beings as “good” versus “bad.” To overcome his judgmental habit, Dharmakara makes a series of vows, but they can be distilled into the main, primary – “Primal Vow.” That is the aspiration that wells up from the depths of his being to embrace all with no exception, to show utmost respect (Namu) to each and every being beyond any categorization (Amida) and completely identify with all (Butsu).

 

[photo of Merton’s grave by Rev. Brandyn Simmons from his blog “Apophatica”]

Unlike the “love” I spoke about in an early blog post which indicates the negative notion of possessiveness, the love that Merton describes is our truest aspiration for Oneness. That love is the opposite of the ego’s drive to control and hang on to other beings for the benefits we crave. To let all living beings be “perfectly themselves” is the command of the Buddha in Shandao’s “two rivers, white path” story to “come immediately, just as you are.”

The numerous vows of Dharmakara in the Larger Sutra are all resolutions to stop twisting others into how we think they should be, our ideas of what pleases us. It may seem most of the time that we lack the will to really love others, but Shinran documents for us that the heart/mind of entrusting (shinjin) is a gift that is already given to us. All we need to do is become aware of it – to hear its calling (nembutsu).

In the news these days, we find plenty of examples of conflict from humans trying to control other lives and seeing others as dangerous because they don’t fit our image of goodness. There are no purely evil people – only people who think they are justified in harming and destroying others for not fitting into their idea of propriety. The way to take away that sense of justification is to keep listening to the teachings of all-embracing Oneness, the teachings that make us see that there is no “they” as opposed to “we.” To hear the nembutsu is to hear our deepest wish to see our self and each life as perfect just as we are, inextricably part of one great flow of life. This is Shinran’s radical solution to the terrorism which we all are guilty of promoting.

Three old posts

In 2012 I used my old blog “Taste of Chicago Buddhism” as a personal journal instead of reporting what was going on at the temple since I was in Texas to care for my terminally ill sister. Here are three posts from that time.

Monday, February 27, 2012

Tripping Over Uncertainty: No Skillful Means

I thought “constant change” (mujo = not-always) would be an inspiring theme for the new year, but impermanence is a big pain in the oshiri when you need to make travel plans. I didn’t want to blog about my personal issues, but my being away from Chicago does affect the people at the temple. I’m scheduled to do a 4-week course “Brief Introduction to Buddhism” in March, but at this point, I’m wondering when I’ll be back in Chicago.

Back in mid-February my sister’s health took a turn for the worse and she asked if I or my brother could come down to Texas to help her settle her affairs (which included setting her up on a hospice program). I paid for a one-week round trip ticket to Austin but it looks like I definitely can’t go home that soon since it’s taking time to set up all the hospice care arrangements. In some moments my sister is busy putzying around and seems able to do most things herself (she expressed that she does not desire the constant company of me and my brother) but other times she’s weak and in pain and I would hate to go away even with a caregiver visiting her daily.

In the daily e-mail I receive from Tricycle magazine, they had a quote from (one of my big idols) Thanissaro Bhikkhu saying we should keep up the intention to be skillful in our every thought, word and deed. It hit home with me in my present situation – I’m pretty clueless and clumsy dealing with all the things my sister needs to have done. I’m so bad at making efforts and so easily distracted by entertaining trivia (like watching the Oscars).

At one of the Maida Center retreats, Rev. Ken Yamada of the Berkeley Higashi Honganji Temple told his story of driving his wife to the hospital when she became critically ill. He was speeding but it seemed like the route was full of traffic jams and aggravations and he was getting more anxious and swearing at all the other drivers. Then Naomi told him, “Whether we make it to the hospital quickly or not – it’s all up to Amida.” To hear her calm settling into true entrusting (shinjin) helped Rev. Ken let go of his anger and drive more sensibly. Everything turned out okay – Naomi received treatment and recovered.

As Amida means the unbounded power of conditions and events beyond our control, then Amida includes the reality of one’s own limitations and inabilities. We can’t will ourselves to suddenly become strong and competent and without years of intense monastic training, even our intention to be skillful goes off track more often than not. I’m finding out that the Namu in “Namu Amida Butsu” doesn’t just mean “bowing down” – sometimes it means tripping over and falling flat on your face.

Friday, March 2, 2012

Forgetting and Remembering - Others as the Buddha

Don't try to be too wise; don't always try to search for something profound to say. You don't have to do or say anything to make things better. Just be there as fully as you can. And if you are feeling a lot of anxiety and fear, and don't know what to do, admit that openly to the dying person and ask his or her help.

From The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche

I was surprised that the “Caregiver’s Guide” pamphlet from the hospice service (providing care to my sister dying of cancer in Texas – see previous blog entry) had two quotes from recognizably Buddhist writers – one was Jack Kornfield and the other Sogyal Rinpoche. The latter’s quote in the pamphlet was short so I Googled it to read a fuller version (link no longer available).

Being here fully is just not happening. I find myself forgetting every little thing, even things that used to be routine with me. I try to write down important things dealing with my sister’s care, but the sheets of paper and sticky notes are all piled here and there in disarray – as the to-do list gets longer. And I’m not talking to my sister about my fears and anxieties, since she lets me know she has enough on her mind and doesn’t want to hear my troubles.

As much as we say we want to be “there” for someone – we are elsewhere a lot of the time. And the internet makes it easy to be other places mentally while you are physically in one place. I’ve been taking care of a lot of temple correspondence by e-mail, mostly about the Buddhism Intro class which I’ve postponed a week. Yesterday my husband e-mailed me a scan of the handwritten note sent to me by a temple member, Mr. J, an elderly Japanese American.

When I read Mr. J’s note I realized I completely forgot about performing a memorial service on the anniversary of his wife’s death as he had requested a month ago. Mr. J had been hospitalized for a while and was not up for the drive from the western suburbs to the temple, so I offered to go to his house to do the memorial service and asked his son to set it up. The son called me later and said his father didn’t want that and so I intended to comply with Mr. J’s original instructions to just do the chanting on the date without his presence.

(Photo by Joanne Kamo)

As it turned out I had to come to Texas to deal with my sister’s declining health and the memorial date of Mr. J’s wife had come and gone. Mr. J wrote the note as a reminder to me of his original request but he began reminiscing about her death twelve years ago: “I took her to the hospital for heart valve replacement. We had never thought it would be the end that night. We made a recovery room for her by the window so she can see birds and squirrels. Never entered our mind of the outcome that day. I thank you for being there that night.”

That night when my husband and I went to the hospital we saw Mrs. J was unconscious and hooked up to a breathing machine. At one point the family said it was getting late for us and nothing much was happening – I wanted to go home and get to bed but my husband said he had a feeling we should stay a little longer. We stayed and maybe it was about an hour or so later when I saw the monitor by Mrs. J’s bed go “flatline” and the alarm went off. It was the first time I was in the presence of a person at the moment of death. After the medical personnel completed their procedures, the family gathered around Mrs. J’s body and I conducted the Makura-gyo (“pillow sutra”) service. [Customarily the service is done within a day after the death since ministers are called after the fact and often end up doing the service at the funeral home.]

After reading Mr. J’s note, I got out the chanting pages I tuck away in my appointment book and I went to a window in my sister’s house that looks out on her back yard, thinking of the recovery room Mrs. J’s family had set up for her. I saw birds landing and flying around the patio with all the plants my sister had cared for. I didn’t have a bell with me, so for the gong-striking parts of the chant, I tapped with my fingers on a metallic angel figure that was by the window. A couple days late, but I performed the memorial service for Mrs. J – grateful to be reminded of what I had forgotten: tariki, the power beyond self.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Cowgirl All Dressed in White Linen

You would think any seriously practicing Buddhist would have their ojuzu (meditation beads) in their hands at least some time every day, especially if they’re a minister. But during my stay in Texas to take care of my sister, I only took my beads out of my purse twice. The first time was for the improvised memorial service at the request of a temple member (see previous blog entry). The second time was last night – as the two mortuary workers, a young woman and man, carried my sister’s body wrapped in a white sheet from the bedroom to the gurney set up in the hallway. My brother didn’t want to see it. He had just arrived that afternoon and was able to spend several hours with our sister while she was still conscious.

He went to the front door to hold it open as the two workers wheeled the gurney out of the house. With my hands in gassho (palms together) and the ojuzu around them, I walked behind in the same manner as a minister following the coffin in a funeral recessional.

I wanted to keep my hands in gassho, but before leaving the house, the woman from the mortuary extended her hands to me. I let her take my one hand in hers. “Sorry for your loss,” she said. Then she did the same with my brother.

Namu Amida Butsu. Sorry – loss – ours.

Self-Doubt as the Gate to Awakening

From “Taste of Chicago Buddhism” July 2018

Although I have taken refuge in Shin Buddhism,

There is no truthful mind in me at all.

Since my being is false, vain, and insincere,

I have not even a fragment of pure mind.

As for my appearance to everyone,

I show the façade of a wise, good, and serious man.

Because I have abundant greed, anger, perversion, and lies,

My being is filled with evil schemes.

My evil nature is difficult to stop.

My mind is just like snakes and lizards.

My religious practice, being mixed with the poison of self-love,

Is called the practice of falseness and vanity.

            --Shinran Shonin, Gutoku Hitan Jikkai (translated by

            Nobuo Haneda in The Evil Person: Essays on Shin Buddhism

            By Shuichi Maida)

A few years ago I was reading an article about Frank McCourt, author of Angela’s Ashes, where he said during the time he taught school in New York he felt like such a fake speaking at the front of the classroom. But he found that students he encountered years later would tell him he was one of their best teachers, sincerely helping them in their learning. It made me think of Shinran – continually calling himself a fake (as in the passages above), yet he was and still is able to compassionately convey to people the truth they need to hear.

I was reminded of the Frank McCourt article recently because of the recent suicide of celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain and the PBS Newshour story on Robin Williams. Both men confided to friends and family that they felt full of self-doubt, feeling that their public image as a good guy was fake. I know how crushing that feeling can be, yet the saving grace is always hearing the voice of Shinran, “Yeah, I’m a fake but it makes me awaken to the nembutsu as true. The delusion of thinking I’m purely good and wise is a barrier to realizing how much goodness and wisdom I receive from others.”

The paradox of the true teacher being the one who says “I’m a fake” is conversely true – the false teacher is the one who keeps insisting on his authenticity. One sign of a group based on a false idea of their teacher is that they don’t recognize the teacher had teachers and those teachers had teachers. In the Pure Land tradition of Honen and Shinran, even the historical Buddha had to have teachers. To them it was obvious from reading the Mahayana sutras that the Buddha was frequently expressing his appreciation of the Buddhas of the past – and in the Larger Sukhavativyuha Sutra, these past guides are represented in the archetype of Dharmakara/Amida.

[Five-kalpas contemplation]

It’s sad to think of great people such as Bourdain and Williams who felt so weighed down by self-doubt that they were driven to end their lives. It makes me grateful to teachers such as Rev. Gyoko Saito who showed me that no matter how awful one’s personal life can get, “the nembutsu is here,” as Rev. Saito quoted Akegarasu when he was forced into retiring. The nembutsu reminds us that self-doubt doesn’t have to be a life-destroying thing. By seeing how fake our surface personality is, the grip of self-attachment is loosened and we can awaken to the dynamic truth that is all around and deep within us.

What’s Wrong With Saying “Namo Amida Butsu”

from "Taste of Chicago Buddhism" October 2017

[Note: Since the 1990s, Nishi Honganji prefers to use the spelling “Namo Amida Butsu” while Higashi Honganji continues using “Namu.”]

I need to explain what I was trying to say for my Dharmathon talk titled “STFU” recorded this past week (Sept. 27, 2017). I don’t think I am the first or will be the last person to complain about those individuals who have to burst out with frequent shouts of “Namo Amida Butsu!” causing a disturbance for those of us trying to listen to what is going on at the time, such as a minister giving a Dharma talk.

Actually it’s not just the rudeness of old men loudly demonstrating their piety that I’m questioning, but whether there are any reasons for saying that string of syllables aloud. I can think of two – cultural and ritual. For centuries “Namo Amida Butsu” has been a part of Japanese Buddhist culture (and in the cultures of other East Asian countries with the phrase spelled out differently). Way before Honen and Shinran, it was heard in the cities and countryside of Japan, in and outside of Buddhist sites – spread by hijiri, wandering monks, such as Kuya. So despite the wide range of how to interpret the phrase (magic mantra, plea for the afterlife, expression of inner peace, etc.), it is a familiar sound that Japanese people can voice comfortably.

As in any religious tradition, it helps to have some stock phrases that everyone can chime in on at the start and finish of certain sections of the service (readings, meditation, chanting). So saying “Namo Amida Butsu” together and in response to the leader during a weekly Sunday service, memorial/funeral, wedding etc. serves as punctuation in the flow of ritual routines.

But outside of those two contexts, is there a need to say “Namo Amida Butsu” out loud? I used to think Shinran specified oral recitation when he used the verb sho-suru but then Dr. Haneda pointed out that the original meaning of sho (tonaeru) was to “carefully consider.” As is described in Japanese dictionary sources, the Chinese character is a stylized picture of the scales of balance. Maybe when the person doing the weighing announced when the object was in balance, the verb came to have the meaning of “vocalizing.”

The great Higashi lineage teachers such as Kiyozawa and Maida don’t write about “Namu Amida Butsu” very much and for all the times I’ve heard Rev. Gyoko Saito speak in services and lectures, he seldom inserted “Namu Amida Butsu.” But what all the great teachers do talk about is the nembutsu. For certain persons at particular times, the nembutsu could take the form of saying “Namo Amida Butsu.” But the nembutsu that the great teachers describe is too profound and universal to be restricted to a specific kind of action.

The title of this post is a statement, not a question. Here are three general categories of why I refer to the saying “Namo Amida Butsu” as the seven-syllable barrier.

It perpetuates the impression that Jodo Shinshu is an exclusive group that identifies as Japanese.

The saying of “Namo Amida Butsu” seems like a special phrase that the insiders say to each other like members of some old men’s lodge. And in Jodo Shinshu no matter what country you are in and what language you speak, you are required to say the phrase in Japanese pronunciation – an indication of the primacy of Japan and its culture.

It makes Buddhism into hocus-pocus incantation rather than teachings of self-examination and awakening to reality.

Just as Zen in the West played into the American cultural streak of anti-intellectualism (“You don’t have to know what Buddha or anyone else said, just sit on this here cushion until I hit the gong”), too many Jodo Shinshu ministers get to play the part of the Wise Master, “Just keep saying Namo Amida Butsu and don’t worry about what it means,” instead of making the effort to explain anything that smacks of scholarship (sutras, history etc.). What’s lost is the opportunity to hear the essence of the Buddha-Dharma which is what Shinran dedicated his life to bringing to us through his many written works.

It becomes a “required practice” which contradicts the ultimate Mahayana principle of unconditional access to awakening for all beings.

To hear the strained speech of the current Otani-ha abbot, a deaf-mute, should be a reminder to us all that saying “Namo Amida Butsu” is not an “easy practice” for anyone with physical or mental disabilities. Recitation becomes a forced custom divorced from what “Namo Amida Butsu” was meant to express. Suppose Shinran had a laugh that was a high-pitched “Tee hee hee” and everyone thought they had to copy it exactly in order to attain his level of bliss. That recitation ignores what made Shinran laugh in the first place and the fact that laughter is a spontaneous expression of enjoyment with each person having their own unique way of laughing. Instead of enjoying a good laugh, the imitators are stuck joylessly repeating “Tee hee hee, tee hee hee.”

What “Namo Amida Butsu” expresses is the voice of hongan, the deepest aspiration, the universal wish to awaken to the interconnected oneness of all life, liberated from the delusion of self. At the recent Dharmathon, I would say the story that Rev. Fred Brenion told was an example of the nembutsu. In his job working at a prison for the criminally insane, he encountered a woman who had murdered her children. He couldn’t help feeling a sense of revulsion about her crime, yet he felt enabled to say to her, “There is no pit too deep for God’s hand to reach into.” Knowing she was a Christian, Rev. Fred felt it was better to tell her that instead of trying to convert her with talk of Amida’s Light. To me, hearing that story was to hear the nembutsu, the voice of hongan, the universal wish – the voice that makes us contemplate and remember (nem-) what awakening (-butsu) is.

Ten Thousand Nien-fo

From "Taste of Chicago Buddhism" November 2017

Though I was living in Los Angeles when the Hsi Lai Temple opened in 1988, I hadn’t had an opportunity to visit there until this past weekend. I happened to be in the LA area for my aunt’s funeral and on Facebook I heard about the service for Aaron Lee at Hsi Lai.

The service was held at the Memorial Pagoda, a building out of sight for tourists since it is behind the majestic Main Hall. Inside the pagoda there is a round room with seating for about 100 people (during the service the doors were kept open for the seated and standing overflow crowd). At the start of the service, a nun who looked and sounded like a teenager, explained the program. Each person was handed a pamphlet with the chanting in Chinese characters and romanized pronunciation (they used the Wade-Giles spelling, so this post uses nien-fo rather than the Pinyin spelling nianfo). The nun asked us all to chant with the handful of monks and nuns leading the service. She said the chanting was for Aaron to hear, “and he is more familiar with your voices than ours.” I was prepared to fold my legs under me to sit seiza on the cushioned row-bench but she asked us all to stand.

[behind the Main Hall, no photos were allowed at the Memorial Pagoda]

The crowd which consisted overwhelmingly of Chinese Americans of Aaron’s age (late 20s to early 30s) seemed to have no trouble following the shifting melodies and pronunciation of the chants. During the Heart Sutra, I fell into chanting in Japanese since it was easier than reading the romanized syllables for the Chinese. Then during the chanting of Namo Omito Fo (which the pamphlet said to do a hundred times), the nuns distributed cut flower blooms and directed us to go row by row to offer up the flowers to a tray on the altar.

During this chanting, I let my tears flow with the tears of those around me. The calling of the name of Namo Amita(-abha/ayus) Buddha was the music of mourning, seemingly endless but not feeling tiredly repetitious. I started out singing loudly but then had to do it sporadically as I felt weak and light-headed from the hecticness of the weekend and anemia (side effect from chemotherapy). It took bouts of concentration to keep myself from losing consciousness.

When the nuns and monks saw the lines for the flower offering coming to an end, they switched to the shorter “Omito fo” and a swifter melody. The chanting was brought to a close, then the service continued with the Dharma talk (the young priest gave one of those “I didn’t know the guy, but here’s what you better know about Buddhism” sermons), some moving personal tributes and a slide show. Although reference was made to Aaron’s “be the refuge” essay, it would’ve been nice in that setting if someone could have riffed on that.

It is difficult for me to even think of being a refuge for anyone or anything at this time. For me to follow Aaron’s example of helping and encouraging others, I’ll need quite a few more hyakumanben (100 x 10,000) of nien-fo (remembrance of what awakening is). Yet if I contemplate the “ultimate refuge” that Shinran sings about in his verses (Jodo Wasan), I see Aaron Lee has been a part of that refuge, or rather, he has become that refuge. As I keep pointing out – the working of Namu Amida Butsu comes to us in very concrete ways, not as giant magic fingers from the sky. Aaron Lee – his life activities and his words – are the manifestation of Amita(-ayus/-abha) for me and hundreds of others, showing us the path of ego-transcendence.

The young nun at Hsi Lai told us to chant so Aaron would hear our voices, but in the hundred-fold repetitions of nien-fo it was Aaron calling to us by the names of our true selves.

Dharma Lesson from Yuri Kochiyama

From “Taste of Chicago Buddhism” March 2017

When I talked up the showing of the film, “Yuri Kochiyama: Passion for Justice,” I thought half the Japanese American community would be filling up the auditorium at the Block Museum on the Northwestern University campus last month. But only a handful of the folks I knew showed up and the total audience for the film showing was pretty thin.

Maybe just as well – it wasn’t a well made film (it seemed like in the mid-1990s sound recording for film must’ve been pretty primitive). But for me, the life of Yuri Kochiyama (1921-2014) illustrated the Dharma lesson I try to impart at every memorial service – “That feeling of respect and gratitude you feel for your deceased loved one should carry over to a widening circle of compassion for the lives around you.”

Yuri Kochiyama lost her father to the World War II hysteria against the ethnic Japanese in America (after Pearl Harbor he was jailed despite his poor health and died the day after he was released). Her passion for justice is a directing of her outrage over her father’s loss into the energy to fight for all people in the United States who are mistreated by the majority white society and the government.

Her story is a rare exception among Japanese Americans. While she raised her family in Harlem and got involved in the parents’ group which led her to activism with the black and Latino liberation movements, most Japanese Americans followed the white flight out of the inner cities to more affluent neighborhoods. They left the south side in the mid-1950s to move to the north side during the time of real estate fear-mongering and redlining. And in the 1970s, there was a strong push to get away from the black, brown and red people of city neighborhoods such as Uptown and relocate to the suburbs.

Right now there are a lot of young Japanese Americans saying they’re against the “Muslim registry” (such as my cousin’s daughter http://www.facebook.com/nationalcouncilofasianpacificamericans/photos/a.532706786770092.122765.532675646773206/1527469653960462/?type=3&theater), but I don’t hear many calling for reparations for African Americans as Yuri Kochiyama did. It’s good that young JAs relate to the recent immigrants, such as those from Muslim countries, but I wish more Asian Americans would relate to those whose ancestors were brought to the U.S. as slaves, to those who were here first and saw their lands taken away from them and to those vast numbers of descendants of Europeans who are in or near poverty due to shifts in the economy.

For many Americans, Yuri Kochiyama is seen as unpatriotic for her anti-government remarks (see the furor over the May 19, 2016 Google doodle), but she reminds us that the mindset of powerful interests that incarcerated the ethnic Japanese during World War II is still prevailing in policies and procedures that violate the rights of people of color and lower-income whites and deny them the opportunities easily accessed by residents of affluent areas. Yuri Kochiyama’s life reminds me of the Dharma teachings of considering myself and all beings as “we” - not to be divided into us (“we work hard and have morals”) versus them (“they’re lazy and just want to kill and rob”). My hope is that the Japanese Americans at Buddhist temples can become Dharma friends with diverse ethnicities and those of differing socio-economic statuses and that we categorize less and emphasize more with all the lives around us. That is, genuinely hearing the call of Namu Amida Butsu instead of just giving it lip-service.