Been slowly returning to parts of myself that I let go of and thinking about this beatboxing monk and his stuff lately among other things. Enjoy.
Related (and partly copied/pasted from the comment section) too:
To me, wisdom is about reliable truths. What makes a lot of zen/buddhism [in general] challenging is they speak more to arriving at a sort of ideal state of "being" and leave it to folks to "be" there in whatever way they find themselves. Peace happens whenever we realize our ability to take genuine action in and from a place of love. This includes taking genuine action to surface, embrace, and transform conflict. It also includes the ability to simply be in and from a place of love.
For that last one, which I often found challenging, there's an Ojibwemowen word 'bizaan' that roughly translates to sitting in quiet/tranquility/calm/peace which really helps make a way for arriving at that ideal outcome of "just being" seem a bit more feasible than just suddenly "activating" or "achieving enlightenment" as it's often portrayed.
Some folks who study buddhist logic will say are 5 sorts of logical states--a thing can be:
1. true,
2. false,
3. true and false,
4. neither true nor false,
5. or undefinable because language+thought limits our ability and skews our paradigms for perceiving things as soon we try engaging with them
Being at peace and presence with those, especially that last notion, basically sums up the chunk of text below and what it's like to experience it even as a moment for me:
"...whatever son or daughter of the lineage wishes to engage in the practice of the profound perfection of wisdom should look perfectly like this: subsequently looking perfectly and correctly at the emptiness of inherent existence of the five aggregates also. Form is emptiness; emptiness is form. Emptiness is not other than form; form also is not other than emptiness. Likewise, feeling, discrimination, compositional factors and consciousness are empty. Shariputra, like this, all phenomena are merely empty, having no characteristics. They are not produced and do not cease. They have no defilement and no separation from defilement. They have no decrease and no increase. Therefore, Shariputra, in emptiness there is no form, no feeling, no discrimination, no compostional factors, no consciousness. There is no eye, no ear, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind, no form, no sound, no smell, no taste, no tactile object, no phenomenon. There is no eye element and so forth, upto no mind element, and also upto no element of mental consciousness. There is no ignorance and no exhaustion of ignorance, and so forth, upto no ageing and death and no exhaustion of ageing and death. Likewise, there is no suffering, origin, cessation or path; no exalted wisdom, no attainment and also no non-attainment. Therefore, Shariputra, because there is no attainment, all Bodhisattvas rely on and abide in the perfection of wisdom; their minds have no obstructions and no fear. Passing utterly beyond perversity, they attain the final state beyond sorrow...." -Youtube comment by Dak pinned to the page
Headline keywords translated for those feeling sensitive about it:
"People"=not singular individuals/groups of; a selection of individuals that can be representative of a majority.
"across the socioeconomic spectrum" = not all people in each portion of the socioeconomic specturm, but people across the socioeconomic spectrum
In the US, racism often has a nuanced meaning beyond overt discrimination on white vs. black. Typically it's also about systemic benefits and policy in addition to the prejudice it was crafted to impose.
If you're not feeling those alleged benefits--and it's not because you question whether you'll get attacked or shot for wearing a mask to the store at this time, or if your name and way of speaking isn't reason for getting turned down for a job interview--it's probably because you're experiencing the legacy of racist policies that now apply to whole classes of people.
Folks who've been born into wealthy families like Betsy DeVos, the Koch Brothers, or the current US President and his children have no concept of what it's like to be among sweatshop employees who still get paid about 8 cents per garment in LA as of 2015 for companies like American Apparel; or to be tomato field workers get paid about $0.50 per field basket (which is about half of what they got paid in the 1950s if you adjust for inflation).
But at the same time, neither do middle class families and some low income families who believe/d if they simply work hard and smart it would solve poverty--or that because no one helped them, other people shouldn't get help either.
In a lot of cases I think there probably was a point in time that those assumptions came to be after they "survived and made it"-- and wasn't just because they wouldn't take time to imagine or learn from other people in extreme struggle.
It's more likely because they're so occupied with trying to make ends meet that it's hard to connect and their communities don't necessarily value or support each other the way poor and other cultures tend to rely on each other--so they couldn't imagine or see other ways that people struggle because of what the surviving in the economy seems to require from their lives.
Most of the people working the field and sweatshop jobs are stuck in very clear wage slavery due to policies that were set during the post-Civil War "Reconstruction Era".
But the fact that most people will deeply struggle to make ends meet and need to turn to unemployment benefits if the pandemic affects their lives in the wrong way says a lot about how most of us are actually stuck playing someone else's game.
A
while back when we had primary elections I mentioned I'd share my
perspective on where my energy for political engagement goes. I
appreciate the analysis on power and perspective for the choices and
strengths or lack thereof among prevailing parties that S Claire
provides here and add some own thoughts that haven't changed
pre-pandemic.
Tl;Dr
I tend to focus on hyperlocal engagement. For most of us, our chances at seeing changes in municipal and state government +
the odds of you being able to hold elected officials accountable are
far higher assuming you actually have the energy, resources, and time to advocate.
If you're among the few people I know who actually work major
campaigns/staff at the national level or for Super PACs, do a better job
pf championing the authentic and often vocal grassroot priorities that
are often raised by Bernie and even Trump supporters in the form of
their basic needs and how their trust and voices were historically
neglected, betrayed, or outright oppressed.
....... I think
there's something to be said about relevance and sense of connection
among many of the disenchanted as the current candidates relate or fail
to with them too.
When both candidates have a record of
implementing and advocating for policy and causes that created real harm
to your community, morality also speaks to proximity and there's a
tipping point where it no longer ascribes to the larger impact calculus
that comes with a Presidential election.
The most vocal Bernie
left advocates tend to come from places where those harms are front and
center. They are/were also typically already engaged in front-line
advocacy/work that makes their capacity for building long-term
power+relationships limited by nature of the crises they've been
immersed in and entangled with.
Meanwhile more
centrist/liberal/general progressives who tend to be in more comfortable
positions for building power are either disconnected from the
on-the-ground priorities, or the combative rhetoric and disposition for
action among Bernie leftists makes it challenging if not offputting to
see how they'll work together in spaces where stability, decorum, and
composure might be viewed as key to building relationships and power.
So instead, a lot of folks turn toward hyper local politics or
community work as the mutual gap seems too much to breach. At best, you
might be able to find heart in swaying state and municipal/city
politics.
But in a place like Detroit, people have been fighting
for so long that they know the cards are often stacked against their
favor unless there's a good personal connection who came from the
neighborhoods and can cut through the bureaucratic dysfunction and
favoritism that money and status often brings. While I still vote for
the sake of recognizing the impacts and lack of accessible and
substantive influence at the Federal level, most people wind up looking
to their own place and find it more effective for what more or less is
localized nationbuilding given the legacy of neglect to their community
and people.
Expertise, experience, and the depth it can bring to a situation are necessary for putting evrnts into proportion. Yet not at the expense of curiosity and not to the degree that it should altogether silence the validity of other people's experience.
A revelation: The "take rice from the hand of a kung fu master" thing we see in movies is a really practical exercise for proper* fist formation in a punch. You must keep swift and relaxed, tighten your hand to a fist as you propel forward and immediately withdraw for a proper snap-punch. Taking the rice isn't the outcome where mastery lies, it's the practice of swiftly delivering and restoring oneself with elegant force, repose, and clarity of intention. Honing how to get what you need even in messy situations. *note: it's not the same a striking--there's a nuanced difference in distance and the exact moment for clenching the hand--but the essential motions and general timing approximate well to one another. A tangent on rice and the fist: Is anyone familiar with and able to explain the conflict between First Nation's rights to wild rice harvest and the DNRE's permitting for mining companies in Northern Michigan? Is this a regulatory outcome of environmental conservation which overlooks other aspects of our existence? It seems there's a double standard between the regulation for harvesting and how the State's departments permit mining and other activities that may/already harm the area. I overheard someone explain as I was signing out of the Michigan Environmental Justice Summit but wasn't able to catch the whole conversation. EDIT (!): In retrospect (and after a lot of googling to find where the idea/media inspiration for this post really came from), I guess I've never seen a kung fu movie where the student takes rice from the hand of their teacher. I'm guessing it's actually a pebble. Now that I found the clip below, I'm glad I didn't. Otherwise, I probably never would have made the connection between striking form and reaching for rice. I like my example better, but the advice in the clip on humility's nice to hear too.
Today I played music outside of the Mardigian Library. I was approached by a girl who said she was unfamiliar with a lot of music, though she shared wonderful insight into the ways verses of the Q'uran can be sung (according to her, 10 melodic guidelines can be applied to every verse when reading). She asked me if the music I played had any meaning or symbolism.
. . .
{according to my mother 20:28 28 IV 2013}
American FM radio was a source for interesting music and news in Vietnam, but during these days, all they could hear was "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas"--that's what my mother and grandfather heard as they stayed in their Saigon home under a curfew that began on the 27th of April in 1975. Instead, my mother listened to her music on reel to reel audio tapes or tape players. Around April 26th and the 27th of 1975, a few skirmishes broke out and airplanes trying to leave the country crashed. Some of the planes were too overloaded with people, others were piloted by mechanics who didn't know how to fly. The music persisted throughout the 28th and 29th, and at night the skies were pink from combat. From the windows of her home, my mother could see a lot of bloodied uniforms, jeans, and guns strewn on the street behind her house. The uniforms belonged to the Army of the Republic of Viet Nam fighters, while the jeans were almost certainly of the Viet Cong. Meanwhile, my mother and grandfather listened to the radio. They didn't know what it meant at the time, but for the U.S. nationals in Saigon, the ongoing broadcast of "I'm Dreaming..." signaled evacuation.
At noon on April 30th, a famous Vietnamese singer-songwriter [Trịnh Công Sơn?] was in the palace to receive the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong. The Communist flag was raised (yellow star in the center, red field), and no matter where one looked, the South Vietnamese flag with three red stripes on a yellow field could not be found. With the change of regime, the curfew no longer remained in effect and people were in the streets to see soviet supplied T-54 tanks roll in bearing with many skinny young men (approximately 16 years old). At this time, my mother chose to wear her scout uniform over her Red Cross uniform since the Red Cross was restricted to certain areas, whereas the scout uniform, especially that of a young Scout Master, was recognized and respected by the North and South Vietnamese alike. She spoke with two of the youth who appeared to be soldiers, still wearing fresh jungle vegetation on their helmets. They turned out to be students--North Vietnamese honor students promised to see and liberate the people in South Vietnam.
Drawing parallels to what we hear about malnourished and impoverished people in North Korea today, the North Vietnamese Soldiers and Viet Cong were all skinny, and the students wanted to know why the South needed liberation when the South seemed so opulent: everyone in the South seemed rich, or fat. Ladies were well dressed, and you could smell their perfume in the breeze. The city still had a modernized mark from the presence of U.S., French, and other international forces. After days of curfew, florists had their finest flowers on display in the streets--and they were exotic to those from the North, where the selection of flowers weren't as diverse and tended to be mixed with edible crops in the city.
My mother and grandfather took a taxi cab rather than their own vehicle to save gas. With all of the people in the streets, travel was slow. They had a boat prepared and tried to leave on the Saigon River to the ocean, but since the draw bridge had no operator were unable to pass.
They went to see my grandfather's brother and their 85 year old mother, a suburb where high-ranking officers lived. Though they couldn't leave the country, my grandfather said he'd continue to try to leave and my great grandmother sadly agreed. It was a sad affirmation for everyone as they knew it was likely the last time they'd see each other.
On the return, they stopped by warehouses and food stores to purchase non-perishible foods (canned goods, dried foods, etc.) the warehouse which had nouc mam (the Vietnamese fish sauce), rice, and sugar was looted and ransacked--my mother could see people carrying goods away as if they owned them.
Grandfather and my mum got home while it was still light outside, likely around at 6:30 p.m. they ate very little and began pulling photos, documents, and books to burn. They heard a noise in the street and overheard someone in the street offering a bounty to neighbors. The description was for my grandfather. Since it was too soon for outsiders to know who was who in the neighborhood, especially for the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong to know anyone there, my grandfather and mother realized one of their neighbors must have been supporters and informants to the communists. My mother and grandfather tore up any books that were translated so that they could burn them throughout the night. My mother got exhausted and was told to sleep as my grandfather continued burning books throughout the night and next morning until 05:00-06:00.
On May 1st, my mother went to a friend's house. Her friend was a schoolmate and fellow scout. her friend's family, where she overheard their plans to leave. Mum asked if she could leave with them, and her friend said yes--but the fishing boat leaves at 10:17 (or possibly at 10:47--my mother now forgets). Mum left for home to tell her father.
On the way, she saw South Vietnamese Soldiers on the street calling out each other's names at their homes and asking neighbors if they were planning to leave the country or go to the jungle to continue fighting. They gathered weapons that littered the street and planned to rendezvous. In retrospect, my mother says when people refer to the jungle, it's a jungle that's in the mountains where the Hmong people lived. The Hmong are respected for continuing the fight long after the U.S. had left, and she suspects it's likely the South Vietnamese resistance soldiers had joined them.
### (recollected from a previous conversation in early May of 2010) ###
My mother and grandfather left for the boat by automobile and she watched as her dogs disappeared behind the car as it drove away from the house. As the boat departed from the dock, she saw her dogs swim after them. As she told this to me, she wept.
#01:49 2 V 2013
Throughout the week, and especially as I re-wrote the frantic notes from Monday's phone call into sentences, everything in the present seems to relate to these events. I suppose that's a good sign--I hope it means I'm living life eventfully and well enough to relate so much to someone else's life and consequences of history that still shake the ground I move upon with its echoes here on the other side of the world: yesterday a Vietnam War veteran called my father to express his thanks for an e-mail my dad sent in observance of the fall of Saigon and in respect to those who were part of the armed services. As I've said last year to several people, I can attribute much of the circumstance of my existence to military conflict and aid. While I believe there's something important about writing all of this down, I'm also detached from the events enough to feel neutral and ramble my writings like a fool in hopes of finding something that resonates with greater coherency.
I spent much of my evening yesterday reading and working in a library writing about organizations that promote literacy, higher education, public service, and peaceable conflict resolution. I imagined the smell of chemical smoke from burning your own books and family photos in your house at the base of a grand staircase. I can also imagine my grandfather's heart pump through arteries that stiffened from being persecuted for his involvement with a government that lost its legitimacy again (Vietnam was susceptible to coups and regime changes).
As I wrote my mother's account of the past few days, I also wondered what would I do were I there and what I would represent.
Isaac Asimov was quoted from one of his novels that "violence is the last refuge of the incompetent."
Despite my belief and interest in non-violence, the fires of youth and bonds of loyalty compel me to imagine myself joining the South Vietnamese even after the capitol and government had fallen if I were part of the armed forces. Yet last year alone I've seen people get brutally beaten over notions of loyalty and an ethos of escalation. I also know some people who are in prison for similar reasons. Myself a musician, I could also see why the musician who greeted the North Vietnamese at the palace might have thought it was appropriate and meaningful to welcome the re-unification of Vietnam. If it is the person I suspect, he certainly advocated for peaceable action and probably had the imagination to envision a co-creative outcome between both regimes. To move people toward a peaceable path in the midst of a major event requires so much work that I can hardly imagine it working--the resilience of a peaceable infrustructure must be established in advance, and the sustained opportunity to authentically engage all stakeholders involved must happen as well.
I'd probably do as my mother did to engage the youth riding in the tanks in a curious conversation, and calculate possible ways to escape the country too.
I explained to the girl who asked me about music that it can bear intrinsic meaning as well as carry extrinsic meanings--history on personal and collective levels can imbue new meanings onto a tune or song. White was once a color of truce, but also a color of surrender under the Hague Convention. In some Buddhist countries, it's seen as a color of mourning. Is it odd or fitting that someone chose a song which wistfully celebrates the birth of a Christian icon as the signal for evacuation? In this case, there's too much life to meaningfully unpack. People died, many in terrible ways, over notions and an ethos of escalation, nationhood, manipulations of our appeal for humanity, and aggression. Others, including members of my own family, would suffer from a legacy of oppression in "reeducation camps" and strife once released.
There's a lot of truth to this article: http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/04/06/how-memoirists-mold-the-truth/?ref=opinion
Within the first few lines of my mum's account, I found myself trying to articulate it with narrative devices as a story that fills the gaps and highlights the salient points. While I certainly see pockets to further explore and flesh out, I understand how my fellow memoirists of the Immigrant Memoir project can find it so challenging to write down their own family histories, and I now also know how the awkward gaps in a possible narrative can occur. This is the first memoir I've completed (relatively) about my parents' past.
I'm still inclined to write some kind of satisfying resolve to the events described above. The best I can offer follows: many of the people I know are alive today or have passed on for reasons other than the war, I remain privileged to write about this and partake in the telling the story of other people's misfortune. While this might not solve a lot of problems in the big picture, we can at least continue to live with gratitude for memorable stories that continue to be made today and our ability to share them.
