Buddhists Make Me Violent
Recently I saw a new documentary film about Zen Chef Ed Brown from Tassajara Mountain Retreat Center and one of the founders of Greens Restaurant in San Francisco. He is a large caucasian man I could easily picture as a convict somewhere, making license plates and carving primitive tattoos into his cell mates' arms. Instead he drills mindfulness of food into the participants at the Zen Center's kitchen. During his interviews in the film he did this thing with his voice that has become the hallmark of annoying New Agey white people everywhere: he spoke with a hush. Nothing can send me into fits of raging contempt more quickly than a whispery voice.
My best friend's husband says that Zen gardens make him violent. A counselor he was seeing for pain management had suggested he get one of those little table top Zen sand trays with a tiny little rake, and to stop watching violent films as a way to decrease his pain levels. He suffers from debilitating nerve damage in his back and legs which require doses of pain killers that would stun an ox. At six foot four and over three hundred pounds it used to take a Mack truck to lay him out. Now lifting a glass can put him in bed for three weeks straight. The counselor suggested he rake tiny sand as some kind of miracle cure. He almost punched her. I know how he feels. I bet she spoke with a hushed voice and a serene smile.
It is my experience that the people who present themselves as the most harmless are often the ones capable of the most damage to others. There was a wispy blonde from Southern California who had completed her EST (oops, I mean "Lifespring") Training and wanted to "help" me overcome my distrust of others with a guided meditation so she and I could become closer, better friends. Two years later she purgered herself on the stand in a court of law in an attempt to help my drug addicted, abusive ex husband prove me an unfit mother to our three year old daughter so he could gain complete custody. Giving her testimony in that Snohomish County courtroom she seemed just as wispy and harmless as ever. She spoke in delicate, softened tones to the fat, fundamentalist judge, spinning outrageous tales of "multiple sexual partners in the presence of the child in question", among other demonic lies. I sat next to my attorney and felt the taste of hatred in my mouth with each whispery utterance. At last I knew the real face of the devil.
Of course, your average Buddhist isn't evil incarnate. Not any more than any other random person on the street. Not unless you ask my younger sister, who has had to cook with them on occasion during silent retreats. We are not a quiet family. We come from loud, Italian stock who laugh as much as they shout, usually louder than any other person in the room. When my sisters and I gather, you can hear our belly laughs from down the block (or so I've been told). When we were growing up, I'm fairly certain the neighbors sometimes wondered if murder was taking place within our walls. So picture my sister on silent retreat with Buddhists, attempting to slam out three meals a day for several dozen people, in summer weather, in the crackling mountains of Santa Cruz. She called me furtively one night from the communal phone in the hall, desperate for reality check by someone not trying to be peaceful all day long, mindful of each morsel of food they slowly lifted to their tongues, while she was worrying whether there was enough tofu for the morning scramble the next day. "Fucking Buddhists," she muttered to me over the phone. I laughed so hard I fell into bed with a stitch of pain in my side. Needless to say she didn't last the weekend. The Buddhists sent her home, their peaceful demeanor strained almost to breaking by the slamming of her pots and her shouts of "hot tray!" across the kitchen. I will go to my grave with that image a secret pleasure burned into my imagination.
Ed Brown is somewhat less annoying than that in his documentary. But the signature hushed edge has made a home in his speaking voice, and likely a day in a kitchen with him would set my teeth on edge. His saving grace on film is his willingness to acknowledge his own arrogance and human foibles. I can make allowances for anyone who laughs at themselves almost as soon as I have a chance to.
As for that wispy blonde, she did come to apologize to me years later for her role in that tragedy. She claimed to be spending her time doing penance by working as a child advocate in the courts. That is between her and her gods. I cried and told her how much pain she had caused my daughter, and how long those wounds were likely to last. I wasn't interested in letting her off the hook.
I did come to thank her in my own mind later on, however. It was the last time I ignored my intuitive distrust of the whispery peace waif. I have unfettered license now to declare without pause or reservation, warning: Buddhists (and other sundry New Agey whisperers) make me violent.
My best friend's husband says that Zen gardens make him violent. A counselor he was seeing for pain management had suggested he get one of those little table top Zen sand trays with a tiny little rake, and to stop watching violent films as a way to decrease his pain levels. He suffers from debilitating nerve damage in his back and legs which require doses of pain killers that would stun an ox. At six foot four and over three hundred pounds it used to take a Mack truck to lay him out. Now lifting a glass can put him in bed for three weeks straight. The counselor suggested he rake tiny sand as some kind of miracle cure. He almost punched her. I know how he feels. I bet she spoke with a hushed voice and a serene smile.
It is my experience that the people who present themselves as the most harmless are often the ones capable of the most damage to others. There was a wispy blonde from Southern California who had completed her EST (oops, I mean "Lifespring") Training and wanted to "help" me overcome my distrust of others with a guided meditation so she and I could become closer, better friends. Two years later she purgered herself on the stand in a court of law in an attempt to help my drug addicted, abusive ex husband prove me an unfit mother to our three year old daughter so he could gain complete custody. Giving her testimony in that Snohomish County courtroom she seemed just as wispy and harmless as ever. She spoke in delicate, softened tones to the fat, fundamentalist judge, spinning outrageous tales of "multiple sexual partners in the presence of the child in question", among other demonic lies. I sat next to my attorney and felt the taste of hatred in my mouth with each whispery utterance. At last I knew the real face of the devil.
Of course, your average Buddhist isn't evil incarnate. Not any more than any other random person on the street. Not unless you ask my younger sister, who has had to cook with them on occasion during silent retreats. We are not a quiet family. We come from loud, Italian stock who laugh as much as they shout, usually louder than any other person in the room. When my sisters and I gather, you can hear our belly laughs from down the block (or so I've been told). When we were growing up, I'm fairly certain the neighbors sometimes wondered if murder was taking place within our walls. So picture my sister on silent retreat with Buddhists, attempting to slam out three meals a day for several dozen people, in summer weather, in the crackling mountains of Santa Cruz. She called me furtively one night from the communal phone in the hall, desperate for reality check by someone not trying to be peaceful all day long, mindful of each morsel of food they slowly lifted to their tongues, while she was worrying whether there was enough tofu for the morning scramble the next day. "Fucking Buddhists," she muttered to me over the phone. I laughed so hard I fell into bed with a stitch of pain in my side. Needless to say she didn't last the weekend. The Buddhists sent her home, their peaceful demeanor strained almost to breaking by the slamming of her pots and her shouts of "hot tray!" across the kitchen. I will go to my grave with that image a secret pleasure burned into my imagination.
Ed Brown is somewhat less annoying than that in his documentary. But the signature hushed edge has made a home in his speaking voice, and likely a day in a kitchen with him would set my teeth on edge. His saving grace on film is his willingness to acknowledge his own arrogance and human foibles. I can make allowances for anyone who laughs at themselves almost as soon as I have a chance to.
As for that wispy blonde, she did come to apologize to me years later for her role in that tragedy. She claimed to be spending her time doing penance by working as a child advocate in the courts. That is between her and her gods. I cried and told her how much pain she had caused my daughter, and how long those wounds were likely to last. I wasn't interested in letting her off the hook.
I did come to thank her in my own mind later on, however. It was the last time I ignored my intuitive distrust of the whispery peace waif. I have unfettered license now to declare without pause or reservation, warning: Buddhists (and other sundry New Agey whisperers) make me violent.