How One Honours Thy Parent in the Land of Lotus
I was kneeling before the robed man, hands clasped in prayer with rows of temple goers kneeling behind me. A lady was introducing him as our honoured guest Teacher-monk who grew up in a Tibetan monastery, earned a doctorate degree etc etc (i.e. he's holier than me). I have to say that he was one dashing monk. On his left was his fledgling Bhikkhu, sitting cross legged. Microphones were handed to both monks, and I'm expecting to hear another traditional prayer in Viet. Instead, I hear what I could've sworn was a human didgeridoo. I think there was that moment when mischief glistens in the child's eye. Then severe discomfort. I had to bite my tongue and struggle against bursting into hysterics. I was reminded of one of my favourite authors, and how he said that we have urges to laugh at foreigners because it contains that truth of something being like ourselves and at the same time totally unlike ourselves.
Nobody laughs at what is entirely foreign; nobody laughs at a palm tree. But it is funny to see the familiar image of God disguised behind the black beard of a Frenchman or the black face of a Negro. There is nothing funny in the sounds that are wholly inhuman, the howling of wild beasts or of the wind. But if a man begins to talk like oneself, but all the syllables come out different, then if one is a man one feels inclined to laugh, though if one is a gentleman one resists the inclination.
-G.K. Chesterton, All Things Considered
The monk preached about the 7 branches of the buddhist prayers. I didn't understand a word he said, but I could tell he was tragically eloquent. There was an English and Vietnamese translator to his right. It was neat hearing his lectures juxtaposed in those two languages. How the message is essentially the same but the nuances sometimes made it seem like the two people were translating separate pieces. For example, in Western culture, there is this sharp division between mind and body. So when the mind was discussed, it seemed like an ethereal more rational thing allotted solely inside your skull. The division in the Orient is not so clear cut. The spiritual there is more visceral, weaved in fibre and sinew. In Vietnamese, the "equivalent" of mind was a word which encapsulated the idea of heart, intentions, morality and organs. The word describing sin or wrongdoing is roughly translated as "guilt and cruelty" but in my language the very mention of those words seeps shame into you and the latter part connotes a wicked creature which has eaten away at you to the point where your actions are jagged instruments lashing out at others.
The spirit world in English is mist, and that of Vietnam is blood. The abstract in my mother tongue is more tangible. It moves me. I feel it more. Or maybe this is just because I'm a total ESL.
Later, on our way to the car, my grandma would remark on what a powerful speaker he was. There was also a smaller ceremony afterward, the memorial of the dead. There was mention of a man known as phat muc cieng lien in the mantras. My grandma told me that his folklore of achieving enlightenment in search for his mother could move a person to tears if told properly. The moral of the story dealt with reverence for parents. Which brought me back to this time I was in a van with one of my neighbours last month while my dad was driving. Let's call him Wu Tei.
WU TEI: Kids these days do not honour their parents. We live in a 9-1-1 era. Traitorous, ungrateful wretches. Lay a bit of discipline, and they'll call the cops on you. Not like the old days.
FATHER: That's right.
WU TEI: Spineless degenerates. No filial piety at all.
FATHER: Uh huh.
WU TEI: Why can't they learn from Guo Ju?
FATHER: Exactly.
ANIIGE: Who's that?
WU TEI: A noble man. He lived with his toddler son and mother. They were very poor. His little boy would hog most of the food, and his mother became very ill. You see, he loved his mother so much that...he decided to bury his son and feed him to his mother. The heavens witnessed his noble intentions, so granted him a pot of gold as soon as he struck the dirt with his shovel.
ANIIGE: That's crazy.
WU TEI: No, YOU'RE crazy.
Nobody laughs at what is entirely foreign; nobody laughs at a palm tree. But it is funny to see the familiar image of God disguised behind the black beard of a Frenchman or the black face of a Negro. There is nothing funny in the sounds that are wholly inhuman, the howling of wild beasts or of the wind. But if a man begins to talk like oneself, but all the syllables come out different, then if one is a man one feels inclined to laugh, though if one is a gentleman one resists the inclination.
-G.K. Chesterton, All Things Considered
The monk preached about the 7 branches of the buddhist prayers. I didn't understand a word he said, but I could tell he was tragically eloquent. There was an English and Vietnamese translator to his right. It was neat hearing his lectures juxtaposed in those two languages. How the message is essentially the same but the nuances sometimes made it seem like the two people were translating separate pieces. For example, in Western culture, there is this sharp division between mind and body. So when the mind was discussed, it seemed like an ethereal more rational thing allotted solely inside your skull. The division in the Orient is not so clear cut. The spiritual there is more visceral, weaved in fibre and sinew. In Vietnamese, the "equivalent" of mind was a word which encapsulated the idea of heart, intentions, morality and organs. The word describing sin or wrongdoing is roughly translated as "guilt and cruelty" but in my language the very mention of those words seeps shame into you and the latter part connotes a wicked creature which has eaten away at you to the point where your actions are jagged instruments lashing out at others.
The spirit world in English is mist, and that of Vietnam is blood. The abstract in my mother tongue is more tangible. It moves me. I feel it more. Or maybe this is just because I'm a total ESL.
Later, on our way to the car, my grandma would remark on what a powerful speaker he was. There was also a smaller ceremony afterward, the memorial of the dead. There was mention of a man known as phat muc cieng lien in the mantras. My grandma told me that his folklore of achieving enlightenment in search for his mother could move a person to tears if told properly. The moral of the story dealt with reverence for parents. Which brought me back to this time I was in a van with one of my neighbours last month while my dad was driving. Let's call him Wu Tei.
WU TEI: Kids these days do not honour their parents. We live in a 9-1-1 era. Traitorous, ungrateful wretches. Lay a bit of discipline, and they'll call the cops on you. Not like the old days.
FATHER: That's right.
WU TEI: Spineless degenerates. No filial piety at all.
FATHER: Uh huh.
WU TEI: Why can't they learn from Guo Ju?
FATHER: Exactly.
ANIIGE: Who's that?
WU TEI: A noble man. He lived with his toddler son and mother. They were very poor. His little boy would hog most of the food, and his mother became very ill. You see, he loved his mother so much that...he decided to bury his son and feed him to his mother. The heavens witnessed his noble intentions, so granted him a pot of gold as soon as he struck the dirt with his shovel.
ANIIGE: That's crazy.
WU TEI: No, YOU'RE crazy.