bad metaphor

I’ve been to the Buddhist temple twice in my life. The first time, I was with my mom, my sister and her husband, and my mother’s obnoxious friend Dottie, who kept loudly describing everything as if we were deaf and blind – “SEE! NOW THEY PRAY! THEY PRAY FOR LUCKY! LOOK HERE THEY USE INCENSE! THEY USE INCENSE FOR TO PRAY!” – as well as pushing the two white people, her husband and Visual Field forward “SO THEY CAN SEE BETTER!”, butting aside all the peon Asians who were trying to pray. I don’t remember much of that visit, other than Dottie being annoying and the heapings of great vegetarian food available in the basement (Buddhist monks are vegetarians). I’ve never been for New Year’s, and I’ve never been during a service. So when my aunt Rose brought up the idea of visiting the temple at midnight, to kick in the new year, two of my cousins (Mimi and Andrew the Elder, not to be confused with his younger brother Andy) and I were up for it.

“You know, the gods only speak Vietnamese,” Aunt Rose teased us. “If you try to pray, maybe they will mess up your prayer and give you something wrong!”

“Then we’ll just burn an English-Vietnamese dictionary for them,” Mimi retorted. I love my family.

We arrived, and took off our shoes, as per the custom for temples – “Hmm, I hope I’m not the only Asian with pumas,” said Andrew. There was another pair left out in the open, which reassured us, and we went ahead inside. We followed a procession of followers through the foyer, into the main room, up some stairs, down some stairs…which led us back into the main room again. I suppose that could have been to throw off any bad spirits that might follow us in, but probably it was more due to organizational problems. Then we went through another door, and eventually arrived at the back of the temple area.

A massive gilded buddha greeted us; hovering behind his polished bald head shone a resplendent halo of neon concentric circles and blinking lights. The altar surrounding the buddha was a mass of yellow flowers, burning incense and blinking lights. It was a couple slot machines shy of being a nice casino hall, which might be fitting, I guess, as a lot of folks probably visit the temple on their way to Harrah’s.

We stood at the back and were handed (hymn) booklets to follow along with the chanting, which, as far as I can tell, consisted of five syllables repeated over and over again in differing orders. We were given booklets to read from so that we could follow along, but if I didn’t keep my finger running along the page, I got lost almost immediately. The syllables were Vietnamese, but I couldn’t hear anything that sounded remotely comprehensible. I asked my aunt and mother about it, and they were also lost. Whatever it was, it sounded beautiful. I tried to follow the text so that I could 1) practice learning Vietnamese phonemes and 2) not fall asleep to the soothing chanting, but it was pretty tricky due to all the repetition.

I gained a greater appreciation of little kids from this experience. One little girl solemnly babbled along to the monks’ sonorous chanting, putting smiles on some of the nuns’ faces, until her mother ushered her downstairs. Another little girl, seated in front of me, was overwhelmed by the gentle incantations; she slept for half the service. Her mother woke her up, and she sat straight up to show that she was paying attention. Then everyone started bowing, and the little girl bowed her head all the way to the floor, and then stayed there until her mother woke her up again. My leg sympathized, as it, too, was comatose. When we were finally told to stand up again, I had to shift all my weight on the other leg so as to not fall down. Whatever, I thought, trying to surreptitiously rub my calf. My leg is now blessed for its troubles.

The kids were pretty great, but as far as the adults – now that’s another story. After the (lengthy) service, we were ushered into the main room again, in which the worshippers stood gathered around some monks who knelt on the floor. The head monk, dressed in yellow robes, chanted. A pile of oranges lay at his feet, covered in wrapping paper and a silk embroidered cloth. One of the ground monks removed the cloth and tore an opening in the paper, while he head monk produced a red silk bag. The first monk laid an envelope of lucky money at the head monk’s feet, and then grabbed an orange from the pile and another lucky money envelope from the bag. Then the other monks on the floor followed suit.

As soon as the last monk finished, everyone in the room sank down on their knees and pushed forward to get their lucky money and orange. My aunt told me later that she had no choice but to get her lucky money and orange; a woman jabbed her with her elbow and yelled “Kneel down! Kneel down!” and then, from the forces of the over eager worshippers behind her, got pushed to the front. It looked like a claustrophobia nightmare, so my cousins and I decided to pass on the luck, and waited for my aunt and mother to finish, or alternately, get stampeded by kneeling old Vietnamese women.

Then we went to read our fortunes. There was a little corner set up with these half-crescent red blocks and canisters of I-Ching sticks. You’re to shake the red blocks in your hand and toss them like dice; if one lands flat side up and the other lands curved side up, then you can move on to the I-Ching sticks. If not, you keep shaking the dice until you do, as far as I can tell. I’m not sure what the point of this stage is, but sure, okay.

Then the I-Ching sticks – there are, I think, a hundred numbered wooden sticks in a canister. You shake the canister until one stick gets pushed up higher than the rest, then you pull that one out and read the number. Then you look up the number in a booklet and underneath the number is your fortune. Or, if you’re me, you get your aunt to read the booklet for you because it’s in Vietnamese.

“It says, this year…” long pause as she scans the fifty lines of text, “…you should be patient.”

“Is that all,” I said. “Hey, isn’t that what Andrew’s said, too?”

Meanwhile, poor Mimi was trying to shake her I-Ching sticks and was having trouble – some of the sticks were stuck or something. An old woman came up, grabbed another can of I-Ching sticks, and pushed Mimi aside.

“Excuse me,” said Mimi, and then she scooted aside to give the woman room. Again, she started rattling her canister, and then this time the woman impatiently swatted Mimi’s shoulder. “You can’t do this at the same time as me!” she scolded. “It’s bad luck!” We’re not sure why she chose a time when hundreds of people were going to be in the temple for her to read her fortune, in that case; I presume she had some important lottery numbers at stake or something.

So poor Mimi didn’t end up getting to read her fortune, but it probably would have been something about having to be patient. Which, in retrospect, would be pretty ironic.

Getting ready to head back down to Wichita this weekend for the purposes of celebrating the new year. Not the piddly Euro-American version with that big lame disco ball, Dick Clark, and guilty resolution-making; but the awesome Vietnamese-style bacchanal of ridiculous amounts of food, money, lottery games and people running around in paper dragon costumes.

There are stories and rituals associated with the new year, but being an ignoramus assimilated kid, I never learned any of that, except for the most important part. As part of the celebrations, kids collect little red envelopes stuffed with $1 – $2 dollar bills; the earnings add up quite a bit when you have a lot of aunts and uncles. You are supposed to hold on to your lucky money as long as possible, but I never did and always blew it right away on whatever stupid things I purchased as a child (seriously…what did I blow money on back then, before I could drive myself to a yarn store or Urban Outfitters? Toys? Candy?). At some point, my status switches over from being a kid and on the receiving end of this exchange, to being an adult and having to bestow lucky money on my little ingrate cousins in turn. I think I haven’t reached that point yet, since I’m still in college and don’t have a real job. I hope.

So “chuc mung nam moi”! It is the year of the Dog, so in the spirit of things, I leave you with a picture of some celebratory puppy-wuppies:

-edit – and no, we are not going to eat the dogs We have better things to eat, like pho and bird-flu infested chickens.

On an unassuming April afternoon, Erika Allegheny inexplicably escaped imprisonment. Erika’s attorney, Alice Ulungu, argued animatedly, and eventually achieved an adjudication of innocence. Ecstatic, Erika’s elderly aunt applauded Alice’s accomplished efforts. Everyone approved…

…but for the victim’s family, kin to the late Rodrigo de Sanchez, who did not deserve the grisly fate that had befallen him. Maria de Sanchez, Rodrigo’s bereaved mother, would never forgive the judge who let the smirking murderess walk free. Neither would she forgive the smarmy, con-woman lawyer. But she reserved pure vindictiveness solely for the girl who posed for the cameras while leaving the courtroom, the girl whose cruel smile burned forever in Maria’s mind.

The prompt was to write one paragraph with all words beginning in vowels, and then one with all words beginning in consonants. Ha ha. Guess which one was easier to write?

The only thing I ever wanted was a bath. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not filthy. I shower every day, twice if I’ve lifted lots of stuff at work; I never repeat clothes before I’ve washed them; I floss. I’ve just never had the time for a bath. You’ve got to fiddle with the knobs before the temperature is right, then you gotta wait for it to fill, and when you go to sit down in the water, you even have to do that carefully too or else you’ll turn your bathroom floor into the first few rows at a Sea World show. Then when you’ve finally got yourself situated, then the phone rings or someone knocks at the door or you look at the clock and it’s ten till six already, and you’ve got to hurry up change and get on I-470 right now if you want to be only five minutes late.

Since I grew up and got a job, the bath has remained something mystical, like Santa Claus or world peace. I dream sometimes of the water surrounding me, buoying me aloft, a small child unfettered by schedules and Powerpoint slides. I don’t even look at the rubber duckies or bobbing balls that float past the fringes of my vision; all that are tangible are the textured grooves of stuccoed ceiling, and, of course, the warm waves of water, moved by unseen bathtub forces. The heat and water and wavy stucco patterns melt into one another, lulling me to sleep while I’m still asleep.

Usually what happens in these dreams is that the waves pull me under, or I turn face-down or something. I sink deeper and deeper into the water, no longer confined by acrylic walls and grouted tiles. Sometimes, I wake from these dreams gasping like a fish, treading sheets – but I never wake up feeling cold.