A couple of years ago, I was heading into the first retreat of a multi-year Buddhism/meditation program at a well-known (and very white!) spiritual center. I was quite curious about what it would be like studying something with Asian roots in a mostly white space.
Well, you can bet a LOT came up for me (and many of my fellow Asian participants)!
From hearing one of my friends say she was asked the dreaded, “Where are really from?” question to hearing one of the guest presenters use the word “alien” not once but twice in a talk about traditional Buddhist suttas. As in she found the “ethnic” (a.k.a. “non-white”) writings or translations so un-relatable or inaccessible that they were “alien.” These incidents brought up all those other times I’ve been othered and felt like the forever foreigner.
I experienced such cognitive dissonance seeing this bald, white woman monk dressed in Asian garb, surrounded by Asian art and statues and chanting an Asian chant. I thought back to my only two memories of Buddhist chants from my childhood.
One was watching my grandma in front of her Butsudan (Buddhist altar) in a small corner of her bedroom. On the mornings I stayed with her I’d see her light incense and offer tangerines or mochi to Buddha and pictures of her parents as she prayed and chanted. I had no idea what she was chanting and she didn’t really take the time to fully explain. Add on the worry of “uh-oh, is she praying to a false God? Is she sinning?!” rooted in what I absorbed through dominant culture’s Christian influence and my poor child-self was even more confused and concerned. I regret not being more proactive about learning, but I get now that my family and I were focused on assimilation. And still, there is grief.
The other memory is from a funeral for an elder in my family. It was at a Japanese Buddhist temple in L.A. and I remember sitting in a row with my cousins. When the priest started chanting we began giggling uncontrollably. Looking back, I can see that I was simply embarrassed, probably because these sounds were the same type of sounds that people made fun of us for. I recognize my own internalized racism in that.
The first retreat I attended at this center a couple years prior actually had chanting in it but I felt so uncomfortable being in a room of mostly white bodied folks who were chanting in Chinese and bowing over and over again in unison. I skipped those morning sessions because it created so much dissonance for me watching dominant folks doing the things that others have mocked me and my people for.
So at this retreat, when we had a breakout group prompt, “What comes up for you when you hear the words ‘and now we’re going to chant.’…?” you can bet I had much to name in my triad. I didn’t hold back. It was uncomfortable AND freeing at the same time.
I’m not usually one to share in the larger group settings. In fact, I never had on retreat. Especially when there are 100 people, a microphone and a recording! But, after giving voice to my experiences in my small breakout to two white bodied folks who really didn’t know what to do with what I shared, I felt just brave enough to bring it to the bigger circle.
I felt the strength of my ancestors at my back as I sensed their images on the ancestor altar behind me.
I felt empowered by my Build A New World deck collage cards that I had placed along the main altar earlier. The “Accountability” card peered at me from the center of the room, as if to say, “I see you and I’ve got you! Let’s tell them what’s what!”
I raised my hand quickly because I knew if I hesitated, I’d probably lose my nerve. I can still feel how hard my hands shook as I held the mic.
“I’m so shaky,” I said.
I paused for a while as I got my bearings. I took a deep breath and, through tears and a trembling voice, I shared the pain of being disconnected from my own lineage. The dissonance that arises when I see how easily white bodied folks get to take on and even lead these practices and traditions while my people were forced to hide their cultural ways as a means of survival. How my grandparents didn’t share their Buddhist heritage with their children or grandchildren. During WWII they were incarcerated for being Japanese and they did everything they could to be safe. At the time being Buddhist meant you weren’t “American.” (And yet how trendy Buddhism has become in mainstream culture these days!).
I spoke to the “alien” and “ethnic” microaggressions from the previous talk and how those were just a couple examples of the many ways BIPOC were being subtlety slighted throughout the retreat.
My body continued to quiver even after I shared as my nervous system dissipated the excess energy. Amidst the tears, the snot (hidden behind my mask!), and the trembles… I felt complete.
I gave voice to my hurt and my grandparent’s hurt.
When the group eventually went back to chanting, I could feel my perspective shift and my body soften. I could open to it a little more because now at least everyone in the room knew how I felt about all this and witnessed my naming. Instead of leaving the room because of discomfort and my own shame like on that first retreat, this time I stayed.
This time I gave voice to my experience and that helped me claim my belonging.
I visited with a dear friend the night after the retreat and as I debriefed her, this somatically oriented sage stopped me to say, “Jenn, do you realize that your sharing was a form of a chant? The reverberations in your throat from your shaky voice. The energy moving from your chest up and out through your mouth with your vulnerable words. It was your own powerful intergenerational healing chant!”
Her insights moved me to tears. I felt waves of emotion swelling in my torso and healing rippling through me, behind me and around me. I experienced a deep and grounded sense of coming home.
Written by Jenn
