Michael = Dog?

Anna is one of my favorite students. She is in second grade and just adorable and beats up most of the boys in our class as a bonus. She has black hair like everyone else here, brown eyes like everyone else here but hers are deeper, darker and rounder than most. Her full cheeks with that soft, silky Korean skin is just unavoidable for a quick, gentle caress every time I see her when she is done walking with me with her little hand inside mine. Anna is very affectionate and loves to be loved. Fortunately, I love loving her, so we get along well.

Today while waiting for her classmates to get to class, she was holding my hand, well actually my wrist and looking up at me with those wondrous eyes and dimpled smile. I was lost in her world when I noticed there was someone petting me, yes petting my forearm and I came back to earth and my classroom. It was Anna stroking and petting the hair on my arms. She again looked back up at me this time with wonder in her eyes and said in her best English, “Michael, dog?” and she pointed to my arm hair and then to my chest. Translation for the non-EFL teachers of the world: “Michael you have hair on your arms, are you a dog?”

I laughed half-heartedly and smiled at my precious little angel who somehow made calling me a dog sound sweet. Second graders can get away with stuff like that but adults get the Jersey/NYC stare when they venture into making comments of that sort.

I still get startled at the fact that most Koreans, both children and adults have never touched a human being with body hair or facial hair. It startles me. I grew up in an Italian family and amongst Italians, chest hair and facial hair are signs of virility. In fact, you are not really considered a man until you have chest hair. I faired well in that department. The other symbol of Italian manhood is not as easy to see, but we will leave that one alone for now. The idea that men can be men and not have hair on their chests, face and arms is beyond my mental capacity to understand. When I am lazy and do not shave, the next day almost every young one will come and rub my stubble. It occurs to me that they may have never felt a man’s facial hair as stiff as mine, another fact that baffles me and my social programming.

While on a roll about my social programming, bodies and cultural differences, I might as well dive into the women. Wait, that did not come out right. What I meant to say was I would like to explore the different bodies of Korean and Western women. OK, that didn’t work either but I think you get the point! I was here almost a month before I realized that the majority of females in Korea are not teenagers! Korean women have very slight frames and bones. It is of the highest importance for a woman in Korea to be skinny. I mean skinny, not thin or athletic. Typically, their bodies remind me of the standard American eighth grade girl in girth, bone structure, weight and size of butt and breasts. Even when pregnant, Korean women are less voluptuous then the American college girl on a diet. And I am speaking of American White girls, not Blacks or Latinas. Their butts are smaller then most pre-pubescent American girls, often with even skinnier legs. If thin is in, then Korean women are it but if curves are what shake your nerves, head east in a hurry! Again, I grew up around Italian women and the physical features that define her as a woman are her curves coming and going.

It has taken me a while to adjust my personal definitions of what is considered attractive, sexy and mature here in Korea. I am not sure I would ever adapt completely from the social and familial programming that is seated deep in this curious mind. But I am curious about what the skin feels like, I cannot lie. Koreans have the smoothest, silkiest skin on this planet. It almost doesn’t feel real. I have a friend in the states who is half Korean and I call her Silky Pants (she calls me Jerk Face for the record) and she warned about how the whole country has skin like hers. I did not believe her, I am a believer now. At times, I reflect on wanting to have a one-night stand or something similar just to touch, caress and lay next to such soft smooth skin. My Inner-Slut has a field day with these kinds of thoughts. But generally, return to my prudish ways and go about my business while trying not to gawk at an occasional woman that I cannot tell if she is twelve or twenty-eight- their bodies, faces, skin and clothes are almost identical. I blush when I realize they are a child and lower my head in shame.

The lessons and education continue for me here in Korea. I am starting to pay attention again to my surroundings knowing that my time here is limited. So the young ones will have to find another man to pet and call dog, and I will have to hold the hands of somebody else’s children with skin more course and a lot less bowing. In the mean time, Michael Dog will try to not smirk at the idea of being a man without chest and facial hairs and being a woman without curves. The programming is deep, like the center of an old Oak Tree. And like an Oak Tree, they don’t die easily.

The Janitor

It was the second time I had visited the Tibetan Buddhist Learning Center, Labsum Shedrup Ling. Leanne and I decided we would spend New Year's together on a retreat at the center. The retreat had a focus on The Buddhist Lineage, neither this, nor the fact that I became infatuated with a twenty-year-old girl at the retreat is important to this particular reflection. Before I dive in, I would like mention that I knew very little about Buddhism when we signed up to participate. Leanne did. I just knew that there was some kind of Inner Connection with Buddhism and me.

The first time I noticed him was during the initial shared meal. He was sitting somewhat distanced from most of the folks there, but I could tell he lived there. He was wearing very plain grey pants and shirt; the kind that most janitors wear. He seemed almost disinterested in the events and happenings around him. It appeared as if he was enjoying his meal, content and grateful just to be there. The first thought that went through my mind while watching him was something like this, "WOW! If this is what their janitors are like, I can't wait to see the monks! I am definitely going to become a Buddhist." He helped clean up as if he does it every day and what he does there. He showed people where to find things and whatever they needed like a typical worker would do at any place else. But there was something very different about this janitor. He was so simple and radiant in his way of being. He smiled simply but beautifully with a sincerity that was rare. I noticed myself staring and observing him beyond what is socially acceptable but I couldn't stop myself. He was special in a way that I had not known previously. I was in awe of the way he carried himself, and the Inner contentment that was his being. I remember thinking to myself, "Where do they find janitors like this in Tibet?" Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, he was an older Tibetan man, possibly in his sixties. He had those facial features that only men and women that have walked this earth for a while and have learned more than the rest of us. The lines on their face seem deeper and richer, as if each one tells a story.

I was talking with someone during another meal the following day and asked about the janitor. The person I was speaking with smiled and informed me, “He is not the janitor.” I immediately felt embarrassed. Then he shared with me, “He is actually one of the men that helped lead The Dalai Llama on his exile from Tibet to India.” I froze and thought, "What an idiot I am!' When I regained my composure, I asked the guy I was conversing with, “Is he a monk?” He smiled again and said something to the effect of, "Yes, he is definitely a monk. He decided after successfully leading the Dalai Llama safely to India; he could now stop wearing his robe and dress like the rest of us."

I did get to meet and have a few conversations with him over the next year or so. He is a very kind and gentle man. To me, he is Buddhism. I say this because he exudes the virtues that I think of when I am thinking about what it is to be a Buddhist practitioner. He is simple, kind and warm. He has no interest in drawing any special attention to himself or his accomplishments. He has genuine Humility but is not self-defeating or a door mat. Honesty and Truth just ooze out of every part of his being and it is all genuine. He is not "acting" like this to show us what these traits are like, he is these traits.

In America, Buddhists often are very intellectual and full of book knowledge on Buddhism and all its Teachings and philosophy. They are ready to engage in intellectual debate, armed with all their book knowledge. To me, this is far from what being a true Buddhist is. Buddhists do not try to show off their knowledge or meditation skills. If for no other reason than the Humility of knowing that we all truly know very little, and what we know today as "Truth" may shift as we develop and evolve. Being able to quote Koans is different than being able to live Koans. Being able to sit for long periods is different than being able to learn for long periods.

For me, I want to evolve enough to be as dull as dishwater. I am far from there and rarely am willing to let go of my desire for attention and recognition. These attachments hold me back, and in turn, hold back those I try to help. A Teacher can only take a student as far as they have gone themselves. I realize that this is not true in academia, but my experience interprets this to be true in spiritual development. Genuine Humility seems to be a lost virtue in our culture these days. It often gets confused as putting yourself down in a self-deprecating manner. Humility is being right size, not big or small, weak nor strong, aggressive nor passive, best nor worst, etc. We are Humble when we allow our True Self to shine through. The moments I experience this kind of Humility are typically in either Genuine Prayer or Genuine service. I heard somebody once say "We should do something good for somebody else every day and not get caught." To me, this is the essence of the janitor. He was a very special somebody but was a total nobody.

Can you imagine what the world would be like if each one of us did one thing every day for somebody else without getting caught? Are you up for the challenge?

The Man in The Lighthouse

The Man in The Lighthouse

He sits quietly
Thoughtful
Alive
Reflective
They learn from him
Life
Connection
Tradition
He creates worlds other cannot see
Vision
Conception
Redemption
They bow in awe
Respect
Direct
Insightful
He listens to words not yet said
Open
Sensitive
Intuitive
They think he knows something, everything
Silent
Proud
Alone

Old Bricks

I love the way old bricks feel under my bare feet in the summer. They have many seemingly contradictory but actually contrasting textures; smooth and rough, soft and hard, natural and manufactured. I cam feel some of the cracks on the ball of my foot letting me know they are real. This is especially true when the bricks are old, and time, water and footsteps have created a surface with out any sharp edges. These reed bricks are aged well into greens and browns as well. The William and Mary campus only has red bricks like these on al their walkways.

Leaning back against a short brick wall of three layers equally about eight inches, I feel at home here. The steps, eight in number lead to and from the Sunken Gardens. I still do not know why they are called “gardens” since it is just a grass field, one that I enjoy but still just a field surrounded by a dozen sets of brick steps with a lining of the shrubs on the horizontal sides and trees on the ends. The trees appeal to me more then the shrubs. Shrubs usually look too manicured and un-natural to me, these are no exception. Trees, well they’re tress and tell me great stories, sometimes I can hear them. They tell us where we came from and who we are and our greatness.

There is a white male sunbathing at the far end. He brought a folding chair with him but he is now lying face down on a blanket, no correct that, face up. It is not as easy to tell which is which with a man at a distance as it is for a woman. Women’s sunbathing attire is drastically different front and back, not men's. Why do white people sunbathe? Why do they not like their natural skin color? It s interesting to me that many of the folks who sunbathe are prejudice and discriminate against people of color but spend hours ad days sunbathing every summer trying to get darker. And then they pay to go in microwave-type machines in the winter to further avoid looking like themselves. What is wrong with their skin that they need to try to change races to appear sexy? Why does they attach healthiness to tanning? For people like me, it is not a matter of health or anything else. My skin gets darker even when bike riding in the snow of winter.

If one knows the history of “tanning”, they know that before passenger planes were invented, having a “tan” meant you were a low-income, uneducated outside worker. Those with money and wealth would go to great lengths to not be exposed to the sun to not be confused with “the servants” who had “tanned” during the summer. The came passenger planes and vacations to Florid and other southern USA beach destinations. The cultural climate changes because now having a “tan” in the winter demonstrated wealth. Even “the servants” were not “tan” in the winter like them. Then came the bikini, the supermodel and finally “tanning salons”/microwave ovens for humans. Why do white people want top change their skin color, hair color, nail color, lip color and now with fake colored contact lenses, their eye color so much? If “white is right” then why are they are trying so hard not to be white?

Of course, this is just one example of us humans not accepting ourselves for who we are. White peoples obsession with looking different is not ht beginning nor the most glaring example of lacking self-acceptance. For me personally, this takes many shapes and forms. As an Italian male like many others similar to me, I have a lot of body hair. Depending on the day and my feelings about myself on that day, will determine whether I will be wearing a tank top on the beach or shirtless. Ironically, two of the women that I have been serious partners of mine, partially chose me because they like men with thick dark body hair. But this did nothing to ease my insecurities.

The red bricks are still here. After sitting ion them for a while, my butt is starting to hurt. What felt pleasurable then, now feels rough and stiff on the heals of my feet. Time to go. I say goodbye to a good friend at dinner tonight. I will miss her even though I am the one leaving. I will miss these Sunken Gardens without a garden. Time to go…

Beth

We were both attending meetings of the same self-help group. It had been six months since the first time I saw her. I fell for her before she even opened her mouth. She was soft, warm and genuine in her walk and demeanor. When she opened her mouth and spoke, there were no more questions: I would pursue her.

As common for me then and now, I was shy and intimidate by her physical beauty. Besides the obvious challenge of being shy, in my case that meant acting differently than myself around her. This is a self-defeating system; if she likes the way I am acting, then she won’t like me when I am myself. Worse yet, if she doesn’t, she may never get to actually meet the real me. I still live this pattern to a lesser degree today.

So, after six months, all of my friends were sick of me talking but not acting, while adoring and admiring Beth from afar. They pushed and poked me to finally ask her out. It was a Monday night when I made the decision to go for it. I listened to nothing during the meeting; my mind was consumed with fear and doubt. I knew she would say no, I just knew it. Why would she say yes? Beth was talented, smart, popular, fun, genuinely gorgeous, loved by family and friends, good job, finishing school and a joy to be around. Beth was the perfect woman for me.

After the meeting, in noticed she was helping clean up, so I joined the clean-up crew. I was patient as the room cleared. Finally, it was just Beth and I. No more stalling, time to step up! I looked her in the eyes, trembling, and went for it.
“Beth, would you like to go out on a date?” I cringed and braced for the rejection.
She then responded as natural and casual as can be, “Sure”.
I panicked; I never made a plan that included her saying yes.
We then awkwardly made plans to go out a week from next Saturday; she would be out of town the upcoming weekend.

She handed me a piece of stationary that said Expect A Miracle across the top and below she had written Beth followed by her phone number. We said good-bye, hugged and walked out together.
Expect A Miracle, it just happened: Beth said YES.

The following Monday night we had some casual conversation about our weekends and then she said, “Instead of waiting till Saturday, how about we go to the Diner and scoff down some food tonight?” Oh shit, tonight? Now? I was not ready, I did not prepare. “That would be great” I was able to squeak out. We left together in separate cars.

The five-minute ride both took forever and went by in a flash. We walked in together and I was nervous, real nervous. I think she could tell, or maybe not. I was always nervous around her, like all attractive women.

We asst down, talked about food and what to order, followed by meaningless conversation to kill airtime. It was what we needed to do to work through the awkwardness, now that we were on a “date”. Is it like this for everyone?

The food came; we started eating and talking. Fortunately, she did most of the talking.

At some point, I mentally faded out of the conversation and into my head. I remember thinking, “WOW! My life has really changed. I am out with Beth! Beth! She’s gorgeous, intelligent, fun, warm, loving, honest, popular, a good person, everybody loves her, good relationships with her family, good job and going back to school. She is perfect! How did this happen?” Then I faded back into the conversation. I flinched realizing what I had just done. Did she notice? Did I look like an idiot? Then what I heard floored me:

“I’m fat, ugly, no friends, nobody likes me, my family hates me, stupid, failing school, worthless job and I have been thinking about suicide a lot lately.”

What did I just here? I quickly switched out of my own head to Beth and her needs. We talked for several hours, till she felt better. We hugged, said good-bye and walked out together again.

My ride home was filled with questions, lots of questions. The one that was the loudest and most forceful was, “If Beth is so attractive and she thinks she is fat and ugly, maybe I am not ugly. Maybe I have been wrong all these years. Maybe.”

When I arrived home, I skipped telling everyone about my night with Beth; I scurried directly to my room. I took off my clothes and looked into the mirror. And there it was. I wasn’t ugly. I did not make the leap to good-looking. Not ugly was a huge step for me. That was the last time I ever saw myself as ugly. I have been either somewhere from average to good-looking since.

Besides opening my eyes to the fact that I was not ugly, I learned a valuable lesson. Our inner chatter can lie, and usually for the worse. We buy the lies because we don’t accept the evidence that contradicts these negative voices. We create a self-image that may not resemble the Truth even remotely. We live a lie; not even knowing it is based on nothing but fear and deception. I actually got better looking from that night further. It was not just my perception that had changed, but my face, body and presentation of self were now altered by that perception. And from these physical changes, women found me more attractive. Their attraction provided evidence to support my newfound appreciation of my looks. The relationship between the inner, outer and interactions with women now all fed each other. The ugly guy became the average guy that grew into the above average guy. In fact, the ego started inserting a new lie, “You are the best looking guy”. This phase did not last long. It eventually landed at where I am typically today; I am not ugly, nor a model- I am somewhere from average to above average, AND THAT IS OK. The same ego that lies and tells us we are ugly will then lie and tell us we are “it”.

Humility is being right size- not too big, not too small. I wonder if any of this would have manifested if Beth didn’t share her self-loathing and suicidal thoughts that night? Would I still be walking around thinking I was an ugly guy?

As for Beth, she needed time and space to get her self back together. I eventually introduced her to a friend; they fell in love and got married. They were perfect for each other. We stayed in touch for a while. I am still grateful for Beth and that night she altered my perception forever. Thank you Beth…

De-Expresion

It is now white, very white. You can see the spots that are not as white but still very white. I am sure the landlord will only see the places that the orange, blue, red, green, purple and black refused to be hidden. Just like early in the twentieth century when American women refused to have their voices and votes hidden any longer. Just like when the Voice of Nelson Mandela refused to be hidden or silenced by prison, hate or violence. When Brother Malcolm returned from his Pilgrimage in Mecca and refused to support division, and in fact promoted inclusion, and reformed, open-heartedly a vision of what we need to do to be free. The Creative and Inspired Voice has a way of making itself known no matter how many coats of paint one tries to hide it with.

How can we accurately represent or portray six months of days and nights filled with love, tears, songs, laughter, dances, sharing, huge hugs and community after its visual evidence has been whitewashed away? Did we just commit treason of the highest order by submitting to the system constructed to whitewash creativity and uniqueness? But, who would be better assigned to such a task than the creators and lovers themselves? Is there anyone else qualified to dissolve James De La Vega’s chalk masterpieces on the sidewalks of Harlem than De La Vega himself or Mother Nature herself? NO, I think not.

I am writing this knowing the answer but fighting hard to hold back the tears. Real hard. I am leaning against the cement base of the UVA flagpole in front of the newly painted columns of The Rotunda. It’s a gorgeous Sunday morning including tourists with cameras, and Christians in Khakis coming from Church strolling around campus. This is not where and when someone cries hysterically over participating in the process of de-expression. No, not here or now. Maybe I am not courageous enough to let myself breakdown and mourn over being one of the Brillo-scrubbers this morning. I am not strong enough to be that man. After centuries and millennium of witnessing de-expression, the wounds in my belly, heart, mind, ears and eyes are too deep, I am not man enough to embrace the kind of paint that deep.
But they are.

They, the ones who together produced the playlists on his MacBook that was the soundtrack of this loving family of a small, special group of humans. Young humans with friendship, trust, passion and wide open arms perfectly sculpted for hugs that make my knees weak by the sheer force of their love, compassion, hope and humility. They drew the purple sketches of the girl with the amazingly straight nose standing tall next to her soft, pillowy cheeks. They wrote The Welcome in all its bright undeniable colors that spoke the Universal language of Welcome to anyone fortunate enough to enter this Temple of love and community. They who as a group created their own Ten Commandments that lift and include us all, while simultaneously letting us know that we may not be there yet, but know where to go and why.

Purple and blue was the hardest to de-express. The vitality and boldness of these two pigments would make The Buddha, Jesus, Abraham, Kwan Yin and Mohammed proud parents of children like blue and purple. Just look at the sky or any flower garden for proof of their force. The orange was easy to de-express, just like the bag of tangelos we inhaled to quench our thirsts on this hot day while scrubbing.

The handprints on the ceiling had pigments glorifying the colors of the rainbow and de-expressing them took our whole bodies to distinguish. We had to stretch and bend to make sure all evidence of this experience never happened, the lost votes in Florida in 2000 were easier to hide than the tempura paint handprints holding and hugging all below them with love, warmth and forgiveness. These hands caressed and massaged the wounded hearts that Mother Culture beat and abused. The hands reached down to them providing safety and protection. A place where being you was what was expected of you. Not in spite of who you are, but because if who you are!

When I walked up the stairs to the living room this morning, the whiteness startled me. I have many friends of Color who experience being startled by whiteness every day of their lives, for me, this morning was too much. No, I am not man enough to face this pain. How can I allow these tears trying to purify and cleanse my heart and Soul for this act of heresy but I will de-express them too.

If I am experiencing this level of violation and stripping of their outward expression of their days and nights they shared meals, words, arms and dreams together; what about them? I am just a weary traveler grateful for a place to rest my head. This is their collective creation.
When will we choose expression over oppression?

Today, my vote in the primary of life is to express and create. No more de-expression, not one more day!

May 25, 2008, Charlottesville, VA