When we say “Namu-amida-butsu,”
Which surpasses all virtues,
Our heavy obstructions of evil – past, present, and future –
Are all unfailingly transformed, becoming light.
Jodo Wasan: Hymn 98
When I was in High School, I remember clearly thinking about who I was and who I wanted to be. I had just turned 16. My parents had bought me a 1967 Dodge Charger. My Dad wanted me to get a 1965 Ford Mustang. As with so many things at that time in my life, I didn’t want a mustang, not just because my dad thought I should. I just wanted a big block muscle car. I didn’t really know anything about cars, but I knew I didn’t want the Mustang, which came with a small 289 V8. I wanted the bigger sounding 383 four-barrel Mopar big block. I loved my dad, but from about the age of 14 well into adulthood, my dad and I didn’t agree about many things.
Gasoline at the time was about 40 cents a gallon, so I wasn’t really thinking about gas mileage. I don’t think my Charger got more than 10 miles per gallon if I was driving carefully. I put “Cherry Bomb” mufflers on it, so I felt loud and proud! Looking back over 50 years, very few people remember the 67 Charger, but the 65 Mustang is a collector car! Like many other things from that time in my life, my dad was right.
With so many of the illusions from that time in my life, I realize now how wrong or possibly too naïve I was to see the truth of the situation. However, if I had done what my dad wanted for me, I can honestly say, I wouldn’t have had as much fun as I have had in my life. If I had listened to my dad, I would have been a retired engineer, wondering what I will do tomorrow, whether I should go golfing, fishing or maybe bowling. My Dad didn’t want me to play the trumpet; he wanted me to play the sax. Playing the trumpet or flugelhorn has been one of the joys in my life. It is still my go to when I am feeling a little down. At 65, I am beginning to be the right age for my mind set. I think I’ve always felt old. Many of my friends are retired or are retiring. I don’t think I am quite ready. I wonder if this feeling is just another mask I am putting over my true self? And what is my true self?
The other day, as I was trying to decide on my Halloween costume for this year’s temple Halloween party. I looked in the basement where I have many of my past costumes. I don’t really know what the costumes are saying about me, since they are usually decided by Carmela. But most masks and costumes are about putting on a mask to cover your real self, replacing it with a persona you wish to be or emulate. That’s why every year, Superheroes, princesses, or Disney characters are so popular.
When I was 16, I knew nothing about cars, but I wanted to put on the mask of being cool, driving a muscle car. It’s interesting how in your mind’s eye you have a vision of yourself. I could see myself, wearing my Levi jacket with Vuarnet sunglasses, which were the cool sunglasses, more than Ray bans. Like so many things, Ray ban is still popular. I wonder if Vuarnet is still in business. Inside, I knew that I was quite timid and introverted, but if I had a big car, I might fool people into thinking I was bigger and not so afraid. It was about that time that I thought about what I wanted to do with my life.
I would never wish to be young again. I think it is the most stressful anxiety inducing time of our lives. If there is any wisdom I would share with the youth, it is to just hang on, things will get better. I know it has for me. This has been proven scientifically. I don’t know how it was done, but according to a book I read, even primates, like gorillas, show a marked improvement in their well-being after the age of 40. For myself, the anxiety I felt was about what my peers thought of me.
I had three very different groups of friends at that age. I had my neighborhood friends that I had grown up with. These were the friends that I spent endless summer vacations just hanging out with Richard Houston, Darrell Smart, Brian Henry, Kurt Nelson. In the summer we would do things like collect empty bottles to turn into the neighborhood store, which we called “the school store”, since it was across the street from Whittier Elementary School. This was before there were 7-11s or convenience stores. In my old neighborhood there was the school store or the corner drug store where I would buy my comic books. The school store sold bread, soda, snacks, some household items, and of course candy. My Mom would sometimes have me run to the store to buy bread. She would give me ten cents and I would usually buy cinnamon bears or small tootsie rolls because they were two for a penny. It felt like I was getting a lot for my ten cents. Back then, there was a local soda company called “Mac’s”, for twenty-five cents that got you a large bottle of soda. My friends and I would collect our money so each of us could get our own bottle of soda and it would last us most of the day. We would either hang out in our tree hut or we played baseball at Whittier Elementary School.
My second group of friends in High School were my older friends, who drove fast muscle cars. I really looked up to them. Fred Lopez had a fast 67 Camaro. I think it only had the 327 engine, but he had fixed it up to be very fast. Most people who were into dragging State Street knew that Camaro. Fred worked at the gas station next to Miniature Market also on State Street, so we would often park there and just hang out. Rick Mizuta always had amazing cars. His first car was a rebuilt, copper colored 57 Bel Air. I had always wanted to buy that car, but when he was selling it, someone blew the engine, wrongly down-shifting on the freeway while test driving it. He then got a 69 Pontiac GTO called “The Judge”. That was an amazing car, especially considering us being at South High School. No one had that nice of a car. But to top that off, Rick sold it and bought a 69 custom lacquer painted, air brushed Chevy Z28 with a huge 454 in it. These friends were two years older than me but protected me when I first entered high school. Most people were intimidated by Fred. He was a big Hispanic kid, and he was very tough. I remember a time when we were dragging State and some other car was acting up like they wanted to race us and yelling at us. Fred just put his arm out the window with his fist and they backed off. He was always looking out for me. I know these friends would stay out until late, especially on weekends, but Fred would make sure that I was home by 11 or 12, because that was one of my dad’s rules.
The third group of friends were my temple and Japanese American friends. These are people that I keep in contact with to this day. These were the friends I made through the temple. For those who may not know, growing up in Utah, good LDS “Mormon” boys go on missions when they turn 18. Their church decides that for two years they will be sent somewhere in the world as missionaries to try to convert others to their belief. The Broadway musical “Book of Mormon” is a parody of this rite of passage. Most of my white friends were Mormon. When I went to college, they went on missions. The friends I had in college were mostly Japanese American kids. However, even before college, I had my Japanese American temple friends. When I was 16, I went to my first Western Young Buddhist League (WYBL) conference in Fresno, California. It was a mind opening experience. There were probably 900 young people in attendance and well over half were female. In Utah, in my graduating class, I think there were six Asian American kids and only two were female. I always felt intimidated by the white girls. This feeling of racial inferiority changed when I went to this conference. After this conference, I decided I wanted to be braver, stronger and I didn’t want to be a follower and would not be intimidated because of my race. I was never really intimidated, but growing up, I had been in a lot of fights, maybe once a week, from being called “Jap.”
However, after this conference, I began to question what it meant for me to be a Japanese American Buddhist in this largely white LDS society I had grown up in. After graduating from High School, I began to attend various BCA and Asian American activities in California. My Dad was from L.A. and still had many close friends there. The Mori family was one of them. Their son Johnny was one of the first, if not the first Japanese American Buddhist to file as a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War. For his duty as a conscientious objector, he opened up a store in L.A.’s Japan town called Amerasia Book store. As I was becoming aware of this Asian American movement, he told me to come out and just hang out with him at his bookstore. This experience really influenced many of my future activities and once again made me wonder who I was.
When I returned to Utah, I attended the University of Utah. I’ve been feeling that we should have an Asian American program at the University, like Johnny had told me about in California. It was then that I became quite active in the University’s student government. With some friends like Glen Morinaka, we got the University to reopen a position in the Center for Ethnic Student Affairs. I was hired by the University to work as the Asian American Affairs advisor. One of my jobs was to be the liaison between the University and the Ethnic student associations on campus. My close friends at the University were Pete Suazo, who became a state senator and tragically died in an ATV accident, Frank Cordova, and Lacee Harris who remained active in community activities until their premature deaths from cancer a few years ago.
As I think about all these various masks I have worn over the years, I still wonder who the real me is? I am a son, father, brother, husband, Buddhist priest, teacher etc. Each of these require me to wear masks. I thought that when I chose to become a priest, I would be able to quit wearing masks. When I think of so many of my friends and mentors that have died, Fred Lopez, Rev. Russell Hamada, Senator Pete Suazo, Lacee Harris, Frank Cordova, I remember how lucky I am to still be alive. I realize I may not know who these friends really were in regard to who they personally thought they were. However, in calling and remembering their names, they remain a part of my true and real self. As the wasan I began calls “heavy obstructions”, I believe Shinran is referring to our masks as he speaks of “heavy obstructions of evil -- past, present and future.“ Maybe none of us are able to live without these masks. However, the name of Amida Buddha, the Nembutsu “Namo Amida Butsu” transforms us into our true and real self. In calling Amida Buddha’s name, the light reveals our true selves regardless of our own ego weakness.
On September 23 at the Japanese American National Museum, in Los Angeles held a ceremony for “Ireicho” a book of names for all the Japanese and Japanese Americans that were interned in various concentration camps during World War II. This book of names recognizes the 76 concentration camps and the 126,000 Japanese and Japanese Americans held in these camps. Rev. Dr. Duncan Williams had asked me to take part in this ceremony, since I have been involved with some activities at the Topaz camp in Delta, Utah and conduct Obon services there and at the Minidoka Camp site in Jerome, Idaho. I would have loved to take part however, because of some previous commitments, I couldn’t attend. When I went on my 48-state sojourn to hold a service in all the United States, I stopped at many of these camp sites, such as Rohwer, Arkansas, Heart Mountain, Wyoming and Santa Fe, New Mexico. The light of Amida Buddha did not forget these sites or individuals who had been held there and I believe that this listing of the names, reveals who we are as a community. If we do not forget the names of those who came before us, they will be the light of Amida Buddha that can show us who we truly are. This Halloween, whether you dress in costume, in saying Namo Amida Butsu, Amida Buddha sees and recognizes your real self. Happy Halloween.
J.K. Hirano