The Boys of Iwo Jima

A friend sent a story worth sharing.  I did a bit of checking and it's true, mostly.  These things get circulated online and picked up and added on and they remind me of a fish tale.  Even the photo lies.  The fish is like my finger during a Facetime chat, it takes up half the camera and looks bigger than my face.

Luckily, the actual story does not need any distortion, add-ons, or embellishment.  It's potent as it is. My children read it aloud after dinner on Memorial Day and we sat speechless when they finished.

Thanks to the men who gave us this story.   A special thanks to Michael Powers, the author, who gave me permission to post it here in full.

The Boys of Iwo Jima
(From the book: Heart Touchers "Life-Changing Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter")

by Michael T. Powers


Each year my video production company is hired to go to Washington, D.C. with the eighth grade class from Clinton, Wisconsin where I grew up, to videotape their trip. I greatly enjoy visiting our nation's capitol, and each year I take some special memories back with me. This fall's trip was especially memorable.

On the last night of our trip, we stopped at the Iwo Jima memorial. This memorial is the largest bronze statue in the world and depicts one of the most famous photographs in history -- that of the six brave men raising the American flag at the top of Mount Surabachi on the Island of Iwo Jima, Japan during WW II. Over one hundred students and chaperones piled off the buses and headed towards the memorial. I noticed a solitary figure at the base of the statue, and as I got closer he asked, "What's your name and where are you guys from?

I told him that my name was Michael Powers and that we were from Clinton, Wisconsin.

"Hey, I'm a Cheesehead, too!  Come gather around Cheeseheads, and I will tell you a story." 

James Bradley just happened to be in Washington, D.C. to speak at the memorial the following day. He was there that night to say good-night to his dad, who had previously passed away, but whose image is part of the statue. He was just about to leave when he saw the buses pull up. I videotaped him as he spoke to us, and received his permission to share what he said from my videotape. It is one thing to tour the incredible monuments filled with history in Washington, D.C. but it is quite another to get the kind of insight we received that night. When all had gathered around he reverently began to speak. Here are his words from that night:

"My name is James Bradley and I'm from Antigo, Wisconsin. My dad is on that statue, and I just wrote a book called Flags of Our Fathers which is #5 on the New York Times Best Seller list right now. It is the story of the six boys you see behind me. Six boys raised the flag. The first guy putting the pole in the ground is Harlon Block. Harlon was an all-state football player. He enlisted in the Marine Corps with all the senior members of his football team. They were off to play another type of game, a game called "War."  But it didn't turn out to be a game. Harlon, at the age of twenty-one, died with his intestines in his hands. I don't say that to gross you out; I say that because there are generals who stand in front of this statue and talk about the glory of war. You guys need to know that most of the boys in Iwo Jima were seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen years old.

(He pointed to the statue)

You see this next guy?  That's Rene Gagnon from New Hampshire. If you took Rene's helmet off at the moment this photo was taken, and looked in the webbing of that helmet, you would find a photograph. A photograph of his girlfriend. Rene put that in there for protection, because he was scared. He was eighteen years old. Boys won the battle of Iwo Jima. Boys. Not old men.

The next guy here, the third guy in this tableau, was Sergeant Mike Strank. Mike is my hero. He was the hero of all these guys. They called him the "old man" because he was so old. He was already twenty-four. When Mike would motivate his boys in training camp, he didn't say, "Let's go kill the enemy" or "Let's die for our country."  He knew he was talking to little boys. Instead he would say, "You do what I say, and I'll get you home to your mothers."

The last guy on this side of the statue is Ira Hayes, a Pima Indian from Arizona. Ira Hayes walked off Iwo Jima. He went into the White House with my dad. President Truman told him, "You're a hero."  He told reporters, "How can I feel like a hero when 250 of my buddies hit the island with me and only twenty-seven of us walked off alive?"

So you take your class at school. 250 of you spending a year together having fun, doing everything together. Then all 250 of you hit the beach, but only twenty-seven of your classmates walk off alive. That was Ira Hayes. He had images of horror in his mind. Ira Hayes died dead drunk, face down at the age of thirty-two, ten years after this picture was taken.

The next guy, going around the statue, is Franklin Sousley from Hilltop, Kentucky, a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. His best friend, who is now 70, told me, "Yeah, you know, we took two cows up on the porch of the Hilltop General Store. Then we strung wire across the stairs so the cows couldn't get down. Then we fed them Epson salts. Those cows crapped all night."

Yes, he was a fun-lovin' hillbilly boy. Franklin died on Iwo Jima at the age of nineteen. When the telegram came to tell his mother that he was dead, it went to the Hilltop General Store. A barefoot boy ran that telegram up to his mother's farm. The neighbors could hear her scream all night and into the morning. The neighbors lived a quarter of a mile away.

The next guy, as we continue to go around the statue, is my dad, John Bradley from Antigo, Wisconsin, where I was raised. My dad lived until 1994, but he would never give interviews. When Walter Cronkite's producers, or the New York Times would call, we were trained as little kids to say, "No, I'm sorry sir, my dad's not here. He is in Canada fishing. No, there is no phone there, sir. No, we don't know when he is coming back."

My dad never fished or even went to Canada. Usually he was sitting right there at the table eating his Campbell's soup, but we had to tell the press that he was out fishing. He didn't want to talk to the press. You see, my dad didn't see himself as a hero. Everyone thinks these guys are heroes, 'cause they are in a photo and a monument. My dad knew better. He was a medic. John Bradley from Wisconsin was a caregiver. In Iwo Jima he probably held over 200 boys as they died, and when boys died in Iwo Jima, they writhed and screamed in pain.

When I was a little boy, my third grade teacher told me that my dad was a hero. When I went home and told my dad that, he looked at me and said, "I want you always to remember that the heroes of Iwo Jima are the guys who did not come back. DID NOT come back."

So that's the story about six nice young boys. Three died on Iwo Jima, and three came back as national heroes. Overall, 7000 boys died on Iwo Jima in the worst battle in the history of the Marine Corps. My voice is giving out, so I will end here. Thank you for your time."

Suddenly the monument wasn't just a big old piece of metal with a flag sticking out of the top. It came to life before our eyes with the heartfelt words of a son who did indeed have a father who was a hero. Maybe not a hero in his own eyes, but a hero nonetheless.


Michael T. Powers
HeartTouchers@aol.com

Copyright © 2000 by Michael T. Powers

(link to Michael's site, http://www.hearttouchers.com/iwojima)

Memorial Day, Remember the 1.3 Million

I awoke one morning with a clarity of mind and knowledge I had not possessed before.  I realized something about my three children:  they will serve in the Army. 

My ten year old daughter brought home the “newspaper” she published in school and for a fill-in-the-blanks article she wrote: When I grow up I want to be in the Army.  And my teen wears my old jungle boots because they’re her favorite shoes. At a West Point parade, our cousin asked my twelve year old son where he wanted to go to college.  He looked at the grassy plain where the cadets marched and said, “Here.”

For my children, there's no escaping the military influences in their lives.  Both of us are U.S. Military Academy graduates who take our children to Army Football games every fall. 

We left the Army and work in other careers, but many classmates are senior officers now.  Kenny Mintz commanded the 2^nd Brigade Combat Team of the 10^th Mountain Division and is on campaign in Afghanistan, again. His former soldier was killed in action last month in Afghanistan, Sergeant Shawn Farrell II (Link to article). 

On Memorial Day, we remember those who died while serving in the U.S. Armed Forces. For many Americans this means a three day weekend, for some, a parade and visit to the local cemetery to honor these men and women.  For Kenny and those serving, the experience is something they live every day. 

In SGT Farrell's case, it means losing a soldier, a friend, a son, and a husband.

I used to be troubled when people asked if I would "let" my daughters join the army.  But after attending an Ivy league graduation and observing the all-about-me culture, I realized there are few better choices my child can make (Earlier post:  Yale Commencement - Awards For Everyone)

It is good to serve something larger than ourselves, working in the military service or mission work or civil service.  I can testify to the wide-held belief among aging veterans that their service is what they are most proud of. 

A list follows of American War Deaths Through History, those like SGT Farrell who paid the ultimate price for our country.  

The Civil War accounts for almost half the war deaths in our nation's history with 623,026 casualties. And since the Revolutionary War, over 1.3 million Americans sacrificed their lives so that we can enjoy the individual liberties and freedom of this great country.

This gives us perspective and is worth remembering. 

American War Deaths Through History 

Yale Commencement - Awards for Everyone

This year's Yale University Commencement consisted of two acts, a dozen Honorary Degrees followed by Awards for Everyone. 

Act one occurred on the Old Campus at 10:30 AM and act two moved to the residential colleges at noon for awards and diplomas. 

Secretary of State John Kerry gave the keynote address on Sunday the day before, so there was no speaker on graduation morning. Our seats were so far away we had to watch the massive projection screen.  Over 1200 undergraduates and as many graduate students formed up by the platform.

The conferral of honorary degrees was the highlight of the ceremony and the honorees were the only 12 people to receive a degree by name that morning.  This practice of honoring individuals for outstanding achievement without completing the academic requirements dates back to Yale's commencement in 1702.

It continues there to this day, but is controversial. 

"Some universities and colleges have been accused of granting honorary degrees in exchange for large donations."  And, "the university may derive benefits by association with the person in question."  (Wikipedia).  Research could determine the extent of influence, financial or otherwise. 

Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Cornell University, and Stanford University followed the precedent set at University of Virginia: the explicit policy of not awarding honorary degrees. 

Guess who set that up? Its founder, Thomas Jefferson. 

The program insert for the 12 Honorary Degrees is 16 pages long. As the marshal placed a hood over the honoree, the University President read highlights.  ( For full list, Yale News, 12 Honorary Degrees )

 Bluegrass musician Ralph Stanley receives Honorary Doctor of Music

In contrast, a student marshal from the college and each of the thirteen schools received a symbolic diploma from the dean for all the graduates who actually did complete the academic requirements. The Dean of the School of Management, for example, announced, "Master of Business Administration, 271 in number."

Yale's website states:

The Honorary Degrees awarded annually at Commencement are intended to be the most significant recognition conferred by the Yale Corporation to signal pioneering achievement in a field or conspicuous and exemplary contribution to the common weal.

That was abundantly clear.

The graduates left the Old Campus to receive their diplomas individually at their colleges. 

At Calhoun College, tables with Yale blue gift bags ran the length of graduate seating. The program was one folded card with 113 undergraduates, so I was optimistic.  The master of the college welcomed us and explained what to expect for the next 90 minutes. 

Ninety minutes.  A sigh passed through the audience and my niece, a graduate, said she fell asleep. 

The dean, the master, and the associate master gave awards, cups, prizes, departmental, and academic prizes.  There were prizes for most theatrical and most athletic, the latter given with a story of how the college moved from last place, or from 15th, to 12th.  Laughter followed and I wasn't sure it was a joke or real.  Yet both recipients left with a blue bag.  They created a new award for quiet strength or something along these lines which made me envision a team of Yalies brainstorming a way to find an award for everyone.

The departmental prizes earned like Molecular Biophysics & Biochemistry seemed significant but were announced by name, no highlights or story. 

I asked my cousin if a fourth of the grads got awards and we agreed it might be closer to a third. 

The Master of Calhoun College gave a speech.  He told his story and he told his story and he told more of his story, then he mentioned his studies but said he didn't want to bore us.   He told us about his decision 16 months ago to leave and how the time had come to leave.  The rest of us held captive in the quad, on plastic folding chairs, beneath the overhead sun, thought he might never leave.

My elderly mother blurted out, "This is boring.  I feel sorry for Yale if this is all they have."  I covered my face, but I noticed others smiling.

When they handed out diplomas, they announced the degree and honors like Summa cum laude, Magna cum laude, Cum laude, and distinction.  They also noted scholarships and Phi Beta Kappa membership.  It would be fair to say half received one or more of these. Perhaps a majority.

There was one Rhodes Scholar and she earned a Bachelor of Arts in Women's Gender & Sexuality Studies, the only such degree in Calhoun College. 

The weather was gorgeous.  The campus was gorgeous.  My niece was gorgeous.   But I left with a vacant feeling. This was my first Ivy League graduation and I had expectations. 

Here's what I learned. 

Grade inflation is rampant in the Ivy League with Harvard awarding honors to 90% of its class (Harvard Hands Out A's like Candy). The problem is no one is honored and the bottom percent of the class is punished.  Awards lose their meaning.  The speech at Calhoun reflected the narcissism, egoism, and navel-gazing of a generation enamored with itself. 

And Yale's focus on the Honorary Degree recipients is meant to inspire, but it is a distraction from the purpose of commencement at best and posturing and pandering at worst.



 

 

 

Read Jane Austen, Train Your Brain

Mention Austen to literature lovers and you get one of two reactions: love her or loathe her. 

Mark Twain was perhaps her harshest critic.  He said, “Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice’ I want to dig her up and beat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.”

I like Twain but I'm a fan, so each year I read Jane Austen; that is I reread her.  I finished Pride & Prejudice this weekend and my friend could not understand why anyone would read the same book again.  

For an answer, we need only look as far as our children when they ask us to read a story just once more.  My daughter learned the words to Green Eggs & Ham before she could read.  That's what happens after reading it enough times.

Books are like a favorite dish or old friend; we come back to them again and again.  With books, however, it's different each time you read them.  The book and its words are the same, but it's you who are different.  And that makes the story different because reading a book at 18 turns out to be very different at 38.  Dr. Suess in particular never struck a political chord until I reread him as a parent.

In the case of Jane Austen, we're learning she may be worth rereading ever since she made the news in neuroscience.   At Stanford, "Researchers observe the brain patterns of literary PhD candidates while they're reading a Jane Austen novel. The fMRI images suggest that literary reading provides 'a truly valuable exercise of people's brains.'" (This is your brain on Jane Austen, and Stanford researchers are taking notes)

Test subject Matt Langione, a doctoral candidate at UC-Berkeley,

leisurely reads Jane Austen's 'Mansfield Park' in the mock scanning

room. The researchers found that blood flow in the brain increases

during such leisurely reading, but in different areas of the brain

than when the subjects read the novel more closely.

I've read Pride & Prejudice several times and at middle-age it is comical, morally satisfying, and unfailingly just. The romantic story between Darcy and Elizabeth is lovely, but not the focus of the novel, nor do I believe that Austen designed it to be.  The characters as well as Austen's sense of justice come through in every sentence of this work.

Miss Bingley is jealous of Darcy's increasing affections for Elizabeth and in a two sentence exchange, the author metes out justice in a fair rebuke of a high-handed barb.

"Miss Eliza Bennett," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in any thing else."

"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." (Pride & Prejudice, Chapter 8)

And the characters rise off the page into palpable beings we have known and met.  Who doesn't know a Mr. Collins, the sycophant and yes man whose station in life derives itself solely from his patronage to the great Lady De Bourgh?   Here is a character study.

Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. (Pride & Prejudice, Chapter 15)

I liked Austen's ideas about friendship which arose in a discussion between Darcy and Elizabeth.

``To yield readily -- easily -- to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you.''

``To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.''

``You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request without waiting for arguments to reason one into it.  . . . But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?''(Pride & Prejudice, Chapter 10)

While reading this passage, I asked myself, do I look for reasons and justification to help or aid a friend as Darcy? or do I do so readily as Elizabeth would, especially if it is a "resolution of no very great moment"?  The dialogue on friendship, principles, and pride is one I don't recall from earlier reading. 

And ultimately, this is what literature provides: insight into humanity, each other, and ourselves. 

Austen fans are legion and she has notable male admirers among her ranks, from Tennyson and Darwin to Churchill who wrote about her in his autobiography: the comforts she brought him while he was ill and his wife read Pride & Prejudice to him.  (Churchill on Austen)

So whichever camp you may be in, fan or foe, I don't think it matters whether you like Austen or Twain or Rowling or Riordan.

The key is to read literature, the good stuff.  Train your brain. 

Mother's Day Menu: Wild Onions & Grammar

Good morning from the Tree House where I have just been served my menu du jour by youthful decree.

My selection includes omelet with wild onions, cranberry juice, and berries.  Brunch will be served promptly at 9:30 they inform me.  I particularly like the wax seal with my youngest child's initial, a royal touch.  The herbs grow wild at the corner of the property.

Indeed, I feel like the Queen herself.  And, my young messengers have done Emerson justice, in "giving a portion of thyself."  (The Only Gift Is A Portion of Thyself, Emerson)  For my own mother this year, I shared a cherished story.  Recovering from spinal surgery and depressed from the medication and food, she told me several Buddhist folktales.  My retelling is posted under May's link on the right, "More Than A Vietnamese Folktale."

Anna Jarvis helped establish Mother's Day as we know it in 1908 and Woodrow Wilson declared it an official holiday in 1914. But recognizing mothers was a practice going back to classical times when the Romans and Greeks would celebrate mother goddesses during festivals.  "The clearest modern precedent for Mother’s Day is the early Christian festival known as “Mothering Sunday.” (History.com - Mother's Day) 

And the distinction is significant, Mothering Sunday versus Mother's Day.  A grammatical note about our holiday is the singular form of Mother, or Mother's not Mothers'.  Anna Jarvis said "Mother's should be a singular possessive, for each family to honor its mother, not a plural possessive commemorating all mothers of the world." 

So, call your mother.  Or better, write her a letter. 

Happy Mother's Day Mom!

I love  you dearly.

Three Owl chicks

 Note on back, "Owl Love You Forever"

The Only Gift Is a Portion of Thyself - Emerson

It’s that time of year again.  In addition to a Bar Mitvah and graduations, we have birthdays and anniversaries.  I received a couple invitations from ECHOage last year.  Here’s their homepage mission:  “ECHOage is an online birthday party service where kids get the birthday gifts they want AND guests donate to charities of their choice.”  (ECHOage link)

Has your child been dreaming about getting an iPod, a bike, a puppy? With an ECHOage birthday party, your child will be one step closer to getting it.

Half of the money contributed by your guests is sent to your child to buy any gifts they choose. ECHOage will send half of the money contributed by your guests to the charity.

I wasn’t sure how to feel.  It was troubling and offensive, but after checking the site I could understand why a parent might use this.  I’m not sure I like this trend however.

The last wedding we attended, the couple had their own website.  Each had a profile and the registry allowed guests to contribute to the China pattern or the honeymoon vacation, details available at a click.  Wedding gift values vary today from $50 for a friend and $100 to $200 for close friends and family.  (TheKnot site)  And graduates are in debt or going in debt, at least the parents are.  So the top gift is cash: family giving $50 for High School and $100 for college.  (eHow link )   In my town people spend about $20 - $25 for a child’s birthday.  The ladies like to take each other out for lunch.

Yet it seems we’re missing something.  In a material world consumed with consuming, each holiday and event translates to money and gifts, a monotonous duty.  It’s so far gone with children, they expect gifts even when they’re not the birthday child, you know, the goodie bags or toys the kids get for going to the other kid’s party. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote an essay on gifts which has guidelines worth sharing. 

Next to things of necessity, the rule for a gift, which one of my friends prescribed, is, that we might convey to some person that which properly belonged to his character, and was easily associated with him in thought. But our tokens of compliment and love are for the most part barbarous. Rings and other jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for me. Therefore the poet brings his poem; the shepherd, his lamb; the farmer, corn; the miner, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; the girl, a handkerchief of her own sewing. This is right and pleasing, for it restores society in so far to its primary basis, when a man’s biography is conveyed in his gift, and every man’s wealth is an index of his merit. But it is a cold, lifeless business when you go to the shops to buy me something, which does not represent your life and talent, but a goldsmith’s.

 

“The only gift is a portion of thyself.”   This is the essence of the passage.   It’s worth reading the whole essay because it’s just four pages and discusses gifts always appropriate like flowers or fruit and larger concerns about gratitude and the onerous feeling of debt involved with gift-giving.  (Essay in full)

I agree with Emerson, so give of yourself! It’s too bad I wasn’t friends with Vincent Van Gogh because imagine what treasures he might give. HA! But it’s hard to be better off than I am now since I’ve enjoyed the loveliest presents.  And the invitations I’ve received have forced me to deal with my hang ups.  Here are a couple questions I’ve answered.

What are my favorite gifts? 

 

For my birthday, a friend sent gloves she knit for me wrapped in a silk scarf. Over the holidays several friends made me tasty confections and cookies.  Another wrote a long note.  I had written her a couple times but was ecstatic to receive one in return!  That’s the point after all. 

As a parent, a favorite is my children's artwork and the silly and lovely and HONEST things they write.  My birthday collage says it best.

  

As this child’s mom, I may be odd and
even a bit fruity, but inside there’s a star!

Back to Emerson.  So, what does it mean to give of myself? In my case that means to write. 

The last year or so, I decided to write letters for birthdays and though Emerson might approve, that’s not what’s important. I love writing letters and I love getting letters as much. Here is something I can give because it is a "portion of myself."   

 

It takes time, but I encourage you to write a letter.  You soon realize, to say something meaningful, you must think over what you believe.  But, you must think about that person as well: what he or she means to you, what you want to tell them beyond a text message about where to meet and when.   

 

You learn that Sir Francis Bacon had it right when he said:  "Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man." 

Today's correspondence seems limited to 140 character exchanges, Instagrams, Snapchat, twitter and Facebook posts.  The universe of ideas, thoughtful reflection, and written communication  has been distilled into sound bites, catch phrases, headlines, hooks, and clinchers. It’s all good and the multimedia world of words is wonderful and rich and multi-textured.   

Yet, bite sized exchanges should not replace the thoughtful and reflective and yes, wordier, letter.   

So how’s it going with my ‘gifts’ you ask?  The last three birthday letters:  a friend said it made her cry (in a good way); another posted a photo of my letter on Facebook, happy to receive a long missive; and the most recent said she’d treasure it. 

The best part for me is thinking how it might make a friend feel, what they might learn, as well as what I learned writing to them:  I consider what is special about the recipient and why I value our relationship.   

I’m not sure a birthday needs to be about getting the ultimate gift, or that we need or should give to charity. Yet when the gift supersedes the giver, there’s a problem, and maybe there’s something fundamentally wrong with the relationship.  

Emerson finished his essay with this: “I like to see that we cannot be bought and sold…..  But love them, and they feel you and delight in you all the time.” 

 

 

 

More Than A Vietnamese Folktale

“To my mind, Kuan Yin’s gentle form is a worthier symbol than the figure of a tortured being hanging from a cross or of an awesome father god.”  John Blofeld

I’ve known Kuan Yin for some years now as Quan Am, her Vietnamese name.  My Vietnamese mother is Buddhist and my Irish American father was, of course, Catholic.  I was not raised in the church as a child because my father thought we should decide.   As a Vietnam expert who spoke the language fluently, he embraced Eastern philosophy and tradition.  A mystic or perhaps John Blofeld, if he were alive, might suggest my father was Buddhist in a previous life. 

As parents, we hope to teach our children the important things and many do so through their churches and temples.  Because of my lack of religious indoctrination, the journey is a long one, both for me and my children.   Much of it includes reading books on religion, studying great literature, and listening to learned teachers, whether a priest, a rabbi, a monk, or an expert speaker.  Yet wisdom and lessons come in conversations every day, and in quiet moments, or on a mountain trail, or with children, or like the following, experienced in a medical room with my mother. 

 

Here is a story she told me about Quan Am. 

 

Long ago in Vietnam, there lived a gentleman’s daughter named Kinh.  Visiting the temple one day, she fell in love, but not with a man; she wanted to commit herself to the temple, its selfless devotion to ease the suffering of others appealed to her.

Kinh told her father.  But he would not hear of it.   

Her appearance was as lovely as her temperament and for this, she was known far and wide and had endless suitors.  Her father arranged a marriage to a respectable man with a bright future. 

The daughter was torn between her duty to her father and her longing to serve others.  But there were no women in the monastery then, only boys and men could join.  This is how it was.  

So Kinh obliged her father out of a sense of filial piety.  She married as he wished.  She was not long married when one night, she woke and could not sleep.  Daylight entered the room and she saw a long hair protruding from a mole on her husband’s face.  She did not wish to criticize him and decided instead to remove it in his sleep.

She took the cutting shears and tiptoed carefully by him.  As she leaned towards his face, bringing up the shears, he woke.  He seized her hand in a fury and accused her of trying to take his life.  He threw her out of his house and banned her from the town.  She left him and her family in disgrace.

Kinh wandered for many miles and towns, taking alms and food as charity.  She had a lot of time to think.  When she could see the next town, she noticed a beautiful monastery situated in a peaceful setting by the river.  Before she arrived, she shaved her head, bound her chest and shed her clothes for rags.  She came to the monastery and begged them to accept her.  The monks were impressed with the eloquence, the sincerity, and the bearing of this handsome youth, so they welcomed him. 

Over the years, Kinh grew in learning and practice as well as regard.  And she kept her secret.  When the monks went into the river to swim or to bathe, she declined.  Everyone believed her to be shy.  She was graceful and handsome as a monk and one of the girls fell in love with her, professing her love and pleading for her to leave the order to marry. 

One day, the monks discovered a baby at the temple door, it was the young girl’s and the note accused Kinh as the father.  Kinh was forced to leave the temple and she raised the baby on her own.  After the boy was grown up, Kinh became sick and wrote a letter to her parents before she died.  When the monastery and town learned Kinh’s identity as a woman, they were shocked. 

The story spread.  For a lifetime of silent suffering and limitless compassion towards others, Kinh was recognized by the temple as a Bodhisattva of Compassion, Quan Am.

 

A Bodhisattva is an enlightened being and all its manifestations, including those in prior lives, in different places, in different states of being.  This story is popular in Vietnam, but there are endless stories about her.  She is known as Kuan Yin in China and different names throughout Asia. If you’ve ever visited Buddhist temples and noticed the statues and symbols, you have likely come across her. She is revered as a Goddess of Mercy and Observer of the Cries of the World.   

In his book Bodhisattva of Compassion, the Mystical Tradition of Kuan Yin (  Book link ), John Blofeld shares the story of his forty year “quest” to understand the enigma of this renowned and charming figure, whether she was symbolic or existed.  Blofeld was an English sinologist of some acclaim, having devoted his career to Eastern studies, especially Buddhism and Taoism.  

There’s no doubt the reach of Kuan Yin’s influence, not only in my mother’s life, but throughout Vietnam and Asia. Blofeld’s own path reveals an exceptional story about her.  He spent much time trekking to remote places, meeting with gurus, talking with Zen masters, Taoist sages, lamas, and seeking understanding through study.   His personal experiences with Kuan Yin and the folktales and legends he recalls are delightful reading, as is his transformation and change over the course of the book.

Blofeld first saw Kuan Yin as a goddess of fishermen in a temple.  When traveling in South China, he stopped for the night and came across a pleasant spot in the outskirts of town where there was a temple to her.   

 

 

 

“[It was] scarcely more than a shrine room  . .  The place, though redolent of poverty, had an air of being much frequented.  I had barely had time to take in the ancient beams, the faded calligraphic inscriptions, tattered banners and coarse china furnishings of the altar when I heard the sound of many footsteps . . .  Not wishing to be in the way, I would have left, had not the caretaker . . . gestured for me to stay.

“A group of boat-women came hurrying in.  Dressed in pyjama-suits of cheap, black cloth . . . they sank to their knees and kowtowed three times with a grace I had not expected from people of such coarse appearance. …. Lighting incense-sticks and candles taken from a table near the door, they chanted a brief and far from tuneful melody, then repeated their kowtows and hurried away.”

He learned that the peasant’s conception of her is simple.  She was a goddess and that was all that mattered to them, yet the author began to realize that she was much much more. 

Blofeld wrote about his senior friend Ta Hai, a Chinese physician and “keen Buddhist” who mastered many forms of Buddhism. “I learned more from Ta Hai than from any other man,” wrote the author. That is a powerful statement from someone who met so many exceptional teachers.

“I think, Ah Jon, you are still foreign-devil-man and cannot learn to think like Chinese.  Why you care about logical, not logical?  Truth have plenty faces. As you see things, so things are.  As you expect things, so things come. Why?  Because your mind make them so  . . .  I and my friends tell you and tell you and tell you that appearances are all in mind.  Why you not understand?  Outside mind – nothing!”

“Yes, but –“

“Listen, Ah Jon.  Pure Land teacher say fix mind on sacred name or speak sacred mantra many, many times, then your mind become still, yes?  All obscurations disappear. That way, you know, plenty people get objectless awareness which is first step to Enlightenment. That is very good, no?  So why you care HOW they get it?  All of us Buddhists are looking for goal higher than man can see or imagine.  You agree?   . . . You want to study Buddha Dharma, you must study mind.  Only mind is real, but now you try to put front door and back door on it! Self?  Other? Inside? Outside?  How can be?  Some people look for Enlightenment in mind.  Some people look for Bodhisattva.  You find them different? Never can be!  Why?  Because whole universe live inside your bony skull.  Nowhere else at all.  Amitabha Buddha in your skull.  Kuan Yin Bodhisattva in your skull . . .You ought to welcome compassionate Buddha’s thousand ways of teaching thousand kinds of people.” 

This gave me so much to think about.  The world in us.  All of it is in our own mind; that everything is created from mind alone.  Mysticism.  Mysticism is part of each of the world’s major religions. 

Blofeld studied the various sects of Buddhism and their approaches to Enlightenment.  Not unlike the various denominations of Christianity, each has their own sutras (teachings or discourses) and mantras. Ta Hai convinced Blofeld that all kinds of people required vastly different methods. 

And for me, there is comfort in this.  The kneeling, the Hail Mary’s, and the rosary of my father’s early life seem to complement the meditative rituals of my mother’s Buddhist chants and prayers to Quan Am. 

There’s a lot in this book I don’t understand and the same goes for Kuan Yin, or Quan Am. I’ll come back to the book since it’s worth rereading.  It will be different for me next year because I will be different.  And the stories my mother told as well as what I’ve learned from Blofeld have already changed me. 

Siddhartha said that no one steps in the same river twice, because every moment the river changes and so do you. 

(Read the story of Blofeld’s life told by his protégé, Daniel Reid.  It is a singular and powerful examination of a man’s place in this world and his dying wish about Kuan Yin, a legacy his daughter fulfills.  The Wheel of Life, Daniel Reid )