I used to think marriage was some leprous condition that anybody with half a brain wouldn’t touch with a Hazmat suit and a ten-foot pole. Why would I – why would anybody – willingly walk down that dead end road? My parents’ marriage demonstrated to me that, at best, you could expect to coexist under the same roof with somebody that you disliked; if you were lucky, you could avoid speaking to one another and sharing a bed.
[click “Read More” below to continue]
I don’t remember the first time my mom took me to a Buddhist temple. I only remember that I resented it, all of it. I resented my mom for dragging me, month after month. I resented the fact that, while other kids were causing merry mayhem at my neighborhood playground, I was burning incense and rolling “Buddhist dice” (fortune sticks). I resented having to reintroduce myself to the Buddhist Gods during each visit, before each prayer; if they were gods, shouldn’t they already know who I am, why I’m here? But, most of all, I resented being forced to bow and pray to a god who was apparently on an extended vacation. Why was it that, despite my mom’s fervent devotion and repeated visits, not one of her prayers was answered?
Every month, it was the same exercise. I already knew what my mom would pray for. I was also given an inventory of prayer points and, although I followed my mom’s instructions to the letter, I always managed to slip in one more teeny-tiny request. (Hey, as a kid standing to face-to-face amongst a buffet of gods, I was not about to walk away without a full plate of prayer requests.)
“Dear Buddha. Please protect my mom. Please stop my dad from beating her. Please.”
