I am not a tortured artist. My life has been mostly free from drama, and I was raised to keep it that way. But I write science fiction; in my stories, when a stranger comes to town, it’s usually a very strange stranger. For me to create characters that are believable outsiders, I have to create situations where I can be the other.
One of those opportunities dropped from the sky when the Jade Buddha for Universal Peace arrived in San Jose. I knew the statue was on display in a warehouse, not a museum, but I still expected a museum-like experience. I also expected that I would be a minority viewer – not a Buddhist, for one thing. In both cases, my expectations didn’t come close to reality.
First, the setting was definitely not museum-like. A religious ceremony was in progress when I arrived. The warehouse had become a lovely worship center, filled with flowers, color, chanting, bells and believers. Second, I was a minority of one – the only non-Vietnamese in attendance at that time.
Since I didn’t speak the language and was not part of the tradition, my first impulse was to skulk around the corners, see what I could see, and fade away as unobtrusively as possible. Then my inner writer dope-slapped me and shouted, “Listen! Observe! Experience!”
I still stuck to the corners, but now I was watching, not hiding. I still didn’t understand the language, but now I listened for repeating syllables, for pitch, for an alignment of sound and movement. I still wasn’t part of the tradition, but now I drank in everything unfamiliar, knowing someday a character of mine would be such a stranger, trying to make sense of her new reality.
Thank you for this piece. We have talked, and yet I knew nothing of your writing. Now at least I have another dimension of you. I like people and always want to know more about them, what ever emerges.
I look forward to reading the story as a whole as you develop it. The beginning intrigues me.
My best to you,
Albert
I was awed by thousands of Budhha statues in Penang, Malaysia temples, a Muslim country. Out of my religious and cultural realm, I watched the bowing and kneeling and felt the dedication of the worshippers as incense permeated my nostrils. Digital photos remind me of the statues, from plain white to colorful paint to gold-layered opulence. My most vivid memory is not the statues, but a personal invitation to the living quarters of temple volunteers. The smells of fried fish and local vegetables mixed with foreign chatter were all strange to me. Sounds of laughter among that shared poverty is a story waiting to be told.