Spiritual Strength
Zen’s answer to anti-Asian violence
Over the past year, too many Asian Americans have experienced violence, harassment, and discrimination—the outcome of long-standing bias against people of Asian descent in America, exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic and rising white nationalism. You may have missed this news; it’s not getting much play outside our Asian American Pacific Islander (AAPI) community. But reported acts of anti-Asian violence increased 1900% just last year and include several disturbing videos of attacks against elderly Asians in places like San Jose and Oakland’s Chinatown.
Seeing this, Asian Americans would be justified to feel angry, powerless, and depressed. But concrete policy proposals from leaders like my longtime friend Congressman Andy Kim (NJ-D) are cause for hope. We should also feel inspired by the leadership of AAPI organizations doubling down on strategies for true safety through interracial healing, collaboration, and community building, eschewing the harmful and misguided idea of "us vs them".
Indeed, this distressing and challenging time has the potential to be a moment of growth for Asian Americans, not just one to feel beaten down. But to truly fulfill this potential, we must enact more than policy changes and civic solutions; we have to reinvest in the Asian institutions where our community has historically developed spiritual strength, but which we’ve abandoned over the past 30 years.
Today, young Asian Buddhists are leaving the religious institutions—namely, Buddhist temples and churches—they grew up in at a higher rate than any other group in the US. At the same time, secular mindfulness and Western Buddhism have grown in popularity among whites and other groups. Researchers refer to this as “religious disaffiliation,” and young Asians who have disaffiliated from Buddhism often comment with a mix of hurt and resentment about how being Buddhist made them feel foreign and ‘other’ growing up. But now, made safe by a growing number of white people beginning to identify as Buddhist or Buddhist-leaning, their former religion is suddenly cool. Even where I live, in Hawaii where Buddhism is the second largest religion, the age of most temples' membership now averages in the 70s.
Definitely in Hawaii and most likely elsewhere, also, Asian martial arts dojos have also long been places of spiritual development. And they, too, have been in decline. I honestly had not thought about it before in these terms, but it seems clear to me now that religion and martial arts threaten white supremacy in ways that ‘acceptable’ Asian cultural institutions—like Asian food, K-Pop, and Chinese New Year—do not. It’s not insignificant, I think, that after World War II, occupying US forces outlawed martial arts in post-War Japan. And that during the War, the first Japanese Americans to be sent to internment camps were priests and other Buddhist leaders. It’s clear, then, why younger generations would shy away from things that reinforce their Asian-ness. Because of the stereotype of Asians being “perpetual foreigners”—even when we’re third or fourth generation, and have even risked our lives to serve our country—being more connected to our cultures can come at a price.
Both Buddhist temples and martial arts dojos were historically places for young Asians to develop strength—physical, mental, and spiritual strength. They also put forward a different paradigm in how to approach life that is disorienting in the West. Rather than ways to learn just the techniques of fighting, the true goal of many martial arts is to teach people how to succeed in an encounter without ever having to fight at all. (Wrap your head around that!) A true master, as the famous Japanese swordsman Miyamoto Musashi said, stands open on all sides—grounded and assured on their own two feet, and so free in their bodies and minds that they are ready to move in any direction.
If this seems too romantic to relate to, consider seven time world champion boxer Michele Aboro’s comments on how boxing taught her to control, not act on, the inherent violence she felt within. For the same reason, Tokyo’s Riot Police in the mid-20th century (after the ban on martial arts was lifted) are known to have paid recruits to train in martial arts dojos full-time for three years before starting their police training. As I’ve heard one Zen teacher and Kendoist describe it, “the only riot they needed to control was the one within.”
At the most challenging moments of our lives, it's natural for us to turn to spiritual leaders for guidance, whether they come in the form of pastors, monks, or senseis. But what do we do when there are so few well known Asian American spiritual leaders and even fewer Asian Buddhist leaders? I guess that's why, when I've reached out to younger Asian Americans asking how I can be of support in this moment as a Korean American Zen priest, the overwhelming response I've gotten is that people want to know more about me and my journey to becoming a monk at a Zen Dojo in Hawaii. Perhaps they’re curious how they, too, can find spiritual strength or they’ve just had precious little time with faith leaders who look like them, making me an interesting anomaly.
I readily acknowledge that my story is curious. Both sides of my family escaped the Korean War with harrowing stories of survival. After the war, one side emigrated to Latin America. Hence, the missing 'h' in my name (shoutout to all my Asian homies with strangely spelled names!). While they were there, they converted to a particularly fire and brimstone kind of Christianity. My maternal grandparents, who were Buddhist, stayed in Korea. That side of the family could barely comprehend how I went into a career in social change after college. I don't know if my becoming a monk after graduation from business school at Stanford is more or less confusing. In the end, I got to where I am supposed to be, but there were many years in which I searched for teachers and a spiritual home, and came up short. I wasn’t always looking for teachers who looked like me but I did want for those who could better understand the circumstances of my life.
In this moment of collective grief, anger, and questioning as to how we move forward, I cannot help but remember the hardest moments of my own life and the psycho-spiritual, physical practices that helped me grow in their aftermath. After becoming a monk at Chozen-ji—which is relentless and exhausting in its own right—and taking up Kendo, boxing, and a vigorous form of Tai Chi—I’ve found even more strength. My old coworkers and friends describe it as a new calmness in my voice, a steadiness in my presence, and the impression that I am finally, fully comfortable in my own skin.
Though I am still growing in Zen and as a person, I know that what I’ve gained is the kind of strength that comes from having nothing to prove and nothing to fear. That’s what I want for our community in this moment. I believe that if this rise in anti-Asian violence has shown us anything, it’s that we need to reclaim every source of strength we have—especially if we’ve shied away from them because white supremacy has made us fear doing so.
As the old Chinese saying goes, “the best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.” Let’s start. If you are Asian American and want to grow your physical, mental, and spiritual strength, I invite you to reach out to me about training at Chozen-ji. What we do is not easy—many people say it's the hardest thing they’ve ever done. But I know through the hundreds of people I’ve trained with that it is great preparation to be able to rise to meet any challenge. Let’s not be caught on the back foot again by bigotry, hate, and violence. Let’s be solid, strong on our own two feet and able to move in any direction, masters of any circumstance.