On August 1, 1996, my father died. It was a sudden death. His heart just quit after a visit to his cardiologist. The last time I spoke to him was a few weeks before his passing. We had spoken on the phone and he hung up on me because I told him to go to the doctor because he took better care of his truck than he did himself. Ironically, the day he died was the day before I presented my findings and academic paper on Modern Buddhist Healing on behalf of the SGI to the Society for Socially Engaged Buddhism and Christianity being held at DePaul University in Chicago. Mid way through a 10 million-daimoku campaign, I instantly knew his death was sansho-shima. Instead of being overwhelmed by grief, goose bumps spread over my skin like waves generated by a strong gale. The way he raised me, I knew exactly what to do – I had to proceed with my speech and paper.
My father died one week before his 70th birthday. His heart just gave out. He would have wanted it to be quick and would have probably embraced the barrel of his pistol like Hunter S. Thompson, than end up in a nursing home. He was a tough old bird, growing up on the near west side of Chicago. He never lost that Chicago vernacular of “dees,” “dems,” “dares” and “doz.” Physically, he was a big, tough man, an NRA advocate, and a staunch supporter of the separation between church and state. He was a no-nonsense blue-collar type who was loved by his neighbors and co-workers. Although he never had an enemy, he slept with a loaded 45 under his pillow.
My dad was a Navy veteran of WWII who served in the south Pacific. He spent time in China where he was able to observe Buddhism up close. He never held a grudge against the Japanese for trying to kill him and his shipmates, but he did tell me how cruel they had been to the Chinese. If the truth be told, it was my dad who first told me about Buddhism and reincarnation in around 1957, when I was just six years old. The way he explained it caused me to blurt out, “I believe that!” Still, he made sure I had a proper Christian upbringing and confirmation in the Lutheran church.
My father had his flaws, but don’t we all? I remember him as not liking kids, kind of like W.C. Fields, although he was totally involved in the academic and social development of my brother and me. Like many kids who grew up as early baby-boomers, my father was not the touchy-feely kind of dad. In all the years he lived, I never once heard him say, “I love you.” There were never any hugs, but he did teach us how to shake hands properly – with a firm grasp, without crushing, but letting the other person know you were someone to be reckoned with. That kind of handshake my old man taught us was in sharp contrast to the somewhat limp, dead fish shake our minister gave the entire congregation when they left the church. Much to my surprise, PI had a marshmallow handshake. That minor fact somewhat freaked me out as it was totally unexpected.
What my father taught us boys was to honor our country and to be our own men. My father didn’t care for organized religion, but believed in God. One of the most memorable things he ever told me was this: “He don’t care! God don’t care what happens on this pissy little planet, Chuckie. We’re just a tiny speck of dust in the universe.”
I was his namesake, a junior. They were hoping for a girl, but got me instead. I always wondered why they couldn’t have come up with another name instead of Charles – something cool like Dathan or Adrian, but it was not to be. He regretted their decision to name me after him, especially when I got older and bills for me went to him instead. That really ticked him off.
If ever there was a shoten zenjin, it was my Dad. He truly supported my practice of Buddhism and the SGI. IN fact, when the bible-banger Christians at his work would try and preach to him, he would say, "watch out for those Buddhists, they're gonna take over the world and there's nothing you can do about it!" It was his way of getting rid of them and that made him happy. He said many times that Buddhism saved my life. When I joined NSA, I was a wild-eyed acid popping hippie anarchist who was in to the occult (which he hated more than hippies). I had no plans for the future and that made him angry. When I started chanting, I took him to a small cookout after a meeting. Our chikutan was Korean and a terrific cook of authentic Korean dishes – he was so impressed and thankful that this woman had saved his son from ruin.
My dad even managed to protect the Gohonzon once. I got my mother to receive the Gohonzon and start chanting in 1974, but her alcoholism was out of control. One day she flipped out and went to destroy the Gohonzon. He grabbed it away from her, wrapped in up and hid it in the spare freezer. When they moved to their retirement home in Wisconsin many years later, I learned that he had wrapped it up in a fine cloth and put it in his locked drawer, along with his other valuables. He proudly returned the Gohonzon to me and I returned it to the organization nearly 15 years after that incident.
Yesterday, I realized just how much I missed my father. He treated us coolly and at a distance when we were kids but the minute we became grown ups, he treated us like men. You might call his parenting tough-love. There were no allowances, just chores and obligation. If you really needed something, he provided it, but there were no handouts. When the Army draft called, we were obliged to serve, even though the war was wrong. He didn’t care if the war sucked – you served, you got an honorable discharge, or you didn't return. That duty to family honor and country was implied.
I have often lamented that he never got to see me succeed. He was a big reader. I wish he could have lived to see his boy get published. Each morning and evening, I pray to the Gohonzon for his peace, happiness, and fortunate rebirth. He was a guiding influence in his own stern way and a champion of Buddhism. Thanks, Dad.