by Gabe Romero
Los Angeles
I didn’t like how chipper he was, inching my way to the door.
“Wish I could stay,” I was saying, “but the game’s on and…”
“The game!” he said, quickly producing a remote and turning on the TV, already tuned to the sports station.
Faking a smile, I took another step. “But you know, I was just about to grab some food…” Oblivious to this exchange, my mother’s friend rounded the corner with sandwiches and set them on the counter. The guy beckoned me to join, rolling up his sleeves. I hesitated, then shrugged. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I stayed at least an hour and left smiling. A small thing, you might think, but not for me—despite anti-depressants, I’d been hardly able to get out of bed, eating waffles when I ate at all, drinking to excess and thinking, with a growing sense of compulsion, of stepping into traffic.
Home in Dallas, Texas, on spring break from college, I’d been dragged to that discussion meeting by my mom.
Returning to school in Austin, I began chanting regularly. Having declared in Actuarial Science, I began to realize that it was a path I pursued simply based on other people’s expectations. Earnestly chanting on it, I realized I was an artist, albeit a closeted one—sketching and painting whenever I had a moment. In any case, having glimpsed my path ahead, all that remained for me to do was summon the courage to take it. I began making art with a prayer-fueled sense of purpose. Meanwhile, the young men’s leaders came to check on me. Frankly, I never went to them or thought to. Austin is vast, and chances are good their drive was long, but I never asked and they never mentioned. All I knew was that they were genuinely happy to see me and wanted me to win. Their confidence rubbed off and gave me the courage to rethink my future.
I got a call from my pharmacy that summer—I was overdue for a pickup; they had several months of supply in wait. Between the SGI activities and regained sense of passion for art, I had forgotten about the meds. I spoke with my doctor who assessed me and agreed I was safe to no longer take them.
After graduating, I moved home, continued chanting, took on district leadership and, within six months, summoned the courage to move to Los Angeles in pursuit of a career in the arts—an act of courage that would have been unthinkable for me before taking up faith. Within my first year in L.A., I was offered a three-month animation intensive in Valencia, Spain, and went.
When I returned, I reconnected with the young men in the neighborhood, meeting up and chanting with them. They were from all walks of life, struggling with all manner of things—mental health, addiction, career, relationships. I never asked how long a drive would be, nor dwelled on the traffic; it had not been a question for those who’d supported me.
During the pandemic, I was hired by an animation studio, got an insider’s view of the industry. The priority, it seemed, was producing animations quickly often without great thought given to their stories. Yet, it was here that I began to cherish a dream of animating Buddhism-inspired comedies—thought-provoking films that brightened people’s faces even as they opened their minds. But in 2021, the work dried up and I left, frustrated and disheartened. Rather than give up, I kept the course. Soon after, I brought these feelings to the young men’s division conference at the Florida Nature and Culture Center (FNCC). Beyond my struggles with work, I’d been deeply affected for years by the world’s seemingly endless wars. Now, wars and worse were breaking out the world over, about which few world leaders spoke honestly.
When the opportunity to ask a question arose, I asked mine, about justice. The lecturer encouraged me to study the Gosho—The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin—chant for the wisdom to know the best course of action and the courage to take it. I wasn’t satisfied. After the session, I tracked him down and said so. Our dialogue concluded with his suggestion: “Smile more.”
At home a few weeks later, scowling at my copy of the Gosho, I fought the sudden urge to give it up—I couldn’t understand it at all. I called my men’s leader who came over to go through it together. He chose one passage and shared what it meant to him; how it spoke to a current struggle of his. I was taken aback by how salient the letter now seemed, how suddenly it had been brought alive. What stuck with me, too, was that, for all he was going through, I wouldn’t have known. He left as he’d come—smiling. This exchange changed the way I read the Gosho, and the way I lived my life. I understood that we don’t smile only once our prayers have been answered, only once we’ve overcome our struggles. We smile now, in their midst.
As though to test my resolve, life threw me a hardball. I’d been dating someone and had grown quite fond of her. Out of the blue, she broke up with me over text. My stomach dropped. Heartbroken as I was, I realized that what would’ve crushed me one year earlier, didn’t.
Where once I wouldn’t have been able to get out of bed, I spurred myself to brave the L.A. traffic, or the public transit downtown to visit one young man after another in my local organization, chanting, studying, hanging with them. There were days I felt bitter, but still, I went, finding it within me to ask myself, Can I care for this one person? Not infrequently, upon knocking, the door opened on an angry or disheartened face. Many times, I’d find myself imparting something that I, too, needed to hear. Sensei’s guidance, for instance that “Without determination, one is defeated before the battle has even begun,” (daisakuikeda.org) has reminded me more times than I can count that I must decide my victory in my heart if I’m to see it realized. And in regards to confronting systemic injustice, his guidance that we must help “one hundred people take one step forward, as opposed to helping one person take one hundred steps” (Compassionate Light in Asia, p. 15) reminds me that awakening one person to the fact they are worthy of ultimate respect is the most direct path to lasting peace.
Today, I’m actively building up my portfolio, creating works infused with the principles of Buddhist humanism, drawing for instance from the story of Bodhisattva Never Disparaging who did not shy from conflict, but bowed to all, even those who were in conflict with him. I know that this is what I’ll do in my art as in my actions, based on the unshakeable foundation of deep respect I’ve laid for my life. Today, I’m surrounded by friends who are just as committed to their dreams, who remind me, as I do them, that victory over our doubts is an unstoppable force for peace.
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