by Eric Reece
Little Rock, Arkansas
There will always be something magical for me about a church choir. All those voices lifted up in song, all unique, all harmonizing toward some higher unity. They cleared the air of any meanness—the preacher’s worked-up words that flew in the face of the facts. Who could believe what he’d said, anyhow—what with so many queer voices in our choirs, on our usher boards, in key roles throughout the church. Whatever destiny he imagined for us, we didn’t buy it—how could we? The people of Little Rock’s West End simply knew one another too well.
My childhood friends—mostly queers and “Blerds” (a catchall term for Black nerdom)—imagined themselves as heroes, as Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman and the Hulk. For me, none was a match for Dr. Fate, my hero of choice, whose golden helmet contained the universe and granted its wearer unimaginable powers—to peer into the future and alter reality. I took these two loves—for self-assured community and the power of imagination—into the working world, where, in 2010, I found myself laughed out of the room. Comic books? In social work? I proposed the idea in 2010, to drive youth engagement, and was dismissed. A few months later, however, the idea was championed by another department, to great enthusiasm and success. I left that job the following year, livid, feeling belittled and overlooked. Unable to see a future for myself in Little Rock, I left for Dallas.
There, I landed my dream job. Within a year, it went up in smoke. The CEO was accused of fraud, and so was I—he’d lifted my signature. Suspicions from supervisors I could bear, but from the communities whose trust I’d worked so hard to earn, I could not. The doubts and the suspicions weighed on me so heavily that I found myself pulled down into a semi-functional depression. I left that job in 2012, cleared of all charges, but inwardly crushed.
It was in this state that I crossed paths for the first time with members of the SGI. I was doing community work at the Dallas Peace Center, coordinating a memorial for the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Curious, I joined that month’s kosen-rufu gongyo, heard the chanting of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo and felt a tingling throughout my body, a wonderful, energizing feeling.
I made many good friends, and received the Gohonzon in October of 2014. But it was at the start of 2017 that I began to truly understand what Buddhism is for.
That January, I woke to the sound of an explosion outside my window. I peered out and saw flames spreading quickly in the yard. Outside, I joined my housemates, blinking in our pajamas at the fire.
Surreal as it was, I felt strangely calm. I had Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. Everything, I felt, would somehow turn out to be good.
The next day, my friend in faith came over to help me pick through the rubble, to see what could be salvaged. Everything I owned was destroyed—on one side of the room. Fortunately, the other side, where the Gohonzon was enshrined, was untouched. Carefully, we rolled it up and brought it with us.
I spent the following weeks couch surfing, and many hours at the Dallas Buddhist Center, chanting. Amid this absurdity, my chapter men’s leader had the gall to invite me to join the Courage Group, a study group for men aged 45 and under. I balked.
I need a home, I thought. I need a job and an income—I don’t need a study group. Still, I chanted about it.
Had the situation not been so desperate, my answer would not likely have changed. As it was, however, I realized I needed to dig deep. If this study group was a cause to help me break the cycle of depressive episodes, unstable housing and underemployment, then I was willing to make it.
The first day that we met, we read the following quote from Nichiren Daishonin: “To discard the shallow and seek the profound is the way of a person of courage” (“The Votary of the Lotus Sutra,” The Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, vol. 1, p. 402). And we began reading Ikeda Sensei’s guidance on challenging “the one fundamental evil” within our lives—that one thing that above all others holds us back. Chanting about it, I realized that mine was right there in Nichiren’s words: “a person of courage.” My fundamental evil was a lack of courage. I had to dig within for the courage to admit that if I wanted my situation to change, then I had to change.
My mother’s health had been declining, and both she and my sister had expressed deep concern about my housing following the fire. Both wanted me home, but I was very reluctant to go back. I’d left for a reason; I hadn’t seen a future for myself there.
But now I was not so sure. Wherever I went, I knew, I could create opportunities, forge my own path and create meaningful change. But for this, I was beginning to see, I’d need courage.
I returned home to Little Rock in May of 2018, landing a few government contracts to sustain my life.
In 2019, a friend took me out for a drink and told me about an open position she’d heard of. I must admit, I immediately dismissed the possibility—I felt it was beyond me. But a pioneer member here reminded me of how I ought to pray, with victory clearly in mind, as though it had already been won. Chanting, I realized that cowardice, my “one evil,” at the root of all my troubles, was coming into play. This was in fact a crucial moment.
A few weeks later, facilitating a community event, I ran into the organization’s vice president and mustered the courage to tell her I was interested in the opening but lacked the requisite experience. Apparently, she’d been observing me facilitate—she pushed back. Watching me at work, she said, it was clear to her that I possessed the skills needed for the job. The following morning, I chanted intensely, looked my resume over one more time and applied. What followed was two, three, four rounds of interviews. Multiple times throughout the process, I caught myself inwardly throwing in the towel. Every time, however, I took my doubts to the Gohonzon, battling them head-on. That July, I was offered a contract and began working my dream job.
This past February, I was laid off, but took it in stride. I did not doubt that I’d find a way forward. In fact, just two weeks later, en route to the Central Territory Leaders Conference at the Florida Nature and Culture Center, I got a call with a job offer—to continue my work as a policy analyst and community educator—helping community members share their stories with their representatives. Ultimately, the work rests on courage—on helping people stand up and tell their stories.
For me, participating in the Courage Group re-awakened me to my superpower: Helping others see their better selves, their Buddha natures. This is my mission and my vow, and it is the way, I believe, we can create a brilliant future.
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