When this was said, the Blessed One went on in silence. For a second and a third time those people warned him. Still the Blessed One went on in silence.
I am not French. I know nothing of wine, nor of food, of which both the French and American cultures have a bit of knowledge; I have never been one to overtly display meaningless signs of pride, of which, again, Americans and French cultures do quite often. However, when looked at from the perspective of a Moroccan, I suppose that it would be easy to conflate the two cultures; it is said that we both do have many similarities, both with dress and action.
That being said, I am not French. Therefore, I do not know the French language.
I bring this up because it makes the situation which I am about to describe easier to understand. According to many books about living in cultures that differ significantly from your own, the misunderstandings and daily frustrations can easily build up to the point that any small event can trigger an explosion of anger at the unsuspecting local.
Tradition tells that in one of his former lives he had been a powerful spirit, a so-called yakkha, who used his superhuman strength to hurt and kill living beings to satisfy his appetite for human flesh. In all his past experiences that are reported in the Jatakas, two traits are prominent in him: his physical strength and his lack of compassion. This was the dark heritage of his past which broke into his present life, submerging the good qualities of his early years.
It is, of course, all too easy to let the little things cling to our lives. We all have them; the time when you were cut off in traffic, the time you had to stay late at work, the time the taxi driver overcharged you for fare; so many little events occur and attach like little seeds that float through the air cling to our hair. For me, it is the constant assumption that I know French. "Bonjour", "ce va?". I know greetings, but I do not know anything else.
I rode home from Tazzarine with Princess Leia, and we had made it to Er Rich, the final larger city before our villages. I needed to buy a marker to finish my poster for the clinic. I went to a small store near the bus station. I found the two pens that I needed and headed to the front. I asked him for the price and thought he said 6. I hand him a 10.
"No. More."
"Oh." I said, "so stash?" (stash is Tamazight for 16.)
"No. Seize." (which is French for 16.)
By this time, I don't know what to think. I know that seive is French for 16, but he said that it wasn't 16. After having to deal with the weekend of people constantly greeting me in French, I continued to speak in the language that I do know, Tamazight.
"Okay, so do you mean stash (16) or sttin (60)? It has to be one of those numbers."
"Sttin."
By this time, a rage was beginning to fill inside of me; why are you doing this to me? I don't know French, stop trying to tell me different numbers.
"Okay, one more time; is it stash or is it sttin?"
"It's stash, yeah, it's sttin."
Finally, I throw the pens onto the table and tell him that he doesn't even know how to count.
"No, I can't work with you. I'm done. I want my money now."
I reach out to take the 10 dirhams, but he pulls back.
"Give me my money."
"We can work something out."
"No, we can't because you don't know how to count."
Finally, I reach over the counter, grab his hand and clamp onto it tightly until I can reach into his palm and yank out the 10 dirhams in his hand. I then walk away and was angry until I returned home for much needed sleep. I don't know why these little things keep building up inside of me, I don't know why I let these little things attach to me so easily; I'm sure that being in this culture increases their effectiveness immensely. I just don't know...
Now Angulimala took up his sword and shield and buckled on his bow and quiver and he followed behind the Blessed One.
Then the Blessed One performed such a feat of supernormal power that the bandit Angulimala, going as fast as he could, was unable to catch up with the Blessed One, who was walking at his normal pace. Then he thought: "It is marvelous! Formerly I caught up with even a galloping elephant and seized it; I caught up with even a galloping horse and seized it; I caught up with even a galloping chariot and seized it; I caught up with even a galloping deer and seized it. But yet, though I am going as fast as I can, I am unable to catch up with this monk who is walking at his normal pace." He stopped and called "Stop, monk! Stop, monk!"
"I have stopped, Angulimala. Do you stop, too."
The Moroccans know only of French people who look like me. Americans never come here. They have every right to assume that I am French. We all make these assumptions in America, too - we see a skin color and we know they are "African-American". We see the way a man walks and we know his sexual proclivities. We see how someone dresses and we know so many things about them - respectable businessman, tree-hugging liberal, militaristic conservative.
I must keep in my consciousness this fact - people make assumptions based on what we see. It is a simplification process of our minds so that we can focus our minds on other things instead of having to focus on who this person is that we see. We want - we need - to put people in these little boxes so that we can go on with our lives with as little resistance as possible. These assumptions become a form of violence against each other; they become an act of preemptive defense that allows us to judge those we do not even know. Those seeds that once alighted onto your shirt enter your mind and bloom into thoughts, ideas, and total schemas as to who this person is in front of you. You know what they are going to do; you know what they are going to say, and you have to prepare yourself. It is the easier thing to do. It is easier to assume they fit into that box...
It is easier to assume that man in the business suit is more trustworthy than the long haired man with the peace symbol t-shirt...
It is easier to assume that the person who looks like us is more like us than the person who doesn't...
It was easier to assume that the guy at the counter wanted to rip me off...
"I have stopped, Angulimala. Do you stop, too."
Day by day, O Lord... maybe, day by day. I have always liked the story of Angulimala. If a man who once murdered 999 people and strung their fingers around his neck like a mala can learn to control his actions and attain Englithenment, then maybe I can at least learn to stop projecting onto people nefarious deeds of which I have no evidence. Maybe I can, one day, finally accept the difficulty of doing so, even if that means having to slow down my own life and my own mind so that I can focus on each person as a person.
Who once did live in recklessness
And then is reckless nevermore,
He shall illuminate the world
Like the full moon unveiled by cloud...
O let my enemies but hear a discourse on the Doctrine,
O let my enemies follow the Buddha's Teaching,
O let my enemies consort with such a kind of men
As serve the Doctrine because they are at peace...
"Non-harmer" is the name I bear
Who was a harmer in the past,
The name I bear is true today:
I hurt not any one at all...
But now I rest and rise in happiness
And happily I spend my life.
For now I am free of Mara's snares —
Oh! for the pity shown me by the Master!...
The Master has been served by me full well,
And all the Buddha's bidding has been done.
The heavy load was finally laid down;
What leads to new becoming is cut off.
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