Buddhists Riot

In 1963 my parents were sophomores at Berkeley High School. My father was assigned to two lunch periods and two shop classes. While he tested high, he was known as a fuck-up. Dark-skinned, poor and handsome, he ate nails and dated fair-skinned rich girls. He was a boxer by nature, the fourth of six children and the eldest boy in a family that bled loyalty.

Forty years later, the blossoming lines in his face contradict his boyish charisma, his infallible instinct. People lose adoring children and faithful dogs to my father. He is a snake charmer.

Even I was not immune to it. His charm translated into a power that affected the tides, made dogs howl, the moon rise. Growing up, I knew no fear in strange places. Though violence was never on the surface, it simmered below and the heat kept me a confident child, always safe in the knowledge that my father would kill for me. And while all this was true, my father is a pacifist. Stone-still in a storm.

In 1963 the United States began to intervene in Vietnam. In late May, Buddhists rioted in South Vietnam. Buddhists riot, after they are denied the right to display their flag during a celebration of Buddha's birthday. I think I can see them now, dropping lotus blossoms as they smash garbage cans, turn whispers into howls. South Vietnamese police and troops shoot at the Buddhist demonstrators. They kill one woman, and eight children.

My father didn't watch the news. He was smoking pot in People's Park and teaching his buddy Gordy how to hot-wire Corvettes. He knew about the war, grew up on Telegraph Avenue for Godsakes. But he was a punk, a shithead. He leaned on the hood of a 55', glassy-eyed and quiet, he smiled at the sky.