Sho Hondo

Copyright © 2013 Mark Gaber.

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Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-6772-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-8666-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-6773-9 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 5/24/2013

CONTENTS

Preface

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

Epilog

To absent friends

Gone but not forgotten

PREFACE

I do not represent Nichiren Buddhism or SGI-USA in any official capacity; nor am I a teacher or scholar, so this narrative should not be mistaken for a textbook of some kind. What follows is a purely personal account of my experiences in 1972-73, culminating in the group pilgrimage known as the Sho Hondo Convention.

The organization described here as NSA does not exist anymore. Most of its survivors practice Buddhism in SGI-USA. The reader will note some glaring flaws in the 1973 NSA organization: militarism, male chauvinism, aggrandizement of leaders, repression of sexual relations, arrogance toward other religions, and certain Japanese customs and superstitions being mistaken for the teachings of Nichiren.

These defects have long since been corrected. The present-day SGI-USA organization is very different than what is depicted in these pages. I say this to ensure that no one acquires a distorted view of Nichiren Buddhism.

In an effort to achieve objectivity I changed my name, and many others have been altered. The meeting dates are approximate. Therefore, this book may be classified as fiction. However, I have not deliberately fabricated anything. I took detailed notes in 1972-73, and have tried to be honest, without glossing over anything.

In short, this is my truth, as I saw it.

Mark Gaber

I

December 4, 1972, 10:50 pm

Santa Monica, California

West Valley Chapter Leaders’ Meeting

Junior Hanchos and Up

Gakkai cars whipped into the gravel parking lot, disgorging West Valley Chapter leaders. Gilbert Clark parked his ’63 Volvo next to the BMW of Ted Kerhulas and took a last hit off his Marlboro. He sensed a muted intensity in the leaders, even the irrepressible jo-shibu chattering in hushed voices. The meeting started at eleven, and no one in their right mind would try to sneak in late. Gilbert sighed: his very first leaders’ meeting, and it had to be with the legendary Rick Royce. Feeling unsteady, he followed the others toward the lopsided structure of the So-shibu, the Santa Monica General Chapter House.

The concrete porch was already littered with shoes; with practiced ease Gilbert stepped out of his slip-ons and placed them strategically in a corner. The roar of fifty voices chanting Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo vibrated the walls; he stepped inside and the sound struck him like a physical blow.

Maintaining his composure he padded to a spot on the left (male) side of the room, behind the tall Doug Kimball. Gilbert’s theory was that the most conspicuous areas were the very front and the very back. He definitely wanted to be inconspicuous. He knelt in the traditional Japanese manner, unwrapped his beads and began chanting with the others to the Gohonzon enshrined in the altar (butsudan) on the east wall. There were no chairs, of course, and no one was slouching or sitting cross-legged: that would have labeled them weak in faith or arrogant. This was a leaders’ meeting. Gilbert was familiar with all this, since he had been practicing for five months already.

Absently rubbing his juzu beads, he scanned the room without moving his head. The right (female) side of the room was packed with jo-shibu (Young Women’s Division), and two or three Women’s Division who persisted in the youth-heavy NSA organization. The left side was solid YMD (Young Men’s Division). In the front row were the district leaders; left-center was Steve Bauer, the Chapter Chief (Shibucho), right-center Joanne Mirisch, the So-Fujimbucho or Women’s General Chapter Chief. Everyone sat bolt upright, immovable save for bursts of furious bead-rubbing, chanting in rhythm with Mr. Royce who sat alone, a couple feet forward, directly in front of the Ogotagi Gohonzon.

Gilbert had heard about Rick Royce: how he had practiced for nearly seven years, having joined during the embryonic stages of Nichiren Shosu in America. How he had suffered through the furious, physically-impossible 24/7 campaigns that launched NSA, survived the black-tie period (when all YMD wore white shirts and black ties while propagating) and fought his way to the top of the heap, right next to General Director Mr. Williams. How he only slept three hours a day, practiced almost continuously, and dedicated his whole life to kosen-rufu (world peace through the propagation of Buddhism, or one-third of the population chanting).

Straightening and rubbing the beads harder, Gilbert focused on the Gohonzon and prayed.

Let my parents and friends find this practice and become happy, let me attain enlightenment soon, get enough money so I can live without a day-job and concentrate on my writing; and could I maybe get laid once in awhile? I know it’s just animal instinct, but when I try to be celibate, these sexual thoughts take over my brain.

Mr. Royce hit the bell, silencing daimoku (chanting); Dave Matthias, Gilbert’s district chief, leaped up as emcee.

Good evening!

GOOD EVENING, roared the assembly.

Mr. Royce turned to face them: the YMD set the two-foot table before him and the jo-shibu placed a spotless ashtray and glass of iced water on this table, underlain with coasters.

Welcome to a West Valley Chapter leaders’ meeting. Tonight to lead our meeting it’s our fortune to have our Santa Monica General Chapter Chief, Mr. Royce!

YAAAYY, shouted the ranks, pounding their hands together.

Slowly Rick Royce rose to his feet, wrapping his beads carefully in the scarf, apparently deaf to the applause. Gilbert realized this was a big man, at least six-three, not as wide as Steve Bauer but somehow appearing sizes larger. A prominent jaw rose over the mandatory Senior-Leaders’ tie, sweeping up into sharply defined maxillary glands. The short-cropped brown hair receded deeply at the temples, creating an unusually high forehead for a man of twenty-six. The face bore traces of pockmarks and other indefinable discolorations, creating a ravaged appearance, as if Rick Royce had passed through fire. Pale blue eyes regarded the faces before him.

NSA is a place to learn how to practice, he said. "It’s actually the only place to learn how to practice this Buddhism. You’ve been appointed leaders of NSA, so I hope you’re serious about finding out about the scroll called Gohonzon, and serious about doing kosen-rufu and attaining enlightenment."

He cleared his throat, surveying them. Gilbert noticed how relaxed Royce appeared in the formal Gakkai speaking position: hands clasped behind his back. Legs braced wide, jaw firm, Rick Royce looked like a tower of granite. Charisma poured out of him.

You can’t practice your way, or your grandma’s way, anymore, he continued calmly. You have to practice correctly, because members are following you, thinking you represent President Ikeda.

He paused again. "You don’t know anything about President Ikeda’s spirit."

What the fuck? Gilbert stiffened: Royce had only raised his voice slightly, but the words had the effect of a battlefield roar.

There was no anger in the old-young face that surveyed them, only an expression of watching and waiting.

Your friend dragged you to a meeting, you decided to try it, you chanted for a couple of stupid things, found out it worked, and shakubukued a couple of people, he narrated in a singsong manner. "Then they appointed you a leader. Maybe you think that means you’re somebody.

"Actually it means you have an opportunity to become somebody, a chance to develop yourself into a Bodhisattva of the Earth. I hope that if you’re not serious, you get out. Don’t waste everybody’s time."

Gilbert felt his knuckles go white. Scanning faces, he saw only expressionless Gakkai masks except Robin Jacobs, a YMD near the front who was openly glaring at Royce.

"If you are serious, and you realize this practice is a total life-reformation of the human being, which I sincerely believe it is, then you’re ready. Then you can begin the battle of your own Human Revolution."

Royce sat down abruptly behind the table; Matthias sprang up.

Now we’ll have guidance from our Assistant General Chapter Chief, Mrs. Mirisch!

As Joanne Mirisch rose and began speaking, Gilbert did not hear, engulfed by the urge to get up, kick the table out of the way and shatter Rick Royce’s salient jaw. Although he was not as big, Gilbert knew he could destroy him: before joining he had lifted heavy weights, and the strength was still there. But something made him pause: Royce’s face had exhibited no trace of anger in his speech, nor did it reveal any gloating now as he gazed attentively at Joanne Mirisch. His visage showed only effort, like someone hard at work.

Gilbert focused on Mrs. Mirisch: he had seen her before. Joanne Mirisch had a dazzling smile that made her look ten years younger, but it was not in evidence now. She was rather old, Gilbert thought, at least 40. No one in the room was smiling as she spoke huffily like a schoolmistress.

You’re all appointed leaders, as Mr. Royce mentioned, but you have to grow up in order to fulfill your position. We want to get you out of diapers, so you can reply to President Ikeda’s expectations.

A gruff snort of humor issued from Rick Royce.

Gilbert ground his teeth: the way she pronounced diahpurrs, dwelling on each syllable, made it twice as insulting. Envying the leaders around him who seemed so composed, Gilbert resolved grimly to last out the meeting. Where else could he practice, but in NSA? If he left, it would just be harder to continue. Glancing at Robin Jacobs, still glaring balefully, Gilbert felt less isolated: at least one person felt as he did.

Mrs. Mirisch closed her brief stinging remarks and was echoed by muted applause. There were no more Yays. Gilbert did not bother to clap.

Fuck this shit.

Matthias was up again like a Jack-in-the-box.

Now final guidance from Mr. Royce!

Mr. Royce took a studied drink of water as the applause died. A peculiar half-smile crept over his face as he surveyed them, an expression somewhere between amusement and contempt, as if someone had told him a joke that was not quite funny.

So it’s a leaders’ meeting, he said incongruously, drawing scattered chuckles. How many leaders here? He set down the water; the members hesitated, not sure if this was a trap. How many YMD junior hanchos here? he barked suddenly.

Hai! bellowed ten or twelve guys, throwing their fists overhead.

How many of you guys are in the Brass Band?

All but three hands went down.

Royce gazed at the rest. What do you do? he inquired politely, as if asking after their employment. Titters arose from the jo-shibu. What do you do….TCD? Direct traffic once a month? Shakubuku King? Bullshit.

Gilbert was mystified: Brass Band? He had heard of it, but no one in his district was involved; he had assumed it was a juvenile activity for middle-school kids.

"When I was a Junior Hancho, Mr. Royce went on, The YMD did EVERYTHING!" His massive fist crashed on the table; everyone flinched. The water glass bounced and spilled. Jo-shibu scurried up with towels and replacement water.

It’s my house, joked Mr. Royce. My floor. Laughter momentarily relieved the tension, then the half-smile left his face.

"When I was a YMD I was taught how to sit, how to stand, how to walk, how to talk, and how to dress. We campaigned six nights a week, and on Sunday after Gojukai at the temple we drove the members home, did all the okuris and had a leaders’ meeting."

Gilbert tried to imagine this 24-hour practice. Would he have survived? Would he now be a Senior Leader? Again his anger blurred as he stared at Royce’s countenance: what was the source of his charisma? His hair was short as a brush, too short to enhance his plain face. Somehow the features contained a natural power, so that whenever they changed expression, observers tended to copy them.

Now he was addressing the young women, on the right side of the room.

…many of you YWD are still spending your time gossiping, worrying about what somebody else is wearing, instead of worrying about your members. I don’t want her to use my beads," he whined in an absurd shrewish mutation, drawing gruff laughter from the YMD. "She can’t borrow my beads. Isn’t it stupid, the way she does her hair?"

As more YMD laughed, Gilbert realized Royce was driving a wedge between YMD and jo-shibu, making them laugh at each other, probably for purposes of preventing sansho goma. If YMD and YWD engaged in carnality, sansho goma arose, one of the heaviest obstacles to practicing. Usually those afflicted by sansho goma ended up going taiten, abandoning their faith.

Mr. Royce had now reverted to general topics.

As General Director Mr. Williams is always teaching us, you have to put your members before yourself, he said. When you chant for your members, your han or junior han will grow. Too many of you only chant for your own selfish benefits. That’s why, no result. Suddenly he swiveled his head.

"How many members do you have, Robin Jacobs?" he addressed the YMD who was still glowering furiously.

Two, Jacobs gritted.

Two, repeated Mr. Royce, as if trying to understand. You’ve been practicing for… three years?

I have five members in Sacramento! yelled Jacobs.

Five members… Mr. Royce regarded the infuriated YMD calmly. When I was practicing for three years, I had twenty members and I was a district chief. And I was a nineteen-year old punk. He paused. So that’s like, half an answer, he nodded at the speechless Jacobs. Gilbert gaped: half an answer? What was the question? Had there been a question?

If you’re serious about getting benefits from this practice and you want to change your karma, Mr. Royce continued, now ignoring Robin Jacobs. Do shakubuku. Try to follow Mr. Williams, like a fly on a white horse. We’re all like flies: buzzing around, going nowhere. But when we follow Mr. Williams, it’s like that fly gets on the back of a big, galloping white horse. Then we can make the long journey to enlightenment, because Mr. Williams is a disciple of President Ikeda, and is really, really serious about doing kosen-rufu. And remember, support your leaders no matter how much you may hate them, the half-smile was back, partly directed at himself, partly at them. If you don’t know how to support, you’ll never be a good leader.

A few general remarks followed, then Mr. Royce nodded to Dave Matthias who jumped up.

Now we’ll have leaders’ appointments by our Shibucho, Mr. Bauer!

Bauer rose, a big wide figure whose liquid blue eyes were filled with concern for his members here tonight: how many would survive the strictness of this meeting? How many would need heavy encouragement just to continue? How many would taiten?

It was only Bauer’s eyes that mirrored these thoughts; his face betrayed no weakness. The big shibucho announced a few appointments of people Gilbert did not know, who shouted Hai and stood up momentarily.

Mr. Bauer turned toward the YMD.

"And a new han has been created in Topanga District, which will be led by Dennis Hauser!"

Amid vociferous Topanga applause, Gilbert noted that Hauser, a veteran, allowed himself only a tiny smile of acknowledgment. Bauer sat down: Rick Royce fixed his scathing eye on the new hancho.

What’s the name of your han, he said quietly.

The Lions, Hauser cried loudly, face locked against what he knew was coming: the dressing-down of a new leader to ensure that no arrogance set in.

Cubs! Royce corrected; laughter burst from the members. Cubs, he nodded, waiting for some response which was stonewalled by the wily Hauser.

Gilbert was trying to remember who had talked him into coming to this meeting: was it Kerhulas? Bob Lash? He couldn’t remember. Did he really want to continue this practice, if this was where it led?

You don’t know ANYTHING about President Ikeda’s spirit!

But I know you’re a son of a bitch, thought Gilbert.

Anyway, we’re gonna end this meeting early, so we can have a District Leaders’ meeting, Mr. Royce continued. So go home, get plenty of rest so you can get up and chant lots of daimoku in the morning, he joked breezily. Everybody leave quickly, except the chikubuchos. His ravaged face was flushed with latent force; at this moment Gilbert was thankful he was not a district chief and vowed never to become one.

We’re gonna put ‘em through the meat-grinder, Mr. Royce said with a grim smile, cranking an imaginary handle with his huge hands. A sympathetic groan arose. To make them better, for you, he added.

Everyone took up their beads. Gilbert glanced surreptitiously at the district chiefs: some were stone-faced, others visibly unhappy. Even the irrepressible Mike Raymond sighed, bracing himself.

Mr. Royce hit the bell, they all chanted Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo three times (sansho daimoku), and the leaders of West Valley Chapter exited the premises. Remaining behind were only the district chiefs and Mr. Bauer, who was also required to attend.

It was now midnight.

Gilbert Clark drove home, smoking and cursing out loud.

II

Tuesday, 10:35 am

California State University at Northridge

The disquisitions of Coleridge and his affinity for the great English divines had fostered a resurgence in Anglican theology. Into this religious milieu, the Victorians appeared.

Professor Stone paused; Gilbert sighed. He understood the system: each professor had a literary period in which he was expert and had read all the books. The downside was, they had to teach the same material year after year. Some chose to wing it and just rap, but Stone was methodical. For two weeks he had been reading from copious notes that established historical background.

The class squirmed like trapped insects.

A great many theatres such as the Congreve and Sheridan appealed to the educated population, or intelligentsia; but there was always an uneducated public that craved amusement of a cruder sort. For example, if you ever take a look at Victorian pornography, you’ll find it’s…outrageous.

Gilbert’s attention snapped into focus, along with his fellow students. The thin girl on his right smiled at him. However, Stone continued droning without elaborating on the smut, and the class returned to semi-consciousness.

Doodling, Gilbert wondered how similar was this to prison, where Second President Josei Toda had attained enlightenment. Probably prison was stricter: no decent food, no windows, no girls. Not even Stone to ramble on about Victorians.

Gilbert had read about Toda’s legendary experience: he had followed his master, Makiguchi, to prison, after the old man had defied Japan’s Shinto government to protect the purity of Nichiren Buddhism. Makuguchi had died in prison, but Toda had reached enlightenment there, after chanting Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo over two million times while pondering the passage in the Muryogi Kyo that mysteriously held 34 negatives. Gilbert had scribbled the passage in his notebook for reference:

Its entity is neither being nor non