"Sometimes contemplative, sometimes turbulent and harrowing, this memoir is rich and full, and will carry you all the way to a great wide sea.” —Traci Skuce, author of Hunger Moon
Keith is a Jewish Canadian-American boy with an invisible disease that goes un-diagnosed for years, leaving him alienated and in pain. Yoshiko comes from a tiny isolated village on a forgotten Japanese mountainside, her parents survivors of Siberian labour camps and a death march across northern Asia. She is determined to transcend her past and work for peace in a world torn apart by conflict.
In this powerful speculative memoir of identity and belonging, we witness the transformation of two individuals who refuse to be defined by their circumstances. Through memory, poetry and imaginative stories from Buddhist history and legend, we are transported on a journey of self-discovery and purpose.
Keith and Yoshiko's struggles with isolation and misery are relatable to anyone who has ever felt like they don't quite fit in. But it's their determination to find meaning and purpose in their lives that makes this memoir memorable. Whether you're a fan of healing memoirs, poetry, or Buddhist philosophy, The Buddha in Our Bellies will leave a lasting impression.
"Sometimes contemplative, sometimes turbulent and harrowing, this memoir is rich and full, and will carry you all the way to a great wide sea.” —Traci Skuce, author of Hunger Moon
Keith is a Jewish Canadian-American boy with an invisible disease that goes un-diagnosed for years, leaving him alienated and in pain. Yoshiko comes from a tiny isolated village on a forgotten Japanese mountainside, her parents survivors of Siberian labour camps and a death march across northern Asia. She is determined to transcend her past and work for peace in a world torn apart by conflict.
In this powerful speculative memoir of identity and belonging, we witness the transformation of two individuals who refuse to be defined by their circumstances. Through memory, poetry and imaginative stories from Buddhist history and legend, we are transported on a journey of self-discovery and purpose.
Keith and Yoshiko's struggles with isolation and misery are relatable to anyone who has ever felt like they don't quite fit in. But it's their determination to find meaning and purpose in their lives that makes this memoir memorable. Whether you're a fan of healing memoirs, poetry, or Buddhist philosophy, The Buddha in Our Bellies will leave a lasting impression.
Government Office, Los Angeles, 1975
After waiting weeks for an appointment, I trudged in desperate and unprepared and out of options.
Bare office. Three metal desks, two unoccupied. At one, I watched an angular black woman with graying hair working, with a telephone, a binder holding forms, and a couple of mismatched pens. Her desktop lay as barren as her flat expression: no notepads or in/out trays, no stationery holder, no lamp, no cup for stale coffee. No flower vase warmed the space, no photo frame, nothing personal.
Cold, functional space. I waited across the desk, in a hard metal chair, clueless how this worked, trying to get a read on her. For my sake, I hoped that eight hours a day in this humourless office didn’t freeze her every drop of care and kindness. For her sake, too.
Two framed pictures hung on the wall: Jerry Brown and Gerald Ford. Two Jerries running things; that’s kind of funny. Crack a joke. Her dismal eyes said she needed a laugh. My joking mouth opened, then shut. Another frame hung on the wall behind her, a certificate or diploma.
She opened the binder, grasped a pen. Those bony fingers held my fate. “Tell me your situation, Mr. uh, Robinson?”
I’d stuffed rent receipts, bills, an eviction notice, in my pocket. They stayed stuffed.
“Yeah. All right, so, I’ve got no money, no food, no job. I can’t make rent. Nowhere to go if I’m booted out. I won’t even have a car to sleep in. They repossessed my car in the middle of the night. I hid the Pinto and pulled off the distributor rotor to disable the car, but they found it, towing it out from the bushes.”
There it is, lady, that’s me. Most of it, anyway. That’s how I got here, towed out from under bushes. Now you got almost everything.
She scribbled a note. “But you can work?”
Work. Stealing car stereos and selling them. Stealing from John, Stan and Kathy. This wasn’t work. My pathetic attempt to obtain welfare crumbled before it began.
“Mr. Robinson?”
“I have Crohn’s disease.”
“What’s that? A disability?”
“It’s a disease.” Tell her about the hospital. It wouldn’t matter. She doesn’t care about surgery. No, simply tell her.
“Are you sick now?”
Bile rose in my mouth; a cramp began.
Speak. Don’t sabotage this. I’m sick. I need this; open your stupid mouth, you putz, and tell her. Not strong enough to survive on the streets, I’ll be dead in short order.
This place is not for me. Welfare exists for poor people, the girlfriends and wives of the guys inside. But I need to eat. Please, I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve welfare. Show her. Show her my belly. Lift my shirt so she sees inside, the sutures coming out oozing. She’ll see the hole leaking puss, the hole large enough for her scrawny ice-shard fingers. Allow her to see my belly wriggle exposed and punctured, like a bloated, greasy fish on a hook.
“Sort of. I guess not. I got out of jail a couple of weeks ago.”
“For what, Mr. Robinson?” She leans back. Head tilted, eyes doubtful.
“Nothing much. Scofflaw.” My face tingled, hot. Bit my cheeks. Harder. That’s all this meant: a form to be filed, a file to be closed.
“There aren’t any programs for you.” She scanned me, a fish slice on display, a bastard bug in a jar. Then she put down the pen. “You are employable. Any friends who can be of assistance? Family?”
Been stealing money from my friends. That’s them assisting.
“My parents are in Canada.” The cramps spread from my guts to my thighs, then all the way to the base of my skull. Twisting in my chair. Nothing new about the cramps, but nothing I got used to. Trouble hearing what she said, but it must be some version of no. Gotta get out of here, clear out.
“Canada?” She’s closing the binder. “You don’t qualify for Social Assistance. You are employable. Find a job.”
I found a toilet in the nick of time.
Keith is the youngest of three sons. He, along with his brothers,’ live in the shadows of his brilliant parents’ constant anger. Growing up, he tries not to cause disruption. While they argue about justice and each other, he stays silent to avoid being noticed at the dinner table. As a result, he’s not able to deal with life or his emotions.
Crone’s disease is a life sentence of misery. Even with no cure, getting a diagnosis validates his experience. However, his coping skills of skipping school and smoking weed aren’t helping. Keith can’t depend on his body. It disrupts every aspect of his life. He can’t keep a job, a girlfriend, or an apartment.
His musician brother talks him into unloading equipment for a concert his band is playing at. He’s worried about Keith and hopes attending the Buddhist celebration and meeting the community will help. The guest speaker talks to Keith and gifts him his meditation beads. This moment changes the course of his life.
Gradually, Keith develops a meditation practice that develops his inner life, helping him to cope with the many setbacks he experiences. The Buddhist community and his daily meditation practice keep him grounded.
This quote sums up his new purpose: “My family remained my family. My guts remained my guts. Incurable. Untreatable. Not much choice remained: change myself.”
The rest of this memoir centers on the experience of two immigrants and their families. The poetry and the lovely drawings are moments to reflect on their journeys.
The alternating chapters of Keith and Yoshiko’s unique experiences of growing up are an education in resilience. It makes perfect sense to become part of a community that values peace and helping one another.
The unexpected jewel in this book is the retelling of Siddhartha's relationship with his wife Yasodhara. before he leaves on his quest for enlightenment to become the Buddha.
Her story gave me the closure I had been longing for. I had no compassion for the many men who abandon their wives in search of self-discovery. Understanding Yasodhara's experience after her husband's departure made me realize the importance of devotion and creating a unique path.
Memoirs don’t need a specific shape to be effective. The layering of the chapters of growing up, finding work, and finding purpose, by being part of a larger community focused on peace, might sound naïve. It isn’t. It's life-changing.
No matter which story resonates, the sincerity is evident.