Just a few short weeks after renewing their contract in Chinatown, South Salt Lake City, the owners of Tea’s Memory were forced to pack up and relocate their business, and fast.
A new franchise café was put in its place. Luckily, Tea’s Memory owners Yuling He and Haiming Yu were planning on expanding their business and had already looked at locations in cities like Farmington, just north of Salt Lake City. There, Tea’s Memory re-opened in June 2021 as the only boba tea shop in the city and its surrounding community.
Yuling He is making an iced citrus tea, which she said is her favorite refreshing drink.
“Utah is a state that I think has an open mind and boba is pretty new to them, but people are loving to try new things, especially in Farmington. That’s one of the things that I’m so appreciative of,” Yuling He said.
Boba, a unique textured drink, became increasingly popular in China when she was growing up, He said. She began making boba in high school and credits her business’ success to her former boss, who taught her the basics beyond typical things like inventory management, consumer relations, budgeting, and more.
“She’s kind of like my first teacher about boba. She taught me how to cook it, she taught me what is good with green tea and what is good with black tea. There is so much knowledge in this market and I learned a lot,” Yuling He said.
A few years after she began her career in the café business, He was accepted to the University of Utah, where she would begin studying accounting six months later. She said she wanted to spend the half year exploring Utah and getting to know the area before moving on to college.
It wasn’t easy to part ways from her friends and family, He said, but a certain animated video about new beginnings brought her high hopes for moving to Salt Lake City and comforted her with the endless possibilities to come.
One of the first occurrences in the United States came as a shock. He said her partner, Haiming Yu, was selected to launch a boba tea shop in Chinatown. The rent was reasonable, He said, and the location was ideal, and so came Tea’s Memory — named after the video that comforted her when moving across the globe.
“I see it kind of like my child because, me and Haiming, at the moment we decided to do it, it became a thing that we really value,” He said. “At the very beginning I didn’t want to do it actually. I’m a student, I want to focus on my study.”
In order to focus in school, she became the brains behind the café’s operation by investing and providing ideas and knowledge to Haiming Yu and their employees, He said. She appreciates the staff as they execute her ideas and run the café day-to-day to make it all possible.
The new store, located at 210 W. Promontory in Farmington, has continued with great success, manager Caralee Donaldson said. Like He, Donaldson said she had no previous interest in working in food service. But, she was inspired by watching content creators on YouTube, like Mike Chen, who create vlogs as they travel the world trying different foods including boba.
Donaldson said she is lucky to have her Filipino mother, who regularly made a dessert from the Philippines called halo halo, meaning “mix mix,” throughout her childhood. She describes the sweet treat as an iced drink with mixed flavoring ingredients comparable to boba and milk tea. Boba is nostalgic to Donaldson, she said, as it reminds her of her grandparents in Arizona.
“It’s always kind of sad because you never know when you’re going to see them again, you know, so we always make a boba shop stop afterwards to cheer ourselves up,” she said.
This sentimentality toward boba brought her to managing the café, where she makes new memories every day. Donaldson said she enjoys the diverse groups of people who come in and stay a while, charmed by the shop’s welcoming environment. She said she predicts that the K-Pop music played in the café will encourage unique crowds to return regularly.
Yuling He said she carefully crafted this cordial environment to stay more involved with her consumer community while she focuses on school. Upon entering the café, there is a vibrant wall of Post-it notes with messages from customers. Some notes feature drawings, from detailed sketches to stick figures. Other notes contain inspirational messages and quotes.
“It’s kind of hard to balance at the beginning because I’m international. I do have some limitations with working. The only thing I could do is give ideas,” He said. “Some people come in and they will read, and they will get inspired.”
Caralee Donaldson is making a drink behind the counter where customers view the menu and place orders.
The menu displays a variety of fruity flavors, floral flavors, milk alternatives, sweeteners, and add-ins like jellies and boba pearls. Customers can watch every step while the barista makes their drink. The barista pulls a cup from a tall stack, each one featuring a sticker with colorful Asian artwork made by Yuling He’s cousin. When the customer receives the visually pleasing drink, they can write a review on a Post-it note on another section of the message wall. Customers look to the colorful stickies to read other people’s experience, which can help them decide what to order.
Donaldson said reading the reviews is uplifting for her as a barista and manager, but “the most fulfilling part about it is I don’t even have to be making eye contact with the person. I can hear someone [say] ‘this is so good like I’m coming back’ and that makes me feel so good about myself.”
The drink is still very new to the United States, He said, and thus many customers don’t understand what makes the drink to be considered “tea.”
Brad Heller, owner and president of the Tea Grotto in Salt Lake City, is a tea expert who enjoys sharing his knowledge with his customers and curious tea consumers. He explains that milk tea usually has powdered Camellia Sinensis plant leaves in its mixture, making it a tea.
“I like to think of Milk Tea with boba as a Taiwan milkshake. It is sweet, creamy, caffeinated, and for most, fun to chew on,” Heller said in an email interview. “I welcome boba’s role in exposing more people to the nearly infinitely complex world of tea.”
The versatility of boba milk teas is convenient to customers who wish to adjust the nutritional values or flavors of the drink, Yuling He said. She hopes people see boba’s future, and encourages customers to customize their drinks to their satisfaction and not limit themselves to a menu.
“You can make it healthy, and I want to expand the boba market, especially in the United States,” He said. “There’s still tons of people that don’t know about boba and I want to be a person who introduces it to them.”
Customer reviews recommend a honeydew coconut smoothie, cloud foam rose tea, Hong Kong coffee milk, caramel oolong, lychee lemon bark tea, taro smoothie, matcha latte, and brown sugar boba.Post-its with phrases and a simple drawing of a frog. Pictured is a brown sugar boba milk tea. All drinks are served in a plastic cup with an artsy sticker.Post-its on the wall are brightly colored, each with a unique drawing or phrase from anonymous café visitors.
It was during the eleventh hour when at last they broke the language barrier for a moment. After 10 days of aiming to communicate, they finally understood what was being said. In fact, it was the only thing said during their stay in Japan that they certainly understood. It was “goodbye.”
They were on their way back to the airport, wrapping up a 10-day trip which they felt went by as fast as the two-month wait for the trip had felt slow. Four months earlier, brothers Mitchell and Treyton Imamura submitted applications through the Kakehashi Project. The Japanese government program partners with the Japanese American Citizens League to offer young Japanese Americans the opportunity to visit Japan in a larger effort to strengthen relations that join the United States and Japan.
“The Kakehashi Program was instituted when I was the national director of the JACL in D.C. Of course I wanted to see our local Salt Lake youth, where I’m from and I was born and raised, be part of the program,” said Floyd Mori, who served as the national executive director of the JACL.
Mori discussed in a phone interview his sense of obligation to do his part in building the bridge, or kakehashi, between his countries of origin. Having a pride in his identity is what drove him through such a successful career, so he felt it was important to share that confidence with other Japanese Americans, starting with those in his hometown.
Growing up during World War II, Mori said he experienced firsthand stereotypes and prejudices that made him ashamed of who he was. His family was always active with the JACL but one day he noticed that his interaction within his community helped to develop a better understanding of the culture. Because of that understanding, he became more appreciative of who he was.
“There is a sense of, you know, we’re real, we can do something, we can be something, and we’re as full of a human being as anybody else, regardless what their background might be,” Mori explained.
Thanks to Mori’s encouragement, the Imamura brothers said they received their acceptance letter a month after they applied. The excitement grew as they prepared for the trip, and Trey couldn’t help but remember his humanitarian trip to Brazil nearly 10 years before. He focused on keeping an open mind, free of assumptions and expectations.
Two months later, Mitch, Trey, and several other Japanese Americans from around the U.S. flew from Los Angeles to Tokyo, where they were separated into smaller groups to travel with throughout the trip. Mori was with Trey’s group as an advisor, so Mitch was on his own to make new friends during his travel.
Display of Japanese foods from around the world.Image of Salt Lake City hotel advertisement.Baseball bat and glove, on display at the museum.
He took photos of things he found interesting or could relate to, starting with the Japanese Overseas Migration Museum in Yokohama. Some photos included an ad for a Japanese hotel in Salt Lake City, a table crowded with international Japanese foods, a baseball glove and bat, and a basic butsudan, or Japanese Buddhist family altar.
Hot meal in a can from a vending machine.
It wasn’t long before Mitch encountered his first culture shock, he said. His first meal was a can of corn chowder from a vending machine. To his surprise, the soup was hot and meal ready. After that, Mitch said, “Whenever I saw a vending machine I just bought something, anything.”
His group’s homestay family invited them into their home in the outskirts of Semboku City. Everyone took their shoes off at the door as standard practice they were already used to. Mitch said he shivered throughout the tour of their home. It was February and central heating was uncommon in the countryside. When he came across the family’s butsudan, he was so amused by the regular upkeep with the altar that he almost forgot it was cold.
“A big part of the Japanese Buddhist ideology is that everything is impermanent, and that we can’t hold on to things. When you have food or flowers on a shrine, you are adding to the things that will go away and you have to keep replacing them with things,” Mitch said. “The religious symbolism in it is impermanence, that nothing is permanent in this world and that everything will go away.”
Imamura family butsudan, with ornate decor and valuables. Butsudan example in the Japanese Overseas Immigration Museum.Mitch Imamura was impressed by his homestay family’s butsudan, with perishables and memory items.
He continued to see things in a new light throughout the trip, he said. He felt at home. He was familiar with much of Japanese culture and was able to connect his memories with his experiences.
The group’s homestay dad took them to the grocery store. Mitch’s roommate, who spoke limited Japanese, translated for the dad. He said he was excited to introduce them to a food they might not have seen before. But Mitch said he recognized sakura mochi, a Japanese confectionery made with rice and red bean paste. He described it as a pastry almost as sweet as the nostalgia it evoked from when his mom made it for him and his brother.
“Throughout my trip was a lot of confirmation that I know Japanese culture really well. There were also things that I didn’t know, so I guess those things together affirmed to me that I am very strongly Japanese and American, and it affirmed to me that there are differences between being Japanese and Japanese American,” Mitch said, explaining how he finds balance within his cultural identity.
On their way to Akita, Mitch had a memorable conversation with a roommate about how they express their cultures back home in the U.S. His roommate said he felt more Japanese just for being there in Japan. Being from the South, there weren’t many other Asian Americans to relate with. His only connection to his Japanese culture was watching anime.
Life-size lantern fixture, like the one Mitch Imamura balanced. Lantern street art as seen by Imamura through the bullet train windows. Lantern-balancing figurine shows the scale of lantern fixtures.
Mitch took photos through the windows of the bullet train windows as they arrived in Akita. There, he experienced something completely new to him — lantern balancing. According to legend, it was once a way for the people of Akita to represent their small towns in a competition. They would hold massive poles with more poles at the top that attached a number of artistic lanterns. While it’s not practiced as a competition today, it serves as a community gathering event.
As he watched the lantern balancing, Mitch said it reminded him of the lanterns that decorate the Obon Festival in Salt Lake City, which for him is an emotional celebration of ancestry. When his turn to balance the lanterns came, he felt almost nostalgic of his own connection to the lanterns, but it was different because he didn’t have a great understanding of lantern balancing.
Mitch Imamura can be seen dancing in this video (at 48:35) on the left side of the frame.
Discovery was a repeating theme, Mitch said. The group went to a snow festival in Akita, where he enjoyed new foods like kiritanpo, an Akita Prefecture original rice dish, and saw intricately detailed snow sculptures. With the language barrier, he said he would remind himself not to let his American tendencies exoticize everything he saw because he was there to experience, not interpret.
Dragon sculpture made of snow at the festival Mitch Imamura attended.
“I don’t know if the festival actually had any religious meaning behind It, or cultural meaning, or if it was just a fun thing to do in the community, but it was a way for them to do something together,” Mitch observed.
Meanwhile, Trey was also making discoveries and connections through experiences with his group. In the town of Minakami located in the Gunma Prefecture, Trey’s homestay family began each day with breakfast before they embarked on whatever adventures the day had in store. Trey said their host expected nothing in return. At one point, Trey recalled, he said a familiar word, kimochi. Without hesitation, Trey thought of his mom.
“She’d always say this word kimochi, kimochi, and I never really fully understood what it meant,” Trey remembered. “She always said it was ‘from the heart, from the heart.’”
He said he came to the realization that his homestay family did generous acts for the group simply because they wanted their guests to have a nice breakfast, they cared. Despite not speaking Japanese, there was a mutual understanding of kimochi as the action not the word.
“The connection that I felt there was beyond words, because I always heard that with my own family and Japanese community. I could never establish an understanding, but after going to Japan and seeing that culture it reaffirmed that we are still Japanese,” Trey said. “It’s who we are and what we do in a lot of our cultural practices.”
Having experienced trains in Hong Kong and New York City, Trey said the systems in Japan were culturally shocking because of the overall cleanliness, to which he credits Japanese culture and respect for others. He said this distinguished his Japanese culture from his American culture and from Asian cultures in general. He spoke about how his ancestors’ struggles with their identity shapes who he is today.
“I’m not going to say that I carry trauma from my grandparents being put into internment camps,” Trey said, “but it’s a sad time in our history where my family was … seen as aliens.”
The Kakehashi Project held a sayōnara luncheon in Tokyo. Trey reflected on his favorite experiences, and said the public bathing house was particularly memorable.
“We were out in this natural hot spring and it starts to snow in Japan. And in the wind — it’s cold, and you’re in the hot water and just looking up at the moon, and I was like, life doesn’t get any better than this,” he said.
Then, a familiar song played during the luncheon. He said he once heard it in a documentary and loved its expression of homesickness and the constant desire to return home.
Mitch Imamuras’s travel group on the bus ride back to the airport.
“It was just really interesting to have this song where they’re talking about that. It’s a very common concept in Japanese culture to go home … and that’s where you know you came from,” Trey said.
On the bus ride to the airport, Mitch’s tour guide sang a melody he recognized. He said he sang along and described a connection he felt with his tour guide, which brought a realization of “we’re not that different.” The song was “Sugiyaki,” a popular worldwide hit some 40 years ago.
“Now when I hear that song, I think of her singing it a cappella to us on a bus,” Mitch said. “It’s a very nice upbeat song, but it’s about people leaving you forever and not being able to see people again.”
Scenery just outside of Akita. Mitch Imamura enjoyed tea at a cafe in a Tokyo mall.Imamura’s first sit-down meal at a restaurant with his homestay family.Kiritanpo made by Imamura’s’s homestay mom.Kiritanpo that he enjoyed at the snow festival.Views of the countryside around the group’s homestay.Imamura’s view during his stay in Tokyo.One of many shinto shrines he saw in Tokyo.Museum example of an immigration ship. Imamura said his grandparents may have immigrated to the United States on such a vessel.
Topaz Relocation Center, Utah, “Very Warm Noon Without Any Wind. Dead Heat Covered All Camp Ground,” watercolor, 1943. Gift of the Estate of Chiura Obata, from the Permanent Collection of the Utah Museum of Fine Arts.
The Utah Museum of Fine Arts (UMFA) has acquired 35 pieces of artwork from the Japanese American artist Chiura Obata.
Obata’s artwork will join UMFA’s permanent collection starting fall 2022, according to Luke Kelly, associate curator of collections at UMFA.
“We want to tell the complete art history narrative,” Kelly said in a Zoom interview. “Obata is part of the U.S. art history narrative, but for a long time, that story has not really been told. And we felt that this was a great opportunity … to tell the more complete story of American art history.”
Obata was a prominent Japanese American immigrant artist during the 20th century who was incarcerated in the Topaz War Relocation Center in Utah during World War II.
Before being placed there, Obata lived in California and taught at University of California, Berkeley, for 10 years, according to his granddaughter, Kimi Hill. He joined the faculty at UC Berkeley in 1932 and taught art courses such as Japanese art history and brush techniques. He was also well known for his artwork of Yosemite National Park.
Portrait of Obata taken in 1939 during his time at UC Berkeley. Photo courtesy of the Estate of Chiura Obata.
Obata’s pieces will be rotated through the American gallery in the museum, Kelly said. The collection will include drawings and watercolors of depictions of his incarceration at Topaz and artwork of flowers, animals, and California landscapes, according to the UMFA press release.
Scotti Hill, an art historian, critic and curator, said she was excited to hear UMFA had acquired Obata’s art.
“I hope its arrival in Utah can be a catalyst for a larger conversation here in the state about racial injustice and bias,” Hill said, who is not related to Kimi Hill.
“He’s an incredible figure,” she said in a phone interview.
Healing through art
Scotti Hill said Obata’s work “tells the story of painting as a meditative practice, as a sort of escape from the horrors of the war.”
According to History.com, about 120,000 people of Japanese descent were incarcerated during World War II.
While teaching at UC Berkeley, Kimi Hill said that Obata developed his philosophy of how to react to world events. That philosophy was to always start with your relationship to nature.
Obata believed “that nature is the greatest teacher no matter what the situation,” she said. “That is where you can ground yourself and you know, learn and move forward and find hope.”
This philosophy is what he taught his students in California and what Obata turned to when he saw and experienced the injustice faced by Japanese Americans during the war.
“He firmly believed in the power of nature, to help and to comfort people and also the power of art and creativity,” Hill said.
During his time in Topaz, he painted and sketched the surrounding desert landscape. In other pieces, he included imagery of the barracks and barbed wire fence surrounding the camp, Hill said. Some of his art from this time will be included in the UMFA collection.
“Some of them were just pure landscapes because again, that was the nurturing, embracing quality of nature that he said himself, he never felt abandoned,” she said.
This philosophy led Obata to create an art school at the Tanforan Assembly Center in California, where he was incarcerated before being moved to Topaz in Utah. Almost immediately, Obata started talking to his friends and other students about starting an art school there, Hill said.
Chiura Obata teaching a children’s art class in the Tanforan Assembly Center. While incarcerated, Obata taught art classes to help him and others cope with their circumstances. Photo courtesy of the Estate of Chiura Obata.
He believed art education was as important as food, especially while undergoing a traumatic experience, she said.
Scotti Hill said Obata oversaw dozens of students in the Topaz art school.
“What I think is really remarkable about Obata is not only his extraordinary career but his commitment to educating others,” she said.
A powerful American story
Obata’s experience as an immigrant also greatly impacted his art and artistic style, Kimi Hill said. Unlike other Asian immigrants who came for economic reasons, Obata came as an artist, she said.
“As an immigrant, he took his experience of culture and art history from Japan and brought it to America,” she said.
He used traditional Japanese art materials to interpret American scenery through a cultural lens that “was new to Americans,” Hill said.
Scotti Hill said she believes his upbringing in Japan shaped his artistic identity and he was influenced by the artistic traditions of Japan, such as the Sumi ink art style.
Kelly, who curates for UMFA, said Obata’s art style blended Western and Japanese techniques providing a “unique American vision.”
“Chiura Obata’s art style is Chiura Obata,” he said.
Scotti Hill said Obata had a tremendous impact on 20th-century art.
Chiura Obata, “Topaz War Relocation Center by Moonlight,” 1943, watercolor, gift of the Estate of Chiura Obata, from the Permanent Collection of the Utah Museum of Fine Arts.
“He’s not only one of the most significant Japanese American artists of the 20th century,” she said, “but I would argue, without the qualifier of Japanese American, he is one of the most significant American artists of the 20th century.”
She said much of his impact comes from not just his time in Topaz but from his work building up to that event in his lifetime.
“Just talking about Topaz, in some ways, limits the discussion of all of the incredible things he had done prior to that point — among them, working as an illustrator for some really prominent Japanese American publications in California [and] doing this incredible series of paintings and works of national parks in California,” Hill said.
“His life experience and his commitment to art,” she said, “even in the most tragic and unjustified circumstances is a powerful American story.”
It’s no secret that people often skip past video game credits. But for Karan Ganesh, within those names lie important reminders about representation in the world of game development.
“If you see some Indian name out there, I’m like, ‘Yeah, wow, that’s so cool that that person got to work on that, I wish I got to be there,” Ganesh said in a Zoom interview. “Just seeing a name on the credit is something really huge.”
And in an industry where nearly half of surveyed Asian-American gamers feel as if characters aren’t equally represented when it comes to race, those reminders can be critical — especially for Asians breaking into American gaming.
“There were not many people who I could look up to and say, ‘Hey, I would like to become like this person someday,’” Ganesh said. “There was no person from my background I’d say who I could relate to.”
Despite the global market of video games, there’s little discussion of Asian representation, and even less research to be found on Asian and Asian American game developers. In India, Ganesh wasn’t aware of the people and processes that went into creating video games. But he did know he enjoyed playing them.
At UC Davis, Ganesh continued to explore the game development world. When he finally reached the University of Utah’s Entertainment Arts and Engineering (EAE) program, everything “took off.”
“The people [in Salt Lake City] were so great,” Ganesh said. “I got to learn a lot from there.”
Before earning a master’s degree at the U, Ganesh focused mainly on the building aspects of game development, such as computer science. He was encouraged during the EAE program to step into a management role as a producer — a role he hadn’t known existed, but one Ganesh says he’s glad he found.
Game producers are tasked with overseeing various development teams, making sure that deadlines are met and roadblocks are thwarted.
“I behave as a glue to the team,” Ganesh said. “As a person who really likes to talk and engage a lot with other people in communication, I find this to be a great role.”
Ganesh credits his diverse education — which includes studying in Chennai, India; England; California and Utah — with his success in production.
“It was one that helped me communicate better with diverse people and also understand the different cultural backgrounds,” he said.
The pandemic put those communication skills to the test during Ganesh’s final year within the EAE program. His cohort had to create a game without meeting in person.
“It was a really difficult time,” Ganesh said. “The first time we actually got to meet everybody was after we published and launched the game, during our celebration party.”
In the photo at left, Karan Ganesh (holding the trophy) stands with part of his team after winning the Utah Game Developer Choice Award for Artistic Achievement in December 2021. The game, Abyss of Neptune, was the students’ thesis project. In the photo at right, Karan Ganesh (sitting behind the cake) poses with the Abyss of Neptune team at the game’s launch celebration. The game crossed over 20,000 activations in less than two weeks when it launched in May 2021. Photos courtesy of Karan Ganesh.
Ganesh worked as the producer for Abyss of Neptune, the team’s first-person underwater survival horror game. The hard work didn’t go unrewarded, though, as the project won the Utah Game Developer Choice Award for Artistic Achievement.
“Today I can finally say, ‘Worked on an award winning title,’” Ganesh said in a tweet.
Now, as an associate producer for 2K Games and a former member of Big Fish Games, Ganesh can also finally say it’s his name serving as a reminder to other Asians looking to join the industry.
“That is where I feel that representation really matters,” he said. “It’s a great thing that they feel they can pursue as well. But also it’s an encouragement for you to make sure that you can help them and support them in any way possible.”
In the case of 2K Games, employee resource groups were created to uphold the company’s “come as you are” values regarding diversity. According to Benji Han, director of global marketing strategy for NBA 2K, the Asian American group was born out of the rise of anti-Asian sentiment. Now, the group has transformed into what Han describes as a celebratory and empowering community.
“We wanted to also elevate the conversation about unconscious biases that Asian Americans face in the workforce that lead directly and indirectly to glass ceilings — ‘bamboo ceilings,’ in the case of Asian Americans,” Han said in a statement published on 2K’s website.
Alongside Akshay Bharadhwaj, Karan Ganesh hosts the Humans of gamedev podcast. The podcast was created in January 2022 and is still in production, with no episodes released yet. Photo from @humansofgamedev on Twitter.
Personally, Ganesh’s support of aspiring developers takes the form of the Humans of gamedev podcast, which he co-hosts and creates content for on LinkedIn. While still in production, the podcast and LinkedIn posts spread the origin stories of game developers to encourage others to explore.
“People say it’s a closely knit industry, but if you’re able to connect with the right people, you could really get an opportunity that knocks the door for you,” Ganesh said.
Ganesh advises aspiring developers not to be afraid to experiment and reach out to professionals, but make sure they understand the commitment video games require.
“I think the first and foremost thing is having the mindset that you really want to build something,” he said. “It’s something that people find cool, but once you get into it, it’s a lot harder than people expect it to be.”
And for some in India, entering the vast world of video game development is even harder.
“There are still some traditional families who see it as not a career that you can pursue, and so I want to be able to break that barrier for them,” he said.
Ganesh says he was lucky to have his parent’s support when exploring game development, but his work isn’t done.
“If you’re passionate about something, you should really be able to pursue it,” he said. “That’s something that I really want to try and help people out with.”
A love for video games has grown beyond what he expected. Ganesh’s name now has the chance to inspire others.
Karan Ganesh worked both as a producer and PR and community manager for Abyss of Neptune, a free, first-person underwater horror survival game.
On a Sunday at 2 p.m. in downtown Salt Lake City, I was held at knifepoint in a Walgreens.
A week later, I was learning how to escape the very move I had been assaulted with.
I walked into Mushin Self Defense nervous. Martial arts wasn’t something I had experience with, unless watching my little brother earn his taekwondo black belt counts. But still, co-founder and instructor Brian Yamasaki had encouraged me to come, promising in an introductory phone call that I would control the boundaries of our interaction.
That call was my first inkling that the culture of Mushin Self Defense was unlike anything else I had experienced. And as I continued to learn about the school’s story, that continued to be proved correct.
That first night, I put on a facade of cheeriness in the car ride to North Salt Lake.
“As long as it’s not chokeholds, I’ll be fine,” I said to the friend who accompanied me.
We walk in. It’s chokeholds.
It only took a moment of knowing eye contact with my friend before I burst into tears. I almost asked to leave, sure that coming was a mistake despite Yamasaki’s encouragement. I wasn’t ready.
But the instructors quickly assured me that nothing was expected of me. My training partner for the night, Ruby Talataina, hugged me tight, saying it was enough just to walk through those doors. She had been there too, she said.
Talataina and my friend began to spar. I watched, and wanted in.
It was at that moment, with someone else’s arm around my neck and tears down my face, I knew I had made the right choice in coming to Mushin.
“I just keep thinking, I wish I had found Mushin 20 years ago,” Talataina said in a phone interview. “From my perspective, for a trauma survivor, you go in there and you work through a trigger in one hour that a lot of people spend years working through.”
Talataina’s journey to Mushin Self Defense unfortunately is similar to mine — she had started working through her healing process and thought a self-defense class would help. Her first class ended in tears too, and she told Yamasaki she wouldn’t be returning.
“He was so respectful and he said, ‘Yes, we are here any time,’” Talataina said. “Then the very next day, I went to bed and I was like, ‘Man, you’re just going to let this fear conquer you for the rest of your life, or are you gonna do something about it?’”
Talataina went back to the next class.
“Honestly, what made the difference were the coaches, Sir Kiser and Sir Yamasaki,” Talataina said.
Brandon Kiser is Yamasaki’s business partner and the instructor of the Monday night women-only self-defense class I attend. Together, the two have been running Mushin Self Defense since 2000. But the culture that exists today wasn’t always the one Mushin cultivated.
Brian Yamasaki, left, and Brandon Kiser are coaches and co-founders of Mushin Self Defense. The gym was known for fighting before the owners pivoted to teach students from all walks of life. Photo courtesy of Mushin Self Defense.
Stepping onto the mat
Flash back to the ’80s: Kiser and Yamasaki are both enthralled by the likes of “The Karate Kid” and Bruce Lee. But as Kiser says, “The flashy kicks was just the hook.”
That hook was literal: Kiser’s journey started with a friendly rival showing off a fancy taekwondo kick. The resulting bout of jealousy inspired him to start taking classes. But looking beyond the movie-star moves, there was a different draw, rooted in a chaotic childhood.
“At the time, I didn’t make that connection, but now in hindsight as a 42-year-old, I’m like ‘Oh, well I was probably just really insecure and thought that [martial arts] was going to fix some part of me that I was missing,” Kiser said in a phone interview. “And it did.”
Once he found martial arts, Kiser never looked back.
“The martial arts just really grounded me and gave me direction in life,” he said.
I understand the appeal. The first time I slammed someone into the mat, I immediately asked if they were all right. It was easier than I thought — a lot easier, in fact.
I walked away feeling powerful, like something had finally slotted into place.
For Yamasaki, there were several draws to martial arts — bullying, for one. Growing up in Davis County, Utah, Yamasaki said he could probably count the number of Asians, not just Japanese Americans, on one hand.
“I just think, maybe, deep down inside, it felt good to have an Asian hero,” Yamasaki said about Bruce Lee in a phone interview.
The appeal he’s most certain of, though, came from an existing connection: Yamasaki’s father and grandfather both hold black belts in judo.
“That probably was one of the other big driving factors in my interest in the martial arts,” he said. “Trying to understand these people that I love from doing what they did and going on the journeys that they went on.”
Brandon Kiser poses as an attacker while assistant coach and professional referee Dave Seljestad looks on during the Monday night women-only self-defense class. The class utilizes defense moves that rely on limb placement and technique rather than strength.
The reckoning: “We were white belts on the business side of things.”
In the ’90s, mixed martial arts was practically unheard of. Separate schools taught separate sports, and loyalty to the sport one originally learned was emphasized and expected. Utah, meanwhile, was establishing a name for itself in the jiujitsu world.
Kiser, who was training in taekwondo, was rebuked harshly by his then coach for expressing an interest in jiujitsu. When he found William Bernales of the Bernales Institute of Martial Arts, Kiser knew he had found the change he was looking for.
“It wasn’t a hard transition,” Kiser said. “Once I had heard about him and validated the things that I had heard, I was all in.”
Kiser began taking private lessons in 1998, paying for them with almost his entire paycheck from Walmart. Brian Yamasaki walked into the gym the following year. Right off the bat, he could tell what he needed to know about Kiser.
“He was there, finishing up his private [lesson],” Yamasaki said. “I was able to watch a move and I could tell that he was really serious about training.”
Yamasaki made it clear from the first day that he wanted to compete. But at a time with very little opportunities to do so, that ambition wasn’t taken well by existing members of the gym.
“I just remember wanting to run him out of the gym, and him not letting that happen,” Kiser said.
Yamasaki’s perseverance proved his dedication to Kiser, and the two struck up a friendship.
“There was just something about him that I connected to very quickly,” Kiser said. “It’s hard for me to see back through the eyes I had at that time, because now I could go on for hours about all the great things about Brian Yamasaki.”
As training partners, it became clear they both shared similar visions about martial arts, from the discipline of the journey to the world of MMA.
“Brandon and I were fighting, but we never saw ourselves as fighters,” Yamasaki said. “I think both of us would agree we’re both more interested in the art aspect [and] self-expression.”
Yamasaki approached Kiser in 2000 with a business proposal that would center these core beliefs. One handshake later, Mushin Self Defense was born.
“We didn’t even have an agreement between each other more than our word, and I don’t think that works in most cases,” Kiser said. “You would have to find a Brian Yamasaki, and they don’t make a lot of those.”
It was no small amount of effort to ensure success. At one point, the pair put their houses on the line to keep the school afloat.
“We were not really business savvy,” Yamasaki said. “We were white belts on the business side of things.”
Their inexperience reflected in the clientele Mushin developed up until 2010.
“Our gym was a very rough environment to get exposed to martial arts,” Kiser said. “We were just trying to run everybody out of there, and whoever was left was … who we wanted to train.”
With Kiser and Yamasaki’s growing reputations as instructors, the gym became a hotspot for those looking to fight — and to win. But many weren’t willing to put in the effort to succeed.
Nor were they willing to pay.
“Fighters don’t pay and they run out all the people who do pay the bills,” Kiser said. “So at the end of the day, you’re just left with a very broken business model.”
The business model wasn’t the only thing that was broken. Although the school was producing successful, winning fighters, Yamasaki knew something had to change when a fellow school owner called Mushin’s culture a disgrace.
“It was very hard to pivot and change directions,” Yamasaki said. “It was painful. Personally, it was hard to let go of a lot of what we had built.”
At first, Kiser was resistant, finding himself sucked into the fighting world and its vices. But slowly, he came around.
“I was determined — and I know Yamasaki was too — to make our business work,” he said. “I give Yamasaki all the credit for really changing course in the gym.”
While he’s proud of what’s been created, Kiser admits that Mushin’s old training methods probably gave people a bad impression of martial arts. But without the path Mushin took, Kiser doesn’t think the school would be where it is now.
Yamasaki added, “We needed to find our people, the people that understand us and understand what we’re doing. And even now, we’re still really refining that process.”
Students of the women-only self-defense class watch as coach Brandon Kiser demonstrates how to escape from a pinned position. The focus of the class is to teach women how to defend themselves against untrained attackers.
Training for life
The scariest part of my Walgreens experience wasn’t the knife in my face. It was the realization that I had no idea what to do. At Mushin Self Defense, mental preparation and empowerment are just as important as physical training.
“For a number of years you’re a puppy, and if things went bad, you just had to roll over and show your belly,” Yamasaki said. “Well, you’re not that anymore.”
As he says, a lion never has to tell someone it’s a lion. And like a lion, boundaries are encouraged to be set, as gym member Ruby Talataina knows. The coping skills she had previously used to survive were discouraged within the gym.
“I remember Yamasaki said to our class on the first day, ‘Do not suffer in silence,’” she said.
Now, over nine months since her first class, Talataina feels safe enough to roll with men twice her size, working through her trauma.
“It’s like, ‘Oh my gosh, I just had a 210-pound man over me who was trying to choke me, and guess what?’” she said. “I effing survived.”
After Monday night’s women-only self-defense class, student India Bown unties her white belt. Bown has been involved with the class since January.
Mushin Self Defense has also survived. It started with action movies and shared heroes, then a handshake and shared values. Now, 22 years later, the journey continues.
“When I made the shift to, ‘I wanna figure out how to teach jiujitsu in a way that people love it and stay with it,’ then that became my new passion,” Kiser said. “That’s still where I’m at now, years later.”
Yamasaki views the martial arts journey as a dynamic, ever-evolving thing. Over time, his journey became more introspective, grappling with how he may have contributed to negativity in the universe.
“How have I been a bully?” Yamasaki said. “How have I not lived up to my expectations?”
He advises new students to follow where their own journey takes them.
“Let it have time to take root and germinate and grow and evolve because the story, it just gets deeper and more interesting and more fulfilling as time goes on,” Yamasaki said.
Kiser can’t even imagine what his life would be like without the influence of martial arts.
“All the good, all the bad, the whole journey for me is what’s kept my life on track,” he said. “I want to share that with as many people as possible.”
The future of the gym isn’t grandiose. For Kiser, it’s continuing exactly what Mushin has been doing: teaching quality classes to anybody who wants to learn.
And for me, I learned more than just a jiujitsu move. Walking in that first night, I never expected what a bright blue mat and a chokehold would teach me in only one class.
As they say in this world, it’s not the years, but the hours.
“There are so many life lessons in there that I have learned from those classes, and that is why I go four days a week,” Talataina said. “That is what Mushin is for me — I am training for life.”
Students in the women-only self-defense class are encouraged to “roll” with each other in friendly sparring matches. During this time, students have the opportunity to practice against jiujitsu moves instead of preparing for untrained attackers.
There’s a steady buzz in the studio from tattoo guns. Overlapping this white noise are conversations between artists and their patrons, discussing favorite restaurants, clothes and swapping personal stories. It’s noon and the walls are bathed in sunlight streaming in through the large east-facing windows. The small studio is decorated in pastel decor, a pearlescent couch, white room divider and clippings of each artist’s designs above their stations. The ever-so-slightly slanted floors point to a large mirror at the back of the studio, where customers and artists alike check out their new tattoos.
Above the noise and general chatter, the artists can be heard routinely checking in with their guests. They ask how their clients are feeling, if they need a break, if they’re comfortable, and provide numerous opportunities for customers to voice their concerns or desires.
Located at 401 N. 300 West in Salt Lake City’s Marmalade District, Everybody Tattoo is a beacon for people of all backgrounds. Ensuring comfort is of paramount importance to the artists who work there and is a core part of the shop’s culture.
Before Victoria MinjiLee took over as shop owner, Everybody Tattoo was owned and run by Gheybin Comish, a local tattoo artist. Comish established the shop as a hub for self-taught and community-taught artists who chose an alternate route into the tattoo industry.
Generally, becoming a tattoo artist requires a lot of training, research and an apprenticeship. This process is championed by artists who have gone through it, though it can be degrading, exhausting and financially draining work. Because of this, many artists have decided to carve out their own paths consisting of extensive sanitation and safety coursework followed by practice on themselves and friends.
Comish welcomed artists on non-traditional paths and curated a similarly non-traditional environment in the shop that focused heavily on artist individuality and respect between artists and clients.
Currently six artists work permanently in Lee’s studio, including herself. Each artist’s work is unique and diverges from the traditional American tattoo style in some way. Lee specializes in animal- and plant-themed tattoos. Resident artist Mikki Reeve’s work is whimsical and heavily features skeletons, cherubs and animals.
Long-time residents Hallie Rose Taylor and Logan Law’s designs tend to be bold. Law’s work is psychedelic, with thick line work and patterns. Taylor’s work is more abstract, consisting of natural elements and fantastical imagery.
Sam Walker, the studio’s newest resident, creates designs based on nature, cartoons and abstract images. Walker’s work is more colorful, and utilizes complex line work and designs are often scaled to larger sizes.
Hiri Sung specializes in hand poke tattoos that range from cartoon characters to fairies to abstract linework. In the hand poke tattoo method, the artist uses a needle with a handle to create designs using dots, much like pointillism art. Machine tattooing involves a small handheld machine with needles on the end used to create lines using small strokes.
Artist Hiri Sung is free-handing this client’s extensive branch handpoke tattoo.
Most of the artists in the studio take custom tattoo requests and flash requests. An artist’s flash designs are their own artwork that they usually tattoo as-is, though sometimes they will make small modifications for a client.
The Client Experience
When Lee took over in 2020, she continued to build the best environment for the shop’s artists and clients. To her, everybody in the shop should feel welcome and safe, and as such the shop consists of female and non-binary artists of different ethnicities.
Getting a tattoo is, after all, an intimate experience and necessitates trust between the artist and client. Everybody Tattoo artists make it a point to provide opportunities for their clients to express their desires and collaborate in the process. They want to see their art on someone who is just as obsessed with it as they are.
In between appointments, resident artist Hiri Sung enjoyed a drink at Blue Copper Coffee 2000 next door and elaborated on the Everybody Tattoo experience from a client’s perspective.
“You’re never going to come in and feel like we aren’t listening to you. That’s a huge thing that I feel like is different about the shop. We’ll actually listen to you, we’re not going to rush you to pick a placement, we’re not going to intimidate you,” Sung said.
Kenzie Smith, one of the shop’s loyal clients, echoed Sung’s sentiments. She described appointments at Everybody Tattoo as full-on experiences.
At other tattoo shops, she said, she felt like artists just saw her as a business transaction. It was obvious to her that artists at Everybody Tattoo considered their work to be art that their clients play an important role in creating.
From the beginning of every appointment customers have the freedom of choice. They’re able to choose a size from a series of printed templates and try different placements until they find the one they like best.
Victoria Minji Lee’s client has chosen a size and placement for her tattoo using this stencil that Lee provided and applied.
Not only will the artist have a few templates available to start, but they will also have others ready to print so that the client doesn’t feel like they’re wasting time by asking the artist to print more. Smith said this was an uncomfortable part of past appointments she had at other shops.
She also noted that tattoo artists usually want to go bigger in size because it means they’ll make more money.
During one appointment at the studio, Lee had printed three stencils of a goose for Smith to choose from. The last was so large Smith recalled thinking it looked comedic, which was not the way she’d envisioned this tattoo. Lee agreed and said the smallest size would suit Smith’s arm best.
The experience at Everybody Tattoo includes friendly conversation should clients want it. In addition, the artists are completely open to a more meditative appointment with interaction limited to check-ins.
At Everybody Tattoo, Smith said, you feel like you’re hanging out with a friend and all of a sudden you have a new tattoo.
One of the biggest differences in her experiences at Everybody Tattoo compared to other shops was the level of communication the artists provide. She has been tattooed by two different artists at the studio, Lee and Logan Law.
Never once in four appointments did Smith feel like she couldn’t say what was on her mind, nor did she feel like there was the superiority complex that she so often felt at other shops.
Working at Everybody
Lee said this level of respect and communication is a vital aspect of Everybody Tattoo’s culture behind the scenes as well.
“It’s equally as important for our artists to feel welcome and safe [as our clients],” Lee said in a Zoom interview.
The artists are constantly having to navigate the balance between making their customers comfortable and making sure they feel safe with their clients. They need to be able to tell Lee if a client or clients are making them feel uncomfortable in any way.
Hiri Sung described the work environment as that of a cooperative. Lee owns the shop, but she doesn’t reinforce a hierarchy of power with the other artists. At Everybody Tattoo, they treat each other as equals and Lee values their input.
Artist Victoria Minji Lee is seen tattooing at her station next to her hanging flash designs.
Lee’s position as the owner gives her more responsibility in maintaining the shop’s culture, so she’s the one to take ultimate action should it be necessary.
Sung mentioned one issue she’s had at Everybody Tattoo. On numerous occasions, clients in the studio have asked Sung how her baby is doing or made a comment about her baby.
While the comments were well-intentioned, the problem here is that Sung doesn’t have a baby — Lee does.
Clients were confusing the two artists for one another and it got to the point where Lee had to create an infographic to remind clients that there are two Korean artists in the shop.
Sung described Lee’s leadership as bringing comfort, openness and a higher standard of treatment. Her coworkers feel like they can confide in her without judgment or risk to their jobs.
Racism in the SLC Tattoo Industry
Despite its deep roots in various indigenous cultures, the tattoo industry consists of mostly white people, namely white men. In an area like Salt Lake City, where Asians make up less than 10% of the city’s population, the population of Asians in the tattoo industry here is extremely low.
Due to the demographic and political makeup of the state and city, there also exists a lower level of awareness of the various facets of racism, including microaggressions and appropriation.
One popular request tattoo artists get is for “Asian-inspired” designs. Sung said that she’d received various requests like this, though she takes a hard stance against tattooing Asian art on people who are not of Asian descent, citing cultural appropriation.
When someone uses imagery from another culture, without any knowledge of its history or significance, their actions are defined as appropriation. Lee and Sung described another type of appropriation in tattooing that occurs when a non-Asian artist tattoos Asian designs and therefore reaps the financial benefits.
Often, people guilty of appropriation defend their actions by claiming that they have cultural appreciation.
Sung said that people don’t always necessarily have bad intentions, but intent doesn’t outweigh impact. She always appreciates people who own their actions and commit to doing better.
On her Instagram account and in emails, she states upfront that certain cultural designs can only be requested by people who are a part of that culture. This is her way of cutting down on confrontation in situations like these.
Lee, too, acknowledged the existence of race-related issues, though she hasn’t encountered quite as many requests like the ones Sung has gotten. But in 2021, she limited her tattoos to flash only so she isn’t designing tattoos based on customer requests anymore.
“At the end of the day we’re trying to educate. We’re not trying to, like, keep someone away from the shop just because they make a mistake,” Sung said.
Lee knows that microaggressions will likely not completely disappear, but she recognizes that it could be worse and has hope for the future.
“Thankfully, things are changing in the right direction and people are more sensitive to these things,” Lee remarked, hopeful that the community will continue improving.
Immediately through the threshold is this colorful mural and couch for clients to sit on while they wait. Right next to the couch is the photo setup that artists use to take photos of their work after a session.The shop also has this small section of artwork for sale by local artists and resident artists.Pictured here is artist Mikki Reeve’s tattoo station complete with their flash designs hanging above the chair. On the left, artist Hiri Sung’s station is partially visible with her flash hanging on the wall as well. Pictured here is a closeup of Mikki Reeve’s flash designs and tattoo station. Pictured is another closeup of more of Reeve’s flash designs at their tattoo station. During their appointments, clients check out their new tattoos and stencil placements in the mirror at the back of the shop. Artist Mikki Reeve is pictured in the mirror’s reflection. Artists Hallie Taylor and Logan Law’s stations are pictured side by side, with Law’s flash designs peaking out on the left.
Being a minority in a white community proves to be an exhausting experience for many Asian Americans. They do not look like a majority of their peers and therefore experience a level of separation from them, as well as both implicit and explicit racism.
These instances of racism inspire internal conflict in some Asian Americans. While stereotypes are widely disliked, some Asian Americans find that they identify with them, which can lead to slight identity crises.
In the absence of a bustling Asian American community, there isn’t a void. People find their own ways to build communities that allow them to be themselves without having to field questions about their identities.
Racism and feeling like an “other”
“When you’re a kid, you get singled out for your otherness,” said Brian Pham, a senior at the University of Utah, about his childhood in white South Jordan, a city 15 miles south of Salt Lake City.
He often felt singled out for being Asian. As one of the few Asian kids, racial slurs were cast his way at school and he heard his fair share of rude comments about his Asianness. It was the racism he faced from adults, however, that made the biggest impression.
University of Utah senior Brian Pham poses for a photo taken by a close friend, Nick Tygeson. Photo courtesy of Brian Pham.
Pham described an incident regarding a gym teacher in middle school. “He couldn’t figure me out,” he recalled, recounting that the teacher said, “You have the hair of a Jap [Japanese person] and the last name of a Chinese [person].”
These sorts of explicit racism and microaggressions proved to be extremely exhausting for Pham. He said he feels like he constantly has to explain himself and his identity as an Asian American person, to explain what he is and is not.
Pham referenced Cathy Park Hong’s “Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning” and called discussions about his Vietnamese American heritage ontological. He isn’t just explaining his heritage. The reality is much more philosophical than that.
He pulled the book out of his backpack and flipped through it to locate a favorite passage. “Patiently educating a clueless white person about race is draining,” he read from the book. “It takes all your powers of persuasion. It’s like explaining to a person why you exist, or why you feel pain, or why your reality is distinct from their reality. The person has all of Western history, politics, literature and mass culture on their side proving that you don’t exist.”
Pham added that he cannot shed his Asian American identity when he wants to avoid racist people, nor can he choose to “turn it on” when it might help him secure benefits like scholarships.
Wanting to take a break from your identity is rooted not in shame, but fatigue. Like Hong wrote in “Minor Feelings,” being Asian is having to offer a series of explanations defending your entire existence and having to explain why you are or aren’t a certain way.
These microaggressions and experiences with racism aren’t unique to Pham’s experience. Katrina Mỹ Quyên Lê, a senior at the University of Utah, experienced a slew of racist conversations and actions directed at her Vietnamese and Chinese background while growing up in Taylorsville, Utah.
Katrina My Quên Lê stands in front of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, photographed by Jaina Lee. Photo courtesy of Katrina My Quên Lê.
When she was in third grade, Lê’s teacher repeatedly told her parents that they should enroll her in English as a second language classes. Lê noted that this wouldn’t have been a problem if her English wasn’t good, but she was reading and writing at similar levels to her white peers.
Her teacher’s comments were based on racist stereotypes rather than actual instances Lê had demonstrated she needed extra help.
As a kid, she also fielded racist comments from her classmates. Kids made fun of her food, telling her how gross it was. In eighth grade, one boy walked up to her and said some version of, “ping pang wing wang wong.”
Later, her family faced racist comments from neighbors after hosting a barbecue. Unbeknownst to them, such activities had been temporarily banned as a result of a recent fire. Neighbors confronted her parents, asking them if they could speak English.
Lê’s family wasn’t aware of the ban.
It’s instances like these that may seem small to some people, but leave lasting impressions on the people that have to endure them.
Internal conflict and learning to celebrate Asian identities
Along with the explicitly racist comments, Lê’s Vietnamese and Chinese heritage often bore the target of implicit racism. Kids at school would ask her if she was good at math or science because she was Asian.
Not only were these assumptions annoying on a surface level, they also became the subject of internal conflict. Lê wasgood at math and science, but not because she was Asian. She worked hard and wanted to succeed, but these traits, too, are often interwoven with the perceived Asian American identity.
As a STEM major, Lê continues to fit the stereotype, but she wanted to be seen as more than that. In fighting the nerdy Asian American trope, she discovered that the best way to feel comfortable in her identity was to create and embody a sort of counterculture that works against the stereotypes, one that’s even stronger.
She aims to feel empowered by her Asian American identity, not held down by it. Salt Lake City Council Member Darin Mano feels similarly about his Japanese American heritage. Mano said he finds inspiration through his Asian heritage that he hopes to channel in his work in city council.
“I don’t want to be beyond racial difference — I want to celebrate it,” Mano said of his identity philosophy in a Zoom interview.
Mano may be a city councilmember for one district, but he said he considers himself to be a representative of the entire Asian American community in Utah. He seeks to help his community through legislation and representation in local politics.
His achievements in race politics include the creation of a commission that governs racial equality in policing with only Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC) in leadership. For Mano, this was an important step in advancing legislation for people of color, including Asian people.
The commission is also the first to compensate its members for their service. Mano said people expect BIPOC people to do work for free, and in achieving this goal he was able to champion people of color and ensure greater representation.
Building their own communities
While living in a predominantly white area can beleaguer people’s efforts to identify with a larger Asian American community, it does not appear to stop them from building their own communities in which they feel comfortable in their Asian identities.
Pham and Lê grew up and live in white areas, but they’ve managed to find communities wherein their identities are accepted and embraced. They have tight-knit friendships and family groups where they can practice their cultures and create their own traditions.
Instead of fostering jealousy over the long-held traditions of other families and cultures, Pham is starting his own. On Thanksgiving, his family makes platters of Vietnamese food for everyone to eat, but every year someone will attempt to make a traditional American turkey. Regardless of its success, it’s an aspect of an American holiday that his family has taken and made their own.
Pham said that he’s continuing to build his cultural identity through creating new reasons and ways of celebrating holidays and other parts of life. It’s through these traditions that he can also celebrate his identity.
Lê finds solace in talking about her experiences with friends who can relate. She said that most of the comfort she finds in her community comes from time spent together eating, talking, cooking, and simply being with one another.
They share their experiences of racism, questions they have about their identities, and they reckon with their own feelings about their identities. Not all of their conversations are so heavy, though, and this balance in her relationships brings her comfort and a sense of belonging.
Mano has also spent the majority of his life in Utah, making a large non-Asian population normal for him. Despite this, he feels a deep sense of community with those around him. He cares about his neighbors and has taken on the responsibility of advocating for Asian Americans in Salt Lake City.
The otherness that Pham discussed may seem like it could inspire feelings of loneliness, but there appears to be a certain resilience among Asian Americans. They don’t abandon all hopes of a community just because they aren’t surrounded by other Asians. Their community-building process consists of gathering the people who make them feel safe and celebrating their identities in various ways.
Pham, Lê, and Mano don’t feel hindered by the absence of a large Asian American community. Instead, they choose to champion their individual communities and work within them to celebrate their identities and cultures.
“Teaching is valuable because it really is an art,” Matthew Okabe said.
Originally, Matthew Okabe did not see himself becoming a teacher. However, now that he has dedicated over a decade of his life to teaching, he knows that he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Teaching is valuable because it really is an art,” Okabe said in an email interview. “Kids know who really cares. Without teachers, we would be in for a very bleak future.”
His passion for working with kids started when he took a job at a daycare center, when he was in high school.
“I loved helping during homework time and playing various games with the kids,” Okabe said.
When he went to college, he majored in business, but after a year he knew it wasn’t for him. Inspired by his interactions with the kids at the daycare, Okabe decided to pursue teaching.
Okabe earned a Bachelor of Science in Elementary Education from Brigham Young University and a master’s degree in Education in Curriculum Studies with an emphasis on being a reading specialist from the University of Hawai’i, Manoa.
A graduation gift a student made for Okabe.
He started teaching the fourth and fifth grades at Mountain View Elementary School in the Glendale neighborhood of Salt Lake City in 2010 and taught sixth grade for one year at Glendale Middle School.
Although Okabe is a seasoned educator, the onset of the coronavirus pandemic created new challenges for schools. But Okabe’s passion for teaching and his students has kept him steady throughout.
Since he began teaching, Okabe has gained the admiration of his students and his colleagues.
“He is just a lovable guy,” said Tina Misaka, a fellow teacher at Mountain View Elementary, in a Zoom interview. “He is awesome and willing to go the extra mile.”
Misaka, who teaches dance, recalled struggling to convince students to get out of their comfort zone and move. To her surprise, Okabe began dancing himself.
“He was really good,” Misaka said. “By having a teacher participate, the kids can see that they can also be vulnerable that way. It was awesome that he was willing to do that.”
In a newsletter posted in March 2022, Salt Lake City School District Superintendent Timothy Gadson III compared the district and its community to a village, saying, “We are a village, and when we work together toward a common goal, providing a world-class education for our children, we will attain success.”
“When we look at a village, we have everyone within that community working toward a collective goal of our school district. That goal should be the success and the achievement of our students,” Gadson said in a Zoom interview. “The teachers are at the ground level. They’re mentoring students, they’re nurturing them making sure students have exactly what they need to contribute to their success.”
During the coronavirus pandemic, teachers have faced an incredible strain. They have had to act as enforcers, encouraging students to social distance or wear their masks. Additionally, they’ve had to adapt to the constant switching between distanced and in-person learning, all on top of their many other responsibilities as educators.
“I think teachers are human like anyone else and that load can become too overwhelming, it can become too much,” Gadson said. “We sometimes forget they’re human, we think that they’re superhuman, but we’ve got to respect the human side of the teacher.”
Inspirational messages from students on Okabe’s classroom door. They say things like “you matter” and “never give up no matter what.”
According to a poll conducted by GBAO Strategies on behalf of the National Education Association in January 2022, the bulk of stress educators are undergoing currently can be attributed to the new slew of challenges the coronavirus pandemic has caused.
That same poll found that more than half of educators are looking to leave their professions earlier than they had initially thought.
There is a community on TikTok that Okabe dubs “Teacher Quit Tok” that showcases teachers who have quit their jobs and found prosperity elsewhere. Though Okabe knows he’s only seeing the videos because of TikTok’s algorithm, he does not see himself quitting his job.
“I don’t feel as though I could leave the profession,” Okabe said.
Gadson has praised the perseverance of teachers as they have navigated the new challenges the pandemic has caused.
“When they had to go online, many of our teachers had not taught online before and it was not a part of their programs when they were in college. But they ramped up, they did exactly what they needed to do to ensure learning continued with students,” Gadson said.
Okabe recalled the struggles that occurred in the early days of the pandemic, such as students not having access to materials, computers, or even the internet at home.
“It was a Friday the 13th and it was just a couple of weeks before spring break,” Okabe said, when remembering the day in March 2020 that Salt Lake City School District closed schools. “We were not ready to transition our classrooms to a full online model. Because of that, there was a steep learning curve for teachers and students.”
Misaka, the dance teacher, who was also adapting to the new remote way of teaching at the time, recalled that Okabe would visit the homes of students who were falling behind to ensure they were doing all right.
“Kids, especially in this area [Glendale] aren’t coming to school and they’re not excited about school because they’ve been home,” Misaka said. “He’s helping them find independence and confidence so that they can do well themselves.”
Now that he can teach in-person again, Okabe is happy and grateful to interact with his students face-to-face and is optimistic about the future.
“I don’t feel as though I could leave the profession. I genuinely enjoy interacting with my students. I enjoy teaching them, helping them learn, watching them grow,” Okabe said. “Sounds corny … sure. But having the opportunity to impact this many lives in a meaningful way is an amazing opportunity that I don’t see in many professions.”
Sometimes you don’t need to be a superhero to do great things. Often, it is enough to simply give love and complete your work with dedication, commitment, and passion. As Floyd Mori did and does, showing uncommon courage.
Shiro Floyd Mori is a farm boy.
He is the seventh of eight children, who was raised in Utah by principled parents and long-suffering siblings.
Floyd Mori, in the front row, with his older brothers Nobuo, Tom, and Shig in about 1944. All photos courtesy of Floyd Mori.
“I benefited greatly from my older siblings’ example and reputation they had of being stellar students,” he said in an email interview.
Mori’s father emigrated from Japan in 1906 at age 16. Originally a worker at the railroad in Utah and then a farmer, his goal was to give and help the family have a better situation.
His father returned to Japan to find a wife when he was 30. He did and brought her to the U.S., where they settled in Cache Valley in northern Utah in 1921.
Because of language barriers, Mori’s parents were occasionally speaking English and conducted a social life more at home and at the farm. Mori and his younger brother helped till they left for college.
“Yes, my parents had their struggle with prejudice, but my father was very honorable and soon gained respect from neighbors all of whom were white,” he wrote in the email.
Japanese Americans and other Asians in the U.S. had suffered from racial prejudice and fear for decades. Discriminatory laws that prevented Asian Americans from owning lands, voting, testifying against whites in court and other racial discriminatory laws existed before World War II.
But that brought even more pain to the Mori family. Two of his older brothers got drafted into the U.S. Army and served during World War II. But one of them died while serving.
“It was a major loss to a Japanese family,” Mori said. “My mother suffered greatly and was depressed for years after his death. She regained much self-regard when she and my father joined the LDS (Mormon) Church in their later years.”
As if that wasn’t enough, in 1942, President Roosevelt authorized the secretary of war to prescribe certain areas as military zones, paving the way for the incarceration of Asian Americans in U.S. detention camps. The overwhelming majority of the inmates were Japanese Americans.
“So, during WWII much of the pride turned into shame because of the way they were treated. WWII was depressing for Japanese-born as well as U.S.-born Japanese. Besides being denied citizenship they were sent to desolate concentration camps just because of who they were,” Mori said.
Mori confirmed that the “generation of Asians that experienced a catastrophe in their lives are bound to become depressed with the results. WWII did that to me as I was a child when war was in progress and saw the negative caricatures and ugly depiction of the enemy at that time.”
Allyson Drayton, who is a National Certified Counselor, has written about racial trauma. Mental, physical and emotional health problems associated with racial trauma really build up over time.
Mori added that he was ashamed of his identity, of who he was, and he avoided all that was Japanese in his youth, such as Japanese food. He was beaten up by older boys when he was a kid. During his teenage years, girls’ mothers would not allow them to date him.
Mori wrote that racial trauma is in violence, hate and taunting: that became part of their lives.
Violence has always been there but more recently recognized by society at large.
“My father-in-law lost a thriving business, his home, his dignity when he was forced from Los Angeles during WWII,” he said. “There was never a recovery from this trauma.”
Floyd Mori with the then Vice President Joe Biden in Washington, D.C.
Mori added, “There is shame, embarrassment, and humiliation because of these violent treatments Asians receive.”
But from all this suffering, he made his way to redemption. Floyd Mori acted: a powerful weapon against pain.
He is a former CEO at Asian Pacific American Institute for Congressional Studies (APAICS) and a former executive director of the Japanese American Citizens League (JACL).
To become who he is now, and to make it where he is now, besides a turbulent path, Mori became also a political activist and a civil rights advocate for minorities, impacting a lot of people’s lives.
Mori was a city council member, a mayor of Pleasanton, California, and an assemblyman.
“I knew he would be a great asset to the city of Pleasanton because of his values, knowledge and fairness. He was elected to the city council and then went on to be Mayor of Pleasanton,” Mori’s former student, Steve Ferguson, said in an email.
Floyd Mori with JACL fellows at an immigration march in Washington, D.C., 2010, while he was the national executive director/CEO of the Japanese American Citizens League.
“I met Floyd Mori in 1966 when I first attended Chabot College in Hayward, CA. He was my Economics Professor. He had always impressed me as a bright, caring, and dedicated man,” Ferguson said.
Sherrie Hayashi, Mori’s co-worker, said in an email, “Floyd is one of my favorite people. His dedication and commitment to advocating for Asian American communities and issues is aspirational. Floyd always has new ideas. He creates opportunities for young leaders and actively mentors and encourages people to collaborate and be engaged in community work.” They worked together on several projects, including the National JACL Convention in Salt Lake City in 2019.
“Floyd has had a significant impact in Asian American communities, especially the Japanese American community. He has been a leader at the local, state, and national level, serving in leadership capacities in the nation’s oldest and largest Asian American civil rights organization in the United States (JACL) having been established in 1929,” Hayashi added.
His works, his devotion, his love for his people, along with Asian American advocacy and organizations, are making the difference.
“The new generations of Asian Americans that have seen the results of bigotry in this country are not going to let this continue,” Mori said.
Floyd Mori, left, with Jake Fitisemanu at the Organization of Chinese Americans awards dinner in Salt Lake City, 2019.
Jake Fitisemanu, current West Valley City councilman, recollected good memories of Mori.
“We first met in May 2015 when I was appointed by President Barack Obama to serve on the presidential advisory committee. Floyd has been an amazingly supportive and insightful mentor who encouraged me to run for local office when I concluded my service in the White House,” Fitisemanu said in an email interview.
“One thing that stands out to me is that despite his demanding schedule and external commitments to family, church, business, etc. he is frequently seen at community events, demonstrating his devotion to community through his presence, his physical, tangible support,” Fitisemanu wrote.
Floyd Mori is like a hero without a cloak. He is that type of person who has been able to face the difficulties of life with his head held high and who looks to the present and the future with a strong and enthusiastic spirit.
“He provides strategic guidance and overarching direction but allows staff and volunteers the freedom and power to operationalize and implement using their own creativity and expertise,” Fitisemanu said.
Mori is an example to follow, as he is giving voice to and helping Asian American communities by showing courage in daily life, overcoming the obstacles society, the system, and the government throw their way, besides the improvements made for these minorities in the past years.
“Floyd has also actively supported Pacific Islander communities and initiatives, with sensitivity and respect toward the controversial notion that combining Asian Americans and Pacific Islanders into a single demographic category is not mutually beneficial, and actually disadvantages Pacific Islanders,” Fitisemanu said.
Without forgetting the past, Mori envisions a better future. “My optimism is in the fact that more Asians are engaging in the political process as voters and as vote-getters running for office.”
The Wat Dhammagunaram Layton temple. Photo by Kristine Weller.
The aromas of homemade Thai food wafted through the hall. A box of sesame balls, a tin pan of pad thai, a plate of fried vegetables, and lots of hot white rice were placed by the entrance to the temple.
More dishes were added as people arrived. Beef jerky, spicy papaya salad, fish and doughnuts.
Members conversed with each other in Thai while arranging the food neatly on a counter. Some grabbed water bottles or poured freshly brewed tea into paper cups.
Every Sunday at 10:30 a.m., Buddhists begin gathering at the Wat Dhammagunaram Layton temple. There they have created a place for community, peace, and Theravada Buddhism.
Most Sundays a woman called Poonie is in attendance. Poonie, 93, is the oldest Buddhist at the temple. She helped set up the first Wat Dhammagunaram temple and has been supporting it ever since.
Poonie is from Thailand and came to Utah because her husband worked at Hill Air Force Base (HAFB). In fact, according to a welcome pamphlet the temple provides, most of the founders of the Wat Dhammagunaram temple are wives of American airmen from HAFB.
The pamphlet explains that these Thai immigrants wanted a place for traditional religious services. So, they founded the Wat Dhammagunaram temple in 1975, but it didn’t look like it does today.
It began in a small residential home in Ogden and was then later moved to a second house in Layton. Finally, the temple found its current location at 644 E. 1000 North in Layton and was consecrated in 1995.
The Wat Dhammagunaram sign identifying the temple. The committee members for the temple wish to add a fence here too so that the temple is more recognizable. Photo by Kristine Weller.
Many immigrants who go to this temple are Thai, although there have been members from Laos and Cambodia as well. Thailand, Laos and Cambodia are all predominantly Theravada Buddhist countries, which is why the Wat Dhammagunaram temple practices Theravada Buddhism.
Phitthayaphon, one of the monks at this temple, said the basics of Theravada Buddhism follow five precepts: refrain from killing, refrain from stealing, refrain from sexual misconduct, refrain from telling lies and refrain from intoxication.
A booklet Phitthayaphon provided, “The Main Ideas of Theravada Buddhism” by Du Wayne Engelhart, explains two important things related to the five precepts.
The first is they are not rules, they are guides.
Engelhart writes, “We should want to follow the precepts, not because we fear being punished by God if we do not but because we understand that good effects will come from observing them.”
Second, the precepts also have a positive meaning.
Engelhart explains that instead of just refraining from each item in the five precepts, aim to spread kindness to all living things, be honest in your words and actions and respect the rights of others, show moderation in sexual activities, be sincere in speech, and keep a clear state of mind.
Another big part of Theravada Buddhism is the four noble truths.
The book describes each of these truths. First is the noble truth of suffering (dukkha). According to Engelhart, this means “suffering in many forms occurs in human life because of the unsatisfactory and changing character of existence.”
Second is the noble truth of the origin (samudaya) of suffering. Engelhart explains this means craving is the origin of suffering.
Third is the noble truth of the end (nirodha, extinction) of suffering. Engelhart writes “getting rid of craving is getting rid of suffering.”
Fourth is the noble truth of the way (magga), which leads to the end of suffering. Engelhart explains that “the Noble Eightfold Path is the Middle Way that leads to the end of suffering.”
Buddhism also emphasizes being welcoming to everyone.
Arunne Chwab, a committee member at the temple, said everyone is invited to come to the temple. In fact, all the members are very friendly to newcomers and make sure to include them in the service.
“Even if you not believe in our religion, you can come,” Chwab said.
Five Red Apples
After members and newcomers take their seats, the monks begin melodic chanting.
Each has a microphone, as does one other member who leads chants the attendees repeat back. Two large speakers project the monks’ rhythmic voices.
These are the five bowls that are offered during the service. Food and larger items are placed inside the bowls and money is placed in the trays. One bowl is offered to the Buddha and two bowls are offered to each monk. Photo by Kristine Weller.
During the service, members walk to five bowls lined up next to the counter with food. It is my first time at the temple, so I stay seated, unsure what I should do.
One congregant then urges me to go with her. She has a whole bag full of offerings to put inside the bowls and wants to include me.
We walk over to the bowls and she picks up a zip-close bag of fresh rice, raises it to her forehead, and places it into the first bowl. She then hands me a small red apple to offer. The last thing for the first offering is a dollar bill, which she raises to her forehead, and places on a tray in front of the bowl. She hands me a dollar bill as well, and I do the same.
We repeat the same offering for each of the five bowls — five bags of rice, five small red apples, five dollars each.
Bright Orange Robes
Today, only two monks look after the temple and conduct Sunday services, Phitthayaphon and Prapatphan.
The two monks who take care of the Wat Dhammagunaram temple: Prapatphan, left, and Phitthayaphon. Photo by Kristine Weller.
Phitthayaphon was born in Chiang Mai, Thailand, and started his monk training after primary school. He was 12 years old. He originally started his training because he wished to follow one of his friends.
However, after going to the temple, studying the Buddha’s teachings, and practicing meditation, he said he felt peaceful and happy. That’s why he continued his training and is still a monk today.
“This is my own decision,” Phitthayaphon said. “In Buddhism, we don’t force people to be ordained as a monk.”
He also said if he wanted to disrobe and not be a monk anymore, he would be free to do so.
Phitthayaphon came to this temple after another monk he knew here invited him. He said the process to come to America is quite lengthy, which is partly why there are only two monks at the temple. He first got a tourist visa and after a few months, he applied for a religious visa.
This is now Phitthayaphon’s fifth year at the temple.
The other monk, Prapatphan, has only been at this temple for about nine months. He can’t speak English, but that doesn’t matter much.
Monks have a fairly structured day, and a lot of the time they are around Thai-speaking people.
Phitthayaphon said he rises at 6 a.m. every day but Sunday and chants until 7:30 a.m. Breakfast is at 8 a.m. and once he has eaten he cleans.
Three buildings are connected to the temple grounds. The temple where services are held, a smaller building to the northeast side of the temple where food is sometimes offered, and a house behind the temple where the monks live. Phitthayaphon cleans and helps take care of all of these buildings.
After cleaning, Phitthayaphon said the monks will usually study until 11 a.m. Then they must eat lunch because monks cannot eat after noon. They can still have drinks, though. Phitthayaphon said his favorite drink is tea, especially Thai orange tea and green tea.
During the week, Phitthayaphon said they will typically cook food for themselves, sometimes with ingredients the Buddhists have offered. He said his favorite is northern Thai dishes because they remind him of home.
Buddhists will also offer lunch to the monks, so they do not have to cook, but that is usually on Friday or Saturday.
When Buddhists do offer lunch, the monks are occasionally taken to restaurants. Phitthayaphon said he and the other monk once drove three hours to bless a new restaurant and have food offered to them.
This is actually unusual for monks, Phitthayaphon said, because in Thailand monks don’t drive.
This is one of a few differences between Buddhism in Thailand compared to Buddhism in the U.S. Another is when the holy day is celebrated.
Buddhism follows the lunar calendar, so its holy days will fall on different days of the week. However, because the U.S. is dominated by Christianity and the workweek is structured accordingly, Buddhists must practice on Sundays instead.
This doesn’t seem to bother the members of the Wat Dhammagunaram temple. Chwab, the committee member, says she goes to the temple because she finds peace and can meditate there. The focus is less on the mechanics of what is traditionally done and more about finding peace and honoring the teachings of the Buddha.
“We come together because we love this peace and happiness,” Chwab said.
Buddhist holidays also correspond to the lunar calendar. The two biggest holidays in Thai Buddhism are the Thai New Year and the Kathina (robe) Ceremony.
Monks attending the Thai New Year festival at the Wat Dhammagunaram. Phitthayaphon said monks from other Theravada Buddhist temples are invited to visit during festivals. Monks from temples in Sandy and West Valley City, Utah, and Las Vegas have visited. Photo courtesy of Phitthayaphon.This is a money tree where people can donate. Warunee said they display it during most celebrations. Photo by Kristine Weller.
Although the new year is celebrated in Thailand on April 13, 14 and 15, it is not always possible to celebrate on those days in Utah. The celebration must be on the weekend since people need to work, so this year the temple held the Thai New Year festival on April 16 and 17.
This is Chwab’s favorite Buddhist holiday. During the new year, people ask for apologies from monks and elders, but there is also a big celebration.
The Wat Dhammagunaram temple, she said, has a food fair every Thai New Year. A small stage outside on the temple grounds hosts traditional Vietnamese, Laos and Thai performances as well.
Chwab said there will also be kickboxing and a Miss New Year contest.
The winner of the Miss New Year contest from the 2019 festival. Photo courtesy of Phitthayaphon.Women in the Miss New Year contest from a previous festival. They are standing on the stage outside the temple, where other performances are also held during the Thai New Year. Photo courtesy of Phitthayaphon.
The other big holiday is the Kathina (robe) ceremony, which is essentially a ceremonial presentation of new robes to the monks.
Phitthayaphon, the younger monk at the temple, said monks typically stay in one place for three months and it is no different for the monks at this temple.
According to the BBC, the historical reason for this is that during the Vassa, or monsoon, period, monks were journeying together, intending to spend Vassa with the Lord Buddha. However, Vassa began before they reached the Lord Buddha, and they could no longer continue their journey.
The Buddha then awarded cloth and told the monks to sew a robe and give it to another because “there was nothing as uplifting as generosity and sharing.”
The BBC also explained that a Kathina is the frame used to make the robes.
So, after the rainy season, monks are offered new robes. They are a striking orange and Phitthayaphon said the robes have three pieces.
According to “The Buddha’s Robe” by Barbara O’Brien, the main piece is a large rectangle, about 6-by-9-feet. It is usually wrapped to cover the left shoulder and leave the right shoulder and arm exposed.
The second piece is worn under the first. O’Brien explains it is wrapped around the waist, covering the body from the knees to the waist.
The third piece, O’Brien writes, is an extra robe. It can be “wrapped around the upper body for warmth” or is “sometimes folded and draped over a shoulder.”
Phitthayaphon occasionally wears an orange sweater under his robes, but this is only because it is cold in Utah. In Thailand, he said he would not wear a shirt underneath.
Phitthayaphon in the main temple area. He wears a sweater under his robe because it is cold in Utah, but in Thailand he would leave the right shoulder and arm bare. Photo by Kristine Weller.
He also said monks used to take robes from dead bodies. According to O’Brien, this is because the Buddha taught monks to get their robes from pure cloth, meaning cloth no one wants.
O’Brien describes a cloth no one wants as the shroud the dead were wrapped in and soiled cloth.
Today, monks no longer get their robes this way. Phitthayaphon said his now comes from a factory. However, the robes have always been the same bright orange.
Wednesday Night Buddha
After making offerings to the first five bowls, I walk with the woman over to a table with eight more. These bowls each have a statue above it with the Buddha in different positions. Each corresponds to a day of the week, with two for Wednesday.
She said Wednesday night is her favorite bowl to make an offering to. The Wednesday night statue is the Buddha standing with an elephant and monkey at its feet.
Below the bowl is a short explanation of the Wednesday Night Buddha.
It says: “Buddha spent the rain retreat on his own in the Palilayaka (palelai) forest because he was tired of the monks of Kosambi who had split into two groups and were not in harmony. While in the forest, the elephant Palilayaka attended to him, and monkey offered him a beehive.”
I place a dollar she hands me in a different vessel and we stand in contemplative silence for a moment.
We take our seats again as the previous five bowls are presented before the monks. Two bowls for each monk and one for the Buddha.
The monks then begin their lyrical chant once more.
Some members will make another offering to one of these bowls, which correspond to the days of the week. Starting with the Sunday bowl from left are “Seven Days Looking,” “Pacifying the Relatives,” “Realizing Nirvana,” “Pang Umbat or Holding Alms Bowl,” “Retreat in the Forest,” “The Meditating Buddha,” “Contemplating Buddha” and “Protected by the Naga King.” Photo by Kristine Weller. This is the statue of the Wednesday Night Buddha. Photo by Kristine Weller.Monks Prapatphan (left) and Phitthayaphon conduct a Sunday service using microphones to project their voices. The four bowls laid out before them are offerings from the congregants. Photo by Kristine Weller.Pictured toward the bottom are a tray and a bowl filled with offerings from members attending the Sunday service. There is also a donation box to the right which was locked for two years because the key was lost. Once the box was finally opened, Warunee, the treasurer, collected over $2,000 from it. Photo by Kristine Weller.
A Changing Landscape
The Wat Dhammagunaram temple has been at its current location since 1995. Although it has stood stable and strong in the ensuing years, the surrounding environment has been changing drastically since its consecration.
An open field once surrounded the temple. However, residential buildings have sprung up in the last few decades.
Previously a noticeable landmark, the temple is now easy to miss.
The committee for the temple, made up of volunteers like Poonie and Chwab, is concerned about this. Warunee, another member, said the group wants to build a fence in front of the temple.
“We want to make something in front to show people this is a Buddhist temple,” Warunee said.
The committee meets monthly to discuss temple activities and finances. Warunee is the treasurer, so she keeps track of money and bills. Every two weeks she counts the money that has been donated to the temple.
At the end of the service I attended, she counted $968.
Warunee counts the money collected from the service. Photo by Kristine Weller.
All the members cheered when Warunee announced this number; they are happy to support their temple.
Warunee said the donations are divided into three parts. One part goes to the temple, which pays for utilities or gas. The other two parts are for the monks. She said they work for free, and they need some income for themselves as well.
You Like Spicy?
A woman rings a gong.
The chanting has stopped, and the gong reverberates into silence.
Now, about 30 minutes before noon, it is time for the monks to have their last meal of the day.
The monks sit at a table toward the back of the temple. Steam drifts from the homemade Thai food that has already been set out before them.
As they eat, the rest of the members converse enthusiastically.
At noon the monks are finished eating, and the service comes to an end. The congregants then gather to have their fill.
The same woman I made offerings with urges me to get food, as does Warunee, the treasurer. They point out different foods displayed.
A box of sesame balls, a tin pan of pad thai, a plate of fried vegetables, and hot white rice.
We begin to fill our plates. Beef jerky, spicy papaya salad, fish and doughnuts.
Poonie, the 93-year-old member, points out the spicy papaya salad on my plate.
“You like spicy?” she asks. I say I do, and she nods and smiles in approval.
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