The Joy of Uber Driving

by Yamini Redewill

  “Oh, Stan.” She laughed demurely as she returned the kiss. “You’re such a tease!” And I got all goosepimply!

  Chanting causes you to think you are doing something powerful and positive for your life, so it becomes a very pleasurable and secure feeling while you chant. You innately believe that you are invoking the power of the gods to do your bidding. These days the urge to chant when an unpleasant situation occurs has been replaced with the mantra of intention, like the one I invoked at the beginning of this book. I find that my sincerity in connecting to Source or acknowledging my own higher self is all I need to create miracles in my life.

  I have many dear friends still practicing this Buddhism and I honor their compassion and sincerely held belief and the work they continue to do for the betterment of the world. Tina Turner, Patrick Duffy, and Herbie Hancock practice it, and at one time, the entire Dodger baseball team did as well.

  This practice had a built-in motivator that continually enticed me to stick with it, by the small miracles I attributed to it every day. Some were bigger than others, such as the plane fare for four pilgrimages to Japan showing up in my mailbox. Money always seemed to show up for whatever I needed at the time.

  Every two or three years, we looked forward to a group Tozan (pilgrimage) to Japan. The headquarters in Tokyo, headed by President Daisaku Ikeda, was responsible for building a huge modern glass-and-concrete earthquake-proof temple called Daisekiji at the foot of Mt. Fuji, surrounded by lush grounds and group-housing buildings. This temple housed the Dai Gohonzon scroll, which was the original object of worship scribed by Nichiren Daishonin in thirteenth-century Japan. We each were given our own smaller personal Gohonzons at our induction ceremonies. We ascribed great power to our Gohonzons and especially to the Dai Gohonzon as being a direct line to God, or God “Itself.” I remember sitting in the great hall facing the altar where the Dai Gohonzon was enshrined, expecting to be thrown into another dimension as soon as they opened the doors of the shrine to reveal the great scroll. Well, nothing happened, but I pretended it did like everyone else.

  I attended four Tozans, one for each season. My first Tozan was in summer, and we were hit with hot, humid weather, which could be managed only by carrying a cool wet facecloth and a Japanese fan. I purchased my first kimono, a blue-and-white cotton print, and proudly wore it downtown, only to be met with averted eyes and embarrassed snickers. I found out later that what I was wearing was a traditional bathrobe. The other clothes item I purchased was pantyhose, which I again found out later were impossible to wear because the crotch came up only as far as my knees. We Americans were like uncultured giants in this beautiful, serene foreign land of “little” people.

  My longest Tozan was a month in winter where we split up into groups of three—a man, a woman, and a translator—and were driven to different members’ homes throughout Japan. We were given the assignment to speak about our American experience to large groups assembled in different meeting places every night. I found this to be a wonderful experience, as the Japanese were extremely gracious and appreciative of us.

  Winter was especially challenging, as most homes did not have central heating, and the preferred method of warming up was jumping into a scalding hot tub after hand bathing on a stool in front of a faucet in the basement. The water in the tub was so hot you jumped in and out faster than a Looney Tunes Roadrunner, and your temperature was sufficiently raised to keep you warm through the night. Being minimalists, most Japanese homes stored their dining tables, floor pillows (chairs), mattresses, and bedding in closets and brought them out when needed. The tables had heaters under them to keep your lower body warm, and butane heaters were placed around us to keep our upper bodies warm. My most ingratiating and at the same time perplexing experience was the time I was invited to someone’s home for tea and I happened to comment on one of their ceramic bowls as being particularly beautiful. As is customary, they insisted I take it. I was thrown for a loop and didn’t know how to react. Unfortunately, I ended up rejecting their generosity out of pure ignorance.

  Back home, this Buddhism was a very difficult and demanding practice. I developed muscles I never had before, including self-discipline, unrelenting faith, letting go of ego, surrendering to a higher power or wisdom, and becoming fearless in learning how to approach strangers and enroll them into this discipline. All these muscles have played a big role in everything I’ve accomplished in life thus far.

  I think maybe the most relevant benefit I got from this practice was my evolving into a compassionate and caring human being. I worked tirelessly with my district of fifty or so members, encouraging them to keep practicing in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Every day on the street and through my social work, I enlisted people into the practice. Being a social worker in LA County was a perfect training ground for leadership in the Buddhist organization.

  One time on my rounds, I attempted to enlist one of my family welfare clients in the housing projects. Josie was like the walking (or in this case, sitting) dead. Her kids ran around half-naked, snot dripping from their noses, in an apartment with orange crates for furniture except for the large TV and easy chair in the living room. At first she was completely unresponsive (picture a fat woman slouched in her chair with eyes half-closed and mouth hanging open), but finally, I got her to chant. Let’s just say that six months later, she had gone to school to learn a vocation, then got a job, got off welfare, got thinner, and became one of my most enthusiastic and vivacious members and eventually a leader herself. Go see a movie starring Leslie Jones and you will get an accurate picture of Josie’s transformation.

  Another memorable incident was when I went to the hospital to see one of my welfare clients who had tried to commit suicide. She was strapped down on a gurney. I took her hand, looked into her eyes, and told her that right now she was lucky because she could still make choices. If she were dead, she couldn’t. And you never know what opportunities will come your way the next day. I went on to tell her about some opportunities that came my way just when I thought there was no hope. And, of course, I told her about Nam Myo Ho Renge Kyo.

  One year later she visited me at the office to say that that was a life-changing encounter for her, as she was then able to pick herself up, get off of drugs, and become a completely new person because of it.

  PING! It was late and I wanted to go home when I answered a call, hoping it would be a short, local ride. Approaching the car was a young man in a wool beanie with a million tattoos on his upper body half-covered by a cropped-off T-shirt. He emerged from an upscale house in Marin and wanted to go to San Francisco to pick up something and then use me to ride back home. Oh-oh . . . not a good sign. Was I going to take part in an errant son’s dope score? I heard him talk on the phone, asking if two hundred dollars was enough, and if not, he could possibly do three hundred dollars. I pretended not to be listening and asked him where we were going and why we were going there. He looked at me and smiled a crooked smile, which I found out later was due to an ear operation that went bad, causing half his face to be paralyzed. He said it was a surprise for his little brother, who had meningitis and had just come home from the hospital. I thought, Oh, here it goes. He’s going to tell me he’s picking up some special medicine for his brother, and I’m to believe it.

  An hour later we arrived at a house on the outskirts of San Francisco near Daly City. He asked me to wait and he’d be right back. A moment later he came out carrying a duffle bag with a fabric screen on one end. Turns out it was a puppy carrier housing a small pug with a scrunched-up face, the cutest little dog I’ve ever seen. I was very impressed and at the same time ashamed of my completely wrong assumptions. He said the dog’s name was Rocky, because his brother loved all the Rocky movies on Netflix. Damn! I was way off!

  “Never judge a book by its cover” is so appropriate. I have often been delightfully surprised by the people I pick up on my Uber rounds after engaging in meaningful conversations that reveal their true essence to
me. I think everyone has a transformed Josie hiding out somewhere inside. It just takes a little prodding to pull her out.

  Back in the late sixties and seventies, our Buddhist headquarters in LA had a very charismatic leader from Korea named Masayasu Sadanaga, later self-named George M. Williams, who was uncommonly handsome. We were drawn to his youthful energy and his strong belief that this Buddhism held the key to world peace. He had a vivid imagination and created events to spread the word in a spectacular manner. When I think back, I’m amazed at what we created under his direction.

  We had huge conventions every summer, but one year in particular stood out. It was in 1968 in Honolulu, Hawaii, and it took a whole year in Santa Monica and Hawaii to prepare for this. We created a parade with floats, our brass band, our bagpipe band, our fife-and-drum corps, and hundreds of dancers who marched down the main street of Honolulu the day before our convention. That same day we put on a performance in front of thirty thousand sunbathers, after having built a fake island with a stage and a smoking volcano facing the main beach in Honolulu. Removable sets were made representing major cultures and countries around the world, and dancers performed in costumes representing India, Russia, Ireland, Africa, Switzerland, England, France, and many others. Costumed swimmers performed in an aquacade around the floating stage. It was a gargantuan effort.

  I spent my entire three days in Hawaii in a fume-filled warehouse putting the final touches on the floats. Upon arriving in Hawaii, we had been herded (like cattle to the slaughter) into our “waterfront hotel,” which was, in essence, a converted shipyard dock with one thousand cots side by side and dozens of mobile toilets at one end. Why we didn’t spend the money and arrange to stay in the many hotels available there, I don’t know. I would have been more than happy to pay for it after one night in that hellhole shit house (literally). But we chanted together and overcame (so we convinced ourselves). We were very good at convincing ourselves that we were the chosen ones out to save the world, and any discomfort was well worth the sacrifice. Holding such huge momentous events was a way to enroll converts on a grand scale, not to mention reenrolling ourselves.

  Our enthusiasm built upon itself. Our group dynamic portrayed the spirit of extreme happiness and good fortune to each other and to all whom we invited into the fold. We inspired everyone with our wondrous testimonials. We patted each other and ourselves on the back every chance we got. There was a very good reason for this. As I stated earlier, this was a very difficult practice. It brought us face to face with our demons, our weaknesses, and our guilty pasts while highlighting our dreams and hopes for the future. It created expectations that sometimes did not meet reality. At those times, we sought guidance and encouraging words from our senior leaders.

  Part of the appeal of this practice was the possibility of being appointed to a high leadership position through a strong practice. For thirteen years, my dream of becoming a senior leader was forever stymied. I was only one step below as a district chief (Chikutan) but miles away in reality from the privileges and accessibility to certain events and higher leaders, like Mr. Williams and President Ikeda. I became a Chikutan within the first three months of my practice. After that, for some unknown reason I was never appointed to a higher position, even though my practice was strong and unwavering and my members were thriving under my leadership. I was given a clue when my Sochibucho (general chapter chief) demeaned me in front of my district, calling me “obsequious, unlike [one of my Honcho assistants] Marilyn, who is a true leader.” One year after I left, he was called out and reprimanded for his mean-spirited arrogance toward hundreds of his members. Obsequious: the epitome of victimhood. I hated that word because it was true.

  Looking back, their guidance system was, at times, dysfunctional. Sometimes power was given to those who had their own personal agendas and little or no wisdom or real compassion for their members. They covered themselves by saying that we should surrender to their guidance even if it didn’t feel right, because we would get the benefit anyway by following in faith. In many instances, this was true, but in other cases, this should be a warning to anyone joining a religious organization that promises to change your life miraculously if you blindly follow the advice of their leader(s). There is a fine line between surrendering in faith and giving away your power. So always check in and make that distinction, even if it means going against the dictates of the organization and being rejected. Think of Jonestown.

  The saving grace of this Buddhist practice is the practice of chanting itself, which is a form of meditation that will, more often than not, allow you to access your own higher knowing and will lead you to your desired state of being.

  However, this sect of Buddhism couldn’t give me any satisfactory answers for my lack of a loving partnership, which is ironic since I began chanting mostly for the purpose of finding true love. Compassion was the operative word, not love. In all the teachings, love was barely mentioned, and when it was, it was deemed unworthy of discussion. According to this sect, love is an illusion. That certainly was right; in my case, it was nothing but an illusion.

  Year after year, my demeanor was less and less enthusiastic as I was constantly held back from achieving my dream of leadership or having an intimate loving relationship. By the time I reached year thirteen, I was suicidal, so I sought the help of a psychologist rather than another ineffective or mean-spirited senior leader.

  PING! My first pickup of the day was a Latino guy named Renaldo, wanting to go to Richmond for a get-together with his family and friends. He talked about how hard it was to work twelve to fourteen hours a day just to make ends meet but had faith that somehow everything would work out for him and his family. He then brought up an amazing story about being despondent and committing suicide when he was a teenager. That’s right, he did not attempt to commit suicide; he actually committed suicide.

  He described it like this: “I made a hangman’s noose and put it over my head and under my chin. I kicked the chair from under me and suddenly couldn’t breathe, and I panicked, trying to get out of the noose. I then felt all my energy leave my body as I began to lose consciousness. At that point I said, “Forgive me, God,” and just before I blacked out, the rope was cut and I fell to the floor. There was no one there. It was a perfectly good rope, but it was cut in half. You’re the only person I have told this to. I haven’t told my wife or kids. They wouldn’t understand, but somehow I knew you would. I truly believe in God and try every day to encourage others to believe. He saved my life.” I then told him about my out-of-body experience, which was a gift to let me know I was not my body. At the end of the ride, he took my hand in both of his and said thank you and then reached over to hug me. I cried and couldn’t pick up any more riders. He touched me so deeply.

  HAPPY DAYS ARE HERE AGAIN

  In La-La Land

  A few years before I imploded and sought guidance from a psychologist, I had my most amazing Buddhist miracle yet: I was hired as head of wardrobe at CBS from out of the blue. After four years of being a social worker, I was hired at Angelica Uniform Company, where I worked for five years as their designer for California uniform clients. During my fifth year there, I worked alongside a known TV designer who was using our company for a Hilton Hotel uniform project. My job was to help him find the right fabric and findings for his designs. One day he told me that the head of wardrobe at CBS had resigned and that there was an opening, which he thought I should pursue. Other than him, I didn’t know anyone currently in the business, and I had never worked with costumes or wardrobe in TV. I was just a uniform designer who chanted, and when they interviewed me for the job, somehow they liked me. They also liked my sketches of designs for Cher, which I made especially for the interview.

  I landed the job after a week of interviews. To give you an idea of how it goes in showbiz, my last interview was two hours long. I sat through a long, rapturous narrative about my interviewee’s handsome grown son, never being asked one question about myself. I suppose because I wa
s such a polite and seemingly interested listener, she (Rosemary) thought I was the perfect candidate for the job.

  My first week at CBS began with an hour-long bonus show by Sammy Davis Jr. for all CBS staff and employees. I remember wishing I had the courage to go up to him and personally thank him. The next day while I was on the set of The Young and the Restless watching rehearsals, I suddenly turned to see Sammy Davis Jr. standing right behind me, and at that moment I was able to thank him for his generosity.

  There were many moments like that in the halls and studios of CBS, like passing George Burns (otherwise known as “God”) in the hall as he tipped his hat to me, or watching the unruly teenage gang from the Jackson Five family taking orders from their youngest, Michael, who was grounded and mature by comparison. My biggest thrill was meeting Bob Mackey, the designer for all of Cher’s incredible costumes. He was my original inspiration to apply for the job when I submitted my own designs as a way to get noticed.

  Being the head of wardrobe put me in the position to take charge of the whole wardrobe for The Young and the Restless, and for any other shows that needed readymade clothes from local shops or costumes designed and made in our department.

  My first work challenge came when the CEO of Giorgio’s Beverly Hills, hearing that a “neophyte” had replaced the head of wardrobe at CBS, decided to charge us for the gorgeous clothes CBS had been able to rent free of charge for years, just for the publicity. I knew nothing about Giorgio’s nor had any experience in negotiating contracts. So, thinking I was doing CBS a huge favor, I canceled the contract with Giorgio’s and sought to find another free source of clothes for our Y&R cast. This was the beginning of the end of my CBS job, as I substituted Giorgio’s with Buffum’s Department Store, a ridiculously inadequate replacement. Giorgio was in a class all by itself, with designer dresses costing thousands of dollars in Beverly Hills. Buffum’s then was like Macy’s is now. Somehow I managed to find a few good items every week to mollify the producer and put off the inevitable.