Buddhist monks

Last week was rather Dickensian for me. It began by seeing a group of Buddhist monks pass through my city on their Walk for Peace. Hundreds and hundreds of people lined their path in reverence and were lifted by the wake of hope they left behind. It was the best of times – and I did not want that glorious day to end.

And my week ended watching and rewatching videos of an American citizen being shot dead by a gang of ICE agents – one of whom applauded after the victim lay dead on the street in front of a bakery in Minneapolis. It was the worst of times – and it feels as if these horrific days will never end.

You all know by now that Alex Pretti, the man executed by ICE agents on Saturday morning, was an ICU nurse at the Veterans Affairs hospital in Minneapolis. Jesus, irony can sometimes be as bitter cold as a Minnesota winter. Alex Pretti was a helper – by all accounts a kind man who held a deep respect for the veterans he served. In the aftermath of his death, the son of a deceased veteran who Pretti had cared for posted a video of Pretti giving his father a final salute in a hospital corridor as he somberly read aloud from text that began with these lines:

“Today, we remember that freedom is not free. We have to work at it, nurture it, protect it and even sacrifice for it.”

Like any reasonable American, I was appalled that Pretti was killed exercising his First Amendment freedoms, and his connection to veterans made my heart ache even more. The grandfather I was named for was a veteran of both world wars and my father served in the Army. And I worked as a development officer for the Paralyzed Veterans of America (PVA) for eight years. I was responsible for cultivating planned gifts – bequests, trusts and annuities – and would always visit the local Veteran’s hospital whenever I was meeting with donors. These hospitals are deeply attuned to the veteran experience, and you certainly feel a sense of respect for service and love of country when you spend time in one – especially when you see some of the collateral damage left behind by combat.

And I think that’s why I mourned Pretti’s senseless and unnecessary death even more deeply when I learned he cared for veterans. And I’m certain that is why I was utterly consumed with rage when Kristi “ICE Barbie” Noem and other federal agents immediately tried to defame Pretti’s reputation and described him as a domestic terrorist who had taken to the streets to sow carnage. We’ve all seen the videos – deep gratitude to Pink Coat Lady who risked her own safety to record the definitive angle of the murder on her own deadly weapon – an iPhone. Hey Siri – Please save us.

**NO SUCH THING AS THE INNOCENT BYSTANDER – poem by Andrea Gibson**

“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” is a well-known 1970’s spoken-word/song by Gil Scott-Heron that condemns passive consumerism and argues that real change only happens in the streets – and not by watching TV. I guess the song could be updated to include doom scrolling. As it turns out, the revolution will be live-streamed, and that is what is saving us, and democracy, these days.

Alex Pretti knew this and he was an active participant in what Rachel Maddow eloquently describes as “principled, peaceful, and relentless protest.” And he paid the ultimate price – his one, precious life. And cue the irony again – yesterday, the Trump administration – reacting to the massive public outrage over Pretti’s killing, booted Gregory Bovino – the Nazi Munchkin in charge of immigration operations in Minnesota – and signaled that the number of federal agents in Minneapolis would be reduced. And just this morning, we learned that the chief federal judge in Minnesota has ordered the head of ICE to appear in court on Friday for a hearing on contempt for violating court orders.

**Pretty sure Mary Richards would have been protesting. Rhoda, too.**

Enough? Not even close, but it’s a start and none of it would not have happened without the good and brave people of Minnesota taking their ire over how their neighbors are being treated to the streets – in sub-zero temps mind you. Operation Metro Surge – the ICE mission in Minneapolis – was doomed from the start. For starters, don’t invade a city full of descendants of Vikings in the dead of winter.

I just know that a modest group of Buddhist monks in plain robes and throngs of Minnesotans in puffer coats have given me tangible hope that better days are ahead. But as Alex Pretti knew all too well – we have to work at it.

**Alex Jeffrey Pretti, ICU nurse and patriot, 1989-2026**

**Alex Pretti’s colleagues offered a moment of silence yesterday in a hallway of the VA hospital where he served.**

**The Walk for Peace came to my corner of the world yesterday.**

I saw a small parade of superheroes yesterday. Instead of capes, they wore simple, handmade robes in earthy colors – no flashy costumes. And they were not accompanied by a pounding soundtrack. No, these were the minimalist Avengers but make no mistake – their superpowers are enormous. Yes, I’m talking about the Buddhist monks who are participating in the Walk for Peace – a 120-day, 2,300-mile journey. These monks are walking from Texas to Washington, D.C. – talk about getting your steps in – to promote mindfulness, compassion and peace – something akin to hidden treasure these days.

The monks passed through the Piedmont Triad – where I live – and were greeted like the rock stars they are. 10,000 people gathered at a stadium in High Point, NC to welcome them on a frigid morning. Hundreds of other folks lined the route as they made their way to Greensboro. The turnout to support the monks was amazing and even more remarkable was that none of those thousands of people behaved badly – at least from my vantage point.

My bestie Carla lives in Jamestown and has been following the monks on social media for weeks – they began their journey in Fort Worth, TX on October 26^th. I knew she was planning on seeing them and my dear wife and I decided to join her. It was a great decision because Carla had mapped out the strategy to secure the best viewing point like it was the invasion of Normandy. In her own words, she was “obsessively” following (stalking) their route. She even made a test run earlier in the day to scope out the elementary school where we planned to park and she texted me their progress on the hour. I could almost hear the theme from Mission Impossible in the background.

**The Monk Squad – Andrew, Carla, Arlene, me, and Joy**

We convened at Carla’s house with her husband and mom and waited until it was time to depart. Finally, Captain Carla gave the greenlight, and we dispersed with the efficiency of a SWAT team. We were on a mission – not unlike the monks. I think we all knew that this is what we desperately needed in the midst of the chaos choking our country every day.

There were already hundreds of folks lining the route when we reached the school, but we had no problem parking. My little KIA Soul is the unofficial vehicle of Radical Left Scum and is adorned with bumper stickers that leave no doubt as to my politics. When I got out of my car, I saw a young mother kneeling to zip up her daughter’s coat – they had parked directly behind me. When we passed them, she looked up and smiled at me and said, “I love your bumper stickers.” I returned a big fat smile, patted her on the arm, and told her she was good people. Her husband was wrangling their other child and said, “No, you’re good people.” And that was just a joyous appetizer of things to come.

**Yesterday was a blessing in all manner of ways.**

We staked out our spots on the sidewalk with a bunch of strangers who felt like friends. Everyone was buzzing with excitement and anticipation. A woman near us was tracking the monks on her phone and kept updating us. “They should be here in about 20 minutes,” she called out. Our tribe was downright giddy, and Carla and I shared a spontaneous bear hug. We are both unabashedly emotional (understatement) and we were just so happy to be there. And then the monks passed right by us – more like whizzed – those monks are quick on their feet. I was shocked that we were so close to them – you could have easily touched them – but that is strictly prohibited. One of the monks offered us a short blessing as he passed by. I was so overwhelmed, I can’t recall exactly what he said. What I do remember is the sound – the sacred sound of silence. You could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the rhythmic treading of the monks’ steps on the asphalt. It sounded like prayer to me.

And just like that, they were gone. No one rushed off – I think folks simply wanted to linger in the gentle haze of the peace we had just born witness to. And a word I had not thought of in a long time popped into my head – unity. I felt united with all those people on the sidewalk. It was a bit like staring directly into the sun – it was almost too much to take in and I had to close my eyes for a moment.

**Sometimes peace finds you in a parking lot.**

When we got back to our car, my wife found two little flowers stuck in the door handle of the driver’s side. They looked like the simple flowers that the monks carry. I bet they came from the little family that liked my stickers. They were a bit dilapidated from the cold, but still so bright and cheerful – downright resilient. Folks, sometimes the metaphors write themselves. And that’s how a humble band of monks lifted a weary community on their slight shoulders for a few glorious hours on a cold day in January.

And that is the Marvel Universe I long to dwell in.

May you and all beings be well, happy and at peace.

This is a blessing that the monks repeat often on their journey.

Bookends

Two writers. One blog.

Thank you for your service

Bring in ‘da peace, bring in ‘da monks