CHAPTER ELEVEN
FREE YOUR HEART
I HAVE BEEN BLESSED OVER THE YEARS to have encountered many beautiful saints and several powerful demons. The saints have shown me by their living example that forgiveness is possible, but it’s been the demons that have challenged me to put everything I hold sacred into practice. That is what demons are for; they sometimes appear in disguises, and at other times they appear clearly labeled, offering us an invitation on to the dark path for a period of time. In whatever manifestation or form they take, what they offer us is the bitterest medicine and the hardest lessons. Like a metal sword being crafted in hot coals, our own strength is also forged through the fires of hell. Inevitably what we learn from all demons is how to love, how to forgive, and how to reclaim our own power.
As an African American woman, practicing forgiveness keeps me from being consumed by anger. People die from hatred. I beg you not to become one of them. Forgiving everyone for everything is my only practice these days. The heart wants to be free and the only way is by letting go of the resentments we carry from the past. This chapter is deeply personal and was difficult to write, but you’ll discover that my stories are familiar ones. I have nothing new to say because we all know these truths in our bones. These are the struggles of our people and the struggle of humankind.
My Tibetan teacher Mingier Rinpoche would always say, “Be thankful for your enemies. They teach you everything about compassion and patience.” To be thinking of people who have done great harm in that way is a radical shift. We can use painful experiences to evoke compassion. César Chávez, who endured so much while leading the farm workers movement said, “We draw our strength from the very despair in which we have been forced to live. We shall endure.”1 My journey into forgiveness has always been about enduring.
At the age of twenty-four, after twenty-one years of separation, I was reunited with my biological father. I only had two clear memories of him and I cherished both of them. I remember once when he took me to get some ice cream. He was smiling at me as I sat in the front seat of his car, licking a gigantic vanilla ice cream cone. The other vivid memory is of him popping in unexpectedly one night to pay us a visit. I jumped straight onto his lap and, feeling so happy to see him, I wrapped my tiny arms around his neck. When it came time for him to go, I cried and begged him to stay. I hid his hat to keep him from leaving, but he found it and headed out the door again. He was always leaving.
I genuinely missed him throughout my life; his absence had a deep impact on me. My mother would describe him as an unstable, selfish man who had abandoned us. I remember moving in with my mother’s new boyfriend, who would tell me over and over how my father never cared about me. I think that was the hardest thing to accept. I had one tiny Polaroid photograph of him, and I would gaze at it and make up elaborate fantasies that he would pick me up from school one day and take me on a magical adventure. Deep down, I wondered if he ever thought about me at all, but he was always on my mind. When a parent disappears from your life, there’s a deep sense of loneliness, a wound in your heart. I never knew what to believe about his whereabouts and, as the years went by, I finally gave up all hope of ever seeing him again.
I was thinking about all of this during the long flight my mother, sister, and I took from San Francisco to Philadelphia. My grandmother—my father’s mother—had invited us to attend Uncle Wayne’s birthday party. It was also a family reunion, to be held at a big park in Wilmington, Delaware. We had always stayed in touch with my father’s family on the East Coast—my grandparents, four uncles, two aunts, and dozens of cousins. My father’s people were a hundred percent old-school African Americans with deep Southern Baptist roots. Everything revolved around my grandmother; She was a generous and loving woman, the matriarch of the family. Her home was the gathering place for every special occasion.
Over the years, my mother kept in touch by sending her letters and school photos, and in turn my grandmother would send us cookies and Christmas cards. When I was thirteen, we visited for the first time, and our whole East Coast family warmly embraced us. Since most of my mother’s family was deceased, my mom, sister, and I were like orphans, and in my grandmother’s arms we felt at home.
My father’s whereabouts were unknown for many years, and not just to us; he had also been out of contact with his own family for years. At one point, they didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Then out of the blue, he called his family and announced he was coming home. Everyone rose to the occasion to greet him. Some helped with plane tickets, others with housing. My uncle even offered him a job. My father left Arizona, and returned to his hometown of Wilmington, Delaware, bringing his four young children with him.
After we landed in Philadelphia, my father and grandmother pulled up in an old car. My mother, sister, and I stood outside baggage claim. My father immediately jumped out of the driver’s seat and yelled, “California Love!” at the top of his lungs, then burst out laughing. Our eyes met for the first time in twenty-one years, and I cracked up laughing too. His laughter was a way to break the tension of such an epic occasion. I had thought about this exact moment for so long, it felt weird and strangely familiar, even after twenty-one years.
The following days were filled with sadness, laughter, confusion, and love. It was difficult to know what to share; we were catching up on a lifetime. There were conflicting stories between my parents about what had happened and whose fault it was. When we moved from southern to northern California, my mother didn’t leave an address or phone number, she was so angry with him. My father said I was always in his heart and that he always loved me. I came to see that he wasn’t the hero I had imagined, nor the villain others believed him to be. As I looked into his eyes, I felt deep compassion and forgiveness. I saw the suffering he carried and understood that he was just a human being trying to figure out how to be happy.
In truth it was easy to have compassion and forgiveness in that moment; my father’s life was in complete shambles. He was the single parent of four active, young boys, and he was dedicated to raising them. For that, I applauded him. His wife, the boys’ mom, was a crack cocaine addict and prostitute living on the streets most of the time. He did whatever he could to help her recover, and when she was diagnosed with AIDS, he decided to bring his family back to Delaware where he had grown up. He had very little money and he needed support.
Being reunited with my father didn’t turn out to be the fantasy I had envisioned, but my life has never been a fairy tale. After seeing him, I forgave both of my parents. I knew that everything in my life had happened for a reason; there was no one to blame anymore. I understood why each of them had made the decisions they had made. As I flew back to California, there was a deep sense of peace and a feeling of closure.
To understand everything is to forgive everything; but how do we begin to forgive everything? How can we forgive genocide, racism, sexism, homophobia, colonization, and all the other ways human beings act out of greed, hatred, and delusion? Only someone with wisdom and a fierce heart can do that. A few years ago I had the good fortune of attending an event that included the viewing of an inspiring film about Garchen Triptrul Rinpoche. I got to meet him during the event and learn all about his life. He had been in a Chinese prison for twenty years and went through all kinds of the most brutal torture that you could imagine. When he got out of prison and went into exile in India, the Dalai Lama asked him, “Were you ever scared?” He replied, “I was only scared when I lost my compassion [for my torturers] for a little while.” This story about his forgiveness—using the worst conditions to obtain profound freedom—is so inspiring to me and to countless others. There’s something profoundly illuminated in his heart; you can feel it when he talks. He left prison with no PTSD, only love, compassion, and complete forgiveness toward everyone. Now he has started a large spiritual community in Arizona and has become a worldwide inspiration. He carries a spinning prayer wheel with him and turns it practically 24/7. “Millions of mani prayers, compassion prayers,” he says. “I have to keep spinning it for the benefit of all beings.”
When I was fifteen, powerful forces propelled me in a dangerous direction. My mother’s abusive boyfriend made our home a living hell, and I felt I had no choice but to move out. A year later, during a peak period of violent gang activity in South Los Angeles when thousands of young men were joining the Crips and the Bloods, I was living on my own in the midst of it all. I spent a lot of time around drug dealers, hustlers, and gang members, and got hurt countless times.
I saw how drugs, rage, and violence fuel urban war zones, and I was drawn into the confusion, danger, and the pain without understanding why. It took witnessing terrible violence, almost getting killed in a drive-by shooting, and nearly dying in a car accident to finally wake me up. These were the darkest years of my life, and I feel lucky to be alive. Many friends and acquaintances from that period were imprisoned, and others died tragically.
It was during that dark time that André appeared in my life. He was in his early twenties, a lifelong gangbanger and a drug dealer. He had grown up on the streets, his gang was his only family, and he was fiercely loyal. As a teenager, he’d been shot and beaten up many times, and his face and body had the scars to show for it. At age sixteen, I was no longer living with my mother. A friend and I shared a small apartment, and one of André’s friends lived in the same building. To get by, I’d started selling small bags of marijuana. André and I became acquainted when I began buying large quantities of marijuana from him, then selling it for a profit. I never felt good about it doing it, but I had no job and had rent and other bills to pay.
I saw right away that he was dangerous and I felt afraid in his presence. Yet we had established a business relationship and I thought I was in control. Then he began to act obsessive around me and started to stalk me. I ignored my gut instincts and overlooked his behavior to keep my weed business going. Then one day, I was alone at a friend’s house waiting for her and her boyfriend to return; André figured out where I was and showed up. I didn’t want to let him in, but I did. Within minutes, he attacked and raped me. I fought with all my strength, but he was too strong. My legs were bruised and I was scared. When my friends returned, he threatened me. I was hurt and confused, so I stayed silent. For the next couple of months, he continued to stalk me, even kidnapping me once while I was outside my house. He forced me into his car and I endured a night of hell. Finally, he drove me home in the morning. He called me constantly, demanding that I be his girlfriend. I knew I was in danger and needed to leave. He knew where I lived, had my phone number, and was becoming more violent and erratic. Two days after the kidnapping, I packed my bags and moved away.
I knew André for just a short time, but it changed my life. Until then, I had been a free spirit and trusted everyone. After I moved away I blocked it all out, but much later in my life it all came up again. I relived everything in vivid detail and I began to do deep forgiveness work. When I heard later from a friend that André was in prison serving a twenty-five-year sentence for drug-related charges, I felt compassion for him.
In the Babemba tribe of South Africa, when a person acts irresponsibly or unjustly, he is placed in the center of the village, alone and unrestrained. All work ceases, and every man, woman, and child in the village gathers in a large circle around the accused. Then each person in the tribe speaks to him, one at a time, each recalling the good things the person in the center of the circle has done in his lifetime. Every incident, every experience that can be recalled accurately and in detail is recounted—all his positive attributes, good deeds, strengths, and kindnesses are recited carefully and at length. This tribal ceremony often lasts for several days. At the end, the tribal circle is broken, a joyous celebration takes place, and the person is symbolically and literally welcomed back into the tribe.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean not standing up for what’s right. It also doesn’t mean not having boundaries. I forgave André, but that doesn’t mean I want him to come over for dinner. Forgiveness doesn’t mean we stop protecting others or speaking up when we can. It just means we aren’t motivated by rage and hatred. “We’re not punished for our anger, we’re punished by it.”1 We can do our activist work by calling on the forces of truth and love. That is what we are for. We want a just world for all beings. We can transmute our anger into a cry for justice and it can become a much more powerful force. It becomes soul force that can move mountains and ignite great movements.
We must also have faith and remember that everyone can change, every human being has the potential to transform. Bryon Widner was known as an enforcer—someone hired to extort money through intimidation—for US racist groups and the founder of the Vinlanders skinhead gang in Ohio. Getting married and having a child radically changed him and opened his heart. He began rejecting the racist beliefs that had made him a notorious figure among America’s extreme Right. However, he struggled to readapt to society because of the web of racist Nazi tattoos that covered his entire face and neck. He looked like a monster and his appearance frightened people. He had left the movement, created a good family life and felt he had so much to live for. With the help of loving people and support from anti-hate organizations, the former racist embarked on a series of twenty-five painful surgeries that took sixteen months and cost $32,400. “I was totally prepared to douse my face in acid,” Bryon said. “I was that desperate to remove my tattoos.” His painful physical transformation was just as incredible as his inner transformation. As the tattoos were being removed from his face, the hatred was being released from his heart. Bryon is now an advocate for civil rights.3
Learning how to forgive ourselves is also critically important. A big part of Bryon Widner’s story was forgiving himself for everything he had done. I too did many things when I was younger that I wish I hadn’t. I can’t go back and change them, but I can commit to not repeating the same mistakes over and over. I’ve worked with many people who are struggling to forgive themselves for actions done in anger or confusion. Sometimes we need to engage in loving acts to purify past actions so that we can let go of them. I always encourage people to write letters to those they have hurt. Ask for forgiveness from those who you’ve harmed. Sometimes praying and doing charitable acts helps clear our consciousness so that we can move forward. Commit to living a different way; commit to living with heart.
The Buddha teaches, “Hatred never ceases by hatred but by love alone is healed. This is the ancient and eternal law.”4
Nelson Mandela understood the power of forgiveness on many levels. He understood that before forgiveness can start, a truth and reconciliation process is needed. When he was released from prison after twenty-seven years and became President of South Africa, along with Archbishop Desmond Tutu and others he quickly set up the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, a powerful council that would hold tribunals and offer people pardon for crimes they had committed during the brutal years of apartheid.
Mandela abolished the apartheid system within moments after he was elected. However, the black community felt a deep vengeance for decades of abuse, murder, and injustice at the hands of the white government. It was a celebratory time, but also a dangerous one: the country could have been on the brink of a civil war, a powder keg ready to explode. A clear voice of wisdom and compassion was needed to address the horrors that had gone on for years. To help the nation come to grips with itself and what it had been through, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission began broadcasting on public television the cases it was hearing. To be granted a pardon, which meant basically appealing to the state for forgiveness, a person had to confess every act they had committed, honestly and clearly, giving names, dates, people involved, and each crime they had participated in, detailed to the extent they could remember. They also had to commit to never engaging in those actions again and apologize to the whole nation.
In the beginning, only black Africans came forward. But after the first year, many white police officers began to come before the tribunal, asking for forgiveness. The black community was riveted watching these proceedings every evening on public television. Each case was hotly debated and as the facts were uncovered, the topic of forgiveness was discussed in families throughout the country. Instead of thoughts of war and revenge, the whole country was forced to deal with the truth of injustice and the possibility of forgiveness. The hearings went on for years, and the cases were legendary. Even Winnie Mandela appeared before the tribunal asking for forgiveness. This process helped the nation come to grips with itself, and it allowed for healing, as people were asking for and receiving forgiveness.
Nelson Mandela’s death in 2015 had a big impact on me, and his life, his legacy, and his message of forgiveness will live on forever, through me and all the people who remember him in the depths of our hearts.
The heart longs to be free and forgiveness is the direct pathway to that freedom. Without it we can never let others love us nor can we love others fully. We become like beautiful boats that are tied to the dock. The entire ocean awaits us when we are ready. We start our forgiveness process with ourselves in mind first. We do it for us. We do it to reclaim what we have lost, and we do it because it’s the only thing that makes sense.
The Church says the body is a sin.
Science says the body is a machine.
Advertising says the body is a business.
The body says, “I am a fiesta.”
—EDUARDO GALEANO
