The Monk From Brooklyn
...an American at the Shaolin Temple

continued

Antonio and Monks

The driver leaned out the window and spoke with the ghostly figure of a cloaked monk. A few minutes later, the gates opened and we drove inside. I couldn't believe it! I was here in the Shaolin Temple. It looked exactly like it did in the movies. I kept expecting David Carradine, Kwai Chang Kain, to come walking around the corner. The monks, wearing their hooded robes, were a scene right out of 'The Name of the Rose.' Our new monk friend took us to his room. Some older monks joined us. With long gray beards and shaved heads, they looked like ZZ Tops' Hari Krishna cousins. They asked me millions of questions about Taiwan and the US. I steered clear of the Taiwan independence issue as much as I could. They also wanted to see my boxing and my Tae Kwon Do. It amazed me that even at the Shaolin Temple they thought boxing was such an interesting and exotic sport. In Chinese they often refer to boxing as 'American Kung Fu.' They particularly enjoyed seeing my signature feat, 180 punches in one minute. I read somewhere that Bruce Lee could do more than double that number.

It was getting late, and we were all hungry, so the first monk took us all out for dinner. I thought monks were supposed to take a vow of poverty, but when the bill came he whipped out a wad of cash that would have gotten him rolled in a second back home in Williamsburg. I made a mental note to teach him how to play cards later.

One of the many Chinese specialties at the restaurant is dog meat. Monks are vegetarians so they didn't have to eat any of Old Yeller. I ate some, just to be one of the guys, and as a sort of non-specific revenge for the existence of French poodles. It wasn't bad. It tasted like any other meat, a little gamier than manatee and a bit greasier than koala or panda.

When we went back to the temple one of the taxi driver's friends, a former student at the Shaolin Temple, took me outside and handed me a Buddhist prayer book. "Put $200 US in this book." He said. "Go inside, prostrate before the monk three times, and then hand him the book. If you do that you will be in."

In? You mean I could study at the Shaolin Temple? I had been planning to study at one of the commercial schools in the village. Studying at the actual Shaolin Temple was beyond my wildest dreams. But what was this issue with the money? Was this a case of 'Our philosophies are Eastern, but our payment methods are Western?' Put the money in the book and hand it to the monk? This is one of the oldest scams in the world. They get you to put money in the book then they switch books and you loose your money.

The taxi driver's friend was getting impatient. He kept up a constant barrage of fast Chinese, explaining and re-explaining what he wanted me to do, as if the issue were that I didn't understand. I understood just fine. I just didn't want to do what he was asking me.

In between explanations, he was alternately pushing my shoulder, and throwing kicks in the air. I was certain that one of those kicks could have broken my leg. But he was still standing close enough for me to knock him out with a punch. But then what? If I hit him I probably wouldn't get to study at the Shaolin Temple. The others would still rob me, and I would loose my money anyway.

Suddenly I found myself in one of those situations only I can find myself in. I was in mainland China. I wasn't registered with the US Embassy. I wasn't at the school I had told my family and friends I was going to. Nobody knew where I was. I had no friends. These guys could have killed me, and no one would have asked about the body. In the US or Taiwan I always get a little tough with people when I don't get my way. I know that if worse came to worst I could fight my way out of most rooms. But here I would be fighting my way out of a room full of Kung Fu monks. A quick call to Atlantic City said the bookmakers were giving 5000 to one against my survival if I refused to give up my money.

I did as he told me and put the money in the book, but as a compromise, I made sure to keep control of the book. If I was going to pay a bribe to get into the Shaolin Temple, I at least wanted the bribe to get to the right person. If bribing a holly man was like God's payola, I wanted to make sure Cesar got every penny I rendered unto him. In a very ham-handed and laughable way, the guy tried to pull the old switcheroo. "Give me the book." He said, kneeling down. " I will show you how to hand it to the monk."

"Yeah, I got a better idea, Momo, how about I show you where you can stick your head." I thought and then laughed.

If he tried running a scam this stupid in New York, he'd be left under the boardwalk somewhere with his pockets turned inside out. Once my money was inside, he'd have had to use a crowbar to get that book out of my hands. With apparent resignation in his face, he lead me back to the monk's quarters, and just before I went inside he tried to grab the book out of my hand again. God! Had this guy never heard of Brooklyn? I handed him my diary instead. "Hold this for me," I said. I went in, prostrated three times and gave the book to the monk. He nodded approvingly. I saw him exchange a look with the one who had taken me outside. Had they prearranged to steal my money? The other passengers and the driver all stared at the friend questioningly. I guess everyone had been promised a share for their trouble.

"What is your religion?" The monk asked.
"Catholic." I answered.
"To be a monk you have to be Buddhist," he explained.
"No problem." I answered.
When my friend Herschel's little brother had his Bar Mitvah I went to temple with his family. Isn't this sort of the same thing? Anyway I am not looking at it as a conversion. It is more like an advanced field experiment in theology. It had been so long since I had been in church I think Father Carmine would have just shaken his head and said. "At least he is attending services."

"Wait here," said the monk. He went outside and divided up my bribe money with the taxi driver and his friends.

Before they left, the taxi driver had the balls to come and ask me to pay the fare. "Why don't you just take it out of your commission?" I wanted to ask. But I had become a monk so I wasn't able to feel anger at anyone anymore, not even some jerk-face moron who tried to steal my money. I felt pity instead.

After everyone had gone, the monk returned and said. "Put your things here." Apparently I would be sharing the room with him and his novice monk. The novice and I hit it off right away. He was twenty-five years old, and a good guy. Also, in the couple of hours I had been there he hadn't tried to steal from me.

Antonio in his shared room.

It is very cold in China and there is no heating in the temple. I would later find out that even homes are not heated. The monks live in relative squalor. The chambers were just tiny, concrete rooms, about twice the size of a deluxe suite at Attica, with absolutely nothing in them apart from a bed and a desk. The only things the monks seemed to own, apart from my $200, was the clothes on their backs. The Chinese are rather dirty in general and throw trash and litter out the window. The temple grounds, at least the part where the monks lived, were strewn with refuse.

The novice led me through a labyrinth of outdoor alleyways to the communal toilet. There was no electric light, and in addition to being ice-cold the night was pitch dark. The toilet was just a hole in the ground, overflowing with human waste. There wasn't even a privacy screen or anything, so everyone could see you poop.

We returned to the room, where the monk and novice shared their hot water with me. I would learn later that hot water was a rare commodity. The novice would carry a single, one-liter thermos jug to the kitchen every morning at 5:30 am, and fill it with boiling water. That was the hot water ration for the two of them for the day.

I put on thermals, sweats, thick woolen socks, and my Navy watch cap. I crawled into bed and wrapped up in the blankets they had given me.

"Tomorrow you will have your head shaved. Then we will begin," said the monk.

The story continues. (View more photos from Antonio's experience.)

Antonio's book, The Monk from Brooklyn, is available at amazon.com.

Contact the author at antonio_graceffo@hotmail.com

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