Cult of the Master
Chapter Two:
Welcome Into The Fray
My first long distance SGcult car trip was scheduled for the very next day after receiving my Gohonzon. Jerry, my young Native American district chief, had asked me to ride along with him over 300 miles to an NSA meeting in San Antonio, grouping together on the highway along with a few other cars full of Dallas area youth division. Jerry was the center (leader) at the few meetings I had attended. Only three years older than I, he was handsome with dark olive skin. Interacting with others, he was energetic and confident in the validity of the practice. Jerry and I were the only YMD (young men’s division) at our group meetings, so even though I was still brand new to NSA meetings, I was already becoming used to being shoved to the front of the group by the fujin (Japanese ladies), directed to sit just behind and to the left of the leader (Jerry) during gongyo. The senior women’s division leader always sat to the right and just behind the center. Of course, I just set there totally lost during gongyo, feeling very self-conscience and somewhat embarrassed and intimidated as everyone else could pronounce the sutra seemingly with such ease. But then I would jump in with all my might during the ensuing daimoku session, and that always felt so uplifting and positive. At my second meeting, I was asked to be emcee for our district meetings. I was already on the fast track to a leadership position. Giving out a leadership position might make one feel special, but that’s how the senior leaders get you to start running in the squirrel cage.
Jerry arrived early that morning and the two of us enshrined my gohonzon in a cardboard box that I had prepared. It had a cloth cover and its own table. Along with candles, incense, water cup, fruit tray, greenery vase, and a tiny prayer bell. This was my very own space and place to practice Buddhism, and I was really fired up. We took off to rendezvous with a few other cars full of NSA members and headed south for San Antonio. Jerry and I chanted almost all the way down, over five hours. My receptive brain was definitely in beta wave mode by then.
When we finally arrived in San Antonio, it was a beautiful warm day and south Texas springtime was already in the air. Having traveled over 300 miles southward we had left cool temps and barren trees behind. Green grass and tree leaves shimmered in the breeze, and colorful flower blooms were everywhere. The second story meeting room was located in a large, very old house on Ft. Sam Houston. Ft. Sam is infamous for being the place where the US Army imprisoned Chief Geronimo. (Now days I proudly wear my t-shirt that says right under an old picture of four Indian chiefs with rifles, “Homeland Security – Keeping America Safe Since 1492”). Holy shit, we were going on an army base of all places to a Buddhist gathering for world peace? That was somewhat confusing for me. (Eventually, I would come to realize just how seamlessly the military and NSA could go together). On the backside of the house on the second floor, the tiny meeting room was really stuffy and packed with people. A crowd of 20 or so people including four or five YWD (young women’s division) were in attendance. As soon as the chanting session was over and the regular meeting had begun, the emcee called out for a YWD lead gakkai song. These young women all yelled out with a very loud and guttural shout, “Hai!” as they jumped up and began leading a song Soka Gakkai style - “Have A Gohonzon” (to the tune of “Hava No Gita”). My jaw kinda dropped at first, I mean a Jewish song? Really? But these young women leaders all took it so serious as they put on their happy smiles and faces. The song tempo was really, really, really (did I say really?) fast and the girls couldn’t wave their hands and arms back and forth quickly enough to keep together with each other or to keep the beat as the rest of us clapped chaotically along. This was leading? I almost had to laugh out loud at how stupid both the song and the frantic hand waving both were. But I was about to experience that same adrenaline rush for myself.
Now it was the YMD’s turn to lead a song. “Hai” they shouted when called up by the emcee. I easily succumbed to peer pressure from all around and stood up to lead the song along side the other young men. I imitated the others and we vigorously began doing the fist waving (masculine version of leading a song Japanese style), as everyone sang another popular gakkai song, “Higher Then the Sky”. I could feel the testosterone in the room rising as the “outta town” boys competed in swinging arms and fists bigger and more menacingly than the “local” boys. (Wonder what would happen if a white guy in the Hood started doing that shit? BAH HA HA!!!) Perhaps this was my first culture shock. Well, I wasn’t too sure about how all this rah rah rah stuff could have anything to do with practicing and studying Buddhism. Confusing, but everyone just seemed so happy and joyful (could it be real?). It wouldn’t be long before the rah rah and fist waving would become an embarrassment for me every time new guests were present at meetings. But I decided for the time being at least, I could ignore this unpleasant and weird cultural shock song thing (the fist waving), since chanting was so much fun. Yelling out “hai” real loudly together was kinda fun too.
But having fun sitting on my folded back legs till they fell asleep while attempting to properly enunciate lightening fast gongyo? Well, not so much. I asked why couldn’t we practice gongyo and chanting slowly like the priest had done the night before in Dallas. After all, I might have a shot at learning this if they would only slow down just once, but that just wasn’t done in NSA. If you wanted to do gongyo recitation slow like some priest, then you were own your own. “So sorry, but we don’t have time to practice gongyo slowly with you for hours so you can learn it. Just tough it out on your own.” How was this leading me onto the path?
During the meeting, many members began to gush with emotion at the mention of the Soka Gakkai’s President Ikeda. His absolute greatness was extolled repeatedly. I had noticed that his picture devotedly hung on the wall at every meeting location I attended. Usually referred to as “sensei” (revered teacher), I had heard many members proclaim Ikeda as their “master in life”. Treated as a god like father figure, every meeting was concluded by a ritual composed of standing in a circle, linking arms, and singing “Forever Sensei” with glinting eyes. This guy was way beyond sainthood. Maybe even bigger and better than Jesus.
It was very late that night before Jerry and I arrived back home in Dallas. Once again, we had chanted during almost the entire five-hour trip back. I had completed my first NSA activity – which included driving 650 miles in a day and chanting over ten hours. Although I had enjoyed myself, and the new experience, man was I ever worn out. So this was supposedly some sort of Buddhist training? Oh well, what the hell did I know anyway?
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I continued to attend meetings though out the spring of 1972. I would go to any and every NSA meeting possible. As I was drawn into the activities, I slowly began to change myself to fit both the spoken and subtle unspoken expectations of my NSA leaders. I rented an apartment with my brother, Tim, and began holding NSA meetings in my home. Before long, I had been appointed as a district chief. Although I had tried very hard, I still couldn’t perform gongyo, much less lead it for the group. But hey, the riceballs were sure good. Mmmm, oishii!
But then along comes the switch and bait. Before long, I would be spending increasing amounts of my time altruistically chanting for additional crucial esoteric principles, such as changing bad karma, world peace, for President Ikeda to psychically hear my prayers, or worse yet, for the SGI backed Komeito political party to win elections in Japan. Constantly increasing amounts of time spent chanting for subject matters that would be increasing difficult to show any actual proof of being manifested by my prayers. My NSA leaders suggested list for things that I should want to chant for would slowly but steadily began to expand and grow. But for the time being, I was still fresh fodder and only being encouraged to chant for myself, or whatever I might wish for.
A newly appointed district leader (idiot ready for molding), I was always surrounded with women at my meetings, as I was the only male in our newly formed district. I would literally sweat bullets as I sat in the center of the group, supposedly leading the recitation of the sutra. What a farce. I wasn’t leading at all. It was really high pressure on me, and I was so embarrassed that I could still not do gongyo, mush less actually lead it (turns out leadership doesn’t require a proper or steady practice). What a tremendous relief it would be to finally get to the chanting part at the end. I still had no inkling of how I was being groomed and trained for higher positions. I was beginning to accept whatever guidance I was given by my seniors in faith as some sort of immutable truth. And what was I beginning to hear? “Don’t forget now, you have to remain a member of NSA and do lots of activities to get any big benefits. Better ask for guidance from your leaders. And remember, you can never go taiten (quit or backslide), or your head will split into seven pieces and you’ll fall into the hell of incessant suffering.“ Gee, that had a familiar ring to it.
The summer quickly arrived. I decided to quit smoking pot to the amazement of my brother, Tim. When I gave him the last of my stash, he could hardly believe that I didn’t want to get high anymore. But I had a new drug to get high on now - NSA. At the meetings, members were always saying, “Hippie to happy”! I was determined to practice as prescribed by my seniors. I thought somehow, I might become a better Buddhist if I practiced totally straight. After all, my seniors must be much wiser than me after practicing for so long.
Mrs. Vaden began to encourage me to get a house to have our NSA district meetings in. I started searching for a house, but had a difficult time finding a rental that I could afford and still pay for my schooling and living expenses like eating food. I called her up to complain that I was having a hard time and might not move out my apartment after all. Suddenly the gloves were off. She was so angry with me. I had never seen this side of a senior leader before and I was taken aback. She chewed my ass up and down. All I could say was, “Hai, hai!” I decided I better do what she said. After all, she was the senior leader, and one just didn’t say no to one’s senior in NSA. I was shocked. What had happened to that nice sweet lady that was always smiling at me? What was with this Jeckell and Hyde behavior? Well, is seems more was expected from NSA leaders. Lots and lots more, as I would soon discover.
So I found a house in an area of town that was close to where Mrs. Vaden lived. Her garage functioned as the NSA center for all of Texas and Oklahoma, and there were NSA activities going on there day and night. Slowly but surely I was becoming more and more involved with NSA. I was holding meetings at my house in the evenings 4-5 times a week. Almost every night, I would go to Mrs. Vaden’s house to do a midnight gongyo service, extra hours of chanting, and listen to guidance. Only the most gung-ho members hung out there late at night.
But following Mrs. Vaden’s guidance (insistence) to rent a house had stretched my budget beyond breaking that summer. Now I had an NSA meeting place, but no money and no food. One of my new NSA roommates, John Tiernan was working as a night security guard, but he was completely penniless as well. John stole a couple of cases of canned beanies ‘n’ weenies and pork ‘n’ beans from his workplace. That was almost all we had to eat everyday. Consequently, I still can’t stand ‘em. But now those rice balls the Japanese ladies sometimes brought to the meetings tasted better than ever.
I began to accept (after hearing it incessantly) how members must seek out guidance from their seniors leaders if they wanted to make any advancement in their Buddhist practice and within the NSA organization. The president (big cheese) of the organization was Daisaku Ikeda (sensei) and the USA leader was General Director George Williams (Riji-cho). They both commanded such reverence and respect from the members. These men were held in such esteem, they were held up as demi-gods to the members by the senior leaders. “Ikeda sensei is our master in life” was pounded into us. Then Mrs. Vaden began telling me that Mr. Williams was “like my Father”. I had no idea at the time that this was a major ploy that cults often use to ensnare their members by conditioning members to accept their top leader as a surrogate father figure. It works really well on those coming from broken, dysfunctional families. I had that kind of background.
My real father had passed away from cancer when I was only four. My step dad was a raging alcoholic terror, so I had never had an opportunity to enjoy a functional father-son relationship. Predictably, I longed to have one, so it was easy to accept Mr. Williams or President Ikeda as my own father. Mrs. Vaden began to morph into my surrogate mother as well. I was all set to be the good son – to do anything they asked of me. I was already programmed and equipped to climb their NSA ladder to a glorious future for the sake of kosen rufu and sensei. If sacrifices needed to be made, I was now prepared to make them. Yes, I was a good candidate for training (abuse).
During that summer, on a chartered bus trip to Los Angeles for an NSA headquarter meeting, Mrs. Vaden gave me the blue “sokahan” (traffic control) windbreaker. Now I was part of the elite young men’s division. We were like police officers and the members had to comply with our directions. I was thrilled with the recognition I received at being inducted into such an exceptional group. I was being fed with a increasingly steady drug diet of authority, and my addiction to power and control began to grow as I donned the all-important blue windbreaker of the privileged chosen few.
When some of the other youth members discovered that I played trombone in high school, I was pressured again and again to join in with the NSA Brass Band activities. I didn’t want to, because I had hated high school band, but they convinced me participating the brass band would bring (wait for it) even greater benefit from the Gohonzon. So I purchased a used trombone from a pawn store and began attending brass band meetings every Sunday. As a musician, these Brass Band rehearsals and performances were torturous. How could any band ever stink so bad?
As a new leader, another thing I began to learn about during that summer was the extreme importance of the organization’s publications. Subscriptions to NSA’s “World Tribune” newspaper (propaganda organ) were all important. Each month, money was collected and turned in. NSA headquarter target goals in sales were pushed very hard by leaders. Some members would buy 5, 10, or more subscriptions to bolster the overall numbers for our area. The extra copies were then brought to meetings to give away to the guests or even potential guests. I had to call up beg any members in my district that weren’t subscribing to do so. Or if they were already subscribing, I would try to convince them to order extra subscriptions for the district’s shakabuku (introduction) efforts. Stacks and stacks of World Tribune newspapers would uselessly begin piling up everywhere, as we couldn’t give copies away fast enough.
At the end of the summer, I headed back to college for the fall semester. Mostly in recognition of my willingness to blindly follow any NSA guidance that I received, NSA’s Gen. Dir. Williams appointed me to the position of Bu-tai-cho (a YMD senior leader) when he visited Dallas for a big meeting with members from all over Texas. I was still a relatively new member of only a few months, scarcely able do even parts of gongyo. Yet I was once again promoted over many other young men throughout the entire Texas area. How could this be? (Seems HQ would promote any warm body ready to follow guidance). I couldn’t understand how I could be so qualified to “lead”, but everyone was very excited for me, therefore, it must be a good thing, right? Hey, let’s celebrate with some sake and rice balls!
Jerry arrived early that morning and the two of us enshrined my gohonzon in a cardboard box that I had prepared. It had a cloth cover and its own table. Along with candles, incense, water cup, fruit tray, greenery vase, and a tiny prayer bell. This was my very own space and place to practice Buddhism, and I was really fired up. We took off to rendezvous with a few other cars full of NSA members and headed south for San Antonio. Jerry and I chanted almost all the way down, over five hours. My receptive brain was definitely in beta wave mode by then.
When we finally arrived in San Antonio, it was a beautiful warm day and south Texas springtime was already in the air. Having traveled over 300 miles southward we had left cool temps and barren trees behind. Green grass and tree leaves shimmered in the breeze, and colorful flower blooms were everywhere. The second story meeting room was located in a large, very old house on Ft. Sam Houston. Ft. Sam is infamous for being the place where the US Army imprisoned Chief Geronimo. (Now days I proudly wear my t-shirt that says right under an old picture of four Indian chiefs with rifles, “Homeland Security – Keeping America Safe Since 1492”). Holy shit, we were going on an army base of all places to a Buddhist gathering for world peace? That was somewhat confusing for me. (Eventually, I would come to realize just how seamlessly the military and NSA could go together). On the backside of the house on the second floor, the tiny meeting room was really stuffy and packed with people. A crowd of 20 or so people including four or five YWD (young women’s division) were in attendance. As soon as the chanting session was over and the regular meeting had begun, the emcee called out for a YWD lead gakkai song. These young women all yelled out with a very loud and guttural shout, “Hai!” as they jumped up and began leading a song Soka Gakkai style - “Have A Gohonzon” (to the tune of “Hava No Gita”). My jaw kinda dropped at first, I mean a Jewish song? Really? But these young women leaders all took it so serious as they put on their happy smiles and faces. The song tempo was really, really, really (did I say really?) fast and the girls couldn’t wave their hands and arms back and forth quickly enough to keep together with each other or to keep the beat as the rest of us clapped chaotically along. This was leading? I almost had to laugh out loud at how stupid both the song and the frantic hand waving both were. But I was about to experience that same adrenaline rush for myself.
Now it was the YMD’s turn to lead a song. “Hai” they shouted when called up by the emcee. I easily succumbed to peer pressure from all around and stood up to lead the song along side the other young men. I imitated the others and we vigorously began doing the fist waving (masculine version of leading a song Japanese style), as everyone sang another popular gakkai song, “Higher Then the Sky”. I could feel the testosterone in the room rising as the “outta town” boys competed in swinging arms and fists bigger and more menacingly than the “local” boys. (Wonder what would happen if a white guy in the Hood started doing that shit? BAH HA HA!!!) Perhaps this was my first culture shock. Well, I wasn’t too sure about how all this rah rah rah stuff could have anything to do with practicing and studying Buddhism. Confusing, but everyone just seemed so happy and joyful (could it be real?). It wouldn’t be long before the rah rah and fist waving would become an embarrassment for me every time new guests were present at meetings. But I decided for the time being at least, I could ignore this unpleasant and weird cultural shock song thing (the fist waving), since chanting was so much fun. Yelling out “hai” real loudly together was kinda fun too.
But having fun sitting on my folded back legs till they fell asleep while attempting to properly enunciate lightening fast gongyo? Well, not so much. I asked why couldn’t we practice gongyo and chanting slowly like the priest had done the night before in Dallas. After all, I might have a shot at learning this if they would only slow down just once, but that just wasn’t done in NSA. If you wanted to do gongyo recitation slow like some priest, then you were own your own. “So sorry, but we don’t have time to practice gongyo slowly with you for hours so you can learn it. Just tough it out on your own.” How was this leading me onto the path?
During the meeting, many members began to gush with emotion at the mention of the Soka Gakkai’s President Ikeda. His absolute greatness was extolled repeatedly. I had noticed that his picture devotedly hung on the wall at every meeting location I attended. Usually referred to as “sensei” (revered teacher), I had heard many members proclaim Ikeda as their “master in life”. Treated as a god like father figure, every meeting was concluded by a ritual composed of standing in a circle, linking arms, and singing “Forever Sensei” with glinting eyes. This guy was way beyond sainthood. Maybe even bigger and better than Jesus.
It was very late that night before Jerry and I arrived back home in Dallas. Once again, we had chanted during almost the entire five-hour trip back. I had completed my first NSA activity – which included driving 650 miles in a day and chanting over ten hours. Although I had enjoyed myself, and the new experience, man was I ever worn out. So this was supposedly some sort of Buddhist training? Oh well, what the hell did I know anyway?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I continued to attend meetings though out the spring of 1972. I would go to any and every NSA meeting possible. As I was drawn into the activities, I slowly began to change myself to fit both the spoken and subtle unspoken expectations of my NSA leaders. I rented an apartment with my brother, Tim, and began holding NSA meetings in my home. Before long, I had been appointed as a district chief. Although I had tried very hard, I still couldn’t perform gongyo, much less lead it for the group. But hey, the riceballs were sure good. Mmmm, oishii!
But then along comes the switch and bait. Before long, I would be spending increasing amounts of my time altruistically chanting for additional crucial esoteric principles, such as changing bad karma, world peace, for President Ikeda to psychically hear my prayers, or worse yet, for the SGI backed Komeito political party to win elections in Japan. Constantly increasing amounts of time spent chanting for subject matters that would be increasing difficult to show any actual proof of being manifested by my prayers. My NSA leaders suggested list for things that I should want to chant for would slowly but steadily began to expand and grow. But for the time being, I was still fresh fodder and only being encouraged to chant for myself, or whatever I might wish for.
A newly appointed district leader (idiot ready for molding), I was always surrounded with women at my meetings, as I was the only male in our newly formed district. I would literally sweat bullets as I sat in the center of the group, supposedly leading the recitation of the sutra. What a farce. I wasn’t leading at all. It was really high pressure on me, and I was so embarrassed that I could still not do gongyo, mush less actually lead it (turns out leadership doesn’t require a proper or steady practice). What a tremendous relief it would be to finally get to the chanting part at the end. I still had no inkling of how I was being groomed and trained for higher positions. I was beginning to accept whatever guidance I was given by my seniors in faith as some sort of immutable truth. And what was I beginning to hear? “Don’t forget now, you have to remain a member of NSA and do lots of activities to get any big benefits. Better ask for guidance from your leaders. And remember, you can never go taiten (quit or backslide), or your head will split into seven pieces and you’ll fall into the hell of incessant suffering.“ Gee, that had a familiar ring to it.
The summer quickly arrived. I decided to quit smoking pot to the amazement of my brother, Tim. When I gave him the last of my stash, he could hardly believe that I didn’t want to get high anymore. But I had a new drug to get high on now - NSA. At the meetings, members were always saying, “Hippie to happy”! I was determined to practice as prescribed by my seniors. I thought somehow, I might become a better Buddhist if I practiced totally straight. After all, my seniors must be much wiser than me after practicing for so long.
Mrs. Vaden began to encourage me to get a house to have our NSA district meetings in. I started searching for a house, but had a difficult time finding a rental that I could afford and still pay for my schooling and living expenses like eating food. I called her up to complain that I was having a hard time and might not move out my apartment after all. Suddenly the gloves were off. She was so angry with me. I had never seen this side of a senior leader before and I was taken aback. She chewed my ass up and down. All I could say was, “Hai, hai!” I decided I better do what she said. After all, she was the senior leader, and one just didn’t say no to one’s senior in NSA. I was shocked. What had happened to that nice sweet lady that was always smiling at me? What was with this Jeckell and Hyde behavior? Well, is seems more was expected from NSA leaders. Lots and lots more, as I would soon discover.
So I found a house in an area of town that was close to where Mrs. Vaden lived. Her garage functioned as the NSA center for all of Texas and Oklahoma, and there were NSA activities going on there day and night. Slowly but surely I was becoming more and more involved with NSA. I was holding meetings at my house in the evenings 4-5 times a week. Almost every night, I would go to Mrs. Vaden’s house to do a midnight gongyo service, extra hours of chanting, and listen to guidance. Only the most gung-ho members hung out there late at night.
But following Mrs. Vaden’s guidance (insistence) to rent a house had stretched my budget beyond breaking that summer. Now I had an NSA meeting place, but no money and no food. One of my new NSA roommates, John Tiernan was working as a night security guard, but he was completely penniless as well. John stole a couple of cases of canned beanies ‘n’ weenies and pork ‘n’ beans from his workplace. That was almost all we had to eat everyday. Consequently, I still can’t stand ‘em. But now those rice balls the Japanese ladies sometimes brought to the meetings tasted better than ever.
I began to accept (after hearing it incessantly) how members must seek out guidance from their seniors leaders if they wanted to make any advancement in their Buddhist practice and within the NSA organization. The president (big cheese) of the organization was Daisaku Ikeda (sensei) and the USA leader was General Director George Williams (Riji-cho). They both commanded such reverence and respect from the members. These men were held in such esteem, they were held up as demi-gods to the members by the senior leaders. “Ikeda sensei is our master in life” was pounded into us. Then Mrs. Vaden began telling me that Mr. Williams was “like my Father”. I had no idea at the time that this was a major ploy that cults often use to ensnare their members by conditioning members to accept their top leader as a surrogate father figure. It works really well on those coming from broken, dysfunctional families. I had that kind of background.
My real father had passed away from cancer when I was only four. My step dad was a raging alcoholic terror, so I had never had an opportunity to enjoy a functional father-son relationship. Predictably, I longed to have one, so it was easy to accept Mr. Williams or President Ikeda as my own father. Mrs. Vaden began to morph into my surrogate mother as well. I was all set to be the good son – to do anything they asked of me. I was already programmed and equipped to climb their NSA ladder to a glorious future for the sake of kosen rufu and sensei. If sacrifices needed to be made, I was now prepared to make them. Yes, I was a good candidate for training (abuse).
During that summer, on a chartered bus trip to Los Angeles for an NSA headquarter meeting, Mrs. Vaden gave me the blue “sokahan” (traffic control) windbreaker. Now I was part of the elite young men’s division. We were like police officers and the members had to comply with our directions. I was thrilled with the recognition I received at being inducted into such an exceptional group. I was being fed with a increasingly steady drug diet of authority, and my addiction to power and control began to grow as I donned the all-important blue windbreaker of the privileged chosen few.
When some of the other youth members discovered that I played trombone in high school, I was pressured again and again to join in with the NSA Brass Band activities. I didn’t want to, because I had hated high school band, but they convinced me participating the brass band would bring (wait for it) even greater benefit from the Gohonzon. So I purchased a used trombone from a pawn store and began attending brass band meetings every Sunday. As a musician, these Brass Band rehearsals and performances were torturous. How could any band ever stink so bad?
As a new leader, another thing I began to learn about during that summer was the extreme importance of the organization’s publications. Subscriptions to NSA’s “World Tribune” newspaper (propaganda organ) were all important. Each month, money was collected and turned in. NSA headquarter target goals in sales were pushed very hard by leaders. Some members would buy 5, 10, or more subscriptions to bolster the overall numbers for our area. The extra copies were then brought to meetings to give away to the guests or even potential guests. I had to call up beg any members in my district that weren’t subscribing to do so. Or if they were already subscribing, I would try to convince them to order extra subscriptions for the district’s shakabuku (introduction) efforts. Stacks and stacks of World Tribune newspapers would uselessly begin piling up everywhere, as we couldn’t give copies away fast enough.
At the end of the summer, I headed back to college for the fall semester. Mostly in recognition of my willingness to blindly follow any NSA guidance that I received, NSA’s Gen. Dir. Williams appointed me to the position of Bu-tai-cho (a YMD senior leader) when he visited Dallas for a big meeting with members from all over Texas. I was still a relatively new member of only a few months, scarcely able do even parts of gongyo. Yet I was once again promoted over many other young men throughout the entire Texas area. How could this be? (Seems HQ would promote any warm body ready to follow guidance). I couldn’t understand how I could be so qualified to “lead”, but everyone was very excited for me, therefore, it must be a good thing, right? Hey, let’s celebrate with some sake and rice balls!