My grandfather's funeral (1/19/2006)

Part One: The Taxi Ride

Last week I made a quick trip back to CA for my grandfather's funeral. He passed away on the morning of Sunday, 1/15/06 at the age of 91. He had been sick since Thanksgiving week 2005. When I saw him at that holiday, he was recuperating from Pneumonia and a small fall. He was very weak and not as lucid as he used to be. When my mom called me that evening, I suspected bad news. She said, "Your grandfather is gone."

I arrived Wednesday night, a week ago at the Oakland, CA airport. It was 5 minutes past midnight. I rushed to the curb to catch the Air Bart shuttle connection to the neighboring BART railway station. By 12:15am, I grew impatient and worried that it would not come in time for me to catch the last train at 12:25am. I looked for a taxi, which took me to the BART station. Before I bought a ticket, I asked the station manager if there were any more trains heading north. He said I had missed the last train; my only option now would be to wait for the N bus at 12:51am and connect to the 72 bus in downtown Oakland, which would take me to Berkeley.

Outside the station, I saw a few people: a middle-aged black woman talking to herself, a drunk walking back and forth, a teenager with a band-aid over one eye and a big bruise on his right cheek. He is thin, about my height, tussled hair and has his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. The drunk asked the teen: "Does the 82 still run?"

"Yeah, all night," replied the teenager.

Across the street, a guy yelled toward me, "Taxi?" I ignored him.

A few minutes past 12:51am, the N bus finally arrived—to my relief. However, it did not stop even though the drunk was standing right next to the bus stop. I was about 15 feet away on a bench.

I asked the teenager if it's normal for the bus to pass by the stop. He shook his head. He told me his story: "I was beaten up a few days ago around here and tonight I saw two of the same guys a few blocks away."

I'm growing nervous now.

The taxi driver crosses the street and offers cigarettes to the drunk, teenager and me. I politely refuse. I notice that there is no official taxi across the street. Just a few cars and a big van parked on the curb.

"You need taxi? Where you going?" he asks me in a friendly tone. He is about mid 40s, has a salt and pepper beard, is a few inches taller than me, and thin. He has a Middle-Eastern face and wears a cell phone around his neck on a string. A dark ski cap covers his head.

"Berkeley." I responded.

"I take you there. Normally, it's $30 or $40, but I charge you only $20."

"Where are you from?" I inquire.

"Iran."

"Tehran?" I probe further.

"Yes. I'm Persian," he explains.

"She-lama." I offer him the Farsi greeting "hello."

His eyes widen. "You know about my people!"

"Yes, I have Farsi friends."

"So, I take you to Berkeley, yes?" he confirms.

I'm still reluctant. "Let me ask the station manager a question and I'll be back in one minute." I walked over and asked the manager (who had the phone attached to his ear) about this so-called taxi driver. He didn't know him. The driver followed me and said, "the manager knows me. I'm here every night." He gestured to the manager, "you know me, right?!" At that moment, the manager, still with the phone to his ear, gestured "yes" and nodded.

I then asked the driver for some ID. "Do you have a license?"

He removed his wallet and showed me his driver's license:

Ali Malekzadh
Pleasant Hill, CA
DOB: 1960
Height: 5'11"

The picture on the license was indeed his face. Ali explains that he is a construction worker. "I was laid off a month ago, so now I do this to help my family and maybe make some gas money."

After a few minutes and still with some doubt, I followed him, knowing that this was perhaps not the most prudent action to take. As we crossed the street and approached his van, the teenager was on my right side.

Ali asks me politely, "is it ok for him to come with us?"

I thought the teenager was either catching a ride or they were going to drive me to a dark corner of East Oakland to rob me. I instinctively said, "No."

"Ok boss." Ali agreed.

As Ali gets into the driver's seat, I am still outside the van. I knock on his window for a final check. "How are you getting to Berkeley's University area?"

"I take 880 North, University exit. Ok?" Ali explains. I'm now reassured.

Ali has been in the US 25 years since 1979. He's married with two daughters: six and four years old. The older daughter has a Farsi name meaning "butterfly." He earned his BA in Arts and a MS in Engineering from a university in Pennsylvania. And most recently he was laid off from his construction job. The more details he gave me, the more comfortable I felt about the ride.

"Yeah, some ladies -- and gentlemen are suspicious and ask me detailed questions. They don't want to be raped or robbed."

After a few minutes, Ali tells me that we're low on gas. "Tonight, I was at my mother's and she made me dinner. But, I was in such a hurry to get here that I forgot my dinner and money. So is it ok to stop for gas?"

"Ali, if we're low on gas, we have to stop for gas." I replied. Now, my doubts returned.

We turn off the highway for gas. He is lost and meanders a few blocks. "Is that a gas station right there?" he asks me weakly.

"I don't know. Why don't we stay on the main road?" I tell him. I become a little more anxious. After 5 minutes or so, we pull up to a Shell gas station. He has no gas money and asks me politely for a few dollars. I give him $3.

As he fills the tank, I suggest to him that he print some business cards. "Go to Kinko's and print up 100-500 black and white cards. Nothing fancy. Just your name, phone number, and a title like 'Ali's taxi service.'"

"Yes, boss, great idea, but this is temporary. And not Ali—people think I'm a terrorist. Alex's taxi service."

"That way, you look more official and potential passengers will be more willing to trust you," I explained.

We take off again for the freeway. As we approach the Emeryville IKEA, Ali says, "This is the land of opportunity. You can make it here with nothing."

"Or very little," I added.

"You can come with $100 in your pocket and do well. You see that building? An Iranian built it!" Ali beamed with pride.

When we arrive at my destination, I said. "this is my grandfather's house. He passed away a week ago."

"He's now in a better place, by God," said Ali.

I gave Ali $20 and some change for his tip. I shook his hand. They were rough and calloused. The hands of a laborer. I gave him my card and asked for his phone numbers. "Next time I return to Oakland, I'll call you. I hope that I won't be able to find you because by then you should have found your next job!" I encouraged him.

"By God, thank you so much! God bless you."



Grandfather’s Funeral: Part 2—Funeral Day

In the car ride from grandmother’s house to the chapel, I ride with my grandmother’s niece. Grandmother’s sister and I share the back seat. She does not speak to me. Her white hair is combed tightly. She hosted us in Kowloon, Hong Kong for a night in August 1982 when we were transiting from China to San Francisco. She picked us up at the Chinese-Hong Kong border and delivered us to the Kai Tak airport. I remember walking along quiet Hong Kong streets, her apartment, new clothes for a new life in America.

Inside the chapel are my parents, sister and brother-in-law. And my cousins—my mother’s older brother’s family. I have not seen them for many years. My uncle is missing a few front teeth. He looks tired. He bears a close resemblance to grandfather. He is wearing a white shirt inside a black windbreaker. His hair is salt and pepper.

I see Eddie Ho, the husband of my grandmother’s niece. He greets me with a big, warm smile. Eddie works as a computer programmer for Safeway. There must be a title for him in Chinese. However, I call him Eddie. He was the first person I met at SFO in 1982 when my grandfather came to pick up my family upon our arrival from China. Eddie shakes my hand and pulls me in for a quick hug. I am surprised. Chinese never hug or are that affectionate in public.

I sit in the pews and talk to Justin, my 14 year old cousin. “What do you remember about grandfather?” I ask him.

“He always wanted a hug. And he always removed the egg yolk.” He said quietly.

“Do you still do this to the egg?”

“Yes.”

Chris, my other cousin greets me warmly. I have not seen him for many years. He dropped out of Berkeley High School. He holds his son in his arms. I greet Cindy, Chris’s older sister. She used to work at DiCon, my old fiberoptics company in Berkeley. I was there for only 7 months in the Human Resources division. She spent a few years—on the factory floor covered in a white smock making fiberoptic switches at $8 an hour. She is very thin, has long black hair and wears glasses.

Family members sit on the left side of the aisle in no particular order. Friends sit on the right side.

My grandfather is in repose in his casket. His hands rest on his stomach, the left hand over his right hand. Glasses adorn his face. He is wearing a black graduation gown—the scholar look. How appropriate. As a good Chinese, he always valued education. Whenever he returned from one of his overseas holiday trips, he would invariably give me a pen as a gift. During our occasional dinners, he would always probe my sister and me about English grammar, usage or some Chinese proverb. Every interaction was always a lesson. A new proverb. An old proverb. A test to see how much we had learned in school.

Eddie reads grandfather’s brief biography from the funeral program in Cantonese, then translates into English, “Chan Ming (AKA Duan Hong Xi) was born 1914, August 15 in Hunan Province, Chenzhou city, Duan district. In his youth, he obtained a degree in railroad management. During World War II, he immigrated to Hong Kong, where he continued his studies at Jian Dao Shen Institute. Later, he lived in the US 30 plus years. He was kind to friends, his wife, children, loved them, and treated them warmly. He was a good student. Books never left his side. In 1992, at the advanced age of 78, he received his Associate Arts degree from Laney Community College. His daughter and grandchildren graduated from UC Berkeley and have contributed to society. It is evident that his descendants diligently studied his example.”

The biography is antiseptic and neat. It leaves out all the nuances of grandfather’s life. All the footnotes. It ignores the fact that he had to abandon his family in Hunan Province when the revolution was looking for him—the landlord—the bourgeoisie, who had to be crushed. My mother was one and my uncle was three years old when grandfather left. The next time my mother saw him was August 5, 1982 when we landed at SFO—day one of our new life in America, the land of cheeseburgers and hot dogs.

The biography ignores grandfather’s desperate escape to Hong Kong, where he had to change his name from Duan Hong Xi to Chan Ming. He would eventually meet some missionaries in the New Territories of Hong Kong who offered him a deal: study the Bible with us for 2 years and you’ll get food and lodging. He agreed and soon accepted Jesus Christ into his life.

The ministers read from Ecclesiastes 1:1-11

1 “The words of the teacher, son of David, king in Jersualem:
2 Meaningless! Meaningless! Everything is Meaningless.”
3 What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?
4 Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever.
5 The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises.
6 The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course.
7 All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full. To the place the streams come from, there they return again.
8 All things are wearisome, more than one can say. The eye never has enough of seeing, nor the ear its fill of hearing.
9 What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.
10 Is there anything of which one can say, "Look! This is something new"? It was here already, long ago; it was here before our time.
11 There is no remembrance of men of old, and even those who are yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow.

The ministers continue their sermon. They proclaim that only people have souls.
“Animals do not. After a dog is run over by a car, no other dogs in the neighborhood remember that dog or have a ceremony to honor the memory of that dog.”

Eulogies:

Tammy Chen, god-daughter to grandfather, begins in a solemn voice. “I came to this country 25 years ago from Taiwan. When I first met Mr. Chan Ming, he tried to find a husband for me. I have always felt welcomed by him and his wife and their daughter Grace and her husband Michael. Without Mr. Chan, I would not be the person I am today. I now am married and have three children.”

Zhong Fan, a family friend to grandfather tells a story about the time she had to go to the hospital for a brain scan. Grandfather was concerned for her, so offered to drive her there and back home again. During lunches, “he would ask me about politics. Unfortunately, he spoke the Hunan dialect, which I do not understand. So, my husband had to translate into Cantonese for me. When I responded, he could understand clearly.” These lunches lasted a while.

A stout African American gentleman comes to the podium. He has on a plaid shirt and orange tie. I don’t know if he gave his name. “I knew Mr. Ming when he got his AA (Associate Arts) degree from Laney Community College. I loved Mr. Ming. He was a dear friend. He always encouraged me: ‘you can do it!’”

At the end of the service, guests lined up to pay their last respects. Grandmother, mom and uncle, and my other aunt Grace stand in front of the casket to receive handshakes or hugs from friends. Some bowed three times to grandfather.

Guests and family received two small palm-sized envelopes: a white one with a piece of candy and a quarter; and a red one with one dollar. On our way back home to Sacramento, my mother throws out the white envelope with candy, saying it was bad luck to have that in the house. She kept the red envelope.

The casket floated on the shoulders of friends, my uncle Michael and his 14 year old son , Justin. On the top of the El Cerrito Hill, overlooking the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, the ministers read from the gospels:

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in God. In my Father’s house, there are many rooms; If it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you…” John 6:1-6

Homeless veteran and Krispy Kreme Donut

Nov. 7, 2005
by Andy Lei


Last Thursday night, I played racquetball with some coworkers in our basement gym, so I stayed late until about 8:30pm. Outside my office, I waited for the light before walking to the bus stop across the street. I was carrying a Krispy Kreme box with a sandwich and a donut. One black fellow approached and asked me politely, “You gonna finish that box?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Oh… please, sir. Can I rely on your kindness?”

I opened up the box to give him the remaining donut.

“Oh, no… I can’t eat that!” He declared. Perhaps, he was diabetic, like the doorman. (I had given him couple of donuts just a few minutes earlier. He said he probably shouldn’t eat it, but would accept them anyway.)

So, I offered him the chicken sandwich, instead.

“From the 173rd, I salute you!” He raised his right hand to above his right eye, smiled and saluted me. He was wearing a Ford racing cap, brown coat and dark shoes. He had a thin beard and several gaps in his front teeth. I smelled alcohol on his breath.

“You were in the service?” I asked him.

“Still am! I just returned three months ago from Iraq.” He proudly informed me of his service from 1979-1991 and 1994. “I’ve been to Germany, Koh-rea, Japan…”
“My name is Aries Bond. Aries like the Goddess. Bond like James Bond. The ladies love it!”

“I worked in these buildings before and there are some phat ladies. I mean phat with p-h. Not f-a-t. The trick is to get them to smile. I say, ‘girl, let me smell you. How did you get so beautiful?’ And they smile and they say, ‘I got it from my momma.’ And I say, ‘You got it from Jesus (he points above) when you was in the womb.’ But, whether they black or white or Chi-neese, they all the same.

“You know what they want?” He looked cautiously to his left, right and behind. He then leaned in and said, “the Dick! You know how I know? My six sisters taught me. So, my approach is, “Girl…hey, you dropped something.” They look behind them and I say, “Syke! I got you! And they smile.”

At that moment, two white women passed by and Aries tried his tactic on them. They quickly ignored him as they hurriedly walked by.

A few minutes later, a pair of Latina women walked by. He ignored them, saying, “they don’t speak English.”

“I walk up and down these streets and I see some ho’s.”

“You mean, some loose women?” I ask.

“No, I mean ho’s!—prostitutes. I had me a couple of them. I treat them real nice and after a while, they giving me free pussy. One even asked me, ‘can I stay with you?’”

“So, when you see her, that still happens?”

“No, she’s locked up now, but when I do see her she gives me free head.”

He shows me his Driver’s License. It shows his birthday as 1963 and his residence on New York Ave, NE, somewhat close to my neighborhood.

At that moment, my bus passed by us. I would have to wait another 20-30 minutes for the next one.

Aries asked me, “You got change? I’m trying to get home, too.”

“Sorry, I got a smart card, so I don’t carry change.”

“You alright! What’s you name?”

“Andy. I work here in this building. 7th floor.”

“What do you do?”

“We promote democracy around the world.”

“Man…I been working on a carrier. I been to Germany, Koh-rea. Women all the same.” He steps to his left and spits. “You know what they want? Da Dick! I done a few of them in the stairwells. Me and my friend was out once. We said, “we want to eat out, but we don’t really want hamburgers and that girl that was with us said, ‘oh…you want to fuck me?!’” So, she came home with us. He stepped to his left and spits again.

“What time you get off work usually?”

“About 6pm.”

“ok, tomorrow’s pay day for me. If I see you here, I’ll take you out to lunch. We’ll go to McDonald’s down there. My treat!”

“That’s very kind of you.” I replied.

“I may not dress as well as you, but I bet you that I get more pussy than you any day!” He smiled. He stepped to his left and spits again.

Two black women appeared outside the building, smoking.

Aries turned to me and asked, “You got a quarter?”

“No, sorry.”

“Come with me,” he exhorted, as he headed their way.

“It’s ok. I’ll stay here and watch you work your magic on those ladies.”

He spoke to the two women for a few minutes. I thought this would be a good time to leave, but my curiosity got the better of me, so I stayed. As the women walked back to the building, he returned.

“See…I asked if I could get a sip of their soda. The younger one said yes, but the older one said, ‘don’t give it to him!’”

“So, she was a bit more cautious?” I inquired.

“She smiled, so the door opened. Once you get a smile and a phone number, then you can get the pussy, black, white, Chi-neese....they all the same. What’s your name again?” He stepped to his left and spits again.

“Eddie.”

The next time I see you, I’ll do this. He shook my hand rapper style: with the hooking of the thumbs, and then the quick hug.

Campaign Update: June 25, 2004

Sat. June 12, 2004

Conrad and his assistant Ryan pick me up at the SeaTac airport. He takes me to my new apartment in Renton, south of Bellevue. It is spacious, but the apartment is from the 1970s. The kitchen is small and filled with appliances from another age; however, the bathroom is of a decent size. Later, I discover the shower head leaks. And the apartment manager seems to think Conrad is my uncle.

The weather in Seattle area consists of a persistent, though gentle rain. No one wears a poncho or carries an umbrella; the real Washington natives let the rain fall on their Gore-tex jackets and wear shorts year round. Conrad asked me if I go to Church. I said usually no, but I will if invited. "Well, then you're invited tomorrow." The next morning, we attended service at St. Margaret's Episcopal Church in the neighborhood. It was very Catholic.

My Jewish Father

At the campaign office, I meet an elderly gentleman who tells me he is the landlord to collect on our late rent payment. I am a little nervous. He then laughs and admits he is Howard Katz, one of Conrad's volunteers. Howard is a retired 3M manager who used to commute between Seattle and the SF bay area for business. He is now active with the senior citizens community and comes to the office on a regular basis to advise the candidate. He quickly adopts me and I now call him my "Jewish Father." This past week we made two visits to the neighboring Starbucks for a Mocha Frappaccino and sandwiches. "Oy vey!" he tells me. Or "Oy gevalt" or "oh my god" in Yiddish. He also bought me a Yiddish-English dictionary and promises to make me fluent by the end of the campaign. In time, maybe I'll even be able to find a nice Jewish girl, but definitely not a shiksa. (For you gentiles, that means a non-Jewish girl, usually a blonde)

Campaign Staff

We have three other campaign staff. Kyle is our resident 21-year old computer genius. Somewhat reserved, tall and lanky, Kyle's a junior at U of WA, manages our website and keeps our computers running. He's been to Hong Kong a few times.

Ryan is our 28 year old full-time volunteer. He usually visits us in the afternoons after he's done at the paint shop. Ryan spent four years in the navy right out of high school. He's now a "super senior" at the U of W, with only 10 credits left. He's trying to stretch his student career for another year. Ryan has a Chinese girlfriend.

Tasha, 21, and from Idaho, the Potato State, is our fundraiser. She is an attractive blonde with emerald eyes and fair skin. She has lots of event planning experience, but is doing fundraising for the first time. Her uncle and Conrad are good friends. Already, Bob Keene, the tax accountant at the end of the hall, has made daily visits to see her. When he first met her, he remarked, "There ought to be a law against women like you -- your beauty is too distracting."

We had a few candidate forums the first week. The Sheriff came off as polished, but lacking substance. As the only woman in the race, Diane Tebelius came off as articulate and fairly impressive. State Senator Luke Esser projected himself as the true-blue conservative, although a bit dull. However, Conrad emphasized how he is the living embodiment of the American Dream.

Sat. Juneteenth Dinner:

On Saturday, we attended a Juneteenth dinner in Seattle with the African American community to celebrate the freedom that Black Slaves enjoyed two years after the 1863 Emancipation Proclamation. Although the event consisted of mostly Democrats, Conrad thought it would be a good photo op. One of the guest speakers was a Haitian author named Pierre Louis who talked about how US policies contributed to the end of President Aristide's rule. President Aristide was kidnapped. Although he was democratically elected, he was forced out of office, exclaimed Mr. Louis, in a scratchy, stilted speech. In his right hand was a bottle of water. In his left hand was the microphone. As he spoke, he looked down at the ground, as though he were reciting the speech.

At the dinner, we sat at the Republican table with Dino Rossi, the GOP candidate for Governor. Linda, one of the grassroots volunteers recommended that I go visit a Jon Seaton, the Bush Cheney Campaign Coordinator for WA State. I thought the name was a bit familiar since one of my Berkeley High School classmates was named Jonathan Seaton. I asked Linda if Jon was of the Jewish faith. "Yes."

"Is he skinny, and tall?" Yes.

"Does he have a prominent nose?" Yes

"Does he have a high-pitched voice?"Yes. I suspected that this Jon Seaton and my high school classmate were one and the same. When I visited the Bush Cheney office on Monday, I was greeted by a gorgeous young lady named Jennifer. "Had I known you were here, I would've visited much earlier," I said to her. She smiled and brought me back to Jon's office. Sure enough, it was Jon Seaton from Berkeley.

We are now working on our 6/30 fundraising dinner of several hundred people. To prepare adequately, I visited the restaurant last night with two of our staff. The restaurant owner, Mr. Lo Yu Sun is from Shanghai originally, but his family fled the Japanese and ventured Westward to Sichuan Province. After a few years, they fled again, this time from Chairman Mao. They escaped to Taipei, Taiwan and eventually settled in the Pacific Northwest. Mr. Sun has operated his current restaurant China Harbor for 12 years. He is a jovial man, perhaps in his 60s. His hair is neatly combed, and slicked back. In accented English, Mr. Sun asked the three of us if we had eaten dinner. We had not, but did not want to impose. "Well, you are at a restaurant, my restaurant. And you have not had dinner yet, so naturally you must eat!" With that, he called the waitress over and ordered some fried rice with shrimp and tofu and sweet and sour chicken. I noticed the Airport ID card around his neck. "I understand you just opened a new restaurant at the terminal."

"Yes. I was showing our new chef where to park and how to get through security. He does not speak much English," explained Mr. Sun, who owns a chain of restaurants in the Seattle area.

Tomorrow, we will attend a Veterans Parade in Seattle. Our candidate will ride in a convertible and speak to the masses. More later...

If you want to reach me by cell, call me: 425-802-3982. I should be free Sunday morning to early afternoon.

Meanwhile, please go visit our website: www.conradleeforcongress.org

Church of Scientology visit

Original visit: August 2005

I’ve developed a strong interest in visiting churches over the years. I suppose the root of this desire is my lack of faith or belief in any religion. You see, my parents are atheists. So, when I was growing up, God never played a part in my life. Now that I’m older, I like to visit a church or mosque or synagogue when I pass one. Lately, I’ve been visiting the synagogue in DC’s Chinatown, or rather, China block. There’s a weekly class there with the rabbi, who provides a Kosher pizza lunch and coca cola and a lively hour of Jewish Ethics.

Last weekend, I finally mustered enough courage to visit Tom Cruise’s Church of Scientology in Dupont Circle. I called my friend Monica to join me, but she never returned my call. So, I decided that I would just go by myself. I called the day before and they told me of their weekly Sunday 11am service. So, armed with an address and curiosity, I took the metro over to Dupont. As I leapt off the escalators, I ran into Monica, who was walking her dog. She asked about my plans. I told her I was headed for the Church of Scientology.

“You’re nuts.”
“I’m late already, so I have to go.” I explained to her.
“Alright…I’ll join you…just for a few minutes.”

As we walked up the stairs, a man warily asked Monica about her dog. “Oh…he’s a service dog.” Her explanation seemed to placate him.

A lady greeted us at the lobby and welcomed us into the service. I saw about a dozen people in straw armchairs lined up in 3 or 4 rows. Moses, the preacher, was a middle-aged gentleman with a beard. He wore a shirt and tie and was standing behind the lectern. To his right was a small whiteboard on an easel. He had a magic marker in his right hand and used it to draw some diagrams. To his left was a big black and white portrait of L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of the church.

Moses was explaining some concepts about communication.

“You see, anyone can go from point A to point B, but it takes a special someone to make you really understand.”

He then discussed the difference between “Subjective” and “Objective.” Subjective would be thinking about something within yourself, whereas Objective would be thinking about something outside yourself.

“For example, if I asked you how many oranges you’ve eaten in the past month, that’s Subjective. However, if I asked you how many oranges do you see here, then that’s Objective. Also, if I point to the wall and ask you to follow me, then that’s another example. Let’s do that for a few minutes.” So, he pointed to the light and asked us to follow him. He pointed to the wood grain, the camera, the lady by the door, and the wall.

After a few minutes, a young man in the back with a gold tooth and several exquisite pieces of bling-bling raised his hand and said, “Uh…I didn’t understand any of that. Can you repeat the whole thing?”

Moses then conducted an arm-waving exercise. He moved his right arm back and forth like he was waving goodbye to someone. He in turn asked us to return his waves, but in mirror fashion. He repeated the exercise with his left arm.

When he was done, he moved on to the “touching exercise.” Before we began, he asked those who had completed this portion already to leave the room. A few people got out of their chairs and exited. The door closed behind them. Moses asked us to look around the room, find a man and “touch him.” So, each of us found a man and touched his hand. Then, “look around the room and touch a woman.” We followed his command. We repeated this process for the next few minutes until everyone was touched.

We ended the service with a prayer that L. Ron Hubbard had written years ago. It was printed in the back of the book. Appealing to a higher power, it asked that man be free of fear and persecution. Perhaps, the word God was mentioned once or twice in the prayer. But, definitely, no Jesus.

After the service, people scattered about.

I went over to the young man with the bling-bling and asked him about his silver cross. “Are you Catholic?” I inquired.

“No.” he responded.

“Then, why do you have the cross around your neck?” I pressed him.

“I thought that it would protect me. Who’s gonna rob me when I have a cross around my neck?” he explained.

Moses showed us the library, where you can sign up for classes or look at some of their many books.

We bid him farewell and left. Of all the houses of religious worship that I’ve ever visited, whether they are churches, temples, mosques or synagogues, I’ve always felt a sense of holiness whenever I’ve been inside. However, the Church of Scientology gave me no such feeling.

* * *
To learn more about the Church of Scientology, please visit their website:
http://www.scientology-washingtondc.org/