Working Class Dharma

Vince Fakhoury Horn speaks with Mushim Patricia Ikeda about working class dharma—from growing up as "the minority of Greensburg, Ohio" in a third-generation Japanese American family, to training in penniless Korean Zen temples where renovating the building was the practice. Along the way: bliss bunnies, samadhi junkies, mutual aid networks, and why affordability may be the grassroots issue of 2026.

💬 Transcript

Vince Horn: Okay. So yeah, I think it was really the beginning of this year — I was teaching a retreat in Portugal with a friend. It’s our annual Pragmatic Dharma retreat. And while I was there, I had picked up recently this book called Emergent Dharma, by Dr. Sharon Suh, and I scrolled through the chapters, and I looked, and I went straight to yours, and I read it.

That was the first thing I read, and I just loved hearing about your story. For me, some of the coolest part about the Dharma is hearing people’s, like, stories and their biographies and, like, their real lived experience of the Dharma, and I just felt that in your story in the chapter there — you’re talking about how you were raised, and your family, and where you came from, and how you started engaging with Buddhism, and just the whole story there, that I’ve heard now more of since I’ve gotten to know you better over this year.

And really, I was just hoping we could talk about, you know, your story in part here, because the theme is working class Dharma. And when we last spoke, we decided that was a good kind of place to focus some of the conversation. But a lot of it is about your experience, really.

Like, what does it mean to live in the, quote-unquote, working class in the modern world, and to also be a Dharma practitioner? And how different is that in a heritage Asian ethnic tradition than in a white convert tradition, which is more how Emily and I have come up? I think that’s an interesting conversation too, because now we’re talking about class and ethnicity — two different dimensions that are often interwoven, or braided.

So anyway, could you share a bit about your story, Mushim? I know you come out of the Zen tradition, both in Japan and Korea, but how did you get into this? Was it a family tradition, or is it something that you came back to explore — like, the roots of your family’s tradition — later?

Mushim Ikeda: Yeah, thank you so much, Vince. So I was born in Cleveland, Ohio in 1954, and I am, by our system — meaning Japanese Americans, by our system — a third-generation Japanese American. We count the first generation to be the immigrants, so those were my grandparents on both sides, and they’re the Issei — “ichi,” meaning one.

My parents were the Nisei, meaning they were both born in the United States, and they were the Nisei — “ni,” two. Three is “san,” so I am Sansei, or third-generation Japanese American, by how we count. I was born in Cleveland, grew up in Ohio, because that’s where my father’s work took him. And we grew up very working class.

In Cleveland, when I was born, my father sold Wear-Ever pots and pans from door to door, and then he got a job inspecting fruit and vegetables — perishables that were being shipped on the railroads — working for an independent company called the RPIA, Railroad Perishable Inspection Agency.

And that took us down to the rural area between Akron and Canton, going a little bit toward the middle of Ohio, south of Cleveland. And most of my classmates in the public schools that I attended — I would say the majority of them were children of people from West Virginia who came north to Akron, then the tire capital of the world.

Goodyear, Firestone, Seiberling — they were all there, along with Quaker Oats, which produced a very interesting smell when the wind wafted from Akron our way, with a mixture of burning rubber and toasted oats. That was the smell of my childhood. And the air pollution was incredible, producing magnificent sunsets. And that’s where I grew up. So my classmates were children of the tire factory workers for the most part, as well as some were children of the remnants of the dairy farms, the cow pastures in that area that were gradually turning into suburban housing tract lands and so forth.

That was my childhood. We were in an all-white community, except for us. One of my teachers used to call our family “the minority of Greensburg, Ohio.” And at home, we had a very strong sense of who we were. We were Japanese American. We were not Japanese. We were certainly not white or middle-class Americans.

We were working-class Japanese Americans. And little by little, my parents wanted us to go to college. They rose into the lower middle class, then vaguely towards the middle middle class. However, I realized as I’ve grown older that I was raised — so, this is to just be completely fair: I was formed by my parents, and I do have a prejudice, and their prejudice was against what they perceived as upper-class privileged people, which in this case meant mostly white Americans who would look down upon their fellow white Americans who had come up from West Virginia and worked in the tire factories, and certainly looked down upon us, since we were not privileged white Americans.

So there we see, like, race, ethnicity, class, as always, are completely interwoven. And I freely admit I was raised to not be entitled and superior, and my parents would say snotty — like, in their words — a rich kid.

Vince Horn: It seems like, immediately hearing you, the way you’re describing that, that sounds like a good thing.

Mushim Ikeda: I hope so.

Vince Horn: And I mean, there’s a clearly good dimension to what you’re describing that I so appreciate. I guess I’m relating to this — the way you described it, almost like there’s, like, a spectrum of experience here, where you’re talking about the white West Virginian expats who are coming over to Ohio. In terms of the sort of hierarchy of sort of caste, I guess, for lack of a better term.

Mushim Ikeda: It is caste.

Vince Horn: Yes. You have this sort of racialized caste system. And it seems like I can relate to what you’re saying from where I was formed, in this formation, you know.

And it’s like, oh, I can see growing up with a Palestinian family, and I can see the racialized part of that, and the opportunities that were lost there, and the economic opportunities, and the bootstraps attitude — like, you gotta help yourself if you want any help; like, no one’s gonna help you.

Like, all of those things were very formative. But at the same time, you know, my grandfather did well with that attitude, and he had resources. And I knew, like, I was never gonna be homeless, you know? And that was something — I had friends that didn’t have that same level of security. You know, to know that they had someone — that, you know, even if your parents, your single mom, couldn’t earn any money or got sick or something, you had people that could take care of you.

That’s a huge level of security not everyone has. So I guess I’m relating to it from there — of, like, oh yeah, the further you’re down in the caste system, the less support you have, and the more, in a sense, it’s like up to you to kind of, like, hard-knuckle it through really adverse conditions that, you know, are imposed.

Mushim Ikeda: Very much so. And of course, to state the obvious, we have the legacy in the United States of the World War II incarceration into internment and concentration camps of the Japanese immigrants and their children, the Japanese-American citizens.

Vince Horn: Right. How did that specifically impact your family system?

Mushim Ikeda: The way it impacted my family was that my mother grew up in Hawaii, on Oahu, near Pearl Harbor, and there actually is a family story, which is true — we have evidence. The attack was in the morning, and my mom’s mom, my maternal grandma, who was a Shin Buddhist practitioner —

her husband, my grandpa, was a Soto Zen Buddhist practitioner. They had a mixed Buddhist marriage. So the family lore is that in the Pearl Harbor attack, Grandma was sitting on the toilet, and a giant shell, a bullet, came whizzing into the bathroom and went through the side of the porcelain enamel bathtub, and she came out screaming at the top of her lungs.

Vince Horn: Oh, my gosh.

Mushim Ikeda: And the family still has that unexploded ordnance. So she grew up in Hawaii, and there was no need to put the Japanese immigrants and their children into camps, because the island was a camp. What were you gonna do? Swim away? Everyone was under surveillance. Their homes were searched for illegal shortwave radios and enemy weapons.

And so the joke, again, in my mother’s family, was that the FBI came, searched the house, and the kitchen was full of large knives — for cooking, of course — but they decided to confiscate my grandfather Sawada’s pocket knife as an enemy weapon.

Vince Horn: Wow.

Mushim Ikeda: I know. So they were like, “Ah, this is just completely stupid and asinine. Here we are.” And it was the community leaders in Hawaii — Buddhist priests, any kind of community leaders — who were arrested and taken to the continent for the concentration camps. But they were all under surveillance. So that was my mother. She was used to being under surveillance.

However, they had food. And they stayed in their homes, under surveillance. And then my dad grew up on a farm in Indiana — the Ikeda Brothers Farm in Indiana — and there were too few Japanese immigrants and their children in Indiana and the Midwest, for the most part, to bother with. I think most of the deportations happened from California,

and from areas with larger populations. That having been said, of course they were aware — my father’s people were aware of what was going on. And he always said that he had a memorable moment in his life when he was drafted into the Army in World War II. He said, “I opened up the letter” — he said, “I got the mail outside the farmhouse.

I opened up the letter, and it said, ‘Greetings from your president.’” You now have to report for duty to the United States Army — to the same government that could have seized their property and sent the entire family off into a camp. That irony was not lost on him. And so both my parents, in some ways, were very model minority.

They both worked hard. My mother became a pharmacist. And they worked hard. They wanted to send us all to college. They always taught us to behave well in school. They passed on a love of learning, particularly science. And from the outside, we did look like the model minority. But looking back, on the inside, both my parents had so much very clear, thought-out, and thoughtful points of resistance, of education.

And their basic message to us was, number one, “Don’t act like privileged rich kids who are idiots,” and number two, “Never forget who you are, and don’t try to pretend you’re white, because you are not.”

Vince Horn: Hmm. Yeah, that is a resistance, in terms of holding on to their culture and being like, “I’m not going to,” yeah, integrate in that way. Yeah.

Mushim Ikeda: Mm-hmm, and they were very confident. It’s not like they made a big deal of it; it’s just the way we lived. For instance, bath time in the evening: we didn’t have a Japanese ofuro bathtub. However, we would draw a tub full of hot water, and then the family would take baths in order of seniority.

Vince Horn: Okay, like age?

Mushim Ikeda: Yes.

Vince Horn: Yeah, got it. Got it. Makes sense. They gotta have some ordering principle.

Mushim Ikeda: Really, really tough on the youngest child in the family.

Vince Horn: That’s for sure. That is for sure. A side note, Mushim — just a kind of interesting side point before I ask you another question here. I learned only, yeah, 10 years ago or so, that the county that I grew up in, that my family moved to in North Carolina, was where the German Americans were interned, in a little town called Hot Springs. And I had no idea of the history of that growing up here until much later.

Mushim Ikeda: Yes. I didn’t know it was in that area; however, you’re jogging my memory.

Vince Horn: Yeah. So that’s in the county that I grew up in. For sure, it’s a beautiful place — but nowhere is beautiful to be interned. I’m curious — I know, hearing about your history too, that you’ve spent a lot of time in monastic communities, and obviously one of the things that’s well known about a monastic community is that it’s typically operating on almost nothing, except for the generosity of a small community that’s supporting it, perhaps, if you’re lucky.

And, like, the people in the community are usually building everything — unless they have a bunch of wealthy donors, in which case they can hire people to do that for them. And it sounds like you have not been in those kind of communities where you had a lot of wealthy donors.

Mushim Ikeda: Completely the opposite.

Vince Horn: Mm-hmm.

Mushim Ikeda: Yes. And to go back and pick up a strand of a question from you I think I didn’t answer: I did not grow up in a Buddhist household in Ohio, because my father’s family didn’t espouse any particular religion that I knew of. And for my mother’s family in Hawaii, all of the Buddhist temples had been shut down — plus the after-school Japanese language schools that she and her siblings went to, they’d all been shut down as soon as, of course, World War II, Pearl Harbor, the attack on Pearl Harbor.

And so my mother came to Indiana, met my father, we raised a family in Ohio. She came from a Buddhist household but didn’t grow up as a Buddhist, so to speak — as a practicing Buddhist — whereas her siblings who remained in Hawaii did. They all went to Buddhist temples, and they were Buddhist.

So there was a certain rift there. However, when I, quote-unquote, “discovered Buddhism” later on, as a college student and afterward, it felt very familiar to me, and that’s because so much of it was passed down in our family in terms of values.

Vince Horn: Right. That’s something I’ve noticed as a Dharma teacher — like, when I’ve worked with folks who come up in Asian cultures, some of them, they’re new to the practice, but they’re not new, because they sort of were inculturated with a lot of the values, and it sort of shows, actually.

Mushim Ikeda: Yes. And so again, class comes in, because I went to college on scholarship. I went to graduate school — I received aid there and did a TA and that kind of thing.

I just never had much money, and went into an existential crisis in my late 20s. I happened to be in Ann Arbor, Michigan after finishing graduate school in poetry writing at the University of Iowa, and discovered — I think it was the only Zen Buddhist temple in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I was interested in Zen from reading I had done.

The only Zen Buddhist temple in Ann Arbor, Michigan, I think, at that time, was Korean Zen — which I had never heard of. Zen is a Japanese word. And they called themselves, and do call themselves, Zen Buddhist Temple of Ann Arbor. However, when I actually went, they were proudly of the Korean Zen lineage. And after learning to practice meditation there, getting to know that just-beginning, scrappy, tiny little community that moved into a two-story house on a main thoroughfare in Ann Arbor and pulled the down payment together — and then the teacher, who lived in Toronto, a Korean Zen monk, his method was to get together the down payment. So it was usually not from one wealthy donor, but might be from some people who did have inheritance or something like that.

But anyway, bring that together. In the case of our temple in Toronto, it was the Korean-Canadian community, the immigrant community — they pooled their money. And so his method was: put a down payment onto a big enough, totally devastated house or dwelling that was nevertheless okay enough to legally inhabit, and then begin to do renovations while living and practicing in it, and while holding services for the general public, who would then come, and would often stay as volunteers to help with cleaning, construction, and whatever needed to be done.

We never had any money, and therefore it wasn’t separate from meditation practice. Meditation practice done in the meditation hall was, of course, very mindful. There were forms, there was order, there was silence, there was concentration, there was respect, there was good rapport with the people around you.

And all of those things, one simply transported and transplanted into whatever job one was given. It could be cutting vegetables in the kitchen. It could be cleaning up the construction mess from our carpenter monks, and monks who were learning how to be carpenters, ‘cause everyone did, to some extent.

What was called work practice was integral. It was not in addition. It wasn’t genteelly, gently folding kitchen towels from the kitchen and dreamily thinking, “Ah, I am so mindful.” There’s nothing wrong with that; however, that was not the way I was trained. Everything we were doing, we had to be highly aware of safety

issues, and we had to conform to building codes, or our work would’ve been for nothing.

Vince Horn: This brings up something for me around, like, just, like, the difference of traditions too. ‘Cause in the early Buddhist tradition — which the insight meditation tradition still patterns itself off of, mostly — they really seem to be aiming for, like, more exclusive forms of jhāna, where you’re excluding yourself out into these states of formlessness. Whereas the Zen Shikantaza, for me, has always felt like almost the opposite direction — of, I’m just trying to include everything that’s here and not turn away from what’s happening.

Mushim Ikeda: Because one goes into this, like, bliss state — which I know is not the ultimate jhāna, I do know that; however, it is jhāna, as I understand it. So one is blissful, and everything’s radiant and quiet and still, but you’re spaced out, essentially.

Vince Horn: Mm-hmm. Right. Yeah. You’re off in your own little blissed-out—

Mushim Ikeda: World. And then it’s time to cook, with big boiling pots of soup and sharp knives, or vegetables, or it’s time to do something where people are using power tools, and they’re cutting big lengths of planks and using screw guns and things like that. I mean, that’s freaking dangerous. And so our practice was to include everything that was pertinent to the task at hand.

So if you’re in the meditation hall, you’re fairly safe, because you’re on your little meditation cushion, and people aren’t moving around and using fire or electrical things. Then the governing principle of that was: you couldn’t space out — because, well, one could, but not for very long, because the physical posture — and we had no chairs at all — the physical posture, past a certain point, was really, really painful.

So these days, there’s so much talk of embodiment and somatics. I am sorry, I laugh. I laugh. In the environments I was raised in as a child, we were always working. My dad always had heavy — it was very similar — heavy construction projects, like digging giant holes in the yard and hauling wood and rocks.

I mean, as small children, we did heavy labor.

So the principles were really the same. What we’re now, these days, kind of in a fancy way calling somatic awareness — you had to have body awareness, or you’d be injured, or you’d injure someone else. And in the meditation hall, when you were seated still in your own little area, the way that happened was that after a while, you could be thinking all you liked about nibbana or whatever the fuck you were fantasizing about, and then everything would become, “My knees hurt.

My hips hurt. My back really hurts. Plus, this is so boring. When will the bell ring? I wonder what they’re cooking for lunch. Oh, okay, okay — boring, boring, boring.” Back to, in this case, counting the breath. And some of us had a meditation question, or what might be called a koan.

Vince Horn: Yeah. Okay. So I’m getting the sense of, like, this is a very non-dualistic kind of practice setup, where you’re not just going off into blissful states, because the pain in the body, in that form of practice, is not gonna let you do that for long.

Mushim Ikeda: No. And of course, one can hit a certain point, after many, many hours, where the physical pain drops away — and I’ve seen these descriptions. We weren’t part of the jhāna system, because we were Mahayana

and Korean Zen. However, it’s all human physiology, as far as I’m concerned. And so there will be certain points where all the pain drops away,

and things are quiet and radiant and really nice. I mean, it’s so nice. And then, Zen being Zen, what it does is — the teacher kicks that out from underneath you, if you have a good teacher.

They can see that you’ve become a little bliss bunny, and it is time for the bliss bunny’s delusion to be dispensed with.

Vince Horn: Okay. I love that as the description of what happens in the tradition, and then also kind of as a metaphor for what we’re talking about — the big picture here for, like, American Buddhism. And there’s this sort of sense of, like, yeah, I can see how convert American Buddhism, by and large, has the bliss bunny problem, and I can see how I’ve perpetually had that, you know?

That’s how I know it’s true.

Mushim Ikeda: I have in the past written a piece, a long time ago, for an insight meditation publication, and I did use the term — I’m sorry — samadhi junkies.

Vince Horn: Samadhi junkies. This is great. No, I love this. The jhāna junkie is the term that I’ve used as well. Similar. Yeah.

Mushim Ikeda: Same thing.

Vince Horn: Yeah. And I think there’s something really real about what you’re saying there, looking back, you know, on the time in practice where I practiced more like a jhāna junkie. As a parent, I haven’t been on a jhāna junkie retreat in 12 years. You know, I swore off those kind of retreats for the very reason you’re saying, which is it wasn’t helping me function in the world

and do the things I needed to that were right in front of me.

Mushim Ikeda: Exactly. Like — I mean, don’t get me wrong. Zen is samadhi. It means jhāna. Yes. Absolutely. Zen is the same word as jhāna.

Vince Horn: Yes. Agreed.

Mushim Ikeda: So, concentration. In fact, my original teacher, Korean Zen monk Samu Sunim — he was fluent in English; he’d been in Canada for a long time — he used to have a formula, and he said, “What is Zen?” No — “What is meditation? Meditation is concentration. What is concentration? Concentration is oneness.”

“What is oneness? No life and no death.”

Mushim Ikeda: So there, I think we’ll see some probably maybe clear connections to the tradition you were

trained in. And so on one hand, we did have these teachings, and that was completely interpenetrating with the realities of being in a construction site and having no money — hence very little heating, certainly no air conditioning, if it was hot or cold.

One simply was really, really cold, or really, really hot. And we didn’t have beds to sleep on. Everyone slept on the floor in sleeping bags. We lived a very renunciate and working class kind of life.

Vince Horn: Mm-hmm.

I guess the place my mind is jumping to, Mushim, is kind of this contemporary moment that we’re in now — where you, as a Dharma teacher, mindfulness teacher, someone who’s consulted in the DEI space, which for a little bit of time there was a lot of interest in, and then the sort of cultural backlash from the most recent Trump—

So I’m curious, in this time of, like, the most extreme income inequality that we’ve seen since, like, the Gilded Age in this country — generationally severe income inequality, powered by the internet, which just seems to amplify that and make it that much worse. You’re in Oakland, California, which is, like, the hotbed of — a lot of what happens in America, like, often happens in Oakland, so you’re right in the center of things.

Given where you are, what you’re doing, your background that you’ve just shared — curious how you see this moment, in terms of what the Dharma, as you’ve practiced it and understand it, is sort of being called... You know, what’s being called forth from us as Dharma practitioners, as American Dharma practitioners? How do you see that question right now? How are you living that?

Mushim Ikeda: Thank you. That’s a really good question. And to first state: I live with my adult son, who was raised through the Oakland Public Schools, K through 12. And there were other parents who would say to me, “Oh, he’s so bright. Maybe you could get, like, a scholarship at a private Catholic school, where the education would be better.”

Because Catholic schools will accept non-Catholic families if you can pay the tuition, and sometimes they have scholarships. And I just always thought — again, pure prejudice, my parents, especially my mother, were very big on public schools and the importance of education for all, of universal education.

And so we didn’t have any money to begin with. However, I didn’t wanna apply for scholarships for this kid, and he did go through the Oakland public schools, K through 12, and I volunteered as a parent aide to the teachers and a literacy tutor for 11 out of 13 years. I would have done 13 years; however, there were two years of middle school — seventh and eighth — that he went to where the school was on complete lockdown, and they wouldn’t really allow parents in, unless you went in and stayed in the entry point to pick up your kid for a medical or a dental appointment or something like that.

But we were never allowed to volunteer to help the teachers, to go into the classrooms. It was basically like a prison.

Vince Horn: And that’s the one that you said he chose to go to.

Mushim Ikeda: Yes. Yes. Yes. The other schools were these, like, kind of crunchy granola... They were Oakland public schools. They were small-school models. They had no grades. They were based on teamwork, on collaboration, and all of the teachers taught what in Ohio we would have called social studies. They did not have labs to teach science. They didn’t have bands or orchestras. These schools had no money whatsoever.

What they did have was great teachers, and these teachers, this being Oakland, all taught the history of the United States not as George Washington and Betsy Ross. They taught the history of the United States through the Oakland legacy of the Black Panthers. There also has been a lot of Black Muslim activity, UC Berkeley and others, throughout the East Bay, and various people’s movements — movements of resistance, of protest — that have shaped this totally racially and economically and ethnically diverse area. Religiously, also.

So we love Oakland. And I personally don’t think — you had said, I think, that maybe Oakland represents what’s happening in the United States. I don’t think so. I am a diversity, equity, inclusion consultant, and I think that the experience of being an American citizen, or an immigrant to the United States, in various regions of the United States — which is very large and has a lot of different environmental ecosystems, as well as socioeconomic systems, so to speak, based on the industries in those regions, whether it’s agrarian, whether it’s, like Akron — again, we made tires and raised cows in that area — so that people are having extremely different experiences.

And of course, people living in suburbs — that’s a different experience than being in farmland, or being in what’s called the inner city. I don’t even know what that means — inside large urban areas such as Oakland. However, what we are seeing — because I’m a core teacher, excuse me, and a co-founder of East Bay Meditation Center, and we were founded to serve what have been called underserved communities.

However, that’s a polite code word for historically excluded and marginalized groups of people. That’s our mission. That’s why we exist. And so most of our sangha, or spiritual community, are lower-income people. And what we’re seeing, that’s logical, that’s happening now, is that people with lower incomes, myself included, have less safety nets.

And so when the economy plunges, when the level of persecution increases — of police surveillance, immigration deportations and so forth, and detentions — when all of that increases, which is happening now, then our communities go from being stressed communities to being desperate communities,

Vince Horn: Yeah.

Mushim Ikeda: and losing the ability to have a space to live in, to have enough groceries to eat. And the big thing I feel is access to healthcare.

Vince Horn: Yeah, I feel you on that.

Mushim Ikeda: So we’re seeing all of that need increase exponentially.

Vince Horn: Yeah, and that’s the environment we’re in, where inflation plus, like, increasing privatization of all of those basic services, which are hitting specific groups hardest first, that don’t have the same levels of support.

Mushim Ikeda: Yes. And as I always say: wherever there is oppression, there will be resistance, and there will be bursts of creativity. I come — again, my background is in the fine arts, and I highly prize creativity, probably of equal importance along with spiritual aspiration. And I think that vital spiritual aspiration is always creative, is always generative.

Vince Horn: Mm-hmm.

Mushim Ikeda: That’s been my experience. So what I’m seeing in this area, again, are movements for health equity that are very exciting — East Bay Meditation Center is part of those movements — as well as really robust forms of mutual aid.

And I was just recently... Who knows where people get my name, but I was interviewed for the making of a video game, from the University of Utah. They have a gaming department. And the chairperson, the head of the gaming department, did an interview with me to give input to a game that he’s creating with his grad students, on mutual aid.

Vince Horn: Okay. Cool. Sounds like that’s — it’s like the innovation that sometimes happens out of necessity. It’s like, it’s not a good thing that it has to happen, but it’s a good thing that it happens, I guess. If that makes sense.

Mushim Ikeda: Absolutely. Absolutely.

Vince Horn: Yeah, ‘cause there’s a lot, it sounds like, in your community that’s being learned that can be kind of shared, I guess, in other communities where it’s relevant.

Mushim Ikeda: Part of mutual aid is exchange of information.

Vince Horn: Yeah. Mm-hmm. Yeah. Absolutely — and sharing of resources. I mean, we experienced that in real time with Hurricane Helene, when our whole neighborhood flooded here, and it’s like all of the modern infrastructure was gone. Internet gone, water gone, power gone.

And it’s like, oh, well, what do you do? Well, you all suddenly turn the local library into, like, a mutual aid hub, and mutual aid networks pop up, and people start helping each other. That’s exactly what happened.

Mushim Ikeda: Absolutely. You know, here, of course, we had the big earthquake in — when was that? 1989.

Yeah. I feel like September or something, the fall of 1989. And I had a very close friend who lived in San Francisco, in an area with a lot of old apartment buildings. And so it wasn’t a neighborhood where neighbors knew each other, or there were front yards where people could be playing or mowing their grass and talking to each other.

People did not know one another in the area he lived in. But he said when the earthquake hit and all the power and everything went out, he would just walk down his street in San Francisco, and neighbors, who had the meat and supplies in their freezers defrosting — what they did was they came out, and they were barbecuing in their yards and giving all the food away for free.

Vince Horn: Absolutely, yes. I can’t tell you how many of those stories I heard in the same context. It’s kind of sad, though, because it makes me realize how usually those networks are not alive, because we’re all relying on the centralized sort of capitalist modern infrastructure together.

It’s only when it goes away that we’re like, “Oh yeah, we can also do it this way too.” So I think there’s something sad there for me. And then, with respect to Dharma — I guess just to kind of wrap up this thread; we’ve been talking for a while, and I really appreciate your time — I’m really interested in what I see with, like, Zohran Mamdani right now in New York,

who is the mayor of New York, who is showing up and just actually delivering results. And this is sort of what I took from Hurricane Helene, one thing: when Hurricane Helene happened, it was mostly right-wing Christian, white Christian organizations that were showing up frontline and actually helping people here.

A lot of money came from people that were more left-leaning politically. A lot of money came in, but that’s not who showed up.

Vince Horn: And I think there’s something there for me. It feels like the edge of, like, showing up and actually being on the ground, in addition to sharing resources, is kind of what I feel is being asked from me as a Dharma person.

Like, not to build any kind of separation between me and who’s suffering, but to kind of try to go in on those things, and really be present to them. Which is exactly the opposite of what I want to do if I’m a jhāna junkie. Those things are really distracting me from my deep bliss, you know?

Mushim Ikeda: Oh, yeah. You have to do social interaction, and figure out how to drive places, and then where are you going to park, or you might get ticketed.

Vince Horn: Yeah.

Mushim Ikeda: If you’re in the meditation hall and everything’s comfortable, and you go into jhāna, then you don’t have to worry about any of those things. Which — again, I am not putting that down, because it definitely has its place. And a very important place. That having been said, it’s only one part. It’s only one part of Dharma training. It’s an important part. All the other parts are equally important. Service — direct service to people. And again, here’s my prejudice, my original teacher echoing my parents in many ways: Zen Master Samu Sunim, who died a few years ago.

He was very clear — and again, fluent in English, so if he said something or made a joke, he knew what he was saying, for Canadians and United Statesians. And he once said, “If we’re going to serve poor people” — which obviously he meant that’s what we need to do — he said, “If we are going to serve poor people, we need to live like poor people, and we need to eat like poor people.”

And to push back a little bit on what I think you said a little bit earlier, Vince: among people who are very low income — like, when my son was born, I literally had no money. I came back from the monasteries in Korea with $15, literally, to my name. No savings, no trust fund. That was it. And so I had to rely, and I did, on my Buddhist friends and my non-Buddhist friends as well.

However, the Buddhist community in particular was very supportive, and so we got all these hand-me-downs for clothing. We got hand-me-down baby equipment. One friend — since I didn’t grow up in California — said, “Oh, there’s this thing called Medi-Cal, and you can get medical care through the program.”

So I signed up for that, and I didn’t get prenatal care until I was, like, four and a half or five months pregnant. And then the baby was born, and the hospital costs were covered. As a Medi-Cal patient, it meant that I gave birth at, like, 4:00 PM one day, and I was discharged from the hospital at 11:00 AM the next day.

However, I wasn’t complaining about any of that, because all of this came to me through systems of mutual aid that people who are on the edge of survival do form.

And Mamdani, whom you mentioned — I’ve been really interested in following him and seeing... I just saw a fabulous reel where he volunteered for the New York City equivalent of kind of a 911 or emergency call center that people would call —

not because they were seeing crimes, but because they couldn’t pay their rent, or they couldn’t pay their hospital bill. And so he would just answer and say, “Hi, this is Zohran. Can I help you?” And one person — he said, “And I’m the mayor.” And the other person said, “Yeah, right.”

Vince Horn: Yes, I saw the same clip. He’s like — on-the-job training for the—

Mushim Ikeda: Yes. He has, to me, so much joy.

Vince Horn: Yeah.

Mushim Ikeda: And he brings so much positive energy to this central issue that cuts across so many barriers and boundaries right now among the populace of the United States, and in New York City — and that is affordability.

So what we are seeing now, I would say, is the demise of the middle class, of the American dream, and therefore that raises the potential for all of these already-in-place systems of mutual aid and exchange of information on how to get to resources. It enlarges the field of the general population in the United States who are not millionaires and billionaires, who are saying, “How can I pay my mortgage?

I’ve paid my mortgage, I’ve paid my rent — now I don’t have enough for groceries. Now I have enough for groceries and I’ve paid my rent, but I don’t have enough money for textbooks for my kid,” or whatever it is that is needed. “I can’t fix my car.” So this issue of affordability, as challenging as it is, is what I see that has the potential, at this moment in 2026, to create a grassroots movement using all of the tools of mutual aid that are already in place.

Vince Horn: And it seems like the progressive dharma has an important place in all of that as well.

Mushim Ikeda: I would hope so.

Vince Horn: Yeah, right.

Mushim Ikeda: And that is — I will say, we don’t need to get all puffed up with pride about that.

Vince Horn: Yeah, yeah.

Mushim Ikeda: That’s going to be the same as so many Christian churches who say, “Love thy neighbor.” I have a very close Christian friend who’s a diversity consultant, retired, who said — he’s in Virginia, I think — and he said, “You know, in my version of Christianity, it’s not about persecuting immigrants. Jesus taught love thy neighbor as thyself.” So it’s going to be in Muslim communities.

It’s going to be in all religious institutions. Not among all of them; however, among those that honor working people,

and that include and support and understand — because they understand one another — the needs of people who do not have large amounts of savings in the bank, who can’t afford to go on expensive vacations,

including expensive meditation retreats,

which are kind of like vacations.

Vince Horn: Yeah.

Mushim Ikeda: So that’s what we’re talking about now. And again, as you’re hearing, I was not trained, in the terms of the Dharma, of Buddhism, of the Buddha Dharma — I was not trained, Vince, in these meditation centers where everything’s climate controlled, and the food is delicious vegetarian food, and your room is so comfortable and nice.

That was a totally new experience to me when I began practicing, or entering into, what I guess you’re calling the Western insight tradition. I had class issues up to here.

Vince Horn: Yeah, no doubt. I mean, I felt some of that as well, so I know if I did, that would be more so for you.

Mushim Ikeda: And I appreciated it. Again, it’s not something that I’m saying, oh, let’s get rid of all that because that’s bourgeois bullshit. How I see those places operating is that they usually have scholarship systems,

Vince Horn: Yeah.

Mushim Ikeda: and they accept people who normally could not afford to pay the full cost, and it acts as a place of rest and regeneration.

Vince Horn: For sure. And, you know, looking at my own experience as, like, a teen and 20-something-year-old, you know, on a spiritual journey — it’s a great institution for doing that thing, where you’re going off and doing your spiritual trip.

Mushim Ikeda: And then you do it, and you get the learnings,

and hopefully the insights. It’s the insight tradition, for God’s sake. Hopefully you get some freaking insights. And then what do you do with them?

Vince Horn: Exactly.

Mushim Ikeda: Is it the insight of, oh, we’re all one, Vince. We’re all interconnected with the moss and the pigeons and everything and all the people. It’s so beautiful.

Vince Horn: And terrible.

Mushim Ikeda: Yes. And then how do you apply it?

Vince Horn: Yeah. Yeah, ‘cause there’s the terror of oneness, too. It’s like you’re one with all of the people being genocided as well, you know, at that level.

Mushim Ikeda: Thich Nhat Hanh, of course, I feel was the great teacher of this century, who, through his art, through his teaching, and through his way of life and the sanghas he built, spread the very clear message — which is, I think it’s really hard. It’s hard for me, and I do believe it. It’s very Mahayana. And in his famous poem, Call Me by My True Names, he says, “I am the torturer, and I am the person being tortured.”

That viewpoint excludes no one.

Vince Horn: Mm-hmm.

Well, I’m sure Elon Musk is probably grateful to hear that — that even the tech billionaire, trillionaire broligarchs are included.

Mushim Ikeda: I don’t think he’s grateful at all.

Vince Horn: I don’t think—

Mushim Ikeda: I don’t think he cares.

Vince Horn: No — I was being completely facetious there.

Mushim Ikeda: However — however, I care.

Vince Horn: Yeah. Yeah. And whether or not he cares, he is, like you’re saying — there’s some level that includes everything. I think, like, that’s such an important level to remember. I appreciate you pointing out that level, too. And thank you so much for taking the time to be here with us.

I just wanted to highlight again, as people leave: thank you so much for being here in this kind of experiment. Please support the East Bay Meditation Center, if you feel moved to support this project that also supports the folks we’re inviting in as guests, like Mushim. So thank you there for anything you can contribute. We’re grateful.

Mushim Ikeda: Thank you all, and thank you, Vince, for your work of the Insight Diaspora, Buddhist Geeks, of Pragmatic Dharma. As you know, I’m following you very closely, because I feel that the work you’re doing is so fresh, it’s so open, and really — I’m finding it so friendly. It really is friendly to practitioners, in opening up these containers for very frank discussion.

I am grateful.