So if yinmiao are usually spatially peripheral, how did the three yinmiao in The Neighborhood end up right there, very centrally located? Well, it actually has to do the with city government. Once upon a time, these temples were all also tiwai, on the riverbank beyond the levy. Around 20-25 years ago, the government was building up the levies and constructing the big roads above them and the smaller roads and park between the levy and the river. As illegal structures sitting on land that was about to be used for a road, these temples technically ought to have been torn down.
But tearing down a temple—well, it’s a serious endeavor. I mean, the beings who live in the temple are not going to be happy about it. And the beings who live in the temple are not just anybody, they’re not citizens that you can pay them off or just override them and not worry about the repercussions, nor can you have a meeting with them and explain the necessity of the road and come to a consensus in which you impose your will and they accept it. Especially the beings in an yinmiao, who specialize in the hazy side of things, are not going to be the kind of beings who sit around reaching consensus in meetings. And who bears the brunt of their unhappiness? The people who keep up the temple, the neighborhood residents, who are in an ongoing relationship of mutual aid and unilateral anxiety with the beings who live in the temple.
So some people were very unhappy about this plan to tear the temple down; and even people who might not have been very unhappy about it would not stand up and insist that they did get torn down. That would be really asking for it. The city government couldn’t change the placement of the road, but it did offer to move the temples to other locations, thereby preserving them. These locations ended up including the little park bordering Heping West Road in the northern part of the neighborhood, the little park an alley or two down from that, and the little park across from Zhous’ rice store. All three plots still appear as “park land” on my city government issued urban planning map of the area. In fact that was basically it for parks in the neighborhood (until Sugarcane Park was created a few years ago).
I was walking down the street with Zhang Mama and asked her where she went to pray. She first offered a lament for the godlessness of the present day: “Nowadays honh, people all, we ‘clutch the Buddha’s foot at the last moment,’ only when we have to take a test to we pray, only when there is trouble do we pray.” (The Buddha’s foot is a reference to a saying, “Doesn't light incense normally, but clutches the Buddha's foot at the last minute," used to describe e.g. cramming for an exam). Then she said she goes to Longshan Temple. So you don’t pray in the neighborhood? I ask. “Yes, I do—I go to Longshan Temple.” This is the only time I’ve ever heard Longshan Temple, which is a fifteen minutes’ walk away and right next to all the brothels and hostess bars, referred to as part of this neighborhood.
Zhang Mama is a migrant who came here around twenty-five years ago, but I have a feeling there is something else going. There’s been this movement in Taiwan lately, maybe the last fifteen years or so, a kind of Buddhist revival that has a different angle on the purposes and practices of ritual than the normal “common people’s belief.” Instead of prayer as a kind of deal-making with the god to help you out in some endeavor, and religious participation as manifested primarily in pilgrimages, festivals, and everyday offerings, this newly popular strand of Buddhist (rather than the Buddhist-Daoist-Inbetweenist mix that most people participate in) leans towards psychological well-being and peace as the goal of prayer, and sees religious participation as properly manifested in good works. A kind of Protestantized Buddhism. This development has gone along with the rise of several enormous, and enormously wealthy, Buddhist organizations. (There have been a couple of financial scandals, as you’d expect with large religious organizations that take donations. But at least one of these, Ciji, was also famously the first on the scene after the devastating earthquake of September 21st, 2000 that ripped apart large stretches of the island—they were at the epicenter setting up camps for displaced people and helping to rebuild while government agencies were still wringing their hands and pointing their fingers at one another.)
Anyway I’ve noticed that a lot of the people (particularly women, of course) who belong to the Cultural Association in my neighborhood (who tend to be of that part of the neighborhood that is of a slightly higher economic class and/or educational level) also lean toward this kind of religious practice. This is manifested not only in their connection to one of the big Buddhist organizations, Fo Guan Shan—our choir class was organized through them, and the Neighborhood Mama’s will sometimes trek over to the other side of town to hear an inspirational lecture by a famous monk—but also in their own everyday practices and possessions: the ancestral tablet altars in their living rooms tend to have a big, very Buddhist-looking figure of Guanyin. In contrast, other people’s altars tend to have (in addition to or in place of Guanyin) more local, and I think more Daoist or “common people’s belief”-ist, gods: Mazu, who is kind of the Daoist version of Guanyin; Tudi Gong, the place god who Jennifer now makes offerings to. Even if they have a Guanyin, she doesn’t really look the same—the really Buddhisty Guanyin are taller and thinner, and have a look of ethereal peace about them; while the more Daoisty or CPBy ones look more like other traditional Taiwanese god figures, with flatter cheeks, longer noses, and not so much expression on the face. So anyway the point is I think it’s class and education and class-aspiration, as well as native-place origin, that goes into a person’s choice of where to clutch the Buddha’s foot.
“Do you ever go for instance to the temple next to Mr. Zhou’s rice store?” I ask Zhang Mama. “That’s an yinmiao. I honh, we are not so likely to go to that kind of temple.” Yinmiao is also a word you wouldn’t say to someone who runs one; it would sound a little impolite. Which means I have to figure out what you do say to refer to it. Last time I was in The Neighborhood, I ran into Mr. Zhou of the rice store and asked about “that temple across from your store.” Mr. Zhou grew up in the neighborhood and has been praying at that temple since he was a little kid. He’s now on the board of directors and, he continues right away, that temple is really ling, really powerful. As long as you are earnest and honest with the god in your request, and you thank him properly, he will help you out.
This might explain why I’ve felt so peaceful the last couple of days. That morning, before I saw Mr. Zhou, I was wandering around The Neighborhood while a big Earth Day event was going on. The Earth Day event consisted of our chorus singing several of our Taiwanese favorites while a small crowd looked on.
chorus with teacher
But tearing down a temple—well, it’s a serious endeavor. I mean, the beings who live in the temple are not going to be happy about it. And the beings who live in the temple are not just anybody, they’re not citizens that you can pay them off or just override them and not worry about the repercussions, nor can you have a meeting with them and explain the necessity of the road and come to a consensus in which you impose your will and they accept it. Especially the beings in an yinmiao, who specialize in the hazy side of things, are not going to be the kind of beings who sit around reaching consensus in meetings. And who bears the brunt of their unhappiness? The people who keep up the temple, the neighborhood residents, who are in an ongoing relationship of mutual aid and unilateral anxiety with the beings who live in the temple.
So some people were very unhappy about this plan to tear the temple down; and even people who might not have been very unhappy about it would not stand up and insist that they did get torn down. That would be really asking for it. The city government couldn’t change the placement of the road, but it did offer to move the temples to other locations, thereby preserving them. These locations ended up including the little park bordering Heping West Road in the northern part of the neighborhood, the little park an alley or two down from that, and the little park across from Zhous’ rice store. All three plots still appear as “park land” on my city government issued urban planning map of the area. In fact that was basically it for parks in the neighborhood (until Sugarcane Park was created a few years ago).
I was walking down the street with Zhang Mama and asked her where she went to pray. She first offered a lament for the godlessness of the present day: “Nowadays honh, people all, we ‘clutch the Buddha’s foot at the last moment,’ only when we have to take a test to we pray, only when there is trouble do we pray.” (The Buddha’s foot is a reference to a saying, “Doesn't light incense normally, but clutches the Buddha's foot at the last minute," used to describe e.g. cramming for an exam). Then she said she goes to Longshan Temple. So you don’t pray in the neighborhood? I ask. “Yes, I do—I go to Longshan Temple.” This is the only time I’ve ever heard Longshan Temple, which is a fifteen minutes’ walk away and right next to all the brothels and hostess bars, referred to as part of this neighborhood.
Zhang Mama is a migrant who came here around twenty-five years ago, but I have a feeling there is something else going. There’s been this movement in Taiwan lately, maybe the last fifteen years or so, a kind of Buddhist revival that has a different angle on the purposes and practices of ritual than the normal “common people’s belief.” Instead of prayer as a kind of deal-making with the god to help you out in some endeavor, and religious participation as manifested primarily in pilgrimages, festivals, and everyday offerings, this newly popular strand of Buddhist (rather than the Buddhist-Daoist-Inbetweenist mix that most people participate in) leans towards psychological well-being and peace as the goal of prayer, and sees religious participation as properly manifested in good works. A kind of Protestantized Buddhism. This development has gone along with the rise of several enormous, and enormously wealthy, Buddhist organizations. (There have been a couple of financial scandals, as you’d expect with large religious organizations that take donations. But at least one of these, Ciji, was also famously the first on the scene after the devastating earthquake of September 21st, 2000 that ripped apart large stretches of the island—they were at the epicenter setting up camps for displaced people and helping to rebuild while government agencies were still wringing their hands and pointing their fingers at one another.)
Anyway I’ve noticed that a lot of the people (particularly women, of course) who belong to the Cultural Association in my neighborhood (who tend to be of that part of the neighborhood that is of a slightly higher economic class and/or educational level) also lean toward this kind of religious practice. This is manifested not only in their connection to one of the big Buddhist organizations, Fo Guan Shan—our choir class was organized through them, and the Neighborhood Mama’s will sometimes trek over to the other side of town to hear an inspirational lecture by a famous monk—but also in their own everyday practices and possessions: the ancestral tablet altars in their living rooms tend to have a big, very Buddhist-looking figure of Guanyin. In contrast, other people’s altars tend to have (in addition to or in place of Guanyin) more local, and I think more Daoist or “common people’s belief”-ist, gods: Mazu, who is kind of the Daoist version of Guanyin; Tudi Gong, the place god who Jennifer now makes offerings to. Even if they have a Guanyin, she doesn’t really look the same—the really Buddhisty Guanyin are taller and thinner, and have a look of ethereal peace about them; while the more Daoisty or CPBy ones look more like other traditional Taiwanese god figures, with flatter cheeks, longer noses, and not so much expression on the face. So anyway the point is I think it’s class and education and class-aspiration, as well as native-place origin, that goes into a person’s choice of where to clutch the Buddha’s foot.
“Do you ever go for instance to the temple next to Mr. Zhou’s rice store?” I ask Zhang Mama. “That’s an yinmiao. I honh, we are not so likely to go to that kind of temple.” Yinmiao is also a word you wouldn’t say to someone who runs one; it would sound a little impolite. Which means I have to figure out what you do say to refer to it. Last time I was in The Neighborhood, I ran into Mr. Zhou of the rice store and asked about “that temple across from your store.” Mr. Zhou grew up in the neighborhood and has been praying at that temple since he was a little kid. He’s now on the board of directors and, he continues right away, that temple is really ling, really powerful. As long as you are earnest and honest with the god in your request, and you thank him properly, he will help you out.
This might explain why I’ve felt so peaceful the last couple of days. That morning, before I saw Mr. Zhou, I was wandering around The Neighborhood while a big Earth Day event was going on. The Earth Day event consisted of our chorus singing several of our Taiwanese favorites while a small crowd looked on.
chorus with teacher
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