The Prescription Is in the Dirt: Rising Through The Pain

By Fatima C. Oliver

We Cannot Heal What We Do Not Reveal

I'm thoroughly inspired by the depth of your faith and obedience as you bring God's Word to life through your book, speaking, and ministry. I was so impacted by your vulnerability and your love of Jesus. Your book, "The Prescription is in the Dirt," deeply impacted me!!!

-Jennifer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Mar 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685563219

Fatima C. Oliver

Fatima is a transformational speaker and coach, a wife, and a mother of four boys. She has a passion for people and funnels inspiration through her raw, witty, and straightforward approach to life and her message of soul healing. When Fatima is not writing, she is singing, competing in mud runs, watching Impractical Jokers, or indulging in chocolate while under a warm blanket. For more details visit, www.fatimac.com.

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Chapter 1

Unconventional

Fatima (pronounced Fa-tee-mah) is a name I had to grow to appreciate. My mother named me after a little girl she met while in the labor and delivery unit. She shared the room with the little girl’s sister shortly after having me. The young starlight was too tiny to visit the new addition to her family and was often spotted outside the door peeking through the glass, her big, bountiful eyes peering through bared hope and excitement. This tickled my mother enough to inquire about who she was. She carried an exuberance my mother wished for me to have one day. Her rich and dark melanin matched mine, so smooth and pure like a black pearl. I guess it was only fitting to name me after her.

I love sharing the story behind how my mom came up with my name. But if I were to be honest, I loathed it most of my youth. It was too difficult for people to pronounce and too easy for people to screw up, especially in public settings when they loudly called, "Fah’Tumah? Is Fah’-Tumah here?" After so long, I learned to just answer and stop correcting. It was more embarrassing to correct than to just accept the screwed-up pronunciation. Plus, if I acted like it was correctly spoken, the snickering from onlookers could lessen.

I grew up in Las Vegas, Nevada, between H Street and Owens Boulevard in the heart of a gang-infested territory. It’s definitely not the shiny existence that is seen on television: no shiny buildings or fancy restaurants. The tallest building nearby is the jailhouse. Tourists don’t come to these parts of Vegas unless they know someone, are looking for drugs, or looking for trouble. This area was the epicenter for low-end communities, overpriced food markets, the best BBQ plates sold on the corner ever, and The Final Call newspaper.

Sammie Davis Jr. became an inviting presence. After completing radio interviews at the local station, he would travel throughout the community, stopping at the local grocery marts to sign autographs and take pictures. Being so young, we had no solid idea how meaningful the visits were. But the excitement around him made us want to do our best to get a picture like everyone else. Legendary rapper MC Hammer also spent time signing autographs for kids in my neighborhood. Witnessing his wealth up close was explosive! Screams of adoration followed his golden limousine as it exited the worn-down projects he met us at. If anyone famous had the nerve to come over to our neighborhood, they were forever respected going forward. Our community was far removed from the Las Vegas Strip, so a genuine effort was made whenever someone visited. The pride on the faces left behind showed a glimmer of hope that we could also live like that one day.

A great pastime was watching men and women of all ages quickening up the street to the VFW Dance Hall. The older generation would strut up the street, showcasing sequin dresses and snazzy suits that were nice about a decade prior—trying to slide on the floor before the entry discount stopped. Sitting on hoods of cars, my brothers and I would watch each one travel their way up the street, imagining what they could be doing in there. Not old enough to even think about entering the dance hall, my brothers and I settled for rating the outfits with legs, traveling past our car until we were called home. Then every night, like clockwork, helicopters would light up our backyard connected with the other homes as we settled into bed. The police chopper aggressively prowled the neighborhood until convinced who they were searching for was gone.

Hanging out in the community, my family engaged a lot with people of the Muslim faith and visited the mosque a few times. That is how we came to gain a close friend in Brother Joseph. He was the first to provide purpose to all the picking I had endured being named something so distinctive. He explained to me that the Arabic meaning of the name Fatima is Daughter of the Prophet. Frequently referred to as Fãtimah al-Zahra, she was the daughter of the founder of Islam and adored by many followers. She was someone who was viewed as highly intelligent. She held the demeanor and character both men and women strived to meet (Abdurahman, 2019). I had never heard this story of my name before. It brought pleasure to know my name was acquainted with such royalty.

Years later, a Catholic friend of mine educated me on another blessing surrounding my name; the miracle of three children encountering the Virgin Mary in Fátima, Portugal. They claimed to have been visited by the Virgin Mary six times, where she shared a series of prophesies and visions with the children. It was such a miracle in the eyes of the Catholic faith for the Virgin Mary to come to this humble town and unfold mysteries to children. A blessing would be issued in honor of such a moment, now commonly known as Our Lady of Fátima (Radford, May 2013).

Learning some lineage behind my name certainly helped my confidence when facing the different pronunciations and revealed the big shoes to fill in order to walk in its greatness. No matter how it is pronounced, a benediction is attached to it, and that makes me proud, especially because it was a blessing that came directly off the shoulders of another Black child. The beautifulness she carried was shared in the simplest of ways, yet the most significant, with her namesake. My heart smiles every time I think of it.

I grew up a Buddhist under the Nichiren Daishonin philosophy. This was a generational practice handed down by my maternal grandmother. She was introduced to the religion when my mother was young, and it carried a legacy of its own. By this spiritual practice, I learned to view heaven and hell as a life condition, a state of mind frequently brought about from choices in our past life. The consequences of those choices are now lived out in our new life. We held the ability to welcome peace or turmoil into our space based on our choices with regard to humanity. Reincarnation was as real as karma, and we were made aware of both.

At the age of eight, I was able to read the Japanese prayer book completely with only minor errors in pronunciation. This prayer book was at the center of upholding honor for our God, the Gohonzon. We would sit for hours offering gongyo (prayer) to the Gohonzon at the crack of dawn as a show of worship and sacrifice. Dedication to this prayer time was a rearing that had me in the midst of mature wisdom at an early age. A few years more would give me the conditioning to recite from memory my morning and evening gongyo, accompanied with earnest moments of daimoku (chants), harmonious chants uplifted from the mouths of the melting pot of America. My Black, White, Asian, Hispanic family all adopted under the Buddhist faith.

By my teenage years, I had the discipline to lead gongyo, with my mother close behind, serving as a strong anchor, serenading the Gohonzon for all the wonderful fortune he had brought us. Entrancing chants lifted in confidence, with its traditional translation that I had not yet deciphered through my own knowledge. Even so, I would eagerly lead gongyo, summoning the movement of our bodies to face the east during evening prayer, then bowing in supplication. The bell rang in a bold cadence at the direction of my hand. I methodically ushered the echo throughout the silence as we declared final homage for the night to the Universe.

My family has been dedicated to the Buddhist faith for as long as I can remember—uncles, aunts, cousins, all serving the Gohonzon faithfully. We carried pride for taking a different route to spirituality and dedicated time to introduce others to this faith through a form of shakubuku, trusting in our efforts to eradicate false teachings and break negative patterns in one’s thoughts and behaviors. Oftentimes I would join members of our faith at the neighborhood market to shakubuku strangers exiting the store. At a young age, my banner for the Buddhist religion was flying high.

It could feel both exciting and isolating, being the only family in my community who practiced Buddhism. Historically, Black families have been regarded as Christians or Muslims. To let friends know that I was neither opened the door to a conversation I did not want to have. Although there were plenty of people from the African American community who practiced Buddhism, they were never neighbors or classmates. It was easier for me to talk with a stranger about my faith than someone I considered a friend. More times than not, I avoided the discussion and allowed them to assume whatever they wanted. This proved to be a much easier approach than trying to explain the differences and similarities between their God and mine.

Please understand, there was never shame for my religion, but I wanted to be accepted. What teenager doesn’t? In my home, I already felt like an outcast due to being the only girl and a bookworm. On the occasions when I would choose to hang outside over reading a book, neighbors would appear shocked that my mother had an additional child besides the ones they were used to seeing. I sheltered myself due to my introverted ways, finding fulfillment in reading. I got to see the world through books; they became my constant escape, round trip ticket, my hideaway.

My deficient Ebonics and street vernacular brought the drawback of regular teasing and insults. Growing up, I was regularly referred to as Wonder bread and Oreo, which was another way to say that I was Black on the outside but White on the inside. Then there was the label, book smart without street smarts. This meant I was clueless about the street life and had limited common sense. A skill greatly needed growing up in the hood and a constant indifference cited by my siblings and family members. The teasing pushed me more into isolation, making it easier to live in a bubble. My room easily became my safe haven. I pleasured in tucking away behind the four walls and traveling through words. Still, I despised the insensitivities, as if something was wrong with me for not being like everyone else in the home.

When the Tina Turner movie What’s Love Got to do With It came out, there was such excitement in the Buddhist community. In the film, Tina is seen being introduced to Nichiren Daishonin Buddhism (being shakubukued) and chanting prayers at the altar. Seeing someone as strong, beautiful, and famous as Tina Turner praying to the Gohonzon, like I would do every day, was inspiring! Learning she was a Buddhist definitely helped me not feel like such a foreigner in my community. I would later discover that Patrick Dempsey and Herbie Hancock were also believers. I felt comforted knowing that when explaining my faith, there were well-known famous people I could reference. I mean, who did not see the Tina Turner movie (shame on you if you have not seen it)? Patrick Dempsey was a boy crush for all women born in the eighties, and Herbie Hancock was an extremely accomplished musician.

Opening the door to our faith often resulted in people thinking my family was practicing witchcraft. This was the farthest thing from the truth, but we quickly learned that people ultimately believe what they want to believe. There came a season where my mother decided we would begin attending a church near our home. We always heard the pastor on the radio; maybe that’s why her church was chosen over others. When we initially began attending, I felt like a fish out of water. The mesmeric sounds of the choir filled the room as we sat in awe. The format of prayer was vastly different than what we were accustomed to. Where we were used to sitting most of our prayer time, the congregants stood, shouted, jumped, and even ran. It was a lively experience!

Not much time passed before we became involved in the church as members. My younger brother was a natural talent and began playing the drums for Sunday service. We never understood why we began going to church, but we did not care. The experience was fully embraced by all of us. It felt good hearing the music and singing the songs. My youthful ears did not understand most of the messages the pastor brought forth, but it never bothered me to sit through the service.

There was so much intrigue over this man named Jesus. Experiencing praises being raised on behalf of His name made something on the inside of me unruffle. I could tell that my mother was having a similar experience. I never liked to see her cry, but these tears seemed to come from a tranquil place. She would freely extend her hands to the ceiling as if reaching up to someone. It was a beautiful mystery to witness. Each time we left that building, we were happier, as if a weight had been removed from our person. But as quickly as the experience began, it came to an abrupt end.

One Saturday, as we pulled up to the church for choir practice, the pastor and a couple of deacons met us outside. They would not let us enter the building, and we were ushered back to our car. The pastor expressed her displeasure with our religious background and told my mother it was demonic worship. I could see the hurt and embarrassment on my mother’s face as we listened to the reason we were no longer welcome. We were asked to leave the premises and not return.

The words being spoken about my family made me angry. I did not understand what our past religious preference had to do with our current choice. It felt like God was being taken away from us, and I did not understand what we did to deserve the punishment. Every Sunday morning, we would hear this person on the radio speaking about God’s love and inviting people to visit. We did just that, but because we were not like them, we were being turned away. The entire moment left me sad and speechless.

My mother’s countenance was normally strong, but that day, I don’t know. I think the confrontation caught her off guard, and the dismissal hit deeper than she has ever admitted. My brothers and I were demanded back into the car, and we never attended another service at that church or any other together. Led by my mother, we eventually renewed our ancestral commitment to the Nichiren Daishonin religion. The rejection we received from the corner church deeply impacted my family’s outlook on God. We felt looked down on and developed a "them against us" mentality. That one incident was the conduit for immense distaste towards the Christian faith and stained our perception for years.

Growing up a Buddhist opened my life to things I never