by William Vittore
Philadelphia
“Didn’t you say that he’s known for this?” asked my co-worker anxiously from the back seat. By “this” she meant the habit of my former employer of snubbing the people he laid off. He’d done it to me, refusing to pay me for my last two months of work. “He’s known for it because he’s gotten away with it so far,” I explained. “Until someone stands up and doesn’t back down, he’ll think he can do it to anyone.”
We’d been carpooling for two months, me and my co-workers, two young people who reminded me of myself at their age, though even a good deal more anxious. Beneath their question was another that went: Why fight a battle you can’t win? They seemed to see many things in this way, and to their credit, my prospects looked bad. Months had passed since I’d heard from my ex-boss, and today again, no word.
“In any case,” I said, to myself as much as to them, “Buddhism is about winning.”
I’d been upfront about my faith, something I’d learned to be as a kid, as a Buddhist in rural Pennsylvania and had not forgotten in my 20 years in Sacramento. I’d invited them to try, explaining that chanting was how I prepared myself for the day. They took to it, and though my own financial situation showed little signs of changing, my co-workers themselves, did. One, in particular, was less anxious, and when she faced a major obstacle that spring (her car broke down and had to be towed), she was not overwhelmed, but chanted through it and took appropriate action, emerging with a greater sense of her own strength.
I was also in my early 20s when my faith was first put to the test. My brother and I had just struck out from under our parents’ roof, entering together into the world of business. No sooner had we done so, however, than we were sued for all we were worth.
Sparing the details, the case dragged on nine long years, until it was brought to federal court, where it was promptly dropped. We won, and in the coming years the people who wronged us were found guilty of fraud. To this day, we’re so thankful we went through that together. It drew us closer and made us stronger than we’d have ever been otherwise and deepened our faith to no end.
To see my co-worker using her faith to overcome her own challenges gave me tremendous purpose. Come May, I notified my former employer that I’d be pursuing the case in small claims court. I had determined to win and put everything toward the annual May Commemorative Contribution activity, to show my appreciation for the practice that made me the person I was. But then … I heard nothing for months. Not a word until August, one week out from the court date.
The lawyer representing my former employer called to tell me that I’d made a mistake in my filing. I’d only embarrass myself in court. When I saw this was true, I wavered. Why go to in, knowing I’d lose?
The day before the court date, I attended our monthly Kosen-rufu Gongyo meeting, where an address from Ikeda Sensei was shown by video. “Rise to the challenge of life’s trials and tribulations,” he said. “You can’t develop genuine character and ability by sidestepping adversity and struggle” (Aug. 10, 2018, World Tribune, p. 2).
That was all I needed to hear. So long as I defended the truth, I’d walk out of court with my head held high.
The morning of the trial, I chanted with the ferocity of a lion king. And then I went in, certain truth would prevail in the end.
The lawyer was brazenly self-assured. When our time came, the judge asked if he had any witness to call to the stand.
With an odd dramatic flair, the lawyer named me: William Vittore. Maybe this was meant to catch me off guard, maybe to imply that he needed no defense; he could count on me to discredit myself.
Confused and annoyed, the judge turned to me and asked me to get on with it.
“I made a mistake,” I began, and went on to explain it to him. Once the judge understood that I would lose the case not on the facts but on a technicality, he asked for my evidence, acknowledged that it checked out, and told me how to settle the case in my favor. I could refile right away, he said, at the office across the hall. Case dismissed.
Smiling, I left the courtroom and headed toward the office but was nearly run over by the lawyer, beet red and fairly steaming.
“I will sue you!” he blurted the moment we entered the hall. “I will sue for defamation!” Apparently, it had not yet occurred to him, even now, that I hadn’t come for him—that it wasn’t about him, nor about money. I’d come for justice—in particular, to show my young friends that justice is possible when we stand up for a cause greater than ourselves.
The lawyer stormed past, throwing wide the double doors that opened onto the parking lot. I went to file the new forms in the office across the hall, then made for the exit.
“What happened in there?” the court clerk asked in passing. “That gentleman left in such a rush he left his things behind!”
“I won,” I explained, by which I meant I’d won over my own self-doubt and fear. And this—this felt tremendous.
The following weeks were a blur as my wife and I prepared for our cross-country move to our home state of Pennsylvania. We’d first met there as kids, where her parents were still. She’d been wanting to move closer to them. In November 2023, just days before the move, I got an email notifying me that I’d be getting remuneration for the work I’d done plus the legal fees incurred. I put it all toward my May Contribution, in my heart on behalf of my former employer, who’d played his part to remind me and my friends of the true meaning of winning.
I’m in Philadelphia now, striving still with Sensei, as the men’s leader for North Central Chapter. The young people here are not so different than those I knew so well in Sacramento. They can be anxious and hesitant, but respond to real care and an honest account of one’s struggles. They understand when I say “I’m chanting for you” that I myself have skin in the game. I’m chanting for them and I’m chanting for me, to show that goodness prevails—it has to prevail: We are Buddhas, and were born to win.
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