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Tukwila teen a monk no more
February 18, 2008
By Christine Clarridge and Alan Berner
 One
year after returning from Cambodia as a monk, Michael Sa-Ngoun, here
holding dog Peanut, is a regular teenager now, with a job and a
girlfriend.
Michael Sa-Ngoun came home a
Buddhist monk in November 2006. He since has given up his robes and
vows, and his aspirations now include buying a new car. Related
The 19-year-old from Tukwila, who
spent two years in a Cambodian monastery because his mother was
desperate to stop his self-destructive behavior, is not prone to
deep philosophical meditation these days.
He doesn't work very hard to resist
the desires of most young men his age, nor does he seek humility at
every turn.
It took surprisingly little time,
family members say, for him to turn back into a regular American
young man after his return from Cambodia a little more than a year
ago. He was profiled then by The Seattle Times.
He now works at a car dealership
because he likes to make money, but he doesn't know what he wants to
do for a living.
He stays out too late with his
friends, wastes too much time watching movies, and spends too much
money at restaurants, he says. He also doesn't keep his room as
clean as his mother wants, nor does he do his chores without being
asked.
But he hasn't been in trouble with
the law since his return, and some of the things he learned while
living the austere life of a monk have stuck with him. He said he
still believes in karma, and he does his best to do right by others.
He'll capture an ant and release it outside rather than kill it.
"I really do believe in that part,
and I try hard not to do anything that hurts someone else," he said.
His mother, Chou Sa-Ngoun, said she
was disappointed when most of Michael's enlightened behavior quickly
gave way to the material world.
"I wish sometimes that I wouldn't
have brought him back from there until he was past a teenager," she
said.
But she thinks she may have saved
his life. And basically she's OK with how things are.
The issues her family faces now are
typical of those of other families with teens, and not the dangerous
behavior she once feared.
Says Michael's stepfather, Sanny
Sa-Ngoun: "These problems, I can live with. The cops aren't coming
to the door."
Left at a monastery
When Michael was about 12, he
started skipping school, hanging out with the wrong kids, trying
drugs and getting arrested for petty crimes.
His mother tried grounding him and
taking away privileges like television and video games. She switched
his schools, got him into counseling, let him pay his own fines
after juvenile arrests and let him languish in detention centers.
She called the Army, but her son
was too young then to enlist. She looked into disciplinary boot
camps but found them too pricey.
She begged the state to place him
in a temporary foster home, but was told the authorities could do
nothing until he committed a more serious crime.
She was afraid he would die
violently in a car crash, in a gang altercation or in a drug deal.
Then the couple hit upon an idea
while planning a family trip to their ancestors' Cambodian homeland.
Sanny Sa-Ngoun thought experiencing hardship would be good for
Michael and suggested leaving him behind for a short time. A friend
knew of a Buddhist monastery in the Kampong Cham region that would
accept Michael as a novitiate if he took the vows of poverty and
selflessness.
They flew in November 2004 to Phnom
Penh, spent a few days doing tourist things, and made their way to
the isolated village of Krolong, where Michael's mother told him he
would remain until he had changed. Michael — who did not speak
Cambodian or have any of his own money — argued, begged, went on a
hunger strike and thought about running away. Finally, he gave up
and allowed his head to be shaved and prayers said over him.
He spent the first few weeks in
shock and despair before slowly settling into the routine.
In silence, he rose at 5:45 each
morning, drew water and laid out rugs, place settings and towels for
his teacher and the elder monk, whom he called "Grandpa."
He then set a place for himself and
called his elders, and together they ate their meal of rice and meat
or fish. He rested for 10 minutes and went to work on chores around
the temple and school grounds.
He and the other young monks
learned to mix mortar, lay stone and build fences. Alongside his
comrades, he prayed and studied the teachings of Buddha, trying to
learn to free himself from "wanting things," he said.
They washed at the pump or well,
and then he and the other young monks set out door to door among the
villagers asking for food in exchange for blessings.
His mother said he could return
when he had earned his high-school diploma, which she arranged for
him to do online from a nearby village he reached by motorbike once
a week.
His return
When he returned to Washington in
November 2006, his head was shaved and he was wearing a flowing
orange robe. He was nearly silent, and he honored the vows that
forbade him from hugging his mother because she's female.
He was overwhelmed at first, he
said, by the pace of American culture, the nonstop barrage of images
and enticements, the construction, the speed on the freeways.
He wore his robes for several
weeks, during which time he was invited to pray and issue blessings
at local Buddhist temples.
Because Michael chose not to
further pursue a life as a monk once he returned, he was released
from his vows and his robes in a traditional cleansing ceremony.
When people found out about what
Chou had done for her son, she was deluged with appeals for help
from other parents and even went so far as to arrange trips to the
village for a few people. But in the end, they all backed out.
"They got scared," she said.
She doesn't blame them. It was a
hard thing for her to do, even with her knowledge of the culture and
language.
Michael got a job working at a
restaurant and then at a car dealership, where he details cars,
moves them, runs some errands. He's thought about apprenticing as a
mechanic there, but he's not sure he has the aptitude for engines.
He pondered joining the National Guard for the college money, but
decided he wasn't interested in more schooling.
His aspirations are not
far-reaching.
"Really, I just want to have fun
with my friends and get a new car," he says.
Though Michael and his mother sent
money and care packages to the monastery for a few months after his
return, it's been a long time since the last one.
"I try to call them sometimes, but
there is something wrong with their phone," he said.
"He's just a teenager"
Michael's mother is sometimes
disappointed, after all that he's been through, that he didn't
retain a higher level of discipline and consciousness.
"He's slipped," she said one day
this month when his room wasn't clean and his chores were undone. "I
feel like he hasn't changed that much. Sometimes I think there is
something missing in his brain, but then I remind myself that I
shouldn't overreact. He's just a teenager with a teenage brain."
Michael dates a 17-year-old girl
who has "strict parents," and he stays away from the drugs and
friends that got him into trouble before, he said.
"I just stay away from the law, and
everything else is easy," he said.
Because he has stayed out of
trouble since his return, he will be able to petition the court soon
to expunge his juvenile criminal record.
He said he doesn't know exactly
what to think now about his time in Cambodia. It seems like a long
time ago, in a way, and part of it seems like a dream. He thinks he
might have straightened up on his own by now, but also that he might
have a longer criminal record if he hadn't gone to Cambodia.
His experience may have acted as a
deterrent to his younger brother and sister, who don't want to
follow him down that path.
"They don't want to be left in
Cambodia," he said.
His mother feels like she did the
best thing, trying to shelter him during what she saw as his most
vulnerable time. Now she's trying to stop worrying and let him make
his own mistakes.
"I guess I'm going to have to. He
doesn't really know what life is about, but he won't know until he
finds out. We can steer him, but we have to let him fall."
Christine Clarridge: 206-464-8983
or cclarridge@seattletimes.com
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