Falling Awake to Life – Through Story, Myth and Mindfulness
Susie Stead (nèe Mosley) – Writer, Mindfulness Teacher, Human
See below post from Ferny Films about Andy and my recent trip to Lo-No Pop-Up cinema, London
We experienced some success last weekend when Emmi was selected by two film festivals (one in Belgium, one in London). Whilst browsing festivals over Easter, I spotted something called ‘Lo-No Pop-Up Cinema’ in London looking for ‘real stories’ to shown. Being as Emmi is inspired by a real story we decided we should give it […]
I was brought up, the daughter of a banker, in British run Hong Kong. In 2014, aged 52, a feminist socialist, I went back to recover memories and to make peace. This is a diary of that trip.
The morning before leaving, I look out from the 17th floor of our hotel. Below is a roof garden on a nearby aging block of flats. It’s a concrete tiled square framed with potted plants. A grey metal door stands open and a slim Chinese woman is hanging up a single sheet on the clothes line. In the cool silence of my hotel room I watch it flap in the strong wind. I’m intrigued because she has the sheet pegged up but she keeps moving and re-pegging it, grasping it in the high wind. Then I see the metal door slam and finally the woman leaves her sheet pegging. The door won’t open. She returns to the sheet, shifts a peg. She then repeats this door pulling/sheet pegging routine several times. Finally she bangs her fists on the door. I assume she’s shouting. Nobody comes. I can do nothing but watch through the glass.
Chris, my friend and fellow traveller, calls me and we leave.
[I take this photo a day later, relieved to see ‘my’ Chinese lady safe]
We travel up the Peak with the bemused taxi driver (see post “Going Home”) and get dropped off half way up by the park I used to play in. It’s still there. And the old bus stop where I used to catch the No 15 to primary school on The Peak.
As we walk along a residential road, on our right thick jungle foliage falls away steeply into mist. The cicadas crackle. Through fog and rain we pass the ghost of my 8 year old self lagging behind her mother and cowardly corgi, Jemima , her attention caught by an amah squatting across some drains to relieve herself. Today a Chinese man is walking 2 enormous Alsatian guard dogs. One calmly places his jaw around Chris’s leg until his owner intones a command and they leave. She only has a bruise but it feels shocking and anti-climactic.
We approach one of my childhood homes. The loop of the drive is warmly familiar but the house has been replaced by 3 flats and a guard house. This guard is friendly.
The previous one was not. Our taxi had parked by the huge metal gates and he appeared instantly, insisting we leave.
19 Middle Gap Road. I look over his shoulder to the grand exterior. That house had 5 bedrooms, an attic playroom and a raised garden with swimming pool. We never had a guard.
Which made it easy, 40 years ago when I was 15 years old, for a gang of Chinese men to burgle our house in the early hours of the morning. My father, my teenage self and my 9 year old brother were asleep. They drugged the dogs, tied us up and walked away with cash and easy valuables.
We never talked about it. I got blind drunk, my brother got mumps and my father had a solid grey metal door built half way up the stairs.
This morning I watched, soundless, behind glass as that Chinese lady banged on her grey metal door. This afternoon as I look over the guard’s shoulder, I wonder if that door is still half way up the stairs. The memories slip out. I watch them, soundless behind time’s glass.
We walk back and catch the no 15 bus.
I’ve been out all day. I walk in the door and see my teenage son reclined on the sofa with his laptop in front of him and the TV on. He’s also texting. He looks up and says “make us a cup of tea will you?”
It’s all very well being asked to love and communicate with teenagers but they’re so bloody irritating sometimes! Remembering what I was like helps sometimes. The short film “Emmi” which Andy and myself have just finished (www.fernyfilms.co.uk/emmi) explores the tensions. It’s a dark drama, based on a newspaper story I read over 20 years ago, flavoured by experiences since and spiked by my own past teenage struggles..
Neuroscience tells us that teenage brains are different to adult brains. They’re not good at being able to look ahead, see the consequences of their actions and choose NOT to do the stupid thing. Emotion triumphs over reason and late-developing frontal lobes lead to the mood swings, impulsiveness and lack of judgement. The very last thing teenager develop is ‘empathy.’ Telling a teenager to ‘stop being selfish’ is like telling a lion to go vegetarian…
One way we can help our teenagers is learn more. You might enjoy this short Ted Talk: https://www.ted.com/talks/sarah_jayne_blakemore_the_mysterious_workings_of_the_adolescent_brain#t-56269
Me – I like stories – Once, long ago the Sun and the Wind were arguing about who was the most powerful. As they were arguing the Wind saw someone walking along a deserted strip of beach with a coat on and said “I bet you I can get that person to take their coat off quicker than you can”. The Sun accepted the challenge. The Wind had the first turn and began to blow and blow. The harder the Wind blew the tighter the person clutched their coat around them. Finally the Sun asked for a turn. The Sun chose to glow very gently. The person visibly relaxed. After only a few paces they began to undo the buttons on the coat. Within 5 minutes the coat was off.
One summers day, one of my teenage offspring came downstairs after a party, hoodie covering his face and slouched into the kitchen. He didn’t talk, didn’t eat, just sat. It felt like the room had filled with 100 invisible pissed off versions of him. I wanted to ‘blow’ hard – nag, cajole, complain. That was my habit. Instead I carried on clearing and let him sit there. I’d been growing a sunflower seed and I asked him where I should plant it out. There was a short silence and then he came over to me and let me hug him. After that a whole story unravelled.
‘It will have a changed a lot!’ people advised when I said I was re-visiting Hong Kong after many years. As if this wouldn’t have occurred to me. Nobody asks if I have changed.
“Did you know that this lady’s father was an Executive Director of the Bank?” Chris tries to interest and impress a Chinese staff member at one of the 10 tourist wonders of Hong Kong – the Hong Kong Bank Building. The staff member nods politely. I’m squirming. It’s our first full day and we’ve been on the concourse below viewing photos and information on the history of the Bank. Chris hasn’t noticed that the only photo of white British HSBC staff is during the Japanese occupation – defeated, bedraggled gentlemen being pushed along at gunpoint by Japanese soldiers. The ‘Great British Colonial Period’ has been erased.
We’re following a tourist trail and we head off up Bank Street. I tell Chris of a memory that haunts me. It’s like a dream. I’m maybe 11 or 12 years old and I’m walking down Bank Street with the chauffeur, Ah Fan, in his grey uniform with his smart cap. That would be enough to deal with – walking down Bank Street with the chauffeur. But there’s more. As we walk down I become aware of a scrawny beggar on the pavement, squatting on some cardboard. Beside him, a dented bowl for money. He has no fingers. The chauffeur and I walk passed.
If only I could erase that piece of history. Today no beggars sit on Bank Street. In fact I’ve seen very few anywhere. I’m grateful.
As we walk on, something grips me. A sense that I ‘know’ this place. Not in an intellectual, ‘Oh, I remember that’ sort of way… but a warm physical buzz…. my body remembers this place. We’ve been following a map but I insist we change direction. There will be old stone steps on the opposite side of the road – steps I walked up often. As we approach they materialise and now I remember they will lead to the cathedral, the same cathedral where the flocks of widows waited for us after the service. They aren’t there today. Where have all the poor gone? Has Communist China done a better job of providing for them?
After a steep, sweaty climb we’re there. I don’t normally like cathedrals, but I like this one. It’s not big and it has a comforting feel, almost womb like with the smell of mahogany and old fans whirring soothingly above. On the right transept is a stone font where my younger brother was baptised.
The cathedral claims to have a maze which turns out to be a set of faded lines on cracked tarmac outside. I want to mark the beginning of this pilgrimage, so despite the bemused looks from a lunch time couple, I take slow steps, following the maze. The path teases me. I seem to be almost at the centre and then I’m away, right on the perimeter, apparently going nowhere. The path rambles back and forth and I become impatient and embarrassed at how stupid I look. Finally, it dives straight to the core and I’m there. Of course, this is what pilgrimage will feel like. As I stand there, it comes to me that Hong Kong was the birth place of my faith. This cathedral was the beginning and 20 years later this land and these people would give me the gift of a faith that would change my life… I had forgotten.
“Middle Gap Road?” I ask the taxi cab driver. We used to live at no 19.
He looks at me blankly. Not because his English is bad as it turns out. My friend Chris is more resourceful and points out a landmark nearby.
“Ah!” Says the Taxi driver, “People who live on that road don’t use taxis. They have private cars and chauffeurs.”
I tell him that I used to live there 40 years ago.
“So why you not speak Chinese?”
“My bad” I reply.
He laughs and takes us to Middle Gap Road.
“My Bad. It’s been ‘My Bad’ for nearly 53 years. In 1962, when I was 6 months old my family came to live in Hong Kong, leased for a 100 years to the British from Mainland China (well, 99 years and more complicated…). Sounds like Sleeping Beauty but there’s no happy ending. For 100 years, the Great British Empire, did not see fit to give the Hong Kong Chinese the vote. When the time was up, the British passed the land and its people back to Mainland China. No fighting the dragon. No Handsome prince. No Democracy.
By the time I appeared in 1962, my father was on the rise. He was a banker. With the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation (HSBC). Anyone wealthy had servants. ‘Everyone’ had amahs. These are women who ‘live in’, clean your house and look after your children.
When I was sent to boarding school in England at the age of 11 (my brothers were sent at age 7 – it wasn’t deemed so important for me, a girl), my mother impressed on me the necessity of not ‘bragging’ about all the servants I had so as not to incur the jealousy of my peers. 35 years later, as my teenage son teased me about my wealthy early days it occurred to me how ridiculous it was for a child to ‘brag’ about such things. As I pointed out to him, he didn’t need servants, he had me….
There was so much ‘not to brag about’. I was brought up in a country taken from the Chinese during the opium wars (Britain was the baddie – look it up) and now under British Colonial rule. A rule apparently based on the philosophy of: “The rich man in his castle, the poor man at the gate, God made them high and lowly and ordered their estate.” Memory replays a Sunday morning as we leave the Cathedral to be met by a flock of begging Chinese widows in black. We walk past them to where the chauffeur waits with the Jag.
It’s now 2015. I’ve come back to Hong Kong on a sort of pilgrimage. To make peace. To recover memories. I lived here solidly for the first 13 years of my life. My father remained until I was in my 30s. I’m a white British, Colonial Ex-Pat, I never learned Cantonese and I have no right of abode here. In what way if any, can I call this land “Home”?
I’ve come to find out.
I’m told that if you want a beautiful garden the first thing to do is spend 1 year watching it. You see what plants flourish and what don’t – in each season.
At the end of the year, you’ll have a strong sense of the character of your garden. Now you can begin to plan. What do you want to keep? What do you want to get rid of? Is there anything new you fancy trying?
I’m no gardener. I’m interested in people. I’m interested in myself. It seems to me that the same rules apply if you want to change yourself. I’ve been practising mindfulness now for over 3 years. This is what mindfulness is. Paying attention to what is.
You want to change? Start by observing yourself for a year or 6 months or a week. Don’t change anything. Just notice. Maybe write it down.
At university, I wasn’t working. Finally I went to see a student counsellor. He advised me to simply record what I was doing for a few weeks. Then report back to him. I never went back. I started to note when I worked but it was pitiful. I was so ashamed, I gave up and went back to socialising. Nothing changed. I did not do well at University….
So:
a) Notice what you’re doing,
b) Notice how much shame you feel
c) Stop judging yourself, justifying yourself or lying to yourself!
If you have ever tried this, you will know how difficult this is. You may need support from a friend or partner.
Let’s take an example… Deciding to cut back or stop eating so much fatty food. Start by just noticing how much you do eat of it. After a cholesterol test, without blinking or even noticing (at the time) I lied to my doctor.
She asked me what my diet was. The words that came out of my mouth said that I had a breakfast of wholemeal cereal, a lunch of whole meal bread, soup and cheese and an evening meal of meat and 2 veg….. oh yes and the odd glass of wine. I failed entirely to mention the chocolate biscuits, crisps, snacks, the puddings with cream, the yoghurts, the bars of chocolate or precisely how many glasses of wine constituted the ‘odd’ glass….
And even though I’ve been trying recently just to notice what I’ve been eating, I hear myself feeling bad and saying ‘well it’s Christmas, it’s New Year, it’s January, it’s been a hard day…. I haven’t had any for AGES….’
So. I’ve noticed something. I’m lying to myself and justifying myself. That’s interesting. And uncomfortable. I’m not the self-disciplined healthy eater I like to imagine. I’m an ordinary person with sugar cravings. this is not shameful. It simply is. I think I’ll start here, this year.
This won the Lewes Fair Trade Writing Competition in 2006. It was written and produced as a piece of comic street theatre, originally performed in Haywards Heath Shopping Centre.
The figures used for this piece were correct in July 2005 – will need updating.
CAST
INTERVIEWER – Preferably a woman
HELPER
MAN – preferably with a decent physique
POLICEWOMAN
VARIOUS PEOPLE TO HOLD UP RELEVANT PLACARDS
The interviewer and helper stand looking like they are about to pick someone out of the crowd. The people with placards stand to one side. The man casually walks past and is accosted.
INTERVIEWER: Excuse me sir – do you know where that shirt comes from?
MAN: No idea – the wife got it for me – nice isn’t it?
Interviewer looks at the label down the back of the man’s shirt.
MAN: Oi, get off.
INTERVIEWER: Made in Bangkok. Do you know how much they pay the women who make these shirts?
MAN: No, and I don’t care.
INTERVIEWER: They’re paid virtually nothing.
MAN: They get no pay?
INTERVIEWER: Hardly anything.
MAN: They must get something!
INTERVIEWER: Enough to pay for food and rent. That’s it.
MAN: That’s alright then.
INTERVIEWER: But it won’t pay medical expenses – there’s no NHS out there.
MAN: No NHS!
INTERVIEWER: They get paid £1.09/day for a 6 day week – which makes it £6.54 a week.
MAN: No way!.
INTERVIEWER: She can’t exactly hit the town on a Saturday night, with that sum! Would you work those hours for that pay?
MAN: What do you take me for?
INTERVIEWER: So you agree it isn’t fair? This shirt is the result of mega exploitation of the workers.
MAN: Too right.
INTERVIEWER: People like that should be paid a proper minimum wage.
MAN: Absolutely.
Interviewer and helper start to take the man’s shirt off
MAN: What…..now look here….what are you doing?
INTERVIEWER: You don’t want this shirt now do you?
MAN: Well,…..erh
INTERVIEWER: You want to stand up for workers rights don’t you?
MAN: I suppose so…but what am I supposed to wear?
INTERVIEWER: Buy fair-trade clothes – look on the net – meanwhile
(takes shirt off) show off your chest!
Man stands a little straighter- possibly flexes his muscles and does a pose.
People with placards put them down and applaud.
INTERVIEWER: Now, about the trousers.
MAN: So, they’re on the cheap side – you don’t have to go on about it.
Interviewer looks down the back of his trousers.
MAN: Oi! Will you stop doing that!
INTERVIEWER: These trousers are from Cambodia – the sweatshops there employ children as young as 12 to work up to 16 hours a day, 7 days a week – they’re mostly girls.
MAN: You’ve got to be joking.
INTERVIEWER: [to audience]Who’d like to send their 12 year old to a sweat shop? She could earn you – oh anything up to £8 a week! Oh, And they don’t worry about silly things like safety in sweat shops – it’s quite likely she’ll get a needle through her finger on a regular basis. She may well have to work standing up for 8 hours at a time with no break – as for proper lighting, well….
MAN; It’s disgusting!
INTERVIEWER: They do employ plenty of adults – you’d be very welcome.
MAN: I’d work for a different company.
INTERVIEWER: They’re all the same except the fair trade companies, like Gossipium and People Tree.
MAN: I’d get a job with them then.
INTERVIEWER: Well you’d better buy some trousers from them – look them up on the net. But your trousers were made in a sweatshop in Bangkok! Off they come my boy!
They start to take the man’s trousers off
MAN: Heh! Stop that! You’re tickling!
Man gets left standing there in a pair of swimming trunks or shorts – maybe boxer shorts – the funnier they look the better.
INTERVIEWER: A fine pair of legs! Now don’t be embarrassed – these nice people only want to stare at you.
MAN: Arrgh!
INTERVIEWER: Where were we? Oh yes – your pants..…
Man puts his hands over his crotch. Policewoman appears.
POLICEWOMAN: Hello, Hello, Hello – what have we here? Exposing yourself in public (starts writing on a notepad)
MAN: I can explain everything, officer – this person was just telling me about the girls in Bangkok.
POLICEWOMAN: Was she now…
MAN: I’ve got to take my trousers off – you see – my trousers are the result of exploitation and..
POLICEWOMAN: I think you better come with me – and bring your exploited trousers with you.
(Policewoman takes man away)
MAN: I can explain everything… it was her fault….
INTERVIEWER: Stop taking the shirts off the backs of the poor – buy Fairtrade and ask for Trade Justice Now!
Interviewer, helper and people with placards step forward and say together
ALL: Trade Justice Now!
Falling Awake to Life - Through Story, Myth and Mindfulness 