The laboratory of life teaches us daily how to be human
My friend tells me this story.
“It was cold in Chiang Mai in the winter, so I needed to go buy a winter jacket. Of course, as it is Chiang Mai, and I have no need to buy anything at mall, I go to a second hand store. I rummage through the racks. I run my fingers through the materials and suddenly, my fingers touch something, a material that feels different, a little more expensive. Not cheap, you know? So I pull it out and I see a logo embroidered on the right breast. It’s a Chick-fil-a logo! I laugh out loud. It was probably a Chick-fil-a manager’s jacket, and somehow randomly, it made its way to Chiang Mai, a city in the North of Thailand. On a second hand rack. I bought the jacket for 150 baht. I only wear it for a few weeks in the winter, but still the best surprise ever.”
How did a Chick-fil-a jacket make it all the way from America to Chiang Mai? Did it come in someone’s backpack? Or did it get tossed out into those donation bins, and come through to a developing country as charity?
The stories we tell each other, real or imagined, bring us all together. We are all in this laboratory of stories, and we tell stories to teach each other, and to entertain. There is no other purpose for it.
Another story.
“So I am sitting at the hospital waiting to be stuck with a needle. I am exhausted. The lupus leaves me tired. I sit down in a chair, and the nurse pokes me half a dozen times on both my arms, unable to find a vein. I look up across to the door that’s open and there is a lady sitting outside. A Thai lady. For some reason, she seems to be laughing at me. I am already tired from the day, and from the week. And this lady laughing at me doesn’t help. Why is she laughing? I don’t understand. At the umpteenth attempt, I give up. I start crying, and they have to call another nurse. The next nurse doesn’t do any better, and this lady is still laughing.”
Why is this lady laughing at someone who’s obviously in pain? What does that teach us about the human race? Do we have to despise her or do we pity her because she might be in some pain herself?
Story time never ends. There’s always the time, patience, and inclination to hear yet another story. When a child begs her parents to stay and tell her another story, she isn’t doing it to be annoying or keep her parents from leaving. It is the inherent desire inside all of humanity that she’s displaying outwardly that tells the world that we could always use another story.
Always another story to come.
“So I am in Rishikesh, right? The spiritual centre of India and pretty much the world. Somehow this Indian man finds my Facebook details, and starts messaging me. Now you have to realize that Rishikesh is tiny. So I am known by sight, and most people know my name. I’m pretty much the only black girl in town. He starts off by saying that he wants to get to know me and he would love to hang out and such. Really tame, right? Then, I leave for a few minutes to go to the washroom, leaving my laptop and his messages unanswered. I come back. I see a long line of messages. You are a prostitute, you don’t deserve someone like me, you are just a good-for-nothing slut roaming around the world, and so on. That escalated quickly, I think to myself. He’s just gone insane. I don’t even know him and he’s told me what I am in so many words. I’m so confused.”
Are women travelling by themselves in India, or women in general in India save from such nonsense? Does it mean that we should just hang out in groups, and hide in our rooms for the rest of our lives? Or move to another country in the world (like Thailand) where we wouldn’t have to deal with such assholes. I want to feel sorry for them. Obviously, they are repressed as hell. But is that any reason to insult a single girl travelling on her own?
Stories tell us so much. Instead of answering questions, they bring up more and more questions in our mind. We are filled with the desire to know more about the individual. Did he have a happy childhood? Is he in love? Or is he just horny? Etc. We are curious and we just want to know more and more.
The never-ending story of life.
“I’m sitting at Ombra Cafe. It’s a beautiful day outside, and I’m reading this awesome book. I got my strawberry smoothie, and I have a nice little cozy spot of my own on the couch to sit and read ‘The Fountainhead’ by Ayn Rand (highly recommended — I am in love with Howard Roark). I notice a couple sitting on a table a little beyond me. The Italian man is one of the most arrogant, condescending assholes I have had the displeasure of eavesdropping on, in a while. He was being rude to his girlfriend. So much so, that she had to lower her voice, look around, and say, “You are being so condescending. Why do you do that?” She was genuinely confused and hurt. Obviously she loved him a lot. She then complained of being hungry. I would love a croissant. 20 minutes later, he orders a croissant with butter. Oh, I think, he’s making amends, by getting her a croissant. A few minutes later, I hear her complaining — You didn’t even offer me a single bite of that croissant. I am indignant on her behalf. What the hell, dude? You knew she was hungry!! At that point, I put on my headphones, leaving them to deal with their relationship on their own. I’m sure they know what they are doing. And if they don’t, then it’s not my responsibility to get angry on her behalf.”
Even now, just telling the story, makes my palms sweaty and my heart beat race. Damn foolish inconsiderate men! And damn the women who love them unconditionally.
That’s how powerful a story can be. It can wrap us around its tiny finger and we just dance to its beat. We would do anything it tells us to do. We are ready to be its slaves. Please pick me, pick me, pick me, we say.
One last one for the road.
“I am at a table with other digital nomad girls, having a quick lunch and saying hello. One of them pipes up with a story about farangs (foreigners) who come to Chiang Mai, specifically male, impregnate innocent, young, beautiful Thai women, or sometimes Burmese or tribal women with no papers, and leave them and the baby to fend for themselves. “It’s becoming more and more common nowadays.” She said, with regret and anger in her voice. All of us on the table are indignant on the behalf of all of those girls, and we think to ourselves, not for the first time, that the world would be nicer place without a lot of those kind of men.”
I look at the women on the table. I realize the story didn’t just hurt them for all of the girls who were left behind with nothing, but also because of all of the times they had to deal with men just like that and they were hurt by them.
A story can tell you so much more than anything else, because there isn’t just the layer external, but so many other layers to it. It intertwines around and around you, until you cannot help but integrate it into your cells and psyche.
Let go. Let the story come within you and become part of you. It is meant to happen. It is supposed to happen. It’s alright.
Stories are so powerful. Any stories of your own that you would like to share with us, don’t hesitate, do it now.
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