“In a fractured age, when cynicism is god, here is a possible heresy: we live by stories, we also live in them.
One way or another we are living the stories that are planted in us early or along the way, or we are also living the stories we planted — knowingly or unknowingly — in ourselves.
We live stories that either give our lives meaning or negate it with meaninglessness. If we change the stories we live by, quite possibly we change our lives.”
― Ben Okri
In February 2015, The New York Times published the story of Sophie Serrano, a Frenchwoman who, at the age of 18, gave birth to a baby girl named Manon. The baby suffered from jaundice (which gives a yellowish pigmentation to the skin), so it took a little while for Sophie to hold Manon in her arms, as the newborn had to spend her first four days under artificial light.
When Sophie could finally reunite with her baby, she was quite surprised by Manon’s full head of glossy hair, but trusted the medical team’s advice not to worry. A year later, she was baffled by how her daughter’s hair had grown frizzy and her olive-toned skin was darker than hers or her partner’s.
Despite her partner’s suspicion, Sophie loved Manon as any mother would. Ten years later, a paternity test showed that indeed neither Sophie nor her partner was Manon’s biological parent. A baby switch had occurred. Apparently, only one of the two babies put in the same cradle was wearing an identification tag, which “may have fallen off”.
A court case ordered the clinic in Cannes to pay a total of $2.1 million dollars to repair “an invaluable damage”.
But that’s not how the story ends.
Sophie’s love for Manon only grew stronger when she found out that her little girl was not her biological daughter. Despite several meetings arranged between the two families, they decided they wanted to keep their non-biological children.
As meaning-seeking beings, we’re not only social animals who happen to use language. We create stories. We wholeheartedly believe in them. We share them. That’s what we do with language. That’s how we make sense of the world.
The storylines we follow — knowingly or unknowingly — are the backbone that gives meaning to our lives. It’s based upon stories that we separate the wheat from the chaff. Stories are imprints of humankind.
If it weren’t for stories, how could we tell what’s good, true and beautiful? How about love, justice and integrity? What we value, what we despise, what we welcome and what we dream of becoming, are all underpinned by the stories we tell ourselves.
What is most interesting about stories, though, is those we don’t see as such. The underlying narratives we can’t seem to notice. As fish in water, we are so oblivious to some of the stories we live by that we can’t even begin to tell how drenched we are.
The point worth noticing here is that "we take for granted that the world we experience is just the way things are”, as American philosopher and Zen teacher, David Loy, observed.
However, there’s one thing that makes stories stand out: contrast.
And one way stories are given contrast is by exposing them to a variety of angles. That’s when they are imbued with texture, made wholesome with nuance. That’s when stories are coloured with life.
When we experiment changes in perspective, however much subtle, stories gradually come out. Until we can finally notice them.
Having grown up in São Paulo, contrast is an ever-present feature.
It’s not uncommon at all to see shaveless men in their ripped camping tents on Paulista Avenue, encroached by the front door of a major bank. Beggars kneeling down for the attention of suited-up “professionals” scurrying along, cowardly avoiding being too much noticed. Hippies using every sales tactic in the book to coax all kinds of salespeople into their newest, indispensable gadget.
And then, there are the kids… with absolutely nothing to do with this shitshow. Never asked to be there. Yet, they are the ones who cop the most. There must be few things in life more heartbreaking than the bafflement of a homeless kid watching another wealthier kid passing by holding a balloon, an ice cream or any other toy in their little hands. As if they were trying to say, “THERE! That’s where I should be. That’s what I should be doing”.
The thing is, even when there is a lot of contrast around us, but we are at sea in the oceanic selfishness of our tiny little bubbles, the default response can also be obliviousness, or worse yet, indifference.
I lost count of how many times I walked past all these brothers and sisters (and their kids), and didn’t treat them as such. Been there, done that. And am not proud of it.
The difference now is that I can't seem to not wonder why (and how) many of the ruthless circumstances that paulistanos encounter on a daily basis become just “another day in town”.
Why does it have to be like that? Perhaps it’s the sense of powerlessness that turns people into zombies.
The helplessness after so many attempts to get rid of the shackles of our very own idiosyncrasies. That wistful longing for communion with something larger than us. The bewildering loneliness of being lost in the crowd.
Perhaps it's the existential dread of not being able to climb ourselves out of the societal boxes we are (and let be) meticulously put into. We want to feel part of. We want to belong. But we also want freedom. Who doesn't get the smallest inkling of excitement when they hear the idea of being "captain of our their own souls"?
I don't know.
But I feel it doesn’t have to be like that.
When I'm not caught up in the entanglements of my own mind, I have glimpses of a different story. I can see how the overpromise of a nine-to-five stint can become the most delirious form of escapism.
I can see how the system I'm part of is so merciless that I can barely keep my head above water. While many, many more seem to have already drowned, showing no vital signs to be resuscitated. So what’s left?
We hide to survive. Like rabbits caught in the headlights, we either freeze or dash into the closest burrow we can find.
We hide from life around us, but most of all, we hide from life within.
In hiding, we become invisible to each other. And soulless to ourselves.
Individually self-centered. Separate from all forms of life.
It’s "me against the world". It's "Us vs Them". And this sense of separateness of the self is what seems to be our foundational story. Where it all begins.
But that's a whole other story...
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