FIVE – nǵh – 五

FIVE – nǵh – 五

Five hands pressed against a window on a bus

Five unremarkable hands

Which is remarkable

Work-stained hands

Soft office hands

Surgeons’ hands

Students’ hands

School children’s’ hands

An innocent action to steady a travelling body?

Perhaps. . .

Five digits spread across the cold clear surface

Protesting, shouting silently

Other bodies have already had their five vital organs pommelled

Their five senses deadened

Their five levels of consciousness assaulted

Leaving five tears of being

Which flow unchecked

Washing in the five stages of fear

Five stages of impunity for torture

Five famous last words before death

“I am going to die”

Leaving those who survive with the five stages of grief

Five angels stand on the head of a pin

Changes have already started and more are to come in the following days and weeks

These five unremarkable hands that press upon the glass

That stretch and ache

Remind us all as their palms shout

“Five demands not one less”

©Lucy Chau Lai-Tuen

Five hands pressed against a

window on a bus

Five unremarkable hands

Which is remarkable

Work-stained hands

Soft office hands

Surgeons’ hands

Students’ hands

School children’s’ hands

Does it really matter whose hands?

An innocent action to steady a travelling body?

Perhaps. . .

Five digits spread across the cold clear surface

Protesting, shouting silently

Other bodies have already had their five vital organs pommelled

Their five senses deadened

Their five levels of consciousness assaulted

Leaving five tears of being

Which flow unchecked

Leaving the fear in five stages

Five stages of impunity for torture

Five famous last words before death

“I am going to die”

Those who survive grapple with the five stages of grief

These five unremarkable hands that press upon the glass

That stretch and ache

Remind us all, as their palms shout

“Five demands not one less”

©Lucy Chau Lai-Tuen

inspired by the photograph taken by @ezracheungtoto

Thoughts from Budapest

It is surreal to be sitting her in Budapest, a little way from the Basilica watching the new Chinese elite pose for photographs, with not a care in the world. There is an endless stream of them, literally, going both ways, to and from the Basilica. These contemporary decendants of Chinese Communism have exchanged Mao suites for Pravda, Gucci and Armani. Whilst still seeing “China” as one country. But it appears to me that only one fifth of the country’s people are able to enjoy this new found wealth.

I am viewed with curiosity. Not by the Hungarians. I try where possible to say in broken Hungarian, hello, thank you and please, which is appreciated. No I’m viewed with suspicion and wary caution by the Chinese tourists. They know, immediately there eyes focus on me, I am not like them. I am not Chinese as they are. I am not mainland Chinese. I am not Taiwanese. I am not Asian-American, I’m not even Hong Kong – Chinese. Though my t-shirt further gives them cause for confusion and concern. My t-shirt says Hong-Kong The World Premiere Sevens Event. I see a flicker of doubt in some of their eyes. Were their initial instincts wrong? They collectively frown. They can spot a fellow “country man” a mile off. Just as I can spot someone in the UK and know whether they are English, British, European, Chinese, Japanese or from Hong Kong. But for me it’s just an observation. I clock it and move on. But for these Chinese tourists who scrutinise me it is an inquisition. They want to question me, but they do not. Instead their eyes linger on me just a little too long.
But I don’t care. Here in Europe, I feel safe, for the time being.

With all that is going on in the world, it seems wrong for this un adulterated display of hedonism to be coming from such an unlikely source, Chinese tourists. It feels like they are playing a collective fiddle as their Rome burns.

And what’s my excuse? To be sitting here watching them, watching me? Well I’m actually working. Filming, so I’m doing more sitting around than anything else – for the time being.

And all the while I’m in Budapest. This soulful, beautiful city. But beneath its grand and wonderful architecture, there is a melancholia. Formed from the city’s past, its tragedies, its conflicts non of which have been forgotten.

It all seems so wrong. Being in the position that I am, having the freedoms that I have, that I more often than not take for granted.
Sipping Madagascan hot chocolate writing a blog entry that in other regions of the would have me at best “reprimanded” at worst incarcerated.


Me, My DNA and I

I realise that I haven’t blogged in a while, and it’s not for lack of things happening, more that too much has/is happening.

I recently had my DNA tested. I was one of a dozen or so “foundlings” that were brought together for the TV program Long Lost Family special :Born Without A Trace

Screenshot 2019-03-20 at 06.39.47

My case wasn’t chosen by the TV program. But what I did get was my DNA results and it’s fascinating.

Screenshot 2019-03-20 at 06.43.25

I’m 97% Chinese and 3% Dai (Tai) I also have some small genetic connections to Trinidad Polynesia, the Philippines, Vietnam and Laos.

I’ve gone from being a complete non -entity to actually knowing where I am physically from. Knowing that I am related to at least twelve other people spread across the globe. I’m no longer alone. I will of course always be a foundling, an orphan and a recovering transracial adoptee. But one that has distant relatives. In time who knows I might even be able to trace my mother and father.

For those of you who know the day, time and place that you born into. Who can visit the graves of your departed loved ones, who can look at a photograph of your Mother or can point on a map and say that’s where grandad was born, that’s where aunty x came from in 1922. You have no idea what it is like to be a person with literally nothing under your feet .Nothing behind your back supporting you, giving you a reference point for who you are. As a foundling you look into a mirror that reflects nothing back to you it just an empty black hole. Foundlings are like aliens from outer space we have nothing other than the skin that we stand up in.

Plus side is, the next time some smart Alec tries to bring me down by stating I’m “not really Chinese,” I can correct them because I know that DNA wise 97% of it is Chinese and 3% is Dai (Tai)!

 

Bechdel Theatre

A piece of embedded criticism.

Just before I sit to write this I see that at 8:04am this morning I received an email from My Heritage DNA – Congratulations Pippa your DNA results are now ready. I pause. Fuck. Instead of opening the email, I open this word document.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what this role of embedded critic means and how I feel incredibly biased because I’ve been excited about i will still be whole (when you rip me in half) since I saw it was announced on twitter. And I know why I felt so invested so early on: Representation.

It’s a word that I find myself repeating so much (at Bechdel Theatre it’s one of the words we use to describe the aims of our podcast, we chat about gender and representation). However, it’s a word that has become so ingrained in my vernacular, repeated…

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