I'm a writer and a journalist, and I'm also an insanely curious person, so in 22 years as a journalist, I've learned how to do a lot of new things. And three years ago, one of the things I learned how to do was to become invisible. I became one of the working homeless. I quit my job as a newspaper editor after my father died in February of that same year, and decided to travel. His death hit me pretty hard. And there were a lot of things that I wanted to feel and deal with while I was doing that.
Une jam nje shkrimtare dhe gazetare, por jam gjithashtu nje person kurioz i cmendur, keshtu qe ne 22 vitet e mia si gazetare, kam mesuar sesi te bej nje sere gjerash. Dhe para tre viteve, nje nga gjerat qe mesova sesi ta bej eshte te kthehesha e padukshme. Une u ktheva ne nje nga punetoret e pastrehe. Une lashe punen time si redaktore gazete pas vdekjes se tim ati ne shkurtin e te njejtit vit, dhe vendosa te udhetoj. Vdekja e tij me preku shume. Dhe kishte shume gjera qe une doja te ndjeja dhe te merresha nderkohe qe une po e beja kete.
I've camped my whole life. And I decided that living in a van for a year to do this would be like one long camping trip. So I packed my cat, my Rottweiler and my camping gear into a 1975 Chevy van, and drove off into the sunset, having fully failed to realize three critical things. One: that society equates living in a permanent structure, even a shack, with having value as a person. Two: I failed to realize how quickly the negative perceptions of other people can impact our reality, if we let it. Three: I failed to realize that homelessness is an attitude, not a lifestyle.
Une kam ngritur kampe gjate gjithe jetes time. Ndaj une vendosa qe te jetoja ne nje furgon per nje vit do te ishte si nje udhetim i gjate kampimi. Keshtu qe paketova macen time, Rottweilerin tim dhe veshjen time te kampingut ne nje furgon Chevy te 1975, dhe e drejtova drejt muzgut, duke deshtuar plotesisht ne realizimin e tri gjerave kritike. Se pari: barazine shoqerore e te jetuarit ne nje strukture te perhershme, madje edhe ne nje kasolle, dhe me te paturit vlera si person. Se dyti: Une deshtova ne realizimin sesa shpejte perceptimi negativ i personave te tjere mund te kete ndikim ne realitetin tone, nese ne e lejojme kete. Se treti: Une deshtova ne realizimin se te qenit i pastrehe eshte nje qendrim, dhe jo nje menyre jetese.
At first, living in the van was great. I showered in campgrounds. I ate out regularly. And I had time to relax and to grieve. But then the anger and the depression about my father's death set in. My freelance job ended. And I had to get a full-time job to pay the bills. What had been a really mild spring turned into a miserably hot summer. And it became impossible to park anywhere -- (Laughs) -- without being very obvious that I had a cat and a dog with me, and it was really hot. The cat came and went through an open window in the van. The doggy went into doggy day care. And I sweated. Whenever I could, I used employee showers in office buildings and truck stops. Or I washed up in public rest rooms.
Ne fillim, te jetuarit ne furgon ishte shume mire. Une lahesha ne vendim e kampingut. Une haja rregullisht. Dhe une kisha kohe per te pushuar dhe per tu brengosur. Por kur zemerimi dhe depresioni per vdekjen e babait tim u largua. Puna ime e pavarur mori fund. Dhe une duhej te filloja nje pune me kohe te plote per te paguar faturat. Ajo cfare kishte qene nje pranvere e bute u shnderrua ne nje vere te nxehte te mjere. Dhe ishte e pamundur qe te parkoje kudo -- (Qeshje) -- pa qene shume e dukshme dhe une kisha nje qen dhe nje mace me vete, dhe ishte me te vertete shume nxehte. Macja erdhi dhe shkoi neper nje dritare te hapur te furgonit. Qeni shkoi ne kujdesin e qenve. Dhe une djersita. Kudo qe te mundesha, une perdorja dushin e punonjesve ne ndertesat e zyrave dhe ne ndalesat e kamioneve. Ose lahesha ne banjot publike.
Nighttime temperatures in the van rarely dropped below 80 degrees Fahrenheit, making it difficult or impossible to sleep. Food rotted in the heat. Ice in my ice chest melted within hours, and it was pretty miserable. I couldn't afford to find an apartment, or couldn't afford an apartment that would allow me to have the Rottweiler and the cat. And I refused to give them up, so I stayed in the van. And when the heat made me too sick to walk the 50 feet to the public restroom outside my van at night, I used a bucket and a trash bag as a toilet.
Temperaturat ne furgon gjate nates rralle uleshin nen 80 grade Fahrenheit, duke e bere te veshtire ose te pamundur per te fjetur. Ushqimi prishej ne nxehtesi akulli ne kraharorin tim te akullt shkrihej brenda oreve, dhe kjo ishte shume e mjerueshme. Une smund ta perballoje per te gjetur nje apartament, ose smund te perballoja nje apartament qe mund te me lejonte mua qe te kisha Rottweilerin dhe macen. Dhe une refuzova qe ti lija ato, keshtu qe qendrova ne furgon. Dhe kur nxehtesia me semuri mua shume saqe eca 50 metra jashte furgonit tim per te shkuar ne banjot publike gjate nates. Une perdorja nje kove dhe nje qese plehrash si banjo.
When winter weather set in, the temperatures dropped below freezing. And they stayed there. And I faced a whole new set of challenges. I parked a different place every night so I would avoid being noticed and hassled by the police. I didn't always succeed.
Kur dimri erdhi, temperaturat u ulen nen zero. Dhe ato qendruan aty. Dhe une u perballa me nje sere sfidash te reja. Une parkoja ne vende te ndryshme cdo nate ne menyre qe te shmangesha pa u vene re dhe pa bere debat me policet. Por jo gjithnje kish sukses.
But I felt out of control of my life. And I don't know when or how it happened, but the speed at which I went from being a talented writer and journalist to being a homeless woman, living in a van, took my breath away. I hadn't changed. My I.Q. hadn't dropped. My talent, my integrity, my values, everything about me remained the same. But I had changed somehow. I spiraled deeper and deeper into a depression.
Por une ndihesha sikur isha jashte kontrollit te jetes time. Dhe une nuk e di se kur ose sesi ndodhi, por shpejtesia me te cilen kalova nga nje shkrimtare dhe gazetare e talentuar ne nje grua te pastrehe, duke jetuar ne furgon, me mori frymen. Une nuk kisha ndryshuar. Koeficinti i inteligjencen time nuk kishte rene. Talenti im, integriteti im, vlerat e mia, cdo gje rreth meje mbeti e njejte. Por une nje nje fare menyre kam ndryshuar. Une kalova thelle e me thelle ne depresion.
And eventually someone referred me to a homeless health clinic. And I went. I hadn't bathed in three days. I was as smelly and as depressed as anyone in line. I just wasn't drunk or high. And when several of the homeless men realized that, including a former university professor, they said, "You aren't homeless. Why are you really here?" Other homeless people didn't see me as homeless, but I did. Then the professor listened to my story and he said, "You have a job. You have hope. The real homeless don't have hope." A reaction to the medication the clinic gave me for my depression left me suicidal. And I remember thinking, "If I killed myself, no one would notice."
Dhe dikush me drejtoi mua ne nje klinike shendeti per te pastrehet. Dhe une shkova. Une kisha tre dite qe nuk isha lare. Une mbaja ere dhe isha me e depresionuar se asnje tjeter ne rradhe. Une vetem nuk isha e dehur ose e pire. Dhe kur qindra burra te pastrehe arriten ta kuptonin, duke perfshire edhe nje ish proferor universiteti thane, "Ti nuk je nje e pastrehe. Pse ndodhesh ti ketu?" Te pastrehet e tjere nuk me shihnin mua si nje te pastrehe, por une po. Me pas profesori degjoi historine time dhe tha, "Ti ke nje pune. Ti ke shprese. Te pastrehet e vertete nuk kane shprese." Reagimi ndaj ilaceve qe klinika me dha mua per depresionin me conte mua ne vetvrasje. Dhe une mbaj mend qe mendoja, "Nese une vras veten, asnje nuk do ta ve re."
A friend told me, shortly after that, that she had heard that Tim Russert, a nationally renowned journalist, had been talking about me on national T.V. An essay I'd written about my father, the year before he died, was in Tim's new book. And he was doing the talk show circuit. And he was talking about my writing. And when I realized that Tim Russert, former moderator of "Meet the Press," was talking about my writing, while I was living in a van in a Wal-Mart parking lot, I started laughing. You should too. (Laughter)
Nje mikja ime, pak pas kesaj me tha qe, kish degjuar qe Tim Russert, nje gazetar i njohur ne shkalle kombetare, kish qene duke folur rreth meje ne TV kombetare. Nje ese qe une kisha shkruar per babain tim, vitin para se ai te vdiste, ndodhej ne librin e ri te Tim. Dhe ai ishte duke paraqitur librin e tij. Dhe ai ishte duke folur rreth shkrimit tim. Dhe kur kuptova qe Tim Russert, ish moderatori i "Meet the Press," ishte duke folur rreth shkrimit tim, kur une isha duke jetuar ne furgon ne parkingun e Wal - Mart, une fillova te qesh. Ju duhet gjithashtu te qeshni. (Qeshje)
I started laughing because it got to the point where, was I a writer, or was I a homeless woman? So I went in the bookstore. And I found Tim's book. And I stood there. And I reread my essay. And I cried. Because I was a writer. I was a writer. Shortly after that I moved back to Tennessee. I alternated between living in a van and couch surfing with friends. And I started writing again. By the summer of the following year I was a working journalist. I was winning awards. I was living in my own apartment. I was no longer homeless. And I was no longer invisible.
Une fillova te qesh sepse arrita ne piken per te kuptuar, nese une isha nje shkrimtare apo isha nje grua e pastrehe? Keshtu qe une shkova ne librari. Dhe gjeta librin e Timit. Dhe qendrova atje. Dhe rilexova esene time. Dhe fillova te qaj. Sepse une isha nje shkrimtare. Une isha nje shkrimtare. Pak pas kesaj une u riktheva ne Tennessee. Une u alternova midis te jetuarit ne furgon dhe qendrimit ne divan me miqte. Dhe fillova te rishkruaj. Deri ne veren e vitit te ardhshem une isha nje gazetare. Une isha duke fituar cmime. Une isha duke jetuar ne apartamentin tim. Une nuk isha me nje e pastrehe. Dhe nuk isha me nje e padukshme.
Thousands of people work full and part-time jobs, and live in their cars. But society continues to stigmatize and criminalize living in your vehicle or on the streets. So the homeless, the working homeless, primarily remain invisible. But if you ever meet one, engage them, encourage them, and offer them hope. The human spirit can overcome anything if it has hope. And I'm not here to be the poster girl for the homeless. I'm not here to encourage you to give money to the next panhandler you meet. But I am here to tell you that, based on my experience, people are not where they live, where they sleep, or what their life situation is at any given time. Three years ago I was living in a van in a Wal-Mart parking lot, and today I'm speaking at TED. Hope always, always finds a way. Thank you. (Applause)
Mijera njerez punojne me kohe te plote ose te pjesshme, dhe jetojne ne makinat e tyre. Por shoqeria vazhdon ta stigmatizoje dhe kriminalizoje te jetuarin ne makinen tende ose ne rruge. Keshtu qe te pastrehet, punonjesit e pastrehe, mbeten te padukshem. Por nese ndonjehere do te takoni ndonjerin prej tyre, aktivizojini ato, kurajohini ato dhe jepini atyre shprese. Shpirti i njeriut mund te kaloje cdo gje nese ju jep atyre shprese. Dhe une nuk jam ketu per te qene vajza model e te pastreheve. Nuk jam ketu per t'ju kurajuar per te dhene para te pastrehit te pare qe takoni. Por jam ketu per t'ju thene qe, bazuar ne eksperiencen time njerezit nuk jane ato ku ato jetojne, ku ato flene, ose ku gjendja e tyre jetesore eshte ne cfaredo kohe. Tre vjet me pare une isha duke jetuar ne nje furgon ne parkingn e Wal-Mart, dhe sot une jam duke folur tek TED. Shpresoni gjithmone, gjithmone gjen nje menyre. Ju faleminderit. (Duartrokitje)