Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in a 1968 speech where he reflects upon the Civil Rights Movement, states, "In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends."
O doutor Martin Luther King Jr., no discurso de 1968 no cal reflexiona sobre o Movemento polos Dereitos Civís, afirma, "Á fin, lembraremos non as palabras dos nosos enemigos senón o silencio dos nosos amigos".
As a teacher, I've internalized this message. Every day, all around us, we see the consequences of silence manifest themselves in the form of discrimination, violence, genocide and war. In the classroom, I challenge my students to explore the silences in their own lives through poetry. We work together to fill those spaces, to recognize them, to name them, to understand that they don't have to be sources of shame. In an effort to create a culture within my classroom where students feel safe sharing the intimacies of their own silences, I have four core principles posted on the board that sits in the front of my class, which every student signs at the beginning of the year: read critically, write consciously, speak clearly, tell your truth.
Como mestre, interiorizei esta mensaxe. Todos os días, ó noso redor vemos que as consecuencias do silencio se manifestan en forma de discriminación, violencia, xenocidio e guerra. Nas aulas, reto ós meus alumnos a que exploren os silencios nas súas propias vidas a través da poesía. Traballamos xuntos para cubrir eses ocos, para recoñecelos, para nomealos, para comprender que non teñen que ser fonte de vergoña. Nun esforzo por crear unha cultura nas aulas onde os alumnos se sintan seguros de compartir a intimidade do seu propio silencio, puxen 4 principios chave no encerado que hai na fronte da aula, onde todos os alumnos firman ó comezar o curso: le con crítica, escribe con conciencia, fala claramente, conta a túa verdade.
And I find myself thinking a lot about that last point, tell your truth. And I realized that if I was going to ask my students to speak up, I was going to have to tell my truth and be honest with them about the times where I failed to do so.
E vexo que penso moito no derradeiro punto, conta a túa verdade. E doume de conta de que se lles pedira ós meus alumnos que se pronunciasen eu mesmo tería que contar a miña verdade e ser sincero con eles sobre os momentos nos que non o fixen.
So I tell them that growing up, as a kid in a Catholic family in New Orleans, during Lent I was always taught that the most meaningful thing one could do was to give something up, sacrifice something you typically indulge in to prove to God you understand his sanctity. I've given up soda, McDonald's, French fries, French kisses, and everything in between. But one year, I gave up speaking. I figured the most valuable thing I could sacrifice was my own voice, but it was like I hadn't realized that I had given that up a long time ago. I spent so much of my life telling people the things they wanted to hear instead of the things they needed to, told myself I wasn't meant to be anyone's conscience because I still had to figure out being my own, so sometimes I just wouldn't say anything, appeasing ignorance with my silence, unaware that validation doesn't need words to endorse its existence. When Christian was beat up for being gay, I put my hands in my pocket and walked with my head down as if I didn't even notice. I couldn't use my locker for weeks because the bolt on the lock reminded me of the one I had put on my lips when the homeless man on the corner looked at me with eyes up merely searching for an affirmation that he was worth seeing. I was more concerned with touching the screen on my Apple than actually feeding him one. When the woman at the fundraising gala said "I'm so proud of you. It must be so hard teaching those poor, unintelligent kids," I bit my lip, because apparently we needed her money more than my students needed their dignity.
Por iso lles digo que ao medrar, como fillo dunha familia católica en Nova Orleans, aprendes na Coresma que o mellor que podemos facer é renunciar a algo, sacrificar algo que normalmente te permites para demostrarlle a Deus que comprendes a súa santidade. Renunciei ós refrescos, a McDdonald's, ás patacas fritidas, ós bicos con lingua, e todo o que vai con eles. Mais un ano, renunciei a falar. Deime de conta de que o máis valioso que podía sacrificar era a miña propia voz, mais foi coma se non me percatara de que xa había tempo que renunciara a iso. Estiven tantos anos da miña vida dicíndolle á xente o que querían oír en vez do que precisaban oír, que me convencín de que o meu non era ser a conciencia de ninguén porque aínda tiña pendente atopar a miña propia conciencia, por iso ás veces non dicía nada, calmando a ignorancia co meu silencio, sen saber que a aprobación non precisa de palabras para avalar a súa existencia. Cando Christian recibiu unha tunda por ser gai, metín a man no peto e camiñei coa cabeza baixa coma se non fora consciente. Non usei o meu armario da escola en semanas porque o cadeado lembrábame o que eu tiña na boca cando o sen teito da esquina me mirou cos ollos ben abertos en busca da confirmación de que merecía ser visto. Preocupábame máis enredar co meu móbil da mazá que darlle unha a el para comer. Cando a muller da gala para recadar fondos me dixo "Estou orgullosa de ti. Ten que ser complicado ensinar a eses rapaces pobres, ignorantes", mordín o labio porque pensei que precisabamos dos seus cartos máis do que os meus alumnos precisaban de dignidade.
We spend so much time listening to the things people are saying that we rarely pay attention to the things they don't. Silence is the residue of fear. It is feeling your flaws gut-wrench guillotine your tongue. It is the air retreating from your chest because it doesn't feel safe in your lungs. Silence is Rwandan genocide. Silence is Katrina. It is what you hear when there aren't enough body bags left. It is the sound after the noose is already tied. It is charring. It is chains. It is privilege. It is pain. There is no time to pick your battles when your battles have already picked you.
Pasamos tanto tempo escoitando as cousas que di a xente que case nunca atendemos ás que non din. O silencio é o residuo do medo. É notar como os teus defectos che cortan a lingua. É o aire saíndo do teu peito porque non se sente seguro nos pulmóns. O silencio é o xenocidio de Ruanda. O silencio é o Katrina. É o que se escoita cando non quedan suficientes bolsas de cadáveres. É o son da forca cando se amarra. É carbonizar. Son as cadeas. É privilexio. É dor. Non hai tempo para escoller loitas cando estas xa te elixiron a ti.
I will not let silence wrap itself around my indecision. I will tell Christian that he is a lion, a sanctuary of bravery and brilliance. I will ask that homeless man what his name is and how his day was, because sometimes all people want to be is human. I will tell that woman that my students can talk about transcendentalism like their last name was Thoreau, and just because you watched one episode of "The Wire" doesn't mean you know anything about my kids. So this year, instead of giving something up, I will live every day as if there were a microphone tucked under my tongue, a stage on the underside of my inhibition. Because who has to have a soapbox when all you've ever needed is your voice?
Non permitirei que o silencio envolva a miña indecisión. Direille a Christian que é un león, un santuario de coraxe e excelencia. Preguntareille polo seu nome a ese home sen teito e como lle foi o dia, porque ás veces todo o que a xente desexa ser é humana. Direille a esa muller que os meus alumnos poden falar do trascendentalismo coma se fosen Thoreau, e só porque viras un episodio de "The Wire" non quere dicir que saibas algo dos meus rapaces. Por iso este ano, en vez de renunciar a algo, vivirei cada día coma se tivera un micrófono debaixo da lingua, nun escenario no fondo da miña inhibición. Porque, quen precisa dunha tarima cando o que se necesita é a voz?
Thank you.
Grazas.
(Applause)
(Aplauso)