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."
Dr. Martin Luther King mlađi, u govoru iz 1968. u kojemu razmišlja o Pokretu za građanska prava, izjavljuje: "Na koncu, pamtit ćemo ne samo riječi naših neprijatelja, već i šutnju naših prijatelja."
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.
Kao učitelj, ovu sam poruku razumio i usvojio. Svakodnevno i posvuda vidimo kako se posljedice šutnje manifestiraju u obliku diskriminacije, nasilja, genocida i rata. U učionici, potičem svoje učenike da istražuju šutnje u svojim životima kroz poeziju. Zajedno nastojimo ispuniti praznine, prepoznati ih, imenovati ih, shvatiti da one ne trebaju biti izvor srama. U nastojanju da stvorim kulturu u svojoj učionici, gdje će se učenici osjećati sigurnima dijeliti intimu vlastitih svojih šutnji, četiri sam načela istaknuo na ploču koja stoji pred mojim učenicima, a što svatko od njih potpiše na početku školske godine: Čitaj kritički. Piši svjesno. Govori jasno. Reci svoju istinu.
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.
Sam se često uhvatim u razmišljanju o ovom posljednjem: "Reci svoju istinu". Shvatio sam da ću, budem li od svojih učenika zahtijevao da govore, i sam morati govoriti svoju istinu, i iskreno s njima dijeliti one trenutke kad u tome nisam uspijevao.
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.
Stoga im govorim kako su mi, kao djetetu u katoličkoj obitelji u New Orleansu, tijekom korizme uvijek govorili da je najznačajnije što se može učiniti: odreći se nečega, žrtvovati nešto čemu se inače prepuštate kako biste dokazali Bogu da razumijete njegovu svetost. Odricao sam se mineralne vode, hamburgera, pomfrita, ljubljenja, i svega ostaloga. Ali, jedne godine odrekao sam se govorenja. Mislio sam da bi najvrednije što bih mogao žrtvovati bio moj glas, ali kao da nisam shvaćao da sam se davno toga bio odrekao. Toliko sam svoga života potratio govoreći drugima ono što su željeli čuti umjesto onoga što su trebali. Govorio sam sebi da ne bih trebao biti ničija savjest jer sam još trebao naći načina to biti sam sebi. Tako da ponekad ne bih rekao ništa, popuštajući nečijem neznanju svojom šutnjom, nesvjestan da potvrđivanju nisu potrebne riječi da bi se dogodilo. Kad su Christiana tukli jer je bio gej, zavukao sam ruke u džepove i hodao pognute glave praveći se da ne primjećujem. Tjednima nisam koristio svoj ormarić zbog zasuna na bravi, koji me podsjećao na onoga na mojim usnama kad je beskućnik na uglu pogledom tražio potvrdu kako je on vrijedan moga pogleda. Bio sam zaokupljeniji ekranom svoga Applea umjesto da ga nahranim jabukom. Kad je žena na donatorskoj svečanosti rekla: "Ponosim se tobom. Sigurno je teško poučavati tu jadnu, neinteligentnu djecu.", ugrizao sam se za usnu jer smo očito trebali njen novac više no što su učenici trebali dostojanstvo.
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.
Toliko vremena provodimo slušajući što drugi ljudi govore, a propuštamo obratiti pažnju na ono što prešućuju. Šutnja je talog što ga ostavlja strah. To je osjećaj da vaše mane mučki giljotiniraju vaš jezik. To je zrak koji se povlači iz vaših prsa jer se ne osjeća sigurnim u vašim plućima. Šutnja je genocid u Ruandi. Šutnja je Katrina. To je ono što čujete kad više nema dovoljno vreća za leševe. To je zvuk koji se čuje pošto se omča stegne. To je karbonizacija. To su okovi. To su povlastice. To je bol. Nema vremena da odabirete svoje bitke kad su one već odabrale vas.
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?
Neću dopustiti šutnji da se omota oko moje neodlučnosti. Reći ću Christianu da je on lav, hram odvažnosti i blistavosti. Upitat ću onog beskućnika kako mu je ime, i kakav mu je bio dan, jer katkad je 'čovjek' sve što ljudi žele biti. Reći ću toj ženi da moji učenici mogu govoriti o transcendentalizmu kao da se prezivaju Thoreau, i da to što je pogledala jednu epizodu "Žice" ne znači da išta zna o mojim klincima. Stoga ove godine, umjesto da se nečega odreknem, živjet ću svaki dan kao da mi je mikrofon zamotan pod jezikom, na pozornici u podnožju moje inhibicije. Jer, kome treba tribina kad je sve što ste oduvijek trebali - vaš glas.
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Pljesak)