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 mlajši je v svojem govoru leta 1968, v razmišljanju o ameriškem gibanju za državljanske pravice, izjavil: "Na koncu se ne bomo spominjali besed naših sovražnikov, temveč tišine naših prijateljev." Kot učitelj sem ponotranjil to sporočilo.
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.
Vsak dan lahko okoli nas spremljamo posledice tišine, ki se kažejo v obliki diskriminacije, nasilja, genocida in vojne. V učilnici pozivam svoje učence, naj raziskujejo tišino svojih življenj skozi poezijo. Skupaj skušamo zapolniti te vrzeli, jih prepoznati, poimenovati, razumeti, da ne rabijo biti izvori sramu. Da bi v svoji učilnici ustvaril okolje, kjer bi učenci lahko varno z ostalimi delili zaupnosti svoje lastne tišine, imam na tabli štiri bistvena načela, ki so vidna celotnemu razredu, kjer se vsak učenec na začetku leta podpiše: beri kritično, piši vestno, govori jasno, povej svojo resnico. Sam pogosto razmišljam o tem zadnjem načelu - povej svojo resnico.
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.
Spoznal sem, da če želim od svojih učencev, da spregovorijo, potem moram tudi jaz povedati svojo resnico, biti iskren z njimi in jim povedati o časih, ko mi to ni uspelo.
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.
Tako sem jim povedal, da so me med odraščanjem v New Orleansu, kot člana katoliške družine v postnem času, vedno učili, da je najpomembneje kar človek lahko naredi, da se nečemu odreče. Žrtvovati nekaj, v čemer običajno uživaš, da dokažeš Bogu, da razumeš njegovo svetost. Odrekel sem se gaziranim pijačam, McDonald's-u, praženemu kompirčku, francoskim poljubom in vsemu vmes. A nekega leta sem se odrekel govorjenju. Menil sem, da je najdragocenejše kar bi jo lahko žrtvoval, moj lastni glas. Kot da se ne bi zavedal, da sem to storil že dolgo nazaj. Porabil sem toliko časa, da sem govoril ljudem, kar so želeli slišati, namesto kar bi morali slišati. Govoril sem si, da ne morem biti nikogaršnja vest, saj moram še vedno oblikovati svojo, zato pogosto nisem rekel nič, blažil nevednost s svojo tišino, ne da bi se zavedal, da obsojanje ne potrebuje besed, da obstaja. Ko so kristjana pretepli zaradi homoseksualnosti, sem dal roke v žep in odkorakal s pogledom v tla, kot da nisem opazil. Tedne nisem uporabljal omarice, ker me je ključavnica spominjala na tisto na mojih ustih. Ko me je brezdomec na vogalu pogledal in iskal potrditev, da je vreden pogleda. Bolj me je zanimal ekran na mojem Applu (op. p. Jabolko), kot da bi mu dejansko dal jabolko. Ko mi je ženska na dobrodelni prireditvi rekla: "Ponosna sem nate. Zagotovo je težko učiti te uboge, neinteligentne otroke." Tiho sem bil, saj očitno potrebujemo njen denar bolj, kot učenci potrebujejo svoje 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 časa porabimo, ko poslušamo, kaj ljudje govorijo, da smo redko pozorni na stvari, ki jih ne povejo. Tišina je usedlina strahu. Občuti tvoje slabosti, zaveže tvoj jezik. Je zrak, ki beži iz tvojega prsnega koša, ker se tam ne počuti varnega. Tišina je genocid v Ruandi. Tišina je Katrina. Je tisto, kar slišiš, ko zmanjka vreč za posmrtne ostanke. Je tisti zvok, ko je zanka okoli vratu že zategnjena. Je upepelitev. Je veriga. Je privilegij. Je bolečina. Ni časa, da sam izbereš svoje bitke, če so bitke že same izbrale tebe.
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?
Ne bom dovolil tišini, da se ovije okrog moje neodločenosti. Kristjanu bom rekel, da je lev, svetišče poguma in briljantnosti. Vprašal bom tistega brezdomca, kako mu je ime in kakšen dan je imel, ker včasih je vse, kar si ljudje želimo, biti človek. Povedal bom tisti ženski, da moji učenci lahko govorijo o transcendentalni filozofiji, kot da se pišejo Thoreau, in ker je gledala epizodo Skrivnih navez, še ne pomeni, da ve karkoli o mojih otrocih. Zato bom letos, namesto, da se čemu odrečem, živel vsak dan, kot da bi imel pod jezikom mikrofon, oder, na spodnji strani moje inhibicije. Kdo potrebuje govorniški oder, če je vse, kar si kadarkoli potreboval, tvoj glas? Hvala.
Thank you.
(Applause)