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."
Doktor Martin Luter King mlađi, u svom govoru iz 1968, pozivajući se na Pokret za građanska prava, izjavljuje: "Na kraju, nećemo pamtiti reči naših neprijatelja, već ćutanje 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 profesor, internalizovao sam ovu poruku. Svaki dan, svuda oko nas, vidimo posledice tišine koje se manifestuju u obliku diskriminacije, nasilja, genocida i rata. U učionici, iskušavam svoje studente da istražuju tišinu u sopstvenim životima kroz poeziju. Radimo zajedno da ispunimo taj prostor, da ga prepoznamo, imenujemo, da razumemo da ne mora biti izvor sramote. U cilju stvaranja kulture u mojoj učionici, gde se učenici osećaju sigurno da dele privatnost svojih sopstvenih tišina, napisao sam četiri glavna principa na tabli koja se nalazi ispred mog odeljenja, gde se svaki student upisuje na početku školske godine: čitaj kritički, piši svesno, 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.
Zamislio sam se kod poslednje tačke: reci svoju istinu. I shvatio sam da ako budem tražio od svojih učenika da govore glasno, moraću da kažem svoju istinu i da budem iskren sa njima o trenucima kada to nisam uspevao.
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.
Rekao sam im da su me kao dete u katoličkoj porodici u Nju Orleansu, tokom Velikog posta, učili da najznačajnija stvar koju neko može da uradi jeste da se odrekne nečega, žrtvuje nešto u čemu uglavnom uživa, kako bi dokazao Bogu da razume njegovu svetost. Odrekao sam se gaziranih pića, Mekdonaldsa, pomfrita, francuskih poljubaca i svega sličnog. Ali jedne godine, odrekao sam se govora. Shvatio sam da je najvrednija stvar koje sam mogao da se odreknem moj glas, ali nisam shvatao da sam se ga se odrekao veoma davno. Proveo sam veći deo svog života govoreći ljudima ono što žele da čuju, umesto onoga što je trebalo da čuju, rekavši sebi da nisam tu da bih bio nečija savest jer još uvek nisam shvatio svoju, tako da ponekad prosto ne bih rekao ništa, zadovoljavajući neznanje svojim ćutanjem, nesvestan toga da potvrda ne zahteva reči da bi potvrdila svoje postojanje. Kada je Kristijan prebijen zbog toga što je gej stavio sam ruke u džepove i prošao sam sa spuštenom glavom kao da ne vidim. Nisam mogao da koristim ormarić nedeljama, jer me je katanac podsećao na katanac na mojim usnama kada me je beskućnik na ćošku pogledao, samo tražeći potvrdu da je vredan pogleda. Bio sam prezauzet čačkanjem ekrana svog Epl telefona umesto da ga pogledam. Kada je žena na dobrotvornoj večeri rekla: "Ponosna sam na tebe. Mora da je teško učiti siromašnu, neinteligentnu decu," ujeo sam se za usnu, jer očigledno, bio nam je potreban njen novac više nego što je mojim učenicima trebalo 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.
Trošimo toliko vremena slušajući šta drugi govore da retko obratimo pažnju na ono što ne govore. Tišina je ostatak straha. Oseća vaše mane, stavlja na giljotinu vaš jezik. To je vazduh koji napušta pluća, jer se tamo ne oseća sigurno. Tišina je genocid u Ruandi. Tišina je Katrina. Ono što čujete kada nema dovoljno vreća za leševe. To je zvuk koji se čuje kad se zategne omča. Ugljenisanje. Lanci. Privilegija. Bol. Nema vremena da se bitke odaberu kada su bitke 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 da dopustim da se tišina umota oko moje neodlučnosti. Reći ću Kristijanu da je lav, utočište hrabrosti i izvanrednosti. Pitaću beskućnika kako se zove i kako mu je dan prošao, jer ponekad, sve što ljudi žele je da budu ljudi. Reći ću onoj ženi da moji učenici mogu da pričaju o transcendentalnosti kao da im je prezime Toro, i samo zato što ste gledali jednu epizodu "Žice" ne znači da znate išta o mojoj deci. Zato ove godine, umesto da odustanem od nečega, živeću svakoga dana kao da je mikrofon zabijen ispod mog jezika, a scena ispod mojih inhibicija. Jer šta će vam govornica, kada je sve što vam je oduvek bilo potrebno - vaš glas?
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)