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."
Fan doctori Martin Luter King Jr. 1968 yilgi nutqida Fuqoro Huquqlari Harakati haqida firk yuritar ekan, shunday deydi, "Eng so'ngida yodimizda qoladigani dushmanlarimizning so'zlari emas balki do'stlarimizning sukunatidir."
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.
Muallim sifatida men bu fikrni o'zimga tadbiq etdim. Har kungi hayotimizda, atrofimizda biz sukunatning oqibatlariga shohidmiz. Ular bizga diskriminatsiya, vahshiylik, qatliom va urush ko'rinishida namoyon bo'ladi. Sinfimda men o'quvchilarimni o'z hayotlarida she'riyat orqali sukunatni kashf etishga chorlayman. Birgalikda biz sukunat bo'shlig'ini to'ldiramiz, uni tanib bilib, unga nom beramiz, sukut uyat manbai bo'lishi shart emasligini tushunishga intilamiz. O'quvchim o'z kechinmasini bo'lisha oladigan tinch sinf muhit yaratish uchun doskada 4 asosiy tamoyillarni yozdim. Bular sinfimning oldida va yil boshida har bir o'quvchi ularni imzolaydi, tanqidiy nazar bilan o'qi, tushunib yoz, aniq gapir, o'z haqiqatingni so'zla. So'nggi fikr meni juda ko'p o'yga soladi - o'z haqiqatingni so'zla.
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.
Va men shuni tushundimki, o'quvchilarimdan qo'rqmay gapirishni so'rar ekanman, unda o'zim ham o'z haqiqatimni so'zlashim kerak hamda, haqchil bo'lolmagan damlarim haqida ularga ochiq aytishim kerak.
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.
Men ularga, Nyu Orleansda Katolik oilasida uyg'ayar ekanman, ro'za paytida inson uchun eng mazmunli narsa bu nimadandir voz kechish, nimadandir qurbon bo'lish deb uqtirilgan edi. Bu, Xudo muqaddas degan tushungizni isbotidir. Men gazli ichimliklar, McDonald's, fri-kartoshkani, o'pishish, va boshqa narsalardan voz kechdim. Lekin bir yili, gapirishdan ham voz kechdim. O'z ovozim menga eng qadrli bo'lgani uchun uni qurbon keltirishim kerak deb o'yladim. Ammo, undan allaqchon voz kechganimni tushunmagandim. Hayotimda odamlarga o'zimning gapim o'rniga ular istagan gapni aytdim, o'zimga, men boshqaning vijdoni emasman, o'z hayot yo'limni topishim kerak derdim, ba'zida hech narsa demasdim, sukutimni bilmaslik bilan oqlardim, sukunat rizo alomati ekanligini bilmasdim. Kristian gey bo'lgani uchun do'pposlanganda indamadim, hech narsani ko'rmaganday boshimni egib ketaverardim. Jovonimni bir necha hafta ocholmadim. Undagi qulf tilimga so'lingan qulfni eslatardi. Ko'chadagi uysiz odam menga qaraganda e'tibor ham bermagandim. Unga olma berishdan ko'ra, Apple telefonim bilan band edim. Maktabga mablag' yig'ish kechasida bir ayol shunday dedi, "Siz bilan fahrlanaman, bu qasshoq, aqlsiz bolalarni o'qitish qiyin bo'lsa kerak." Indamadim, chunki bizga o'quvchining hurmatidan ko'ra, pul muhimroq edi. Biz boshqaning gapiga quloq solishga juda ko'p vaqt ajratamiz,
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.
u aytmayotgan narsaga e'tibor bermaymiz. Sukunat qo'rquvning qo'ldig'idir. U - kamchiliklaringiz tufayli, tilingizni tiyishga majburlaydi. U - o'pkangizda xavf sezib, ko'kragizdan chekinuvchi havo. Sukunat - Ruandadagi qatliom. Sukunat - Katrina to'foni. U - kafan etmaganda quloqqa chalinadigan sado. U - qopqon yopilgandan song eshitiluvchi ovoz. U kuydiradi. U kishan. U imkoniyat. U og'riqdir. Kurashlaringiz sizni tanlaganda o'ylagani fursat yo'q. Sukunat ikkilanishimdan foydalanishiga yo'l qo'ymayman.
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?
Kristianga shersan, mardlik va zakovat ma'badisan, deyman. O'sha uysiz odamdan ismini so'rayman, kuni haqida qiziqaman, chunki ba'zan odamzot inson bo'lishni hohlaydi. U ayolga esa, o'quvchilarim shunchalik zukkoki hatto Toroning transendentalizmini tushunishadi, "Wire" seryalining bir qismini ko'rdim deb bolalarni bilaman deb oylamang, deyman. Bu yil nimadandir voz kechish o'rniga har kunimni tilim ostida mikrofon qo'yilgan kabi yashayman, qo'rquvim ostida minbar bor kabi. Chunki, sizda ovoz bor ekan, jamoa minbariga hech xojat yo'q! Rahmat.
Thank you.
(Qarsaklar)
(Applause)