I'm a journalist, so I like to look for the untold stories, the lives that quietly play out under the scream of headlines. I've also been going about the business of putting down roots, choosing a partner, making babies. So for the last few years, I've been trying to understand what constitutes the 21st-century good life, both because I'm fascinated by the moral and philosophical implications, but also because I'm in desperate need of answers myself.
Ja sam novinarka, tako da volim da tragam za neispričanim pričama, životima koji se tiho odigravaju pod vrištavim naslovnicama. Takođe sam krenula svojim putem puštanja korenja, biranja partnera, pravljenja beba. Stoga sam poslednjih nekoliko godina pokušavala da razumem šta čini dobar život u 21. veku, ujedno zato što me fasciniraju moralne i filozofske implikacije, ali i zato što su i meni samoj očajnički potrebni odgovori.
We live in tenuous times. In fact, for the first time in American history, the majority of parents do not think that their kids will be better off than they were. This is true of rich and poor, men and women. Now, some of you might hear this and feel sad. After all, America is deeply invested in this idea of economic transcendence, that every generation kind of leapfrogs the one before it, earning more, buying more, being more. We've exported this dream all over the world, so kids in Brazil and China and even Kenya inherit our insatiable expectation for more. But when I read this historic poll for the first time, it didn't actually make me feel sad. It felt like a provocation. "Better off" -- based on whose standards?
Živimo u nestabilno vreme. Zapravo, prvi put u američkoj istoriji, većina roditelja ne misli da će njihovoj deci biti bolje nego što je bilo njima. To važi za bogate i siromašne, muškarce i žene. Neki od vas možda čuju to i osećaju se tužno. Na kraju krajeva, Amerika duboko ulaže u tu ideju ekonomskog prevazilaženja, da svaka generacija pravi veliki skok u odnosu na onu prethodnu, da više zarađuje, više kupuje, da postaje nešto više. Izvezli smo ovaj san po celom svetu, tako da deca u Brazilu, Kini, pa čak i u Keniji nasleđuju naša nezasita očekivanja da stičemo više. Međutim, kada sam prvi put pročitala ovo istorijsko istraživanje, nije me zapravo rastužilo. Učinilo se kao provokacija. „Bolje“ na osnovu čijih standarda?
Is "better off" finding a secure job that you can count on for the rest of your life? Those are nearly extinct. People move jobs, on average, every 4.7 years, and it's estimated that by 2020, nearly half of Americans will be freelancers. OK, so is better off just a number? Is it about earning as much as you possibly can? By that singular measurement, we are failing. Median per capita income has been flat since about 2000, adjusted for inflation. All right, so is better off getting a big house with a white picket fence? Less of us are doing that. Nearly five million people lost their homes in the Great Recession, and even more of us sobered up about the lengths we were willing to go -- or be tricked into going, in many predatory cases -- to hold that deed. Home-ownership rates are at their lowest since 1995.
Da li je „bolje“ pronaći siguran posao na koji možete da računate do kraja života? Takvi su skoro sasvim nestali. Ljudi menjaju poslove u proseku na svakih 4,7 godina, a procenjuje se da će do 2020. godine skoro polovina Amerikanaca imati honorarne poslove. Dobro, da li je „bolje“ samo broj? Da li se tu radi samo o zarađivanju koliko god je više moguće? Prema toj jedinstvenoj meri, propadamo. Medijana prihoda po glavi stanovnika nije se menjala od oko 2000. godine, korigovano za inflaciju. U redu, da li je bolje imati veliku kuću sa belom drvenom ogradom? To radi manje nas. Približno pet miliona ljudi je izgubilo dom tokom velike recesije, a još više nas se otreznilo po pitanju toga dokle smo spremni da idemo - ili da nas prevare da idemo, u mnogim pljačkaškim slučajevima - da bismo držali tu tapiju. Stope vlasništva nad kućama su na najnižem nivou od 1995. godine.
All right, so we're not finding steady employment, we're not earning as much money, and we're not living in big fancy houses. Toll the funeral bells for everything that made America great. But, are those the best measurements of a country's greatness, of a life well lived? What I think makes America great is its spirit of reinvention. In the wake of the Great Recession, more and more Americans are redefining what "better off" really means. Turns out, it has more to do with community and creativity than dollars and cents.
U redu, dakle, ne pronalazimo stabilno zaposlenje, ne zarađujemo toliko novca i ne živimo u velikim skupim kućama. Zazvonite pogrebna zvona za sve što je Ameriku činilo velikom. Ipak, da li su to najbolje mere veličine jedne zemlje ili dobro proživljenog života? Ja smatram da Ameriku čini velikom njen duh ponovnog otkrivanja. Po okončanju velike recesije, sve više Amerikanaca iznova definiše šta „bolje“ zaista znači. Ispostavilo se da ima više veze sa zajednicom i kreativnošću nego sa dolarima i centima.
Now, let me be very clear: the 14.8 percent of Americans living in poverty need money, plain and simple. And all of us need policies that protect us from exploitation by employers and financial institutions. Nothing that follows is meant to suggest that the gap between rich and poor is anything but profoundly immoral. But, too often we let the conversation stop there. We talk about poverty as if it were a monolithic experience; about the poor as if they were solely victims. Part of what I've learned in my research and reporting is that the art of living well is often practiced most masterfully by the most vulnerable.
Da budem vrlo jasna, novac je potreban za 14,8 posto Amerikanaca koji žive u siromaštvu, prosto i jednostavno. A svima nama su potrebni zakoni da nas štete od eksploatacije poslodavaca i finansijskih institucija. Ništa što sledi ne treba da ukaže da je jaz između bogatih i siromašnih ništa manje nego duboko nemoralan. Međutim, prečesto dopuštamo da razgovor tu stane. Govorimo o siromaštvu kao da se radi o monolitnom iskustvu; o siromašnima kao da su jedine žrtve. Deo onoga što sam naučila kroz svoje istraživanje i izveštavanje je da veštinu kvalitetnog života često najvičnije upražnjavaju najugroženiji.
Now, if necessity is the mother of invention, I've come to believe that recession can be the father of consciousness. It confronts us with profound questions, questions we might be too lazy or distracted to ask in times of relative comfort. How should we work? How should we live? All of us, whether we realize it or not, seek answers to these questions, with our ancestors kind of whispering in our ears.
Ako je potreba majka svih izuma, došla sam do uverenja da recesija može biti otac svesnosti. Suočava nas sa dubokim pitanjima za koja bismo bili previše lenji ili rasejani da bismo ih postavili u vreme relativne udobnosti. Kako bi trebalo da radimo? Kako treba da živimo? Svi mi, bilo da to uviđamo ili ne, tražimo odgovore na ta pitanja, dok nam preci na neki način šapuću u uvo.
My great-grandfather was a drunk in Detroit, who sometimes managed to hold down a factory job. He had, as unbelievable as it might sound, 21 children, with one woman, my great-grandmother, who died at 47 years old of ovarian cancer. Now, I'm pregnant with my second child, and I cannot even fathom what she must have gone through. And if you're trying to do the math -- there were six sets of twins. So my grandfather, their son, became a traveling salesman, and he lived boom and bust. So my dad grew up answering the door for debt collectors and pretending his parents weren't home. He actually took his braces off himself with pliers in the garage, when his father admitted he didn't have money to go back to the orthodontist. So my dad, unsurprisingly, became a bankruptcy lawyer. Couldn't write this in a novel, right? He was obsessed with providing a secure foundation for my brother and I.
Moj pradeda je bio pijanac u Detroitu koji je ponekad uspevao da zadrži posao u fabrici. Imao je, koliko god neverovatno zvučalo, 21 dete, sa jednom ženom, mojom prababom, koja je umrla u 47. godini od raka jajnika. Ja sam trudna sa svojim drugim detetom i ne mogu ni da zamislim kroz šta sve mora da je prošla. Ako pokušavate da izračunate - bilo je šest pari blizanaca. Tako je moj deda, njihov sin, postao trgovački putnik i doživeo je veliki uspeh i nagli pad. Tako je moj tata odrastao otvarajući vrata uterivačima dugova i pretvarajući se da mu roditelji nisu kod kuće. On je zapravo sam skinuo svoju protezu kleštima u garaži kada mu je otac priznao da nema novca da se vrate kod ortodonta. Tako je moj otac, što ne iznenađuje, postao advokat za bankrot. Ne bi se mogao bolji roman napisati, zar ne? Bio je opsednut obezbeđivanjem sigurnih temelja za mog brata i mene.
So I ask these questions by way of a few generations of struggle. My parents made sure that I grew up on a kind of steady ground that allows one to question and risk and leap. And ironically, and probably sometimes to their frustration, it is their steadfast commitment to security that allows me to question its value, or at least its value as we've historically defined it in the 21st century.
Zato ja postavljam ova pitanja prolazeći kroz nekoliko generacija borbe. Moji roditelji su se postarali da odrastem na čvrstoj podlozi koja omogućava osobi da preispituje, rizikuje i načini skok. Ironično, a verovatno ponekad na njihovo razočaranje, njihova čvrsta posvećenost sigurnosti je upravo ono što mi omogućava da preispitujem njenu vrednost, ili makar njenu vrednost kako smo je istorijski definisali u 21. veku.
So let's dig into this first question: How should we work? We should work like our mothers. That's right -- we've spent decades trying to fit women into a work world built for company men. And many have done backbends to fit in, but others have carved a more unconventional path, creating a patchwork of meaning and money with enough flexibility to do what they need to do for those that they love. My mom called it "just making it work." Today I hear life coaches call it "a portfolio career." Whatever you call it, more and more men are craving these whole, if not harried, lives. They're waking up to their desire and duty to be present fathers and sons.
Hajde da prionemo na prvo pitanje. Kako bi trebalo da radimo? Treba da radimo kao naše majke. Tako je - proveli smo decenije pokušavajući da uklopimo žene u svet rada koji je izgrađen za kompanijske muškarce. Mnogi su lomili kičmu da bi se uklopili, ali su drugi ucrtali neuobičajeniju stazu, stvarajući kolaž smisla i novca sa dovoljno fleksibilnosti da bi radili ono što moraju za one koje vole. Moja mama to naziva „prosto učiniti da funkcioniše“. Danas čujem kako životni treneri to nazivaju „portfolio karijerom“. Kako god da to nazovete, sve više muškaraca žudi za tim celovitim, ako ne i napregnutim životima. Bude se uz želju i dužnost da budu prisutni očevi i sinovi.
Now, artist Ann Hamilton has said, "Labor is a way of knowing." Labor is a way of knowing. In other words, what we work on is what we understand about the world. If this is true, and I think it is, then women who have disproportionately cared for the little ones and the sick ones and the aging ones, have disproportionately benefited from the most profound kind of knowing there is: knowing the human condition. By prioritizing care, men are, in a sense, staking their claim to the full range of human existence.
Umetnica En Hamilton je rekla: „Rad je način saznavanja.“ Rad je način saznavanja. Drugim rečima, ono na čemu radimo je ono što razumemo o svetu. Ako je to istina, a mislim da jeste, onda su žene koje su se nesrazmerno mnogo starale o mališanima, bolesnima i starima, nesrazmerno mnogo dobile najdublje moguće saznanje - saznanje o ljudskom stanju. Stavljajući negu među prioritete, muškarci na neki način polažu pravo na pun spektar ljudskog postojanja.
Now, this means the nine-to-five no longer works for anyone. Punch clocks are becoming obsolete, as are career ladders. Whole industries are being born and dying every day. It's all nonlinear from here. So we need to stop asking kids, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and start asking them, "How do you want to be when you grow up?" Their work will constantly change. The common denominator is them. So the more they understand their gifts and create crews of ideal collaborators, the better off they will be.
To znači da radno vreme od pet do devet više ne funkcioniše za bilo koga. Štancanje kartica postaje zastarelo, kao i karijerne lestvice. Čitave industrije se rađaju i umiru svakoga dana. Odavde sve postaje nelinearno. Stoga treba da prestanemo da pitamo decu: „Šta želiš da budeš kad porasteš?“ i da počnemo da ih pitamo: „Kako želiš da budeš kada porasteš?“ Njihov posao će se stalno menjati. Oni su zajednički imenilac. Tako, što više razumeju svoje talente i stvaraju grupe idealnih saradnika, bolje će im biti.
The challenge ahead is to reinvent the social safety net to fit this increasingly fragmented economy. We need portable health benefits. We need policies that reflect that everyone deserves to be vulnerable or care for vulnerable others, without becoming destitute. We need to seriously consider a universal basic income. We need to reinvent labor organizing. The promise of a work world that is structured to actually fit our 21st century values, not some archaic idea about bringing home the bacon, is long overdue -- just ask your mother.
Izazov pred nama je kako preosmisliti društvenu sigurnosnu mrežu tako da se uklopi u ovu sve više podeljenu ekonomiju. Potrebne su nam prenosive zdravstvene beneficije. Potrebni su nam zakoni koji su odraz toga da svi zaslužuju da budu ranjivi ili da se staraju o ranjivima, a da ne postanu siromašni. Moramo da ozbiljno razmotrimo univerzalni osnovni prihod. Moramo da obnovimo organizaciju rada. Obećanje o svetu rada koji je strukturisan tako da se zaista uklopi u naše vrednosti 21. veka, a ne neka arhaična ideja o donošenju hleba u kuću, odavno kasni; samo pitajte svoju majku.
Now, how about the second question: How should we live? We should live like our immigrant ancestors. When they came to America, they often shared apartments, survival tactics, child care -- always knew how to fill one more belly, no matter how small the food available. But they were told that success meant leaving the village behind and pursuing that iconic symbol of the American Dream, the white picket fence. And even today, we see a white picket fence and we think success, self-possession. But when you strip away the sentimentality, what it really does is divides us. Many Americans are rejecting the white picket fence and the kind of highly privatized life that happened within it, and reclaiming village life, reclaiming interdependence instead.
A sada, šta je sa drugim pitanjem - kako treba da živimo? Treba da živimo kao naši preci imigranti. Kada su došli u Ameriku, često su delili stanove, taktike preživljavanja, brigu oko dece - uvek su znali kako da napune još jedan stomak, bez obzira koliko je malo hrane na raspolaganju. Međutim, rečeno im je da uspeh podrazumeva da ostave selo za sobom i jure za tim istaknutim simbolom američkog sna, belom drvenom ogradom. Čak i danas, vidimo belu drvenu ogradu i pomislimo na uspeh, pribranost. Ipak, kada odstranite sentimentalnost, ona nas zapravo razdvaja. Mnogi Amerikanci odbacuju belu drvenu ogradu i tu vrstu izrazito privatizovanog života koji je nastupio u okviru nje i ponovo prisvajaju seoski život, prisvajajući međuzavisnost umesto toga.
Fifty million of us, for example, live in intergenerational households. This number exploded with the Great Recession, but it turns out people actually like living this way. Two-thirds of those who are living with multiple generations under one roof say it's improved their relationships. Some people are choosing to share homes not with family, but with other people who understand the health and economic benefits of daily community. CoAbode, an online platform for single moms looking to share homes with other single moms, has 50,000 users. And people over 65 are especially prone to be looking for these alternative living arrangements. They understand that their quality of life depends on a mix of solitude and solidarity. Which is true of all of us when you think about it, young and old alike. For too long, we've pretended that happiness is a king in his castle. But all the research proves otherwise. It shows that the healthiest, happiest and even safest -- in terms of both climate change disaster, in terms of crime, all of that -- are Americans who live lives intertwined with their neighbors.
Pedeset miliona nas, na primer, živi u međugeneracijskim domaćinstvima. Taj broj je naglo porastao sa velikom recesijom, ali ispostavilo se da se ljudima zapravo dopada da tako žive. Dve trećine onih koji žive sa više generacija pod jednim krovom kažu da je to poboljšalo njihove odnose. Neki ljudi biraju da dele dom ne sa porodicom, već sa drugim ljudima koji razumeju zdravstvene i ekonomske koristi svakodnevnice u zajednici. CoAbode, onlajn platforma za samohrane majke koje žele da dele dom sa drugim samohranim majkama, ima 50 000 korisnika. A ljudi iznad 65 godina su naročito naklonjeni traganju za tim alternativnim životnim uređenjima. Oni razumeju da njihov kvalitet života zavisi od mešavine samoće i solidarnosti, što važi za sve nas, kad razmislite o tome, mlade, kao i stare. Previše dugo smo se pretvarali da je sreća kralj u svom zamku, ali sva istraživanja dokazuju suprotno. Pokazuju da najzdraviji, najsrećniji i čak najbezbedniji - podjednako u pogledu katastrofa klimatskih promena, kriminala, svega tog - jesu Amerikanci koji žive blisko povezani sa svojim susedima.
Now, I've experienced this firsthand. For the last few years, I've been living in a cohousing community. It's 1.5 acres of persimmon trees, this prolific blackberry bush that snakes around a community garden, all smack-dab, by the way, in the middle of urban Oakland. The nine units are all built to be different, different sizes, different shapes, but they're meant to be as green as possible. So big, shiny black solar cells on our roof mean our electricity bill rarely exceeds more than five bucks in a month. The 25 of us who live there are all different ages and political persuasions and professions, and we live in homes that have everything a typical home would have. But additionally, we share an industrial-sized kitchen and eating area, where we have common meals twice a week.
Iskusila sam to iz prve ruke. Poslednjih nekoliko godina živela sam u stambenoj zajednici. To je 60 ari sa stablima persimona, tim plodnim kupinovim žbunom koji vijuga po bašti zajednice, sve to u samom centru, uzgred, usred urbanog Ouklanda. Svih devet jedinica je napravljeno tako da budu različite, različitih boja i oblika, ali je predviđeno da budu što je moguće zelenije. Tako velike, sjajne crne solarne ćelije na našem krovu podrazumevaju da je naš račun za struju retko prelazio više od pet dolara mesečno. Svih 25 nas koji živimo tamo smo različite starosti, političkih ubeđenja i zanimanja, a živimo u domovima koji imaju sve što bi imao tipičan dom. Međutim, kao dodatak tome, delimo kuhinju i trpezariju ogromnog kapaciteta, gde imamo zajedničke obroke dva puta nedeljno.
Now, people, when I tell them I live like this, often have one of two extreme reactions. Either they say, "Why doesn't everyone live like this?" Or they say, "That sounds totally horrifying. I would never want to do that." So let me reassure you: there is a sacred respect for privacy among us, but also a commitment to what we call "radical hospitality" -- not the kind advertised by the Four Seasons, but the kind that says that every single person is worthy of kindness, full stop, end of sentence.
Kada kažem ljudima da živim ovako, oni često imaju jednu od dve ekstremne reakcije. Ili kažu: „Zašto svi ne žive ovako?“ ili: „To zvuči potpuno užasno. Nikad ne bih hteo da to uradim.“ Pa, da vas uverim: među nama postoji sveto poštovanje prema privatnosti, ali takođe i posvećenost onome što zovemo „radikalna gostoljubivost“ - ne onakva kakvu reklamira hotel „Četiri godišnja doba“, već takvu koja poručuje da je svaka osoba vredna ljubaznosti, tačka, kraj rečenice.
The biggest surprise for me of living in a community like this? You share all the domestic labor -- the repairing, the cooking, the weeding -- but you also share the emotional labor. Rather than depending only on the idealized family unit to get all of your emotional needs met, you have two dozen other people that you can go to to talk about a hard day at work or troubleshoot how to handle an abusive teacher. Teenagers in our community will often go to an adult that is not their parent to ask for advice. It's what bell hooks called "revolutionary parenting," this humble acknowledgment that kids are healthier when they have a wider range of adults to emulate and count on. Turns out, adults are healthier, too. It's a lot of pressure, trying to be that perfect family behind that white picket fence.
Šta je za mene najveće iznenađenje vezano za život u ovakvoj zajednici? Delite sve radove u domaćinstvu - popravke, kuvanje, uklanjanje korova, ali takođe delite emocionalni napor. Umesto da se oslanjate samo na idealizovanu porodičnu jedinicu da biste zadovoljili sve svoje emocionalne potrebe, imate dvadesetak drugih ljudi kod kojih možete otići da pričate o napornom danu na poslu ili da rešite problem kako da postupite u vezi sa nasilnim nastavnikom. Tinejdžeri u našoj zajednici često će otići kod odrasle osobe koja im nije roditelj da zatraži savet. To je ono što je bel huks nazvala „revolucionarno roditeljstvo“, to skromno priznanje da su deca zdravija kada imaju širi krug odraslih da ih oponašaju i računaju na njih. Ispostavilo se da su i odrasli zdraviji. Mnogo je pritiska kada pokušavate da budete savršena porodica iza bele drvene ograde.
The "new better off," as I've come to call it, is less about investing in the perfect family and more about investing in the imperfect village, whether that's relatives living under one roof, a cohousing community like mine, or just a bunch of neighbors who pledge to really know and look out for one another. It's good common sense, right? And yet, money has often made us dumb about reaching out. The most reliable wealth is found in relationship.
„Novo bolje“, kako sam počela da ga zovem, manje se odnosi na ulaganje u savršenu porodicu, a više u ulaganje u nesavršeno selo, bilo da su to rođaci koji žive pod jednim krovom, stambena zajednica poput moje, ili samo gomila suseda koji se obavežu da se zaista upoznaju i brinu jedni o drugima. To je zdrav razum, zar ne? A ipak, novac nas često čini glupim kada se radi o obraćanju drugima. Najpouzdanije bogatstvo nalazi se u vezama.
The new better off is not an individual prospect at all. In fact, if you're a failure or you think you're a failure, I've got some good news for you: you might be a success by standards you have not yet honored. Maybe you're a mediocre earner but a masterful father. Maybe you can't afford your dream home, but you throw legendary neighborhood parties. If you're a textbook success, the implications of what I'm saying could be more grim for you. You might be a failure by standards you hold dear but that the world doesn't reward. Only you can know.
„Novo bolje“ uopšte ne podrazumevaju pojedinačne izglede za uspeh. Zapravo, ako ste neuspešni ili mislite da ste neuspešni, imam dobre vesti za vas - možda ste uspešni po standardima koje još niste ispoštovali. Možda ste prosečni u zarađivanju, ali ste izvanredan otac. Možda ne možete da priuštite kuću svojih snova, ali priređujete legendarne žurke za komšiluk. Ako ste školski primer uspeha, implikacije ovoga što govorim mogle bi biti lošije za vas. Možda ste neuspešni po standardima do kojih vam je stalo, a koje svet ne nagrađuje. Samo vi to možete znati.
I know that I am not a tribute to my great-grandmother, who lived such a short and brutish life, if I earn enough money to afford every creature comfort. You can't buy your way out of suffering or into meaning. There is no home big enough to erase the pain that she must have endured. I am a tribute to her if I live a life as connected and courageous as possible. In the midst of such widespread uncertainty, we may, in fact, be insecure. But we can let that insecurity make us brittle or supple. We can turn inward, lose faith in the power of institutions to change -- even lose faith in ourselves. Or we can turn outward, cultivate faith in our ability to reach out, to connect, to create.
Ja znam da ne odajem priznanje svojoj prabaki, koja je živela tako kratkim i okrutnim životom, ako zaradim dovoljno novca da priuštim svako svetovno zadovoljstvo. Ne možete kupiti svoj put iz patnje ili do smisla. Nema kuće koja je dovoljno velika da obriše bol koju mora da je pretpela. Odajem joj počast ako živim životom koji je što je više moguće povezan i hrabar. Usred takve raširene neizvesnosti, mi zapravo možemo biti nesigurni, ali možemo dozvoliti da nas ta nesigurnost učini slabim ili fleksibilnim. Možemo se povući u sebe, izgubiti veru u moć institucionalne promene, čak i izgubiti veru u sebe, ili se možemo okrenuti ka spolja, negovati veru u našu sposobnost da se obratimo drugima, povezujemo, stvaramo.
Turns out, the biggest danger is not failing to achieve the American Dream. The biggest danger is achieving a dream that you don't actually believe in. So don't do that. Do the harder, more interesting thing, which is to compose a life where what you do every single day, the people you give your best love and ingenuity and energy to, aligns as closely as possible with what you believe. That, not something as mundane as making money, is a tribute to your ancestors. That is the beautiful struggle.
Ispostavilo se da najveća opasnost nije neuspeh da se ostvari američki san. Najveća opasnost je ostvarenje sna u koji ne verujete istinski. Pa, nemojte to raditi. Radite nešto teže i zanimljivije, a to je da sačinite život gde je ono što radite svakoga dana, ljudi kojima dajete najviše ljubavi, domišljatosti i energije, što više moguće u skladu sa onim u šta verujete. To, a ne nešto prizemno kao što je zarađivanje novca, predstavlja odavanje počasti vašim precima. To je prelepa borba.
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)