I was one of the only kids in college who had a reason to go to the P.O. box at the end of the day, and that was mainly because my mother has never believed in email, in Facebook, in texting or cell phones in general. And so while other kids were BBM-ing their parents, I was literally waiting by the mailbox to get a letter from home to see how the weekend had gone, which was a little frustrating when Grandma was in the hospital, but I was just looking for some sort of scribble, some unkempt cursive from my mother.
Bila sam jedna od onih studenata koji su imali razlog da na kraju dana odu do poštanskog pretinca, a to je bilo uglavnom zato što moja majka nikad nije vjerovala u e-mail, Facebook, SMS poruke ili mobitele uopće. Dok su se drugi svojima javljali preko BlackBerryja, ja sam doslovno kraj sandučića čekala pismo od kuće da čujem kako je prošao vikend, što je bilo malo frustrirajuće dok je baka bila u bolnici, ali tražila sam bilo kakvu črčkariju, neki neodržavani kurziv od moje majke.
And so when I moved to New York City after college and got completely sucker-punched in the face by depression, I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I wrote those same kinds of letters that my mother had written me for strangers, and tucked them all throughout the city, dozens and dozens of them. I left them everywhere, in cafes and in libraries, at the U.N., everywhere. I blogged about those letters and the days when they were necessary, and I posed a kind of crazy promise to the Internet: that if you asked me for a hand-written letter, I would write you one, no questions asked. Overnight, my inbox morphed into this harbor of heartbreak -- a single mother in Sacramento, a girl being bullied in rural Kansas, all asking me, a 22-year-old girl who barely even knew her own coffee order, to write them a love letter and give them a reason to wait by the mailbox.
I tako kad sam se preselila u New York nakon faksa iznenadila me depresija, i učinila sam jedinu stvar koja mi je tada pala na pamet. Pisala sam ista pisma koja je meni pisala majka za strance, i ostavljala sam ih posvuda u gradu, desetke i desetke njih, ostavljala sam ih svugdje, u kafićima i knjižnicama, u U.N.-u, posvuda. Pisala sam na blogu o tim pismima i danima kada su oni bili potrebni, i dala sam pomalo ludo obećanje internetu: ako me zatražite rukom ispisano pismo, napisat ću ga, bez pogovora. Preko noći moj sandučić postao je utočište slomljenih srca -- samohrana majka iz Sacramenta, djevojčica koju su zlostavljali u ruralnom Kansasu, svi su me tražili, 22-godišnja djevojka koja je jedva znala naručiti kavu, da im napišem ljubavno pismo i dam razlog da čekaju kraj sandučića.
Well, today I fuel a global organization that is fueled by those trips to the mailbox, fueled by the ways in which we can harness social media like never before to write and mail strangers letters when they need them most, but most of all, fueled by crates of mail like this one, my trusty mail crate, filled with the scriptings of ordinary people, strangers writing letters to other strangers not because they're ever going to meet and laugh over a cup of coffee, but because they have found one another by way of letter-writing.
Pa, danas pokrećem globalnu organizaciju koja se pokreće tim posjetima sandučiću, koji se pokreću načinima na koje možemo iskoristiti društvene medije kao nikad prije da pišemo i šaljemo pisma strancima kada ih najviše trebaju, no najvažnije, pokretan od sanduka pošte kao što je ovaj, moj vjerni sanduk za poštu, ispunjen pisanjima običnih ljudi, stranaca koji su spremni pisati drugim strancima, ne zato što će ih ikad upoznati i smijati se preko šalice kave, već zato što su pronašli jedno drugo putem pisanja pisama.
But, you know, the thing that always gets me about these letters is that most of them have been written by people that have never known themselves loved on a piece of paper. They could not tell you about the ink of their own love letters. They're the ones from my generation, the ones of us that have grown up into a world where everything is paperless, and where some of our best conversations have happened upon a screen. We have learned to diary our pain onto Facebook, and we speak swiftly in 140 characters or less.
Ali znate, stvar koja me uvijek iznenadi kod tih pisama je da ih je većina pisana od ljudi koji nikad nisu bili voljeni na komadu papira. Nisu vam mogli pričali o tinti vlastitih ljubavnih pisama. Oni su dio moje generacije, oni koji su odrasli u svijetu gdje je sve bez papira, i gdje neki od naših najboljih razgovora se događaju na ekranu. Naučili smo našu bol bilježiti na Facebooku, i pričamo vješto u 140 znakova ili manje.
But what if it's not about efficiency this time? I was on the subway yesterday with this mail crate, which is a conversation starter, let me tell you. If you ever need one, just carry one of these. (Laughter) And a man just stared at me, and he was like, "Well, why don't you use the Internet?" And I thought, "Well, sir, I am not a strategist, nor am I specialist. I am merely a storyteller." And so I could tell you about a woman whose husband has just come home from Afghanistan, and she is having a hard time unearthing this thing called conversation, and so she tucks love letters throughout the house as a way to say, "Come back to me. Find me when you can." Or a girl who decides that she is going to leave love letters around her campus in Dubuque, Iowa, only to find her efforts ripple-effected the next day when she walks out onto the quad and finds love letters hanging from the trees, tucked in the bushes and the benches. Or the man who decides that he is going to take his life, uses Facebook as a way to say goodbye to friends and family. Well, tonight he sleeps safely with a stack of letters just like this one tucked beneath his pillow, scripted by strangers who were there for him when.
Ali što ako se ne radi o učinkovitosi ovoga puta? Bila sam u podzemnoj jučer sa ovim sandukom pošte, koji je dobar početak razgovora, vjerujte mi kad vam kažem. Ako vam ikad treba tema, samo nosite ovo. (Smijeh) I čovjek je samo buljio u mene, i pitao je, "Pa, zašto ne koristiš Internet?" I pomislila sam, "Pa gospodine, nisam strategist, niti sam specijalist, ja sam samo ona koja priča priče." I tako vam mogu pričati o ženi čiji je muž došao iz Afganistana, i ima problema sa otkrivanjem te stvari koju zovemo razgovorom, i tako skriva ljubavna pisma po kući kako bi mu rekla, "Vrati mi se. Pronađi me ako možeš." Ili djevojka koja odluči da će ostavljati ljubavna pisma na svom faksu u Dubuque, Iowi, kako bi utvrdila da je njen trud izazvao lančanu reakciju kada je izašla na trg i pronašla ljubavna pisma kako vise sa drveća, skrivena u grmlju i kod klupa. Ili čovjek koji odluči da će si oduzeti život, koristi Facebook kako bi rekao zbogom prijateljima i obitelji. Pa, večeras spava sigurno sa hrpom pisama poput ovih spremljenih pod jastukom, ispisanih od stranaca koji su bili tu za njega.
These are the kinds of stories that convinced me that letter-writing will never again need to flip back her hair and talk about efficiency, because she is an art form now, all the parts of her, the signing, the scripting, the mailing, the doodles in the margins. The mere fact that somebody would even just sit down, pull out a piece of paper and think about someone the whole way through, with an intention that is so much harder to unearth when the browser is up and the iPhone is pinging and we've got six conversations rolling in at once, that is an art form that does not fall down to the Goliath of "get faster," no matter how many social networks we might join. We still clutch close these letters to our chest, to the words that speak louder than loud, when we turn pages into palettes to say the things that we have needed to say, the words that we have needed to write, to sisters and brothers and even to strangers, for far too long. Thank you. (Applause) (Applause)
To su priče koje su me uvjerile da pisanje pisama nikada neće morati zabaciti kosu i pričati o učinkovitosti, jer ona je sada oblik umjetnosti, svi njeni dijelovi, potpisivanje, pisanje, slanje, črčkarije na marginama. Sama činjenica da bi itko samo sjeo, izvukao komad papira i mislio o nekome cijelo vrijeme sa namjerom koju je tako teško otkriti kada vam je browser otvoren i iPhone zvoni i imamo šest istovremenih razgovora, to je oblik umjetnosti koji ne spada u Golijata brzine, koliko god se društvenih mreža pridružili. I dalje privijamo ta pisma na grudi, privijamo riječi koje govore glasnije od glasnog, kada pretvaramo stranice u palete kako bismo rekli stvari koje smo trebali reći, riječi koje smo morali napisati, sestrama i braći, čak i strancima, već jako dugo. Hvala vam. (Pljesak) (Pljesak)