Jeg hedder Hannah. Og det er et palindrom. Det er et ord, der staves på samme måde forfra og bagfra, hvis man altså kan stave. Men det sjove er --
My name is Hannah. And that is a palindrome. That is a word you can spell the same forwards and backwards, if you can spell. But the thing is --
(Latter)
(Laughter)
at hele min familie har palindromnavne. Det er lidt af en tradition. Vi har Mum (mor), Dad (far) --
my entire family have palindromic names. It's a bit of a tradition. We've got Mum, Dad --
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Nan (bedstemor), Pop (bedstefar).
Nan, Pop.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Og min bror Kajak.
And my brother, Kayak.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Værs'god! Der har du en lille joke, lige der.
There you go. That's just a bit a joke, there.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Jeg kan godt lide at sætte ting i gang med en joke, for jeg er jo komiker. Nu ved I allerede to ting om mig. Jeg hedder Hannah, og jeg er komiker. Jeg spilder ikke tiden. Her er der en tredje ting, som I gerne må vide om mig: Jeg synes ikke, at jeg er ret god til at sige, hvad jeg virkelig mener. En modig indledning til en talk, ja, men det er sandt. Jeg har altid haft meget svært ved at omsætte mine tanker til tale. Så det ser måske lidt ud som en selvmodsigelse, når sådan en som mig, som er så dårlig til at snakke, er sådan noget som stand-up-komiker. Men sådan er det. Værs'god. Det er sådan, det er.
I like to kick things off with a joke because I'm a comedian. Now there's two things you know about me already: my name's Hannah and I'm a comedian. I'm wasting no time. Here's a third thing you can know about me: I don't think I'm qualified to speak my own mind. Bold way to begin a talk, yes, but it's true. I've always had a great deal of difficulty turning my thinking into the talking. So it seems a bit of a contradiction, then, that someone like me, who is so bad at the chat, could be something like a stand-up comedian. But there you go. There you go. It's what it is.
Jeg prøvede første gang stand-up-komedi... -- komid... Kan I se det? Se? Se?
I first tried my hand at stand-up comedi -- comedie ... See? See? See?
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Jeg prøvede første gang stand-up-komik, da jeg var sidst i tyverne og på trods af, at jeg var sygeligt genert, ofte stum og havde lavt selvværd og aldrig havde haft en mikrofon i hånden før, så vidste jeg straks, da jeg stod foran mit publikum, jeg vidste det, endda før jeg fortalte min første joke, jeg vidste, at jeg virkelig godt kunne lide stand-up, og at stand-up virkelig godt kunne lide mig. Men jeg kunne til gengæld slet ikke forstå "hvorfor?". Hvordan kunne jeg være så god til noget, som jeg var så dårlig til?
I first tried my hand at stand-up comedy in my late 20s, and despite being a pathologically shy virtual mute with low self-esteem who'd never held a microphone before, I knew as soon as I walked and stood in front of the audience, I knew, before I'd even landed my first joke, I knew that I really liked stand-up, and stand-up really liked me. But for the life of me, I couldn't work out why. Why is it I could be so good at doing something I was so bad at?
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Jeg kunne simpelthen ikke regne det ud. Jeg forstod det ikke. Altså indtil jeg kunne forstå det.
I just couldn't work it out, I could not understand it. That is, until I could.
Nu - inden jeg forklarer jer, hvordan det kan være, at jeg kan være så god til noget, som jeg er så dårlig til - så lad mig lige smide endnu en selvmodsigelse ind i ligningen ved at fortælle jer, at ret kort tid efter, at jeg fandt ud af hvorfor, så bestemte jeg mig for at tage afsked med stand-up-komikken. Og før jeg forklarer dén lille modsigelses-kat som jeg fik smidt ind i flokken af tænke-duer, så lad mig også fortælle jer dette: Min afsked fik fyret min komikerkarriere afsted.
Now, before I explain to you why it is that I can be good at something I'm so bad at, let me throw another spanner of contradiction into the work by telling you that not long after I worked out why that was, I decided to quit comedy. And before I explain that little oppositional cat I just threw amongst the thinking pigeons, let me also tell you this: quitting launched my comedy career.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Altså, den kom virkelig ud over rampen, i en sådan grad, at efter min afsked var jeg pludselig den mest omtalte komiker på hele planeten, fordi - tydeligvis - er jeg endnu dårligere til at tage afsked, end jeg er til at sige, hvad jeg virkelig mener.
Like, really launched it, to the point where after quitting comedy, I became the most talked-about comedian on the planet, because apparently, I'm even worse at making retirement plans than I am at speaking my own mind.
Nå, men det eneste jeg har gjort indtil nu, udover at give jer lidt tilfældige sprøjt af biografiske detaljer, er at sige til jer indirekte, at jeg har tre ideer, som jeg vil dele med jer i dag. Og det har jeg gjort ved at dele tre selvmodsigelser. Ét: jeg er dårlig til at tale, jeg er god til at tale; Jeg tog afsked, jeg tog ikke afsked. Tre ideer, tre selvmodsigelser. Så hvis I nu undrer jer over, hvorfor der kun er to ting, på min såkaldte liste med tre ting --
Now, all I've done up until this point apart from giving over a spattering of biographical detail is to tell you indirectly that I have three ideas that I want to share with you today. And I've done that by way of sharing three contradictions: one, I am bad at talking, I am good at talking; I quit, I did not quit. Three ideas, three contradictions. Now, if you're wondering why there's only two things on my so-called list of three --
(Latter)
(Laughter)
så lad mig minde om, at det faktisk er en liste med selvmodsigelser Følg lidt med.
I remind you it is literally a list of contradictions. Keep up.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Folkene bag TED anbefalede mig, at med en talk af denne længde, så var det bedst at holde sig til kun at dele én idé. Jeg sagde nej.
Now, the folks at TED advised me that with a talk of this length, it's best to stick with just sharing one idea. I said no.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Hvad ved de om den slags?
What would they know?
For at forklare, hvorfor jeg har valgt at ignorere et tydeligvis godt råd, så tager jeg jer lige tilbage til indledningen af denne talk, særligt til min palindrom-joke. Den joke bruger mit yndlingstrick fra komikerfaget, "the rule of three", hvor man kommer med et udsagn, bakker udsagnet op med en liste. Hele min familie har palindrom-navne: Mum, Dad, Nan, Pop. De første to ting på den liste skaber et mønster, og mønsteret skaber forventning. Og så kommer den tredje ting - bum! - Kajak. Hvad? Det er "the rule of three". En, to, overraskelse! Ha ha.
To explain why I have chosen to ignore what is clearly very good advice, I want to take you back to the beginning of this talk, specifically, my palindrome joke. Now that joke uses my favorite trick of the comedian trade, the rule of three, whereby you make a statement and then back that statement up with a list. My entire family have palindromic names: Mum, Dad, Nan, Pop. The first two ideas on that list create a pattern, and that pattern creates expectation. And then the third thing -- bam! -- Kayak. What? That's the rule of three. One, two, surprise! Ha ha.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Altså, "the rule of three" er ikke bare grundlæggende for mit håndværk, den er også grundlæggende for min måde at kommunikere på. Så jeg laver ikke om på noget for nogen, heller ikke for TED, hvilket jeg lige vil pointere står for de tre idéer: Teknologi, Entertainment og Dummernikker.
Now, the rule of three is not only fundamental to the way I do my craft, it is also fundamental to the way I communicate. So I won't be changing anything for nobody, not even TED, which, I will point out, stands for three ideas: technology, entertainment and dickheads.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Det virker hver gang, ikke?
Works every time, doesn't it?
Men der skal mere til end bare jokes, hvis man vil klare sig som professionel komiker. Man skal kunne befinde sig på grænsen mellem at være charmerende og afvæbnende. Og jeg opdagede, at den mest effektive måde at opbygge den mængde charme, som jeg havde brug for, for at modsvare min afvæbnende personlighed var ikke ved hjælp af jokes, men med historier. Så mit stand-up-arbejde er fyldt med historier: historier om at vokse op, min ud-af-skabet-historie, historier om de overgreb, som jeg har tålt, fordi jeg ikke bare er kvinde, men en stor kvinde og endda en "masculine-of-center"-kvinde. Hvis du ser mit arbejde online, så check kommetarsporet, hvis du vil se eksempler på overgreb.
But you need more than just jokes to be able to cut it as a professional comedian. You need to be able to walk that fine line between being charming and disarming. And I discovered the most effective way to generate the amount of charm I needed to offset my disarming personality was through not jokes but stories. So my stand-up routines are filled with stories: stories about growing up, my coming out story, stories about the abuse I've copped for being not only a woman but a big woman and a masculine-of-center woman. If you watch my work online, check the comments out below for examples of abuse.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Nu er vi kommet til det tidspunkt, hvor jeg skifter til andet gear, og jeg vil fortælle en historie om alt det, som jeg lige har sagt.
It's that time in the talk where I shift into second gear, and I'm going to tell you a story about everything I've just said.
I de sidste dage af sit liv var min bedstemor omgivet af mennesker, masser af mennesker, fordi min bedstemor var den elskelige matriark i en stor og kærlig familie. Hvis ikke du har regnet det ud allerede, så er jeg medlem af den familie. Jeg var så heldig, at få muligheden for at sige farvel til min bedstemor den dag hun døde. Men eftersom hun dér allerede havde trukket sig helt ind i sig selv, så var det et lidt én-sidigt farvel. Så jeg tænkte på en masse ting. Ting, som jeg ikke havde tænkt over i lang tid, som fx. de breve, som jeg engang skrev til min bedstemor da jeg begyndte på universitetet. Det var breve, som jeg fyldte med historier og anekdoter, som jeg pyntede lidt på for hendes fornøjelses skyld. Og jeg huskede, hvordan jeg ikke kunne sætte ord på al den angst og frygt, jeg var fyldt af, mens jeg forsøgte at finde min lille plads i en verden, der virkede alt for stor til mig. Men jeg huskede også, at jeg fandt trøst i de breve, fordi jeg skrev dem med bedstemor i mine tanker. Efterhånden som verden blev mere og mere overvældende og min evne til at håndtere det blev dårligere og ikke bedre, holdt jeg op med at skrive de breve. Jeg syntes bare ikke, at jeg levede den slags liv, som Bedstemor ville have lyst til at læse om.
In the last few days of her life, my grandma was surrounded by people, a lot of people, because my grandma was the loving matriarch of a large and loving family. Now, if you haven't made the connection already, I am a member of that family. I was lucky enough to be able to say goodbye to my grandma on the day she died. But as she was already cocooned within herself by then, it was something of a one-sided goodbye. So I thought about a lot of things, things I hadn't thought about in a long time, like the letters I used to write to my grandma when I first started university, letters I filled with funny stories and anecdotes that I embellished for her amusement. And I remembered how I couldn't articulate the anxiety and fear that filled me as I tried to carve my tiny little life into a world that felt far too big for me. But I remembered finding comfort in those letters, because I wrote them with my grandma in mind. But as the world got more and more overwhelming and my ability to negotiate it got worse, not better, I stopped writing those letters. I just didn't think I had the life that Grandma would want to read about.
Bedstemor vidste ikke, at jeg var homoseksuel og omkring seks måneder før hun døde, spurgte hun lige pludselig en dag, om jeg havde en fyr. Jeg kan huske, at jeg tog en helt bevidst beslutning i det øjeblik: jeg ville ikke springe ud over for min bedstemor. Det gjorde jeg, fordi jeg vidste, at hendes liv lakkede mod enden, og at jeg kun havde kort tid med hende, og jeg ønskede ikke at tale om, hvordan vi var forskellige. Jeg ville tale om, hvordan vi var forbundne. Så jeg skiftede emne. Mens det skete, føltes det som det rigtige at gøre. Men mens jeg sad og så min bedstemors liv, mens det nærmede sig sin uundgåelige afslutning, så følte jeg alligevel, at jeg havde taget fejl ved ikke at dele en så afgørende del af mit liv. Men jeg vidste også, at jeg havde forpasset chancen, og som bedstemor altid sagde, "Ja, ja, det er altsammen en del af den samme suppe. Det er for sent at fiske løgene op nu."
Grandma did not know I was gay, and about six months before she died, out of nowhere, she asked me if I had a boyfriend. Now, I remember making a conscious decision in that moment not to come out to my grandmother. And I did that because I knew her life was drawing to an end, and my time with her was finite, and I did not want to talk about the ways we were different. I wanted to talk about the ways were we connected. So I changed the subject. And at the time, it felt like the right decision. But as I sat witness to my grandmother's life as it tapered to its inevitable end, I couldn't help but feel I'd made a mistake not to share such a significant part of my life. But I also knew that I'd missed my opportunity, and as Grandma always used to say, "Ah, well, it's all part of the soup. Too late to take the onions out now."
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Det tænkte jeg over, og jeg tænkte over, at jeg havde haft alt for mange løg i mit liv som barn, der voksede op som lesbisk i en stat, hvor homoseksualitet var ulovligt. Og med den tanke kunne jeg se, hvor stramt jeg var viklet ind slyngtråde fra min egen internaliserede skam. Og derfra tænkte jeg på alle mine traumer: Volden, misbruget, voldtægten. Og sammen med hele den klynge af tanker dukkede en tanke, et spørgsmål, igen og igen op i mit hovede, og jeg havde ikke noget svar: Hvad er meningen med, at jeg er menneske?
And I thought about that, and I thought about how I had to deal with too many onions as a kid, growing up gay in a state where homosexuality was illegal. And with that thought, I could see how tightly wrapped in the tendrils of my own internalized shame I was. And with that, I thought about all my traumas: the violence, the abuse, my rape. And with all that cluster of thinking, a thought, a question, kept popping into my mind to which I had no answer: What is the purpose of my human?
Ud af alle i min familie følte jeg mig tættest beslægtet med min bedstemor. Altså, vi har flest træk til fælles. Bare ikke helt så meget for tiden. Døden gør virkelig noget ved folk. Men det --
Out of anyone in my family, I felt the most akin to my grandmother. I mean, we share the most traits in common. Not so much these days. Death really changes people. But that --
(Latter)
(Laughter)
- er lige min bedstmors form for humor. Det menneske, som jeg følte mig mest knyttet til i hele verden var både mor, bedstemor, oldemor og tipoldemor. Mig? Jeg var bare den yderste spids af min egen gren på stamtræet. Og jeg var ikke engang sikker på, at jeg stadig sad fast på stammen. Hvad var meningen med, at jeg er menneske?
is my grandmother's sense of humor. But the person I felt most akin to in the world was a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, a great-great-grandmother. Me? I represented the very end of my branch of the family tree. And I wasn't entirely sure I was still connected to the trunk. What was the purpose of my human?
Året efter min bedstemors død, var det mest intenst kreative i hele mit liv. Og jeg gætter på, at det er fordi i sidste ende, så samler mine tanker sig, mere end de spreder sig. Mine tankeprocesser er ikke lineære. Jeg tænker visuelt. Jeg kan se mine tanker. Jeg har ikke fotografisk hukommelse og mit hoved er heller ikke noget galleri med fornuftigt indsamlede "tankeværker". Det er snarere et mere og mere veludviklet hieroglyf-sprog som jeg har udviklet, og som jeg forstår flydende og kan tænke dybt med. Men jeg kæmper med at oversætte. Jeg kan ikke male, tegne, lave skulpturer eller andet smart, og hvad angår det skrevne ord, så er jeg ok god til det, men det er en indviklet oversættelsesproces, og jeg synes ikke, at det er godt nok. Og det med at sige, hvad jeg mener, som jeg sagde, så er jeg ikke god til det. Tale har jeg altid oplevet som et utilstrækkeligt snapshot af det liv, der er inde i mig. Alt dette bare for at sige, at jeg har altid forstået meget mere, end jeg har været i stand til at udtrykke.
The year after my grandmother's death was the most intensely creative of my life. And I suppose that's because, at an end, my thoughts gather more than they scatter. My thought process is not linear. I'm a visual thinker. I see my thoughts. I don't have a photographic memory, and nor is my head a static gallery of sensibly collected think pieces. It's more that I've got this ever-evolving language of hieroglyphics that I've developed and can understand fluently and think deeply with. but I struggle to translate. I can't paint, draw, sculpt, or even haberdash, and as for the written word, I'm OK at it but it's a tortuous process of translation, and I don't feel it does the job. And as far as speaking my own mind, like I said, I'm not great at it. Speech has always felt like an inadequate freeze-frame for the life inside of me. All this to say, I've always understood far more than I've ever been able to communicate.
Et år før Bedstemor døde, fik jeg en formel autismediagnose. For mig var det i det store hele en god nyhed. Jeg havde altid følt, at jeg ikke kunne klare mit liv som et normalt menneske, fordi jeg var deprimeret og angst. Og så viser det sig, at jeg var deprimeret og angst, fordi jeg ikke kunne klare mit liv som et normalt menneske, fordi jeg ikke var et normalt menneske, og det vidste jeg ikke. Jeg prøver ikke at sige, at jeg ikke stadig må kæmpe. Hver eneste dag er lidt af en kamp, hvis jeg skal være ærlig. Men i det mindste ved jeg nu, hvad min kamp går ud på, og at prøve at opføre mig "normalt" er ikke min kamp. Min kamp er ikke at prøve at undgå stormen. Min kamp er at prøve at finde stormens øje, så godt jeg kan.
Now, about a year before Grandma died, I was formally diagnosed with autism. Now for me, that was mostly good news. I always thought that I couldn't sort my life out like a normal person because I was depressed and anxious. But it turns out I was depressed and anxious because I couldn't sort my life out like a normal person, because I was not a normal person, and I didn't know it. Now, this is not to say I still don't struggle. Every day is a bit of a struggle, to be honest. But at least now I know what my struggle is, and getting to the starting line of normal is not it. My struggle is not to escape the storm. My struggle is to find the eye of the storm as best I can.
Bortset fra de almindelige måder, som os spektrum-typer bruger, når vi vil finde ro: gentagen adfærd, faste rutiner og besat tankegang, så har jeg en anden overraskende indgang til stormens øje: Stand-up-komedie. Så hvis du skal bruge flere beviser på, at jeg er neurodivergent, så hør her: Jeg er helt rolig ved at gøre noget, som de fleste ville dø af skræk over. Jeg er nærmest død indvendigt heroppe.
Now, apart from the usual way us spectrum types find our calm -- repetitive behaviors, routine and obsessive thinking -- I have another surprising doorway into the eye of the storm: stand-up comedy. And if you need any more proof I'm neurodivergent, yes, I am calm doing a thing that scares the hell out of most people. I'm almost dead inside up here.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Diagnosen gave mig en ramme om alle de små ting ved mig selv, som jeg aldrig har kunnet forstå. Jeg passede pludselig ind, og for en stund blev jeg helt høj af en nyfunden selvtillid over min måde at tænke på. Men efter Bedstemors død så dykkede den selvtillid, fordi jeg sørger med min tænkning. Og i den tankesorg kunne jeg pludselig se med stor klarhed, hvor utroligt isoleret jeg var og altid havde været. Hvad var meningen med, at jeg er menneske?
Diagnosis gave me a framework on which to hang bits of me I could never understand. My misfit suddenly had a fit, and for a while, I got giddy with a newfound confidence I had in my thinking. But after Grandma died, that confidence took a dive, because thinking is how I grieve. And in that grief of thought, I could suddenly see with so much clarity just how profoundly isolated I was and always had been. What was the purpose of my human?
Jeg tænkte en del på, at autisme og PTSD har en masse til fælles. Og jeg blev bekymret, for jeg havde begge dele. Kunne jeg mon vikle dem ud fra hinanden? Jeg har altid fået at vide, at vejen ud af et traume går via en sammenhængende fortælling. Jeg havde en sammenhængende fortælling, men jeg var stadig fanget af mine traumer. De er allesammen del af min suppe, men løgene sved stadig. Og på det tidspunkt gik det op for mig, at jeg havde fortalt mine historier for at få latter. Jeg havde fjernet alt det mørke, skåret smerten væk, og jeg holdt fast i mine traumer for at glæde mit publikum. Jeg forbandt mig med andre mennesker gennem latter, og alligevel følte jeg mig dybt uforbundet. Hvad var meningen med, at jeg er menneske? Jeg havde ikke noget svar, men jeg fik en idé. Jeg fik den idé at fortælle min sandhed, det hele. Ikke for at dele latteren, men for at dele min bogstavelige indre smerte. Og jeg tænkte, at det kunne jeg bedst gøre gennem et stand-up-show.
I began to think a lot about how autism and PTSD have so much in common. And I started to worry, because I had both. Could I ever untangle them? I'd always been told that the way out of trauma was through a cohesive narrative. I had a cohesive narrative, but I was still at the mercy of my traumas. They're all part of my soup, but the onions still stung. And at that point, I realized that I'd been telling my stories for laughs. I'd been trimming away the darkness, cutting away the pain and holding on to my trauma for the comfort of my audience. I was connecting other people through laughs, yet I remained profoundly disconnected. What was the purpose of my human? I did not have an answer, but I had an idea. I had an idea to tell my truth, all of it, not to share laughs but to share the literal, visceral pain of my trauma. And I thought the best way to do that would be through a comedy show.
Og det gjorde jeg så. Jeg skrev et show, som ikke viste respekt for punchlinen, den sætning, hvor man forventer, at komikeren kommer med sit slag af en pointe og får det til at kilde. Jeg stoppede ikke dér. Jeg tævede gennem den sætning og - metaforisk set - ind i publikums bløde maver. Jeg villle ikke have dem til at grine. Jeg ville slå luften ud af dem, chokere dem, så de kunne høre min historie og mærke min smerte som enkeltindivider - og ikke som en tankeløs, grinende hob. Og det var det, som jeg gjorde, og jeg kaldte mit show for "Nanette". Mange --
And that is what I did. I wrote a comedy show that did not respect the punchline, that line where comedians are expected and trusted to pull their punches and turn them into tickles. I did not stop. I punched through that line into the metaphorical guts of my audience. I did not want to make them laugh. I wanted to take their breath away, to shock them, so they could listen to my story and hold my pain as individuals, not as a mindless, laughing mob. And that's what I did, and I called that show "Nanette." Now, many --
(Bifald)
(Applause)
Mange har hævdet, at "Nanette" ikke er komedie. Og jeg er sådan set enig i, at "Nanette" ikke er en komedie, men de folk tager stadig fejl,
Now, many have argued that "Nanette" is not a comedy show. And while I can agree "Nanette" is definitely not a comedy show, those people are still wrong --
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Fordi de hævder det, så de kan sige, at jeg ikke kan lave komedie. Det var ikke fejlslagen komedie! Jeg tog alt, hvad jeg ved om komedie -- alle tricksene, værktøjerne, teknikkerne -- jeg tog det hele, og med alt det ødelagde jeg komedien. Man kan ikke ødelægge komedie med komedie, hvis man ikke har styr på komedie. Så mistede de lige potensen.
because they have framed their argument as a way of saying I failed to do comedy. I did not fail to do comedy. I took everything I knew about comedy -- all the tricks, the tools, the know-how -- I took all that, and with it, I broke comedy. You cannot break comedy with comedy if you fail at comedy. Flaccid be thy hammer.
(Latter) (Bifald)
(Laughter) (Applause)
Det var ikke min pointe. Pointen var ikke bare at ødelægge komedie. Pointen var at ødelægge komedie, så jeg kunne bygge den op igen i en ny form, ændre den så den bedre kunne indeholde alt dét, som jeg havde behov for at dele. Og det var det jeg mente med, at jeg tog afsked fra komediefaget.
That was not my point. The point was not simply to break comedy. The point was to break comedy so I could rebuild it and reshape it, reform it into something that could better hold everything I needed to share, and that is what I meant when I said I quit comedy.
Nu er vi nok ved at være på det sted, hvor I tænker, "Fint nok, men hvad blev der lige af de tre ideer? Det er lidt uklart."
Now, it's probably at this point where you're going, "Yeah, cool, but what are the three ideas, exactly? It's a bit vague."
Godt, at jeg lader som om, at du spørger.
I'm glad I pretended you asked.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Jeg er sikker på, at en del af jer har fundet tre ideer. I er jo et klogt publikum, så det ville slet ikke overraske mig. Men måske bliver I overraskede over, at jeg faktisk ikke har tre ideer. Jeg sagde, at jeg havde tre ideer, og det var løgn. Det var ren vildledning -- jeg er så sjov. I stedet for har jeg taget hele håndfulde af mine mange ideer, som om det var frø, og så har jeg spredt dem ud over hele min talk. Og hvorfor gjorde jeg nu det? Altså bortset fra, at det er skideskægt, så handler det om noget, som min bedstemor altid sagde: "Det er ikke selve haven, men havearbejdet, der betyder noget." Og "Nanette" lærte mig at forså sandheden i den Sandhed. Jeg forventede fuldstændig, at jeg ved at ødelægge komediens kontrakt og ved at fortælle min historie med al dens sandhed og smerte, så ville det føre mig endnu længere ud i yderkanten af både livet og kunsten. Det forventede jeg, og jeg var klar til at betale prisen for at vise min sandhed. Men det var ikke det, der skete. Verden skubbede mig ikke fra sig. Det trak mig nærmere til sig. Så ved at skabe afstand så fandt jeg tilknytning. Og jeg var længe om at forstå, at det, som er hjertet i den selvmodsigelse også er hjertet i den anden selvmodsigelse, som er, at jeg er så god til noget, som jeg er så dårlig til.
Now, I'm sure there's quite a few of you who have already identified three ideas. A smart crowd, by all accounts, so I wouldn't be surprised at all. But you might be surprised to find out that I don't have three ideas. I told you I had three ideas, and that was a lie. That was pure misdirection -- I'm very funny. What I've done instead is I've taken whole handfuls of my ideas as seeds, and I've scattered them all throughout my talk. And why did I do that? Well, apart from shits and giggles, it comes down to something my grandma always used to say. "It's not the garden, it's the gardening that counts." And "Nanette" taught me the truth to that truism. I fully expected by breaking the contract of comedy and telling my story in all its truth and pain that that would push me further into the margins of both life and art. I expected that, and I was willing to pay that cost in order to tell my truth. But that is not what happened. The world did not push me away. It pulled me closer. Through an act of disconnection, I found connection. And it took me a long time to understand that what is at the heart of that contradiction is also at the heart of the contradiction as to why I can be so good at something I am so bad at.
For det er nemlig sådan, at i virkeligheden, så kæmper jeg med at tale med andre, fordi min neurodiversitet gør det svært for mig at tænke, lytte, tale og bearbejde ny information på én gang. Men på scenen behøver jeg ikke at tænke. Jeg forbereder mine "tanketing" i god tid. Jeg behøver ikke at lytte. Det er jeres afdeling.
You see, in the real world, I struggle to talk to people because my neurodiversity makes it difficult for me to think, listen, speak and process new information all at the same time. But onstage, I don't have to think. I prepare my thinks well in advance. I don't have to listen. That is your job.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Og jeg skal faktisk slet ikke tale, for strengt taget, så "reciterer" jeg. Så det eneste, der er tilbage er, at jeg skal gøre midt bedste for at skabe en ægte forbindelse med mit publikum. Og hvis mine erfaringer med "Nanette" har lært mig noget, så er det, at den forbindelse ikke kun handler om mig. I spiller også en rolle. "Nanette" begyndte måske i mig, men nu lever hun og vokser i en hel verden af andres tanker. Tankeverdener, som jeg ikke deler. Men jeg tror på, at jeg er forbundet. Og på den måde, er hun meget større end mig. På samme måde, som meningen med at være menneske er større end os alle. Få selv noget ud af det.
And I don't really have to talk, because, strictly speaking, I'm reciting. So all that is left is for me to do my best to make a genuine connection with my audience. And if the experience of "Nanette" taught me anything, it's that connection depends not just on me. You play a part. "Nanette" may have begun in me, but she now lives and grows in a whole world of other minds, minds I do not share. But I trust I am connected. And in that, she is so much bigger than me, just like the purpose of being human is so much bigger than all of us. Make of that what you will.
Tak. Og goddag.
Thank you, and hello.
(Bifald)
(Applause)