Having spent 18 years as a child of the state in children's homes and foster care, you could say that I'm an expert on the subject, and in being an expert, I want to let you know that being an expert does in no way make you right in light of the truth.
După 18 ani petrecuţi prin centre de plasament şi pe la asistenţi maternali, s-ar putea spune că sunt expert în domeniu. În această calitate, ţin să precizez că experţii nu deţin nicidecum adevărul absolut.
If you're in care, legally the government is your parent, loco parentis. Margaret Thatcher was my mother. (Laughter) Let's not talk about breastfeeding. (Laughter)
Dacă eşti copilul statului, guvernul ţi-e părinte, din punct de vedere juridic, loco parentis. Margaret Thatcher a fost mama mea. (Râsete) Prefer să nu vorbim despre alăptare. (Râsete)
Harry Potter was a foster child. Pip from "Great Expectations" was adopted; Superman was a foster child; Cinderella was a foster child; Lisbeth Salander, the girl with the dragon tattoo, was fostered and institutionalized; Batman was orphaned; Lyra Belacqua from Philip Pullman's "Northern Lights" was fostered; Jane Eyre, adopted; Roald Dahl's James from "James and the Giant Peach;" Matilda; Moses -- Moses! (Laughter) Moses! (Laughter) -- the boys in Michael Morpurgo's "Friend or Foe;" Alem in Benjamin Zephaniah's "Refugee Boy;" Luke Skywalker -- Luke Skywalker! (Laughter) -- Oliver Twist; Cassia in "The Concubine of Shanghai" by Hong Ying; Celie in Alice Walker's "The Color Purple." All of these great fictional characters, all of them who were hurt by their condition, all of them who spawned thousands of other books and other films, all of them were fostered, adopted or orphaned. It seems that writers know that the child outside of family reflects on what family truly is more than what it promotes itself to be. That is, they also use extraordinary skills to deal with extraordinary situations on a daily basis.
Harry Potter era orfan. Pip, din romanul „Marile Speranţe”, era adoptat. Superman era orfan. Cenuşăreasa era orfană de mamă. Lisbeth Salander, fata cu tatuajul cu dragon, era un copil orfan, instituţionalizat; Batman rămăsese orfan; Lyra Belacqua, din romanul lui Philip Pullman „Compasul de aur”, era orfană. Jane Eyre, adoptată; James, din romanul lui Roald Dahl „James şi piersica uriaşă”; Matilda; Moise! (Râsete) Moise! (Râsete) Băieţii din „Prieten sau duşman” de Michael Morpurgo; Alem din „Refugiatul” de Benjamin Zephaniah; Luke Skywalker, Luke Skywalker! (Râsete) Oliver Twist; Cassia, din „Concubina din Shangai” de Hong Ying; Celie, din „Culoarea violet” de Alice Walker. Toate aceste mari personaje, care au suferit din pricina condiţiei lor, şi au inspirat mii de alte cărţi şi filme, spun povestea unor copii rămaşi orfani, crescuţi de părinţi adoptivi sau vitregi. Scriitorii au intuit că, rămaşi fără familie, copiii reflectează la ce e realmente familia, dincolo de ceea ce se pretinde a fi. Ei îşi folosesc, de altfel, aptitudinile neobişnuite pentru a face faţă zilnic unor situaţii neobişnuite.
How have we not made the connection? And why have we not made the connection, between — How has that happened? — between these incredible characters of popular culture and religions, and the fostered, adopted or orphaned child in our midst? It's not our pity that they need. It's our respect. I know famous musicians, I know actors and film stars and millionaires and novelists and top lawyers and television executives and magazine editors and national journalists and dustbinmen and hairdressers, all who were looked after children, fostered, adopted or orphaned, and many of them grow into their adult lives in fear of speaking of their background, as if it may somehow weaken their standing in the foreground, as if it were somehow Kryptonite, as if it were a time bomb strapped on the inside. Children in care, who've had a life in care, deserve the right to own and live the memory of their own childhood. It is that simple.
Cum de nu ne-am dat seama? Şi de ce nu ne-am dat seama? Cum de n-am văzut legătura dintre aceste remarcabile personaje beletristice sau biblice şi copiii orfani sau adoptaţi din jurul nostru? Nu de mila noastră au nevoie. Ci de respectul nostru. Cunosc muzicieni celebri, actori, vedete, milionari, romancieri, avocaţi renumiţi, directori de televiziune, editori şi jurnalişti recunoscuţi la nivel naţional, gunoieri şi coafeze, care au rămas orfani sau au fost crescuţi de părinţi vitregi sau adoptivi. Deveniţi adulți, mulţi ezită să vorbească despre trecut, de parcă şi-ar pierde rangul. Ca şi când trecutul ar fi o rocă de Kryptonite, o bombă cu ceas lăuntrică. Copiii aflaţi în grija statului merită să stăpânească şi să traiască amintirea propriei copilării. Nu e nicio filosofie.
My own mother — and I should say this here — she same to this country in the late '60s, and she was, you know, she found herself pregnant, as women did in the late '60s. You know what I mean? They found themselves pregnant. And she sort of, she had no idea of the context in which she'd landed.
Mama mea a venit în această ţară la finele anilor '60. Rămăsese însărcinată, ca toate femeile, la acea vreme. Ştiţi la ce mă refer? Rămâneau însărcinate. Habar n-avea ce o aştepta.
In the 1960s -- I should give you some context -- in the 1960s, if you were pregnant and you were single, you were seen as a threat to the community. You were separated from your family by the state. You were separated from your family and placed into mother and baby homes. You were appointed a social worker. The adoptive parents were lined up. It was the primary purpose of the social worker, the aim, to get the woman at her most vulnerable time in her entire life, to sign the adoption papers. So the adoption papers were signed. The mother and baby's homes were often run by nuns. The adoption papers were signed, the child was given to the adoptive parents, and the mother shipped back to her community to say that she'd been on a little break. A little break. A little break. The first secret of shame for a woman for being a woman, "a little break." The adoption process took, like, a matter of months, so it was a closed shop, you know, sealed deal, an industrious, utilitarian solution: the government, the farmer, the adopting parents, the consumer, the mother, the earth, and the child, the crop.
În anii '60, că să vă faceţi o idee, dacă erai însărcinată şi necăsătorită, erai o ameninţare pentru comunitate. Statul te separa de familie. Te internau într-un centru pentru mame şi copii mici. Ţi se desemna un asistent social. Părinţii adoptivi stăteau la rând. Principalul scop al asistentului social era să determine mama să semneze actele de adopţie, în cel mai critic moment din viaţa ei. Aşadar, actele erau semnate. Centrele pentru mame erau conduse adesea de călugăriţe. Se semnau actele de adopţie, copilul era dat familiei adoptive, iar mama se întorcea în comunitate, spunând că fusese într-o scurtă vacanţă. O scurtă vacanţă. O scurtă vacanţă. Primul secret ruşinos al unei femei, „o scurtă vacanţă”. Procesul de adopţie dura câteva luni, era ca un contract, cu utilitate imediată, între guvern, fermierul, şi familia adoptatoare, consumatorul, mama, lumea şi copilul, recolta.
It's kind of easy to patronize the past, to forego our responsibilities in the present. What happened then is a direct reflection of what is happening now. Everybody believed themselves to be doing the right thing by God and by the state for the big society, fast-tracking adoption.
E uşor să privim trecutul de sus, şi să renunţăm la responsabilităţile din prezent. Ce se întâmpla atunci reflectă perfect ce se întâmplă azi. Toţi credeau că fac ce trebuie, ce ar dori Dumnezeu şi statul pentru societate: adopţii rapide.
So anyway, she comes here, 1967, she's pregnant, and she comes from Ethiopia that was celebrating its own jubilee at the time under the Emperor Haile Selassie, and she lands months before the Enoch Powell speech, the "Rivers of Blood" speech. She lands months before the Beatles release "The White Album," months before Martin Luther King was killed. It was a summer of love if you were white. If you were black, it was a summer of hate. So she goes from Oxford, she's sent to the north of England to a mother and baby home, and appointed a social worker. It's her plan. You know, I have to say this in the Houses -- It's her plan to have me fostered for a short period of time while she studies. But the social worker, he had a different agenda. He found the foster parents, and he said to them, "Treat this as an adoption. He's yours forever. His name is Norman." (Laughter) Norman! (Laughter) Norman!
Cum vă ziceam, a venit în 1967, gravidă, din Etiopia, care îşi celebra jubileul, în vremea împăratului Haile Selassie, cu câteva luni înaintea discursului lui Enoch Powell, intitulat „Râuri de sânge” ("Rivers of Blood"). Cu câteva luni înainte de lansarea albumului Beatles „The White Album”. Cu câteva luni înainte de asasinarea lui Martin Luther King. Pentru albi, era vara iubirii. Pentru negri, o vară de ură. Părăseşte Oxfordul, fiind trimisă în nordul Angliei, la un centru pentru mame şi bebeluşi, unde i se atribuie un asistent social. Planul ei era să...Trebuie să afle şi parlamentarii... Planul ei era să mă lase în grija statului doar cât să-şi termine studiile. Asistentul social avea însă alte planuri. M-a încredinţat unei familii, spunând: „Consideraţi că l-aţi adoptat. E al vostru pentru totdeauna. Numele lui e Norman." (Râsete) Norman! (Râsete) Norman!
So they took me. I was a message, they said. I was a sign from God, they said. I was Norman Mark Greenwood. Now, for the next 11 years, all I know is that this woman, this birth woman, should have her eyes scratched out for not signing the adoption papers. She was an evil woman too selfish to sign, so I spent those 11 years kneeling and praying. I tried praying. I swear I tried praying. "God, can I have a bike for Christmas?" But I would always answer myself, "Yes, of course you can." (Laughter) And then I was supposed to determine whether that was the voice of God or it was the voice of the Devil. And it turns out I've got the Devil inside of me. Who knew? (Laughter)
Aşa că m-au luat. E un semn, şi-au zis ei. Un semn de la Dumnezeu. Eu eram Norman Mark Greenwood. În următorii 11 ani, am trăit cu gândul că femeia care mă născuse merita tot răul din lume pentru că nu semnase actele de adopţie. Era o femeie rea, prea egoistă să se sinchisească. Mi-am petrecut acei 11 ani, în genunchi, rugându-mă. Am încercat cu rugăciuni. Jur! „Dă, Doamne, să primesc o bicicletă de Crăciun!" Şi-mi răspundeam tot eu: „Sigur că da!" (Râsete) Apoi trebuia să văd dacă acela fusese glasul Domnului, sau al diavolului. Se pare că aveam pe dracul in mine. Cine ar fi zis? (Râsete)
So anyway, two years sort of passed, and they had a child of their own, and then another two years passed, and they had another child of their own, and then another time passed and they had another child that they called an accident, which I thought was an unusual name. (Laughter) And I was on the cusp of, sort of, adolescence, so I was starting to take biscuits from the tin without asking. I was starting to stay out a little bit late, etc., etc. Now, in their religiosity, in their naivete, my mom and dad, which I believed them to be forever, as they said they were, my mom and dad conceived that I had the Devil inside of me.
Şi aşa au trecut vreo doi ani, şi a venit pe lume primul copil al părinţilor adoptivi. După alţi doi ani, a venit şi al doilea. După un timp, au mai făcut un copil, din greşeală, cum spuneau ei. Mi se părea mie că e un nume cam ciudat. (Râsete) Eram deja aproape adolescent, când am început să calc pe bec. Veneam mai târziu acasă, una, alta. Ai mei, mai bisericoşi şi naivi din fire, deşi îmi spuseseră că vor fi părinţii mei toată viaţa, au ajuns la concluzia că aveam pe dracul în mine.
And what -- I should say this here, because this is how they engineered my leaving. They sat me at a table, my foster mom, and she said to me, "You don't love us, do you?" At 11 years old. They've had three other children. I'm the fourth. The third was an accident.
Într-o zi - atunci am înţeles că eram în plus - stăteam la masă, când ai mei mi-au spus: „Tu nu ne iubeşti, aşa e ?" Aveam doar 11 ani. Ei mai aveau 3 copii. Eu eram al patrulea. Al treilea era din greşeală.
And I said, "Yeah, of course I do." Because you do.
Eu am zis: „Ba da, sigur ca vă iubesc".
My foster mother asked me to go away to think about love and what it is and to read the Scriptures and to come back tomorrow and give my most honest and truthful answer. So this was an opportunity. If they were asking me whether I loved them or not, then I mustn't love them, which led me to the miracle of thought that I thought they wanted me to get to. "I will ask God for forgiveness and His light will shine through me to them. How fantastic." This was an opportunity. The theology was perfect, the timing unquestionable, and the answer as honest as a sinner could get.
Mama mi-a zis să plec, să mă gândesc la ce e dragostea, să citesc din Scripturi, şi să-i dau, a doua zi, un răspuns sincer şi din inimă. Întrucât mă întrebau dacă-i iubesc sau nu, însemna că nu trebuie să-i iubesc. Aşa am ajuns la concluzia la care, credeam eu, voiau şi ei să ajung: „Îi voi cere Domnului iertare, iar lumina Lui va străluci prin mine, pănă la ei. Grozav!" Era perfect. Abordarea teologică n-avea cusur, sincronizarea era perfectă, iar un răspuns mai sincer nici că se putea:
"I mustn't love you," I said to them. "But I will ask God for forgiveness."
„Nu trebuie să vă iubesc", le-am zis, „dar o să-i cer iertare lui Dumnezeu".
"Because you don't love us, Norman, clearly you've chosen your path."
„Dacă nu ne iubeşti, Norman, e limpede că ţi-ai ales calea."
Twenty-four hours later, my social worker, this strange man who used to visit me every couple of months, he's waiting for me in the car as I say goodbye to my parents. I didn't say goodbye to anybody, not my mother, my father, my sisters, my brothers, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, my grandparents, nobody. On the way to the children's home, I started to ask myself, "What's happened to me?" It's not that I'd had the rug pulled from beneath me as much as the entire floor had been taken away.
A doua zi, asistentul social, un om ciudat care mă vizita o dată la două luni, mă aştepta în maşină pe când îmi luam rămas bun de la părinţi. Nu mi-am luat la revedere de la nimeni, nici de la mama, nici de la tata, fraţi, unchi, mătuşi, veri sau bunici; de la nimeni. Pe drum către orfelinat, mă gândeam: „Ce se întâmplă cu mine?" Parcă îmi fugea pământul de sub picioare, pur şi simplu.
When I got to the — For the next four, five years, I was held in four different children's homes. On the third children's home, at 15, I started to rebel, and what I did was, I got three tins of paint, Airfix paint that you use for models, and I was -- it was a big children's home, big Victorian children's home -- and I was in a little turret at the top of it, and I poured them, red, yellow and green, the colors of Africa, down the tiles. You couldn't see it from the street, because the home was surrounded by beech trees.
Odată ajuns, aveam să schimb patru instituţii în patru, cinci ani. În cea de-a treia am ajuns la 15 ani. Devenisem mai rebel, şi într-o zi, am cumpărat trei cutii de vopsea, marca Airfix, şi m-am urcat în turela clădirii, o clădire mare, în stil victorian, de unde am turnat vopseaua roşie, galbenă şi verde, în culorile Africii, pe ţigle. Nu se vedea din stradă, clădirea fiind înconjurată de fagi.
For doing this, I was incarcerated for a year in an assessment center which was actually a remand center. It was a virtual prison for young people.
Pentru fapta mea, am stat un an, la un centru de evaluare, care era, de fapt, un centru de detenţie juvenilă. O închisoare de tineri.
By the way, years later, my social worker said that I should never have been put in there. I wasn't charged for anything. I hadn't done anything wrong. But because I had no family to inquire about me, they could do anything to me.
Apropos, peste ani, am aflat de la asistentul social că n-ar fi trebuit să fiu trimis acolo. Nu eram acuzat de nimic. Nu făcusem nimic ilegal. Dar pentru că n-aveam pe nimeni să-mi poarte de grijă, puteau face ce voiau cu mine.
I'm 17 years old, and they had a padded cell. They would march me down corridors in last-size order. They -- I was put in a dormitory with a confirmed Nazi sympathizer. All of the staff were ex-police -- interesting -- and ex-probation officers. The man who ran it was an ex-army officer. Every time I had a visit by a person who I did not know who would feed me grapes, once every three months, I was strip-searched. That home was full of young boys who were on remand for things like murder. And this was the preparation that I was being given after 17 years as a child of the state.
La 17 ani, mă aştepta o celulă capitonată, şi o viaţă de „Înainte, marş!" pe coridoare. Apoi, am stat în cameră cu un vădit simpatizant nazist. Personalul era format, în întregime - curios lucru - din foşti ofiţeri de poliţie. Directorul centrului era un fost ofiţer de armată. De câte ori mă vizita o persoană necunoscută, care îmi aducea struguri, o dată la trei luni, eram percheziţionat la sânge. Centrul era plin de tineri arestaţi preventiv pentru delicte grave precum omorul. Astfel eram eu pregătit pentru viaţă, după 17 ani petrecuţi în grija statului.
I have to tell this story. I have to tell it, because there was no one to put two and two together.
E o poveste ce merită spusă. Trebuie s-o spun, pentru ca n-a avut cine să pună lucrurile cap la cap.
I slowly became aware that I knew nobody that knew me for longer than a year. See, that's what family does. It gives you reference points. I'm not defining a good family from a bad family. I'm just saying that you know when your birthday is by virtue of the fact that somebody tells you when your birthday is, a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, an aunt, an uncle, a cousin, a grandparent. It matters to someone, and therefore it matters to you. Understand, I was 14 years old, tucked away in myself, into myself, and I wasn't touched either, physically touched.
Am realizat treptat că nu ştiam pe nimeni care să mă cunoască de mai mult de un an. Ăsta e, de fapt, rolul familiei. Să-ţi dea puncte de reper. Nu mă refer la ce face o familie bună şi alta, rea. Spun doar că ştii când e ziua ta de naştere fiindcă are cine să-ţi spună: mama, tata, sora, fratele, mătuşa, unchiul, verii, bunicii. Cuiva îi pasă, şi de-asta îţi pasă şi ţie. La 14 ani, ţineam totul în mine, nu ştiam ce înseamnă o mângâiere.
I'm reporting back. I'm reporting back simply to say that when I left the children's home I had two things that I wanted to do. One was to find my family, and the other was to write poetry. In creativity I saw light. In the imagination I saw the endless possibility of life, the endless truth, the permanent creation of reality, the place where anger was an expression in the search for love, a place where dysfunction is a true reaction to untruth.
Vă povestesc toate astea fiindcă îmi doream două lucruri când am părăsit centrul. Să-mi găsesc familia şi să scriu poezie. În creaţie, am văzut lumina. Fantezia mi-a oferit posibilităţi nelimitate în viaţă, adevărul nesfârşit, recrearea permanentă a realităţii. Un loc în care furia e expresia nevoii de iubire, un loc în care disfuncţia apare ca reacţie la neadevăr.
I've just got to say it to you all: I found all of my family in my adult life. I spent all of my adult life finding them, and I've now got a fully dysfunctional family just like everybody else.
Mi-am găsit familia ca adult. Mi-am petrecut toată viaţa de adult căutând-o, şi am azi o familie perfect imperfectă, ca tot omu'.
But I'm reporting back to you to say quite simply that you can define how strong a democracy is by how its government treats its child. I don't mean children. I mean the child of the state. Thanks very much. It's been an honor. (Applause) (Applause)
V-am spus toate astea pentru că eu cred că modul în care un guvern îşi tratează copiii dă măsura democraţiei sale. Şi nu mă refer aici la toţi copiii. Ci la copiii statului. Vă mulţumesc! Sunt onorat! (Aplauze) (Aplauze)