Doncs jo sé que TED va sobre moltes coses que són grans, però vull parlar-vos d'una cosa molt petita. Tan petita que és una sola paraula. La paraula és "inadaptat". És una de les meves paraules preferides, perquè és literal. És a dir, és una persona que no s'ha pogut adaptar. O una persona que s'adapta malament. O això: "una persona s'adapta malament a noves situacions o entorns." Jo em sento identificada com a inadaptada. I estic aquí per altres inadaptats a la sala, perquè no en sóc l'única. Us explicaré una història d'inadaptació
So I know TED is about a lot of things that are big, but I want to talk to you about something very small. So small, it's a single word. The word is "misfit." It's one of my favorite words, because it's so literal. I mean, it's a person who sort of missed fitting in. Or a person who fits in badly. Or this: "a person who is poorly adapted to new situations and environments." I'm a card-carrying misfit. And I'm here for the other misfits in the room, because I'm never the only one. I'm going to tell you a misfit story.
En algun moment dels meus 30 anys, el somni d'esdevenir escriptora va picar a la meva porta. De fet, va arribar a la bústia en forma de carta que deia que havia guanyat un gran premi literari per una història curta que havia escrit. La història curta era sobre la meva vida com a nadadora competitiva i sobre la meva vida familiar dolenta, i una mica sobre com la pena i la pèrdua et poden tornar boig. El premi era un viatge a Nova York per conèixer editors i representants de renom i altres autors. El somni de tot aspirant a escriptor, no? Sabeu què vaig fer el dia que va arribar la carta a casa? Com que sóc jo, vaig posar la carta a la taula de la cuina, em vaig posar un got de vodka amb gel i llima, i vaig seure allà en roba interior durant tot un dia sencer, mirant fixament a la carta. Pensant sobre totes les maneres en què ja havia fastiguejat la meva vida. Qui dimonis era jo per anar a Nova York i fer veure que era una escriptora? Qui era jo?
Somewhere in my early 30s, the dream of becoming a writer came right to my doorstep. Actually, it came to my mailbox in the form of a letter that said I'd won a giant literary prize for a short story I had written. The short story was about my life as a competitive swimmer and about my crappy home life, and a little bit about how grief and loss can make you insane. The prize was a trip to New York City to meet big-time editors and agents and other authors. So kind of it was the wannabe writer's dream, right? You know what I did the day the letter came to my house? Because I'm me, I put the letter on my kitchen table, I poured myself a giant glass of vodka with ice and lime, and I sat there in my underwear for an entire day, just staring at the letter. I was thinking about all the ways I'd already screwed my life up. Who the hell was I to go to New York City and pretend to be a writer? Who was I?
Us ho explicaré. Era una inadaptada. Com molts altres nens, venia d'una familia abusiva i per poc vaig acabar amb la meva vida. Ja m'havia casat dues vegades sense èxit. Vaig sortir de l'univeristat sense títol no un cop, sinó dos i potser fins i tot un tercer cop que no us explicaré.
I'll tell you. I was a misfit. Like legions of other children, I came from an abusive household that I narrowly escaped with my life. I already had two epically failed marriages underneath my belt. I'd flunked out of college not once but twice and maybe even a third time that I'm not going to tell you about.
(Rialles)
(Laughter)
I havia fet rehabilitació per consum de drogues. i havia tingut dues maravelloses vancances a la presó. Vaig per bon camí.
And I'd done an episode of rehab for drug use. And I'd had two lovely staycations in jail. So I'm on the right stage.
(Rialles)
(Laughter)
Però la veritable raó, crec, per la qual era una inadaptada era que la meva filla va morir el dia que va néixer, i encara no havia entès com viure amb aquesta història. Després que la meva filla morís, durant molt de temps no tenia casa i vivia sota un pont en una mena d'estat zombi de pena i pèrdua que alguns de nosaltres ens hem trobat pel camí. Potser tots nosaltres, si vivim suficients anys. Ja sabeu, els pobres són uns dels nostres inadaptats més heroics, perquè comencen com nosaltres. Doncs com veieu, no m'adaptava a cap categoria d'aquestes: filla, esposa, mare, alumna. I el somni de ser escriptora era com una pedra petita i trista al meu coll.
But the real reason, I think, I was a misfit, is that my daughter died the day she was born, and I hadn't figured out how to live with that story yet. After my daughter died I also spent a long time homeless, living under an overpass in a kind of profound state of zombie grief and loss that some of us encounter along the way. Maybe all of us, if you live long enough. You know, homeless people are some of our most heroic misfits, because they start out as us. So you see, I'd missed fitting in to just about every category out there: daughter, wife, mother, scholar. And the dream of being a writer was really kind of like a small, sad stone in my throat.
Era per culpa meva el fet de que pujés a l'avió i volés cap a Nova York, on estan els escriptors. Amics inadaptats, quasi puc veure els vostres caps il·luminant-se. Us puc identificar en una sala. Al principi, us hagués agradat. Pots escollir tres escriptor famosos que us agradaria conèixer, i aquests nois hi van i els troben per a tu. T'instal·les a l'hotel Gramercy Park, on beus whisky tard, a la nit. amb gent guai, llesta i presumida. I fas veure també que ets guai i llest i presumit. I conèixes un grup d'editors i autors i representants a dinars i sopars molt, molt sofisticats. Demaneu-me com són de sofisticats.
It was pretty much in spite of myself that I got on that plane and flew to New York City, where the writers are. Fellow misfits, I can almost see your heads glowing. I can pick you out of a room. At first, you would've loved it. You got to choose the three famous writers you wanted to meet, and these guys went and found them for you. You got set up at the Gramercy Park Hotel, where you got to drink Scotch late in the night with cool, smart, swank people. And you got to pretend you were cool and smart and swank, too. And you got to meet a bunch of editors and authors and agents at very, very fancy lunches and dinners. Ask me how fancy.
Audiència: com, de sofisticats?
Audience: How fancy?
Lidia Yuknavitch: confessaré que vaig robar tres tovallons...
Lidia Yuknavitch: I'm making a confession: I stole three linen napkins --
(Rialles)
(Laughter)
de tres restaurants diferents. I em vaig ficar un menú als pantalons
from three different restaurants. And I shoved a menu down my pants.
(Rialles)
(Laughter)
Només volia alguns records perquè quan tornés a casa pogués creure que relament això m'havia passat. Sabeu?
I just wanted some keepsakes so that when I got home, I could believe it had really happened to me. You know?
Tres escriptors que volia conèixer eren Carole Maso, Lynne Tillman i Peggy Phelan. Aquests no eren famosos, autors exitosos, però per a mi, eren heroïnes. Carole Maso va escriure el llibre que més tard va ser la meva Bíblia d'art. Lynne Tillman va donar-me permís per creure que era possible que les meves històries fóssin part del món. I Peggy Phelan em va recordar que el meu cervell podia ser més important que els meus pits. No eren escriptores convencionals, però s'estaven fent camí al món amb les seves històries. M'agrada pensar, d'una manera similar a la de l'aigua quan passa pel Gran Canyó.
The three writers I wanted to meet were Carole Maso, Lynne Tillman and Peggy Phelan. These were not famous, best-selling authors, but to me, they were women-writer titans. Carole Maso wrote the book that later became my art bible. Lynne Tillman gave me permission to believe that there was a chance my stories could be part of the world. And Peggy Phelan reminded me that maybe my brains could be more important than my boobs. They weren't mainstream women writers, but they were cutting a path through the mainstream with their body stories, I like to think, kind of the way water cut the Grand Canyon.
Quasi em mata d'alegria passar l'estona amb aquestes 3 escriptores de més de 50 anys. I la raó per la qual quasi em mata d'alegria és que mai havia sentit una alegria així. Mai havia estat en una habitació així la mare mai va anar a l'universitat, la meva carrera creativa en aquell moment era una cosa petita, trista, morta. Aquelles primeres nits a Nova York volia morir allà. I pensava: "Ja puc morir. Sóc bona. Això és bonic." Alguns de vosaltres a la sala entendreu el que va passar després.
It nearly killed me with joy to hang out with these three over-50-year-old women writers. And the reason it nearly killed me with joy is that I'd never known a joy like that. I'd never been in a room like that. My mother never went to college. And my creative career to that point was a sort of small, sad, stillborn thing. So kind of in those first nights in New York I wanted to die there. I was just like, "Kill me now. I'm good. This is beautiful." Some of you in the room will understand what happened next.
Primer, em van portar a les oficines de Farrar, Straus i Giroux. Farrar, Struaus i Giroux era el meu somni a la premsa. Vull dir, T.S Eliot i Flannery O'Connor estaven publicats allà. L'editor principal em va fer seure i vam parlar durant una llarga estona intentant convèncer-me que tenia un llibre a dins sobre la meva vida com a nadadora. Una autobiografia. Tot l'estona que va estar parlant amb mi, estava asseguda somrient i assentint com una idiota adormida, creuada de braços, mentre res, res de res sortia del meu coll. I al final, em va donar un copet a l'espatlla com un entrenador de natació. I em va desitjar sort i em va donar alguns llibres gratuïts i em va portar fins a fora la porta.
First, they took me to the offices of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Farrar, Straus and Giroux was like my mega-dream press. I mean, T.S. Eliot and Flannery O'Connor were published there. The main editor guy sat me down and talked to me for a long time, trying to convince me I had a book in me about my life as a swimmer. You know, like a memoir. The whole time he was talking to me, I sat there smiling and nodding like a numb idiot, with my arms crossed over my chest, while nothing, nothing, nothing came out of my throat. So in the end, he patted me on the shoulder like a swim coach might. And he wished me luck and he gave me some free books and he showed me out the door.
Després, em van portar cap a les oficines de W.W. Norton, on estava bastant segura que m'escortarien de l'edifici només per portar posat Doc Martens. Però això no va passar. Estar a les oficines Norton va ser com arribar dalt del cel de nit i tocar la lluna mentres estrelles cosint el teu nom al llarg del cosmos. Vull dir, això és com de gran va ser per mi. Ho enteneu? El seva principal editora, Carol Houck Smith, es va apropar a la meva cara amb aquells ulls petits, brillants i ferotges i em va dir, "Envia'm algo doncs, immediatament!" Veieu, ara la majoria de persones, especialment de TED, haurien corregut cap a la bústia, veritat? Vaig trigar una dècada a imaginar-me posar algo en un sobre i enganxar-hi un segell.
Next, they took me to the offices of W.W. Norton, where I was pretty sure I'd be escorted from the building just for wearing Doc Martens. But that didn't happen. Being at the Norton offices felt like reaching up into the night sky and touching the moon while the stars stitched your name across the cosmos. I mean, that's how big a deal it was to me. You get it? Their lead editor, Carol Houck Smith, leaned over right in my face with these beady, bright, fierce eyes and said, "Well, send me something then, immediately!" See, now most people, especially TED people, would have run to the mailbox, right? It took me over a decade to even imagine putting something in an envelope and licking a stamp.
A l'última nit, Vaig fer una gran lectura al Club Nacional de Poesia. I al final de la lectura, Katharine Kidde of Kidde, Hoyt & Picard Literary Agency, va caminar de dret cap a mi i em va donar la mà i em va oferir representació al lloc. em vaig estar dreta i em vaig tornar com sorda. Us ha passat mai això? I quasi vaig començar a plorar perquè totes les persones a la sala anaven vestides tant bellament, i tot el que va sortir de la meva boca va ser: "No ho sé, m'ho he de pensar." I ella va dir, "D'acord, doncs," i va marxar. Totes aquelles mans obertes cap a mi, aquella petita i trista pedra al meu coll...
On the last night, I gave a big reading at the National Poetry Club. And at the end of the reading, Katharine Kidde of Kidde, Hoyt & Picard Literary Agency, walked straight up to me and shook my hand and offered me representation, like, on the spot. I stood there and I kind of went deaf. Has this ever happened to you? And I almost started crying because all the people in the room were dressed so beautifully, and all that came out of my mouth was: "I don't know. I have to think about it." And she said, "OK, then," and walked away. All those open hands out to me, that small, sad stone in my throat ...
Veieu, estic intentant explicar-vos una cosa sobre gent com jo. Gent inadaptada -- no sempre sabem com tenir esperança o dir que sí o triar la cosa gran, fins i tot quan està just davant nostre. És una pena que portem. És la pena de voler alguna cosa bona. És la pena de sentir algo bo. És la pena de no creure ben bé que mereixem estar a la sala amb la gent que admirem
You see, I'm trying to tell you something about people like me. Misfit people -- we don't always know how to hope or say yes or choose the big thing, even when it's right in front of us. It's a shame we carry. It's the shame of wanting something good. It's the shame of feeling something good. It's the shame of not really believing we deserve to be in the room with the people we admire.
Si pogués, tornaria enrere i m'entrenaria. Seria exactament com aquelles done de més de 50 anys que em van ajudar. M'ensenyaria com voler les coses, com aixercar-me, com demanar-les. Diria, "Tu! Sí, tu! Pertanys a la sala, també." La pinta radiant cau en tots nosaltres, i no som res l'un sense l'atre. En el seu lloc, vaig tornar cap a Oregon, i mentre mirava les fulles perennes i la pluja tornava a la vista, Vaig beure'm tantes ampolles petites que deiem "senteix llàstima per tu mateix" Pensava sobre com, si fós una escriptora, era com una mena d'escriptora inadaptada. El que estic dient és, vaig tornar a Oregon sense un repartiment de llibre, sense representant, i només anb un cap i un cor ple de records d'aver d'assentar-me tan aprop dels escriptors bonics. La memòria va ser l'únic premi que em vaig permetre.
If I could, I'd go back and I'd coach myself. I'd be exactly like those over-50-year-old women who helped me. I'd teach myself how to want things, how to stand up, how to ask for them. I'd say, "You! Yeah, you! You belong in the room, too." The radiance falls on all of us, and we are nothing without each other. Instead, I flew back to Oregon, and as I watched the evergreens and rain come back into view, I just drank many tiny bottles of airplane "feel sorry for yourself." I thought about how, if I was a writer, I was some kind of misfit writer. What I'm saying is, I flew back to Oregon without a book deal, without an agent, and with only a headful and heart-ful of memories of having sat so near the beautiful writers. Memory was the only prize I allowed myself.
I encara, a casa a les foques, amb roba interior, encara podiar escoltar les seves veus. Deien, "No escoltis a ningú que intenti fer-te callar o canviar la teva història." Deien, "Dóna veu a la història que només tu saps explicar." Deien, "A vegades explicar la història és el que et salva la vida."
And yet, at home in the dark, back in my underwear, I could still hear their voices. They said, "Don't listen to anyone who tries to get you to shut up or change your story." They said, "Give voice to the story only you know how to tell." They said, "Sometimes telling the story is the thing that saves your life."
Ara sóc, com podeu veure, la dona de més de 50 anys. I sóc escriptora. Sóc mare. I em vaig convertir en mestra. Endevineu qui són els meus alumnes preferits. Tot i que no va passar el dia que la somiada carta va arribar a la bústia, sí que vaig escriure una memòria, anomenada "La cronologia de l'aigua." A dins hi ha les històries sobre quantes vegades m'he hagut de reinventar des de les runes de les meves eleccions, les històries sobre com els meus fracassos eren només portals extranys fins algo bonic. Tot el que vaig haver de fer va ser donar veu a la història.
Now I am, as you can see, the woman over 50. And I'm a writer. And I'm a mother. And I became a teacher. Guess who my favorite students are. Although it didn't happen the day that dream letter came through my mailbox, I did write a memoir, called "The Chronology of Water." In it are the stories of how many times I've had to reinvent a self from the ruins of my choices, the stories of how my seeming failures were really just weird-ass portals to something beautiful. All I had to do was give voice to the story.
Hi ha un mite a la majoria de cultures sobre perseguir el teus somnis. S'anomena el camí d'un heroi. Però prefereixo un mite diferent, que és lleugerament cap a la banda, o per sota d'això. És el mite dels inadaptats. I diu així: fins i tot al moment del teu fracàs, ets bonic. Encara no saps, però tens l'abilitat de reinventar-te sense fi. Aquesta és la teva bellesa.
There's a myth in most cultures about following your dreams. It's called the hero's journey. But I prefer a different myth, that's slightly to the side of that or underneath it. It's called the misfit's myth. And it goes like this: even at the moment of your failure, right then, you are beautiful. You don't know it yet, but you have the ability to reinvent yourself endlessly. That's your beauty.
Pots ser un borratxo, supervivent d'abús, un ex convicte, un rodamón, pots perdre tot els teus diners o la teva feina o el teu home o la teva dona, però el pitjor de tot, un fill. Pots perdre fins i tot els teus marbres. Pots estar dreta en un centre mort al mig del teu fracàs i encara, jo seré l'única allà per dir-te que ets tant bonic. La teva història es mereix ser escoltada, perquè tu, tu extrany i fenomenal inadaptat, tu nova espècie, ets l'únic a la sala que pot explicar la història de l'única manera que tu ho faries. I jo estaré escoltant.
You can be a drunk, you can be a survivor of abuse, you can be an ex-con, you can be a homeless person, you can lose all your money or your job or your husband or your wife, or the worst thing of all, a child. You can even lose your marbles. You can be standing dead center in the middle of your failure and still, I'm only here to tell you, you are so beautiful. Your story deserves to be heard, because you, you rare and phenomenal misfit, you new species, are the only one in the room who can tell the story the way only you would. And I'd be listening.
Gràcies.
Thank you.
(Aplaudiments)
(Applause)