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.
Znam da se TED vrti oko velikih stvari, ali želim vam pričati o nečemu jako malom. Tako malome da se sastoji od jedne riječi. Riječ je "autsajder". To je jedna od mojih najdražih riječi jer je tako bukvalna. Mislim, to je osoba koja se na nekin način zakasnila uklopiti. Ili osoba koja se loše uklapa. Ili ova: "osoba koja se loše prilagođava novim situacijama i okolinama." I sama sam autsajder. I ovdje sam u ime svih autsajdera u ovoj prostoriji, jer nikada nisam jedina. Ispričat ću vam priču autsajdera.
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?
Negdje u ranim 30-ima san da postanem spisateljica došao mi je na vrata. Zapravo, došao mi je u sandučić u obliku pisma u kojem je pisalo da sam osvojila veliku književnu nagradu za kratku priču koju sam napisala. Ta kratka priča govorila je o mom životu kao plivačice i o mom lošem obiteljskom životu te malo o tome kako zbog tuge i gubitka možete izgubiti razum. Nagrada je bila putovanje u New York i susret s poznatim urednicima i agentima te ostalim piscima. To je baš bilo ostvarenje sna mladog pisca, zar ne? Znate li što sam učinila tog dana kada sam primila pismo? Zato jer sam takva, stavila sam pismo na stol u kuhinji, natočila si veliku čašu votke s ledom i limetom i cijeli dan sam sjedila u donjem rublju te samo buljila u pismo. Razmišljala sam kako sam si do sada već upropastila život. Tko sam ja da idem u New York i pretvaram se da sam pisac? Tko sam ja?
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.
Reći ću vam. Ja sam autsajder. Poput mnoge druge djece, potekla sam iz nasilne obitelji od koje sam jedva živa pobjegla. Imala sam već dva propala braka iza sebe. Ne jednom, već dva puta sam odustala od faksa, a možda i tri puta, ali neću vam pričati o tome.
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
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.
Bila sam i na odvikavanju od droge. Dva puta sam bila u zatvoru. Znači, sad sam na pravoj pozornici.
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
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.
No, pravi razlog zašto mislim da sam autsajder je taj što je moja kćer umrla istog dana kada se i rodila i još nisam naučila kako živjeti s time. Nakon smrti svoje kćeri, dugo sam bila beskućnik, živjela sam ispod nadvožnjaka, u stanju duboke tuge i gubitka, s čime se neki od nas susreću. Možda i svi mi, ako živite dovoljno dugo. Znate, beskućnici su najhrabriji autsajderi jer počnu kao i svi mi. Vidite, nisam se uklopila ni u jednu kategoriju koja postoji: kćer, supruga, majka, učenica. A san da budem spisateljica bio je poput knedle u grlu.
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.
Zapravo sam protivno sama sebi sjela na avion i odletjela u New York gdje su bili pisci. Kolege autsajderi, već vidim kako zračite. Točno znam tko ste. Isprva biste uživali. Možete odabrati tri poznata pisca koja želite upoznati i oni bi ih našli i doveli. Odsjeli biste u Gramercy Park Hotelu, gdje kasno navečer pijete viski sa super, pametnim i elegantnim ljudima. I možete se pretvarati da ste i vi super i pametni i elegantni. I upoznate hrpu urednika, pisaca i agenata na jako otmjenim ručkovima i večerama. Pitajte me koliko otmjenima.
Audience: How fancy?
Publika: Koliko otmjenima?
Lidia Yuknavitch: I'm making a confession: I stole three linen napkins --
Sada priznajem: ukrala sam tri platnene salvete
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
from three different restaurants. And I shoved a menu down my pants.
iz tri različita restorana. I sakrila sam jelovnik u hlače.
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
I just wanted some keepsakes so that when I got home, I could believe it had really happened to me. You know?
Samo sam htjela neke suvenire da, kad dođem kući, vjerujem da mi se to stvarno dogodilo. Znate?
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.
Autorice koje sam htjela upoznati bile su Carole Maso, Lynne Tillman i Peggy Phelan. One nisu bile poznate, najprodavanije spisateljice, ali meni su bile divovi među spisateljicama. Carole Maso napisala je knjigu koja je postala moja Biblija umjetnosti. Lynne Tillman omogućila mi je da vjerujem da moje priče mogu biti dio svijeta. Peggy Phelan podsjetila me da moj mozak može biti važniji od mojih sisa. Nisu bile popularne spisateljice, ali svojim su pričama krčile put u popularnoj književnosti, kao što voda prodire Grand Canyonom.
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.
Zamalo sam umrla od sreće što sam se družila s te tri spisateljice starije od 50 godina. A razlog zašto sam skoro umrla od sreće je taj što nikada nisam osjetila takvu sreću. Nikada nisam bila na takvom mjestu. Moja majka nikada nije išla na faks. I moja kreativna karijera je do tada bila mala, tužna i nepokretna. Zato sam prvih noći u New Yorku htjela tamo umrijeti. Mislila sam, "Ubijte me sada. Dobro sam. Ovo je prekrasno." Neki od vas ovdje će razumjeti što se sljedeće dogodilo.
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.
Prvo su me odveli u urede Farrar, Straus i Girouxa. Farrar, Straus i Giroux su mi bili izdavači iz snova. Mislim, objavili su knjige T. S. Elliota i Flannery O'Connor. Glavni urednik me posjeo i dugo razgovarao sa mnom, pokušavajući me uvjeriti da mogu napisati knjigu o svom životu kao plivačice. Znate, poput memoara. Cijelo vrijeme kada je pričao, ja sam sjedila, smiješila se i kimala glavom poput idiota, ruku prekriženih na prsima, bez da sam ispustila ijedan jedini zvuk. Na kraju me samo potapšao po ramenu, poput trenera plivanja. Poželio mi je sreću, dao mi nekoliko knjiga i otpratio me do vrata.
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.
Zatim sam bila u uredima W. W. Nortona i mislila sam da će me izbaciti iz zgrade zato jer sam nosila marte. No, to se nije dogodilo. U Nortonovim uredima osjećala sam se kao da sam posegnula prema noćnom nebu i dotakla mjesec, dok su zvijezde ispisivale moje ime preko cijelog svemira. Toliko mi je to bilo nevjerojatno. Shvaćate? Njihova glavna urednica, Carol Houck Smith, unesla mi se u lice svojim velikim, svijetlim, divljim očima i rekla "Pa onda mi pošalji nešto. Odmah!" Sada bi većina ljudi, pogotovo TED ljudi, otrčala do sandučića, zar ne? Trebalo mi je više od desetljeća da uopće zamislim kako nešto stavljam u kuvertu i lijepim markicu.
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 ...
Posljednje večeri održala sam čitalačku večer u Nacionalnom klubu poezije. Na kraju večeri prišla mi je Katharine Kidde iz izdavačke kuće Kidde, Hoyt & Picard, rukovala se sa mnom i odmah mi na licu mjesta ponudila da me zastupaju. Stajala sam tamo i sve je utihnulo na trenutak. Je li vam se to ikada dogodilo? Zamalo sam počela plakati jer su svi u prostoriji bili tako lijepo obučeni, a sve što sam ja uspjela reći bilo je: "Ne znam. Moram razmisliti o tome." Rekla je "U redu onda." i otišla. Sve te raširene ruke preda mnom, ona mala tužna knedla u mom grlu...
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.
Pokušavam vam reći nešto o ljudima poput mene. Autsajderi - ne znamo uvijek kako se nadati ili reći "da", ili odabrati nešto odlično, čak i kad nam je pred nosom. To je sram koji nosimo. Sram zbog toga što želimo nešto dobro. Sram zbog toga što osjećamo nešto dobro. Sram jer zapravo ne vjerujemo da zaslužujemo biti u istoj sobi s ljudima kojima se divimo.
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.
Da mogu, vratila bih se u prošlost i poučila samu sebe. Bila bih poput onih žena starijih od 50 godina koje su mi pomogle. Naučila bih se kako željeti stvari, kako se zauzeti za to, kako ih zatražiti. Rekla bih, "Ti!" Da, ti! I ti pripadaš ovdje." Svjetlost pada na sve nas i nismo ništa jedni bez drugih. Umjesto toga, odletjela sam natrag u Oregon i dok sam gledala kako se pojavljuje zimzeleno drveće i kiša, pila sam bočice onog "žalim samu sebe" napitka. Razmišljala sam, ako sam spisateljica, onda sam neka autsajder spisateljica. Što želim reći, vratila sam se u Oregon bez dogovora za knjigu, bez agenta i samo s puno uspomena u glavi i srcu kako sam sjedila tako blizu tih prekrasnih pisaca. Sjećanje je bila jedina nagrada koju sam si dopustila.
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."
No, kod kuće, u mraku, ponovno u donjem rublju, mogla sam čuti njihove glasove. Govorili su, "Nemoj slušati nikoga tko te pokušava ušutkati ili promijeniti tvoju priču." Govorili su, "Ispričaj priču koju samo ti možeš ispričati." Govorili su, "Ponekad je pričanje priče ono što ti spasi život."
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.
Kao što vidite, ja sam žena starija od 50. I ja sam spisateljica. I majka. I postala sam učiteljica. Pogodite tko su mi najdraži učenici. Iako se to nije dogodilo onda kada je ono pismo iz snova došlo u moj sandučić, napisala sam memoare nazvane "Kronologija vode." U njima se nalaze priče o tome koliko puta sam se morala uzdići iz ruševina svojih odabira, priče o tome kako su svi oni neuspjesi bili samo jako čudni prolazi do nečega prekrasnog. Sve što sam trebala je ispričati tu priču.
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.
U većini kultura postoji mit da treba slijediti svoje snove. Zove se putovanje junaka. No, ja više volim drugi mit, koji je malo drugačiji od ovoga ili je povezan s time. Zove se mit autsajdera. Ide ovako: čak i u trenutku neuspjeha, upravo tada, vi ste prekrasni. Ne znate to još, ali imate sposobnost da se beskonačno obnavljate. To je vaša ljepota.
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.
Možete biti pijanac, možete biti žrtva nasilja, možete biti bivši zatvorenik, možete biti beskućnik, možete izgubiti sav novac, ili posao, ili muža, ili ženu ili, najgore od svega, dijete. Možete čak izgubiti i razum. Možete nepomično stajati usred svog neuspjeha i još uvijek ću vam reći, vi ste prekrasni. Zaslužujete da se vaša priča čuje jer vi, vi rijetki i izvanredni autsajder, vi nova vrsta, jedini ste u prostoriji koji možete ispričati priču samo onako kako vi to možete. A ja ću slušati.
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Pljesak)