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.
Dakle, znam da se TED bavi mnogim velikim stvarima, ali ja želim da vam govorim o nečemu veoma malom. Malom kao jedna jedina reč. Reč je "neprilagođeni". To mi je jedna od omiljenih reči jer je tako doslovna. Mislim, radi se o osobi koja se nekako nije prilagodila. Ili osoba koja se loše prilagodila. Ili sledeće: "osoba koja se loše prilagodila novim situacijama i okolnostima." Ja sam zvnično neprilagođena. I ovde sam zbog drugih neprilagođenih u ovoj prostoriji jer nikad nisam usamljen slučaj. Ispričaću vam priču o neprilagođavanju.
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?
Negde u ranim tridesetim direktno mi je serviran san o tome da ću da budem spisateljka. Zapravo, stigao je u moje sanduče u vidu pisma koje mi je saopštilo da sam dobila značajnu književnu nagradu za kratku priču koju sam napisala. Priča je govorila o mom životu kao takmičarke u plivanju i o mom bezveznom životu kod kuće, i malčice o tome kako patnja i gubitak mogu da vas izlude. Nagrada je bila putovanje u Njujork i upoznavanje sa važnim urednicima i agentima i drugim piscima. Te bi to bio san svakog ko želi da bude pisac, zar ne? Znate li šta sam radila tog dana kad mi je pismo stiglo? Zato što ja sam ja, stavila sam pismo na kuhinjski sto, usula sam sebi ogromnu čašu votke sa ledom i limetom i sedela sam tu u donjem vešu čitav dan, prosto zureći u pismo. Razmišljala sam o svim načinima na koje sam već srozala svoj život. Ko sam, dovraga, ja da idem u Njujork i da se pretvaram da sam pisac? Ko 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 neprilagođena. Poput mnoštva druge dece, potičem iz nasilnog domaćinstva iz kog sam jedva izvukla živu glavu. Već sam imala dva katastrofalno propala braka za sobom. Ispisana sam sa fakulteta, ne jednom već dva puta, a možda čak i tri puta o čemu neću da vam pričam.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
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.
I imala sam epizodu odvikavanja od droge. I imala sam dva ljupka odsedanja u zatvoru. Dakle, na odgovarajućoj sam sceni.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
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.
Ali istinski razlog, verujem, zašto sam bila neprilagođena je to što mi je kćerka umrla na rođenju i još uvek nisam bila pronašla način da živim s tom pričom. Nakon što mi je kćerka umrla takođe sam dugo vremena bila beskućnica, živela sam ispod nadvožnjaka u nekakvom beznadežnom stanju zombijevske patnje i gubitka koje zatekne neke od nas tokom života. Možda sve nas, ako poživimo dovoljno dugo. Znate, beskućnici su najveći junaci među neprilagođenima jer su započeli kao mi. Pa, vidite, nisam se prilagodila ni u jednoj postojećoj kategoriji: kao kćerka, supruga, majka, učenica. A san o pisanju je uistinu bio poput otužnog kamenčića u mom 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.
Prilično sam se uprkos sebi ukrcala na taj avion i odletela do Njujorka, gde se nalaze pisci. Kolege neprilagođeni, skoro da mogu da vidim kako vam glave sjaje, mogu da vas prepoznam u prostoriji. Kao prvo, oduševili biste se. Imali smo da izaberemo tri poznata pisca da upoznamo, a ti ljudi bi prosto otišli i našli bi ih za vas. Susret bi bio u hotelu Gramersi Park, gde biste pili skoč kasno uveče sa kul, pametnim, elegantnim ljudima. I mogli biste da se pretvarate da ste i vi kul, pametni i elegantni. I mogli biste da upoznate gomilu urednika, pisaca i agenata na veoma, veoma prefinjenim ručkovima i večerama. Pitajte me koliko prefinjenim.
Audience: How fancy?
Publika: Koliko prefinjenim?
Lidia Yuknavitch: I'm making a confession: I stole three linen napkins --
Lidija Juknavič: priznaću vam - ukrala sam tri lanene maramice -
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
from three different restaurants. And I shoved a menu down my pants.
iz tri različita restorana. I nagurala sam meni u pantalone.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
I just wanted some keepsakes so that when I got home, I could believe it had really happened to me. You know?
Samo sam htela nešto za uspomenu kad se vratim kući, da bih mogla da verujem da se to zaista meni 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.
Tri pisca koja sam želela da upoznam su bili: Karol Mejso, Lin Tilman i Pegi Felan. To nisu bili poznati, pisci bestselera, ali za mene su one bile titani među spisateljicama. Karol Mejso je napisala knjigu koja će postati moja umetnička biblija. Lin Tilman mi je dala razlog da verujem da postoji šansa da moje priče budu deo sveta. A Pegi Felan me je podsetila da bi moj mozak mogao da bude važniji od mojih grudi. Nije se radilo o mejnstrim spisateljkama, ali su krčile put kroz mejnstrim njihovim korpusom priča, volim da gledam na to kao na vodu koja seče Veliki Kanjon.
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.
Skoro da sam umrla od sreće jer sam se družila sa ove tri spisateljke starije od 50 godina. A razlog zašto sam skoro umrla od sreće je to što nikad nisam bila tako srećna. Nikad nisam bila u sličnoj prostoriji. Moja majka nije pohađala fakultet. A moja kreativna karijera je do tad bila nešto nekako maleno, bedno, mrtvorođeno. Pa sam nekako tih prvih noći u Njujorku želela da umrem na mestu. Prosto sam bila u stilu: "Ubijte me odmah. Zadovoljna sam. Ovo je bajno." Neki od vas će da razumeju šta se potom desilo.
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 vodili u kancelarije Ferara, Strausa i Džirua. Farar, Straus i Džiru su štampa iz mojih najluđih snova. Mislim, T. S. Eliot i Flaneri O'konor su tu objavljivali. Glavni urednik me je poseo i razgovarao sa mnom dugo, pokušavajući da me ubedi da u meni počiva knjiga o mom životu kao plivačice. Znate, poput memoara. Sve vreme dok mi je govorio, sedela sam, smešeći se, klimajući poput obamrlog idiota, s rukama prekrštenim na grudima, a ništa, ništa, ništa mi nije izlazilo iz grla. Pa me je na kraju potapšao po ramenu poput trenera plivanja. I poželeo mi je sreću i dao mi je neke besplatne knjige i pokazao mi je izlaz.
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.
Potom su me odveli u kancelarije V. V. Nortona, gde sam bila ubeđena da će me ispratiti iz zgrade samo zato što sam u martinkama. No to se nije desilo. To što sam bila u Nortonovim kancelarijama činilo se poput posezanja u noćno nebo i dodirivanja meseca dok zvezde štrikaju vaše ime preko kosmosa. Mislim, eto koliko je to bilo veliko za mene. Razumete li? Njihova vodeća urednica, Kerol Huk Smit, nadnela mi se direktno u lice tim bisernim, svetlim, odvažnim očima i rekla: "Pa, pošalji mi onda nešto, odmah!" Vidite, većina ljudi, naročito ljudi sa TED-a bi odmah odjurila do poštanskog sandučeta, zar ne? Trebala mi je decenija da bar zamislim da nešto stavljam u kovertu i da ližem 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 ...
Prošle noći sam imala značajno čitanje u Nacionalnom pesničkom klubu. I na kraju čitanja, Ketrin Kidi iz Kidija, književne agencije Hojt i Pikard, mi je prišla i rukovala se sa mnom i ponudila mi je da me predstavljaju, znači, na licu mesta. Stajala sam tamo skoro ogluvela. Da li vam se to nekad desilo? I skoro da sam zaplakala jer su svi ljudi u prostoriji bili tako lepo obučeni, a sve što sam izustila bilo je: "Ne znam. Moram da razmislim o tome." A on aje rekla: "U redu onda", i odšetala je. Sve te raširene ruke prema meni, taj otužni kamenčić 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.
Vidite, pokušavam da vam kažem nešto o ljudima poput mene. Neprilagođeni - mi ne znamo uvek kako da se nadamo i da pristanemo ili da odaberemo velike stvari, čak i kad je to ispred nas. Mi nosimo sram. Sram zbog toga što želimo nešto dobro. Sram zbog toga što osećamo nešto dobro. Sram zbog toga što zaista ne verujemo da zaslužujemo da budemo u prisustvu ljudi 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.
Kad bih mogla da se vratim unazad, podučila bih samu sebe. Bila bih baš kao te pedesetogodišnje žene koje su mi pomogle. Podučila bih sebe kako da želim stvari, kako da se uspravim i zahtevam ih. Rekla bih: "Ti! Da, ti! I tebi je mesto u ovoj prostoriji." Iskra pada na sve nas, i mi smo niko jedni bez drugih. Umesto toga, odletela sam nazad u Oregon i kako sam posmatrala zimzelen i kišu kako se vraća na vidik, prosto sam popila mnogo flašica avionskog "samosažaljenja". Mislila sam da ako sam ja pisac, da sam nekakav neprilagođeni pisac. Govorim vam da sam se vratila u Oregon bez ugovora za knjigu, bez agenta, i jedino sa punom glavom i punim srcem sećanja da sam sedela tako blizu tih lepih pisaca. Sećanje je bilo jedina nagrada koju sam sebi 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."
Pa ipak, kod kuće u tami, opet u svom donjem vešu, i dalje sam im čula glasove. Govorile su: "Ne slušaj bilo koga ko pokušava da te ućutka ili da izmeni tvoju priču." Govorile su: "Daj glas priči koju jedino ti znaš da ispričaš." Govorile su: "Ponekad je pripovedanje ono što će da 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.
Sad sam ja, kao što vidite, žena od preko 50 godina. I spisateljka sam. I majka sam. A postala sam i učiteljica. Pogodite ko su mi omiljeni đaci. Iako se to nije desilo onog dana kad mi je pismo iz snova stiglo poštom, napisala sam memoare, naslovljene: "Hronologija vode". Tu su priče o tome koliko sam puta pokušala da se nanovo osmislim iz ruševina svojih izbora; priče o tome kako su moji naoko neuspesi zaista samo bili uvrnuti portali do nečeg lepog. Sve što je trebalo je da dam glas priči.
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.
Postoji mit u većini kultura o praćenju naših snova. Zove se putovanje junaka. No meni se više sviđa drugi mit, koji je nekako skrajnut ili je ispod tog mita. Zove se mitom neprilagođenih. I ovako ide: čak i u trenutku svog neuspeha, baš tad ste lepi. Ne znate to još uvek, ali imate sposobnost da se nanovo osmišljavate do beskonačnosti. U tome je vaša lepota.
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 pijandura, možete biti žrtva nasilja, možete biti bivši osuđenik, možete biti beskućnik, možete da izgubite sav svoj novac ili posao ili supruga ili suprugu, ili što je najgore od svega, dete. Možete čak izgubiti svoje klikere. Možete da stojite tačno u središtu svog neuspeha i ipak, ovde sam jedino da vam to kažem, prelepi ste takvi. Vaša priča zavređuje pažnju jer ste vi, vi ste retkost i fenomenalno ste neprilagođeni, vi ste nova vrsta, jedini ste u prostoriji koji možete da pripovedate na način koji pripovedate. I ja ću vas saslušati.
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)