I was a blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked five-year-old when I joined my family on the picket line for the first time. My mom made me leave my dolls in the minivan. I'd stand on a street corner in the heavy Kansas humidity, surrounded by a few dozen relatives, with my tiny fists clutching a sign that I couldn't read yet: "Gays are worthy of death." This was the beginning.
Bila sam plavooka petogodišnjakinja bucmastih obraza kad sam se pridružila svojoj obitelji pred ogradama. Mama me natjerala da lutke ostavim u kombiju. Stajala sam na uglu ulice na teškoj vlazi Kansasa okružena desecima rođaka, a moje su ručice držale znak s natpisom kojeg još nisam znala pročitati: "Gejevi zaslužuju smrt." To je bio početak.
Our protests soon became a daily occurrence and an international phenomenon, and as a member of Westboro Baptist Church, I became a fixture on picket lines across the country. The end of my antigay picketing career and life as I knew it, came 20 years later, triggered in part by strangers on Twitter who showed me the power of engaging the other.
Naši su prosvjedi postali dnevna pojava i međunarodni fenomen, a kao članica Westborovske baptističke crkve, postala sam stalni gost ograda po cijeloj zemlji. Kraj moje karijere prosvjednika i života kakvog sam poznavala došao je 20 godina kasnije, djelomično uzrokovan strancima na Twitteru koji su mi pokazali moć angažiranja drugih.
In my home, life was framed as an epic spiritual battle between good and evil. The good was my church and its members, and the evil was everyone else. My church's antics were such that we were constantly at odds with the world, and that reinforced our otherness on a daily basis. "Make a difference between the unclean and the clean," the verse says, and so we did. From baseball games to military funerals, we trekked across the country with neon protest signs in hand to tell others exactly how "unclean" they were and exactly why they were headed for damnation. This was the focus of our whole lives. This was the only way for me to do good in a world that sits in Satan's lap. And like the rest of my 10 siblings, I believed what I was taught with all my heart, and I pursued Westboro's agenda with a special sort of zeal.
U mom domu život je bio prikazivan kao epska duhovna borba dobra i zla. Dobro su predstavljali moja crkva i njeni članovi, a zlo svi ostali. Zbog budalaština moje crkve konstantno smo bili u borbi sa svijetom, a to bi svakodnevno pojačavalo našu različitost. "Razlikuj nečisto od čistog," stih kaže, pa i jesmo. Od utakmica bejzbola do vojnih sprovoda, putovali smo zemljom s neonskim prosvjednim plakatima u rukama kako bi drugima rekli koliku su zapravo "nečisti" i zašto ih čeka prokletstvo. To je bilo središte naših života. To je bio jedini način da činim dobro u svijetu koji sjedi na krilu vraga. I poput mojih ostalih 10 braće i sestara, vjerovala sam u što su me učili cijelim srcem, i izvršavala sam namjere Westbora s posebnim žarom.
In 2009, that zeal brought me to Twitter. Initially, the people I encountered on the platform were just as hostile as I expected. They were the digital version of the screaming hordes I'd been seeing at protests since I was a kid. But in the midst of that digital brawl, a strange pattern developed. Someone would arrive at my profile with the usual rage and scorn, I would respond with a custom mix of Bible verses, pop culture references and smiley faces. They would be understandably confused and caught off guard, but then a conversation would ensue. And it was civil -- full of genuine curiosity on both sides. How had the other come to such outrageous conclusions about the world?
U 2009., taj me žar doveo na Twitter. Na početku su ljudi na koje sam tamo naišla bili neljubazni, baš kao što sam očekivala. Bili su digitalna verzija vrištećih horda ljudi koje sam gledala na prosvjedima još odmalena. No usred sve te digitalne svađe razvio se čudan uzorak. Netko bi stigao na moj profil s uobičajenim bijesom i prezirom, odgovorila bih sa svojom mješavinom biblijskih stihova, referenci na pop kulturu i smajlića. Tako bih ih, razumljivo, zbunila, no onda bi slijedio razgovor. Bio je civilan -- pun istinske znatiželje na obje strane. Kako je onaj drugi došao do tako nečuvenih zaključaka o svijetu?
Sometimes the conversation even bled into real life. People I'd sparred with on Twitter would come out to the picket line to see me when I protested in their city. A man named David was one such person. He ran a blog called "Jewlicious," and after several months of heated but friendly arguments online, he came out to see me at a picket in New Orleans. He brought me a Middle Eastern dessert from Jerusalem, where he lives, and I brought him kosher chocolate and held a "God hates Jews" sign.
Nekad bi se razgovor prebacio i u stvarni svijet. Ljudi s kojima sam boksala na Twitteru došli bi me vidjeti kraj ograde kad sam prosvjedovala u njihovom gradu. David je bio takva osoba. Upravljao je blogom koji se zvao "Jewlicious" i nakon nekoliko mjeseci strastvenih, no prijateljskih online rasprava došao me upoznati kraj ograde u New Orleansu. Donio mi je srednjoistočni desert iz Jeruzalema, gdje živi, a ja sam njemu donijela košer čokoladu i držala znak na kojem piše "Bog mrzi Židove."
(Laughter)
(Smijeh)
There was no confusion about our positions, but the line between friend and foe was becoming blurred. We'd started to see each other as human beings, and it changed the way we spoke to one another.
Nije bilo zabune o našim stajalištima, no granica između prijatelja i neprijatelja postala je jako nejasna. Vidjeli smo jedno drugoga kao ljude, a to je promijenilo način na koji smo razgovarali.
It took time, but eventually these conversations planted seeds of doubt in me. My friends on Twitter took the time to understand Westboro's doctrines, and in doing so, they were able to find inconsistencies I'd missed my entire life. Why did we advocate the death penalty for gays when Jesus said, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone?" How could we claim to love our neighbor while at the same time praying for God to destroy them? The truth is that the care shown to me by these strangers on the internet was itself a contradiction. It was growing evidence that people on the other side were not the demons I'd been led to believe.
Trebalo je vremena, no ti su razgovori konačno u mene usadili sjeme sumnje. Moji prijatelji na Twitteru pokušali su shvatiti Westborovsku doktrinu i radeći to uspjeli su naći proturječja koja dotad nisam uočila. Zašto smo podržavali smrtnu kaznu za gejeve kad je Isus rekao "Tko je od vas bez grijeha, neka baci prvi kamen?" Kako smo tvrdili da volimo svog susjeda, dok smo se u isto vrijeme molili da će ga Bog uništiti? Istina je da je briga koju su mi ti neznanci na internetu pokazali i sama bila proturječje. Bila je dokaz da ljudi na drugoj strani nisu demoni kojim sam ih smatrala.
These realizations were life-altering. Once I saw that we were not the ultimate arbiters of divine truth but flawed human beings, I couldn't pretend otherwise. I couldn't justify our actions -- especially our cruel practice of protesting funerals and celebrating human tragedy. These shifts in my perspective contributed to a larger erosion of trust in my church, and eventually it made it impossible for me to stay.
Shvatiti to promijenilo mi je život. Kad sam shvatila da nismo najviši suci božanske istine, nego ljudi s manama, nisam se više mogla pretvarati. Nisam mogla opravdati naša djela -- pogotovo naš okrutni običaj protestiranja na sprovodima i slavljenja ljudske tragedije. Te promjene moje perspektive dovele su do veće erozije povjerenja u moju crkvu i na kraju zbog njih više nisam mogla ostati.
In spite of overwhelming grief and terror, I left Westboro in 2012. In those days just after I left, the instinct to hide was almost paralyzing. I wanted to hide from the judgement of my family, who I knew would never speak to me again -- people whose thoughts and opinions had meant everything to me. And I wanted to hide from the world I'd rejected for so long -- people who had no reason at all to give me a second chance after a lifetime of antagonism. And yet, unbelievably, they did.
Unatoč ogromnoj tuzi i strahu, napustila sam Westboro u 2012. Idućih par dana nakon mojeg odlaska instinkt da se sakrijem bio je paralizirajuć. Željela sam se sakriti od osuđivanja svoje obitelji, znala sam da više nikad neće pričati sa mnom -- ljudi čije su mi misli i mišljenja najviše značila. I željela sam se sakriti od svijeta kojeg sam tako dugo odbacivala -- ljudi koji nisu imali nijedan razlog da mi daju drugu šansu nakon cjeloživotnog antagonizma. A ipak, nevjerojatno, jesu.
The world had access to my past because it was all over the internet -- thousands of tweets and hundreds of interviews, everything from local TV news to "The Howard Stern Show" -- but so many embraced me with open arms anyway. I wrote an apology for the harm I'd caused, but I also knew that an apology could never undo any of it. All I could do was try to build a new life and find a way somehow to repair some of the damage. People had every reason to doubt my sincerity, but most of them didn't. And -- given my history, it was more than I could've hoped for -- forgiveness and the benefit of the doubt. It still amazes me.
Svijet je imao pristup mojoj prošlosti jer je bila posvuda na internetu -- tisuće tweetova i stotine intervjua, sve od lokalnih vijesti do "The Howard Stern Show-a" -- no toliko me ljudi svejedno primilo otvorenih ruku. Napisala sam ispriku za svo zlo koje sam načinila, no znala sam da isprika to nikada neće moći poništiti. Mogla sam samo probati izgraditi nov život i naći način da popravim dio štete. Ljudi su imali stotinu razloga sumnjati u iskrenost, no većina njih nije. Te -- uzevši u obzir moju povijest, nisam se ni mogla nadati nečem većem -- opraštanje i ne donošenje preuranjenih zaključaka. Još uvijek me zadivljuje.
I spent my first year away from home adrift with my younger sister, who had chosen to leave with me. We walked into an abyss, but we were shocked to find the light and a way forward in the same communities we'd targeted for so long. David, my "Jewlicious" friend from Twitter, invited us to spend time among a Jewish community in Los Angeles. We slept on couches in the home of a Hasidic rabbi and his wife and their four kids -- the same rabbi that I'd protested three years earlier with a sign that said, "Your rabbi is a whore." We spent long hours talking about theology and Judaism and life while we washed dishes in their kosher kitchen and chopped vegetables for dinner. They treated us like family. They held nothing against us, and again I was astonished.
Prvu godinu izvan kuće provela sam bez nekakvog odredišta s mlađom sestrom koja je odlučila otići sa mnom. Uhodale smo u bezdan, no iznenadile smo se jer smo našle svjetlo i put naprijed u istim zajednicama koje su nam tako dugo bile mete. David, moj "Jewlicious" prijatelj s Twittera, pozvao nas je da odsjednemo u Židovskoj zajednici u Los Angelesu. Spavali smo na kaučima u kući hasidskog rabina, njegove žene, i njihovih četvero djece -- rabina protiv kojeg sam prosvjedovala tri godine ranije sa znakom "Tvoj rabin je kurva." Satima smo razgovarali o teologiji, Židovstvu i životu dok smo prali suđe u njihovoj košer kuhinji i sjeckali povrće za večeru. Ponašali su se prema nama kao prema obitelji. Ništa nam nisu zamjerali, i iznova me to zapanjilo.
That period was full of turmoil, but one part I've returned to often is a surprising realization I had during that time -- that it was a relief and a privilege to let go of the harsh judgments that instinctively ran through my mind about nearly every person I saw. I realized that now I needed to learn. I needed to listen.
To je razdoblje bilo puno nemira, no često se vraćam iznenađujućem saznanju koje sam tada imala -- bilo je olakšanje i privilegija napustiti okrutne osude koje su instinktivno prolazile mojim umom o svakoj osobi koju sam vidjela. Shvatila sam da trebam učiti. Trebam slušati.
This has been at the front of my mind lately, because I can't help but see in our public discourse so many of the same destructive impulses that ruled my former church. We celebrate tolerance and diversity more than at any other time in memory, and still we grow more and more divided. We want good things -- justice, equality, freedom, dignity, prosperity -- but the path we've chosen looks so much like the one I walked away from four years ago. We've broken the world into us and them, only emerging from our bunkers long enough to lob rhetorical grenades at the other camp. We write off half the country as out-of-touch liberal elites or racist misogynist bullies. No nuance, no complexity, no humanity. Even when someone does call for empathy and understanding for the other side, the conversation nearly always devolves into a debate about who deserves more empathy. And just as I learned to do, we routinely refuse to acknowledge the flaws in our positions or the merits in our opponent's. Compromise is anathema. We even target people on our own side when they dare to question the party line. This path has brought us cruel, sniping, deepening polarization, and even outbreaks of violence. I remember this path. It will not take us where we want to go.
U zadnje vrijeme to često imam na umu, jer ne mogu ne vidjeti u javnim raspravama iste destruktivne impulse koji su vladali mojom crkvom. Slavimo toleranciju i raznolikost više nego ikad, a ipak smo sve više međusobno podijeljeni. Želimo dobre stvari -- pravdu, jednakost, slobodu, dostojanstvo, prosperitet -- no put koji smo izabrali jako je sličan onom koji sam napustila prije četiri godine. Razdvojili smo svijet na nas i njih, iz svojih bunkera izlazimo tek da prebacimo retoričke granate na drugi logor. Otpisujemo pola zemlje kao zastarjele liberalne elite ili rasističke nasilnike, mrzitelje žena. Bez razlike, bez složenosti, bez ljudskosti. Čak i kad netko zatraži empatiju i razumijevanje za drugu stranu, razgovor je gotovo uvijek doveden do debate o tome tko zaslužuje više empatije. Baš kao što sam i ja naučila, rutinski odbijamo priznati mane u našim stajalištima ili vrijednosti u istima naših protivnika. Kompromis je anatema. Napadamo i ljude na našoj strani kad se usude sumnjati u stranku. Ovaj nam je put donio okrutnu, produbljujuću polarizaciju, čak i izljeve nasilja. Sjećam se tog puta. Neće nas dovesti ondje gdje želimo ići.
What gives me hope is that we can do something about this. The good news is that it's simple, and the bad news is that it's hard. We have to talk and listen to people we disagree with. It's hard because we often can't fathom how the other side came to their positions. It's hard because righteous indignation, that sense of certainty that ours is the right side, is so seductive. It's hard because it means extending empathy and compassion to people who show us hostility and contempt. The impulse to respond in kind is so tempting, but that isn't who we want to be. We can resist. And I will always be inspired to do so by those people I encountered on Twitter, apparent enemies who became my beloved friends. And in the case of one particularly understanding and generous guy, my husband. There was nothing special about the way I responded to him. What was special was their approach. I thought about it a lot over the past few years and I found four things they did differently that made real conversation possible. These four steps were small but powerful, and I do everything I can to employ them in difficult conversations today.
Daje mi nadu što možemo nešto napraviti u vezi toga. Dobra je vijest da je jednostavno, a loša je vijest da je teško. Moramo pričati i slušati ljude s kojima se ne slažemo. Teško je jer često ne možemo shvatiti kako je druga strana došla do svojih stajališta. Teško je, jer pravedni gnjev, osjećaj sigurnosti da je naša prava strana, zna biti iznimno zavodljiv. Teško je jer znači produžiti empatiju i samilost na ljude koji nam pokazuju prezir i neljubaznost. Impuls da im uzvratimo primamljiv je, ali ne želimo biti takvi. Možemo se oduprijeti. Uvijek ću biti nadahnuta za odupiranje, zbog ljudi na koje sam naišla na Twitteru, očitih neprijatelja koji su postali moji dragi prijatelji. Isti je slučaj s jednim osobito suosjećajnim i darežljivim dečkom, mojim mužem. Ništa nije bilo posebno u odgovoru koji sam mu napisala. Poseban je bio njihov pristup. Puno sam o tome razmišljala zadnjih par godina i našla sam četiri stvari koje su drukčije napravili zbog kojih je pravi razgovor postao moguć. Ta četiri koraka mala su, ali moćna, i radim sve što mogu kako bih ih upotrijebila u teškim razgovorima.
The first is don't assume bad intent. My friends on Twitter realized that even when my words were aggressive and offensive, I sincerely believed I was doing the right thing. Assuming ill motives almost instantly cuts us off from truly understanding why someone does and believes as they do. We forget that they're a human being with a lifetime of experience that shaped their mind, and we get stuck on that first wave of anger, and the conversation has a very hard time ever moving beyond it. But when we assume good or neutral intent, we give our minds a much stronger framework for dialogue.
Prvi je ne pretpostavljati lošu namjeru. Moji prijatelji na Twitteru shvatili su da, čak i ako su moje riječi bile agresivne i uvredljive, iskreno sam vjerovala da radim pravu stvar. Pretpostaviti zao motiv odmah nam ne dopušta da stvarno shvatimo zašto osoba radi i vjeruje u nešto. Zaboravimo da je to čovjek sa životnim iskustvima koja su oblikovala njegov um, a mi zaglavimo na prvom valu ljutnje, tako da razgovor ima male šanse za nastavak. No kad pretpostavimo dobru ili neutralnu namjeru, svojim umovima dajemo puno jači okvir za dijalog.
The second is ask questions. When we engage people across ideological divides, asking questions helps us map the disconnect between our differing points of view. That's important because we can't present effective arguments if we don't understand where the other side is actually coming from and because it gives them an opportunity to point out flaws in our positions. But asking questions serves another purpose; it signals to someone that they're being heard. When my friends on Twitter stopped accusing and started asking questions, I almost automatically mirrored them. Their questions gave me room to speak, but they also gave me permission to ask them questions and to truly hear their responses. It fundamentally changed the dynamic of our conversation.
Drugi je postavljanje pitanja. Kad angažiramo ljude duž ideoloških podjela, postavljanje pitanja pomaže nam naći gdje se naša stajališta razilaze. To je bitno jer ne možemo dati efikasne argumente ako ne razumijemo otkud druga strana dolazi i jer im daje priliku istaknuti mane u našim stajalištima. No postavljanje pitanja ima i drugu svrhu; pokazuje nekome da ih čujemo. Kad su moji prijatelji sa Twittera prestali okrivljavati i počeli postavljati pitanja, gotovo sam automatski počela raditi istu stvar. Zbog njihovih sam pitanja imala gdje pričati, no tako su mi dali dopuštenje da njima postavljam pitanja i da stvarno čujem njihove odgovore. Istinski je promijenilo dinamiku našeg razgovora.
The third is stay calm. This takes practice and patience, but it's powerful. At Westboro, I learned not to care how my manner of speaking affected others. I thought my rightness justified my rudeness -- harsh tones, raised voices, insults, interruptions -- but that strategy is ultimately counterproductive. Dialing up the volume and the snark is natural in stressful situations, but it tends to bring the conversation to an unsatisfactory, explosive end. When my husband was still just an anonymous Twitter acquaintance, our discussions frequently became hard and pointed, but we always refused to escalate. Instead, he would change the subject. He would tell a joke or recommend a book or gently excuse himself from the conversation. We knew the discussion wasn't over, just paused for a time to bring us back to an even keel. People often lament that digital communication makes us less civil, but this is one advantage that online conversations have over in-person ones. We have a buffer of time and space between us and the people whose ideas we find so frustrating. We can use that buffer. Instead of lashing out, we can pause, breathe, change the subject or walk away, and then come back to it when we're ready.
Treći je korak ostati miran. Za to je potrebna vježba i strpljenje, no moćno je. U Westboru sam naučila ne brinuti o utjecaju mog načina govorenja na druge. Mislila sam da to što sam u pravu opravdava moju nepristojnost -- grubi tonovi, povišeni glasovi, uvrede, prekidi -- ta strategija nije pretjerano produktivna. Pojačati glasnoću i sarkazam prirodno je u stresnim situacijama, ali često vodi razgovor prema razočaravajućem, eksplozivnom kraju. Dok je moj muž još bio tek anoniman poznanik sa Twittera, naše su rasprave često postajale teške i prodorne, no odbijali smo eskalirati. Umjesto toga, promijenio bi temu. Ispričao bi vic ili preporučio knjigu ili se nježno odmaknuo od razgovora. Znali smo da rasprava nije gotova, samo smo ju pauzirali kako bi se vratili na istu razinu. Ljudi se često žale da nas digitalna komunikacija čini manje civilnima, no ovo je prednost koju online razgovori imaju pred onima vođenima uživo. Imamo štit vremena i prostora između nas i ljudi čije ideje smatramo frustrirajućima. Možemo iskoristiti taj štit. Umjesto napada, možemo se zaustaviti, disati, promijeniti temu ili otići, pa se vratiti kad smo spremni.
And finally ... make the argument. This might seem obvious, but one side effect of having strong beliefs is that we sometimes assume that the value of our position is or should be obvious and self-evident, that we shouldn't have to defend our positions because they're so clearly right and good that if someone doesn't get it, it's their problem -- that it's not my job to educate them. But if it were that simple, we would all see things the same way. As kind as my friends on Twitter were, if they hadn't actually made their arguments, it would've been so much harder for me to see the world in a different way. We are all a product of our upbringing, and our beliefs reflect our experiences. We can't expect others to spontaneously change their own minds. If we want change, we have to make the case for it.
I napokon ... napravi argument. Možda se čini očito, ali nuspojava jakih uvjerenja je da nekad pretpostavimo kako je, vrijednost našeg stajališta očita ili bi trebala biti, da ne trebamo braniti svoja stajališta jer su očigledno toliko ispravna i dobra da je to problem onoga koji to ne shvaća -- nije moj posao educirati ga. Da je sve tako jednostavno, vidjeli bismo stvari na isti način. Koliko su god moji prijatelji s Twittera dragi, da na kraju nisu izrekli svoje argumente, bilo bi mi puno teže vidjeti svijet na različit način. Svi smo mi proizvod našeg odgoja, i naše vjere odražavaju naša iskustva. Ne možemo očekivati od drugih da spontano promijene mišljenje. Želimo li promjenu, moramo imati i razloge.
My friends on Twitter didn't abandon their beliefs or their principles -- only their scorn. They channeled their infinitely justifiable offense and came to me with pointed questions tempered with kindness and humor. They approached me as a human being, and that was more transformative than two full decades of outrage, disdain and violence. I know that some might not have the time or the energy or the patience for extensive engagement, but as difficult as it can be, reaching out to someone we disagree with is an option that is available to all of us. And I sincerely believe that we can do hard things, not just for them but for us and our future. Escalating disgust and intractable conflict are not what we want for ourselves, or our country or our next generation.
Moji prijatelji s Twittera nisu napustili svoja vjerovanja i principe -- samo svoj prezir. Usmjerili su svoj opravdan napad i došli k meni s britkim pitanjima ublaženim ljubaznošću i humorom. Prišli su mi kao ljudskom biću, i to je više promijenilo moj život nego cijela dva desetljeća bijesa, prezira i nasilja. Znam da neki možda nemaju vrijeme, energiju ili strpljenje za ovako opsežno sudjelovanje, no koliko god teško bilo, doprijeti do nekoga s kim se ne slažemo opcija je dostupna svima nama. Iskreno vjerujem da možemo učiniti teške stvari, ne samo za njih, već i za nas i našu budućnost. Rastuće gađenje i tvrdoglavi sukobi nisu nešto što želimo sebi, ili svojoj državi ili idućoj generaciji.
My mom said something to me a few weeks before I left Westboro, when I was desperately hoping there was a way I could stay with my family. People I have loved with every pulse of my heart since even before I was that chubby-cheeked five-year-old, standing on a picket line holding a sign I couldn't read. She said, "You're just a human being, my dear, sweet child." She was asking me to be humble -- not to question but to trust God and my elders. But to me, she was missing the bigger picture -- that we're all just human beings. That we should be guided by that most basic fact, and approach one another with generosity and compassion.
Mama mi je rekla nešto par tjedana prije no što sam napustila Westboro, kad sam se očajnički nadala kako postoji način da ostanem s obitelji. S ljudima koje sam voljela svakim otkucajem srca još i prije no što sam bila petogodišnjakinja bucmastih obraza, koja stoji pokraj ograde i drži znak koji ne može pročitati. Rekla je, "Samo si čovjek, moje drago, slatko dijete." Tražila je od mene da budem skromna -- ne preispitujem, nego vjerujem u Boga i starije od sebe. Vjerovala sam da ona ne vidi veću sliku -- i oni su samo ljudi. Trebala bi nas voditi samo ta osnovna činjenica i trebali bismo prilaziti jedni drugima s darežljivošću i suosjećanjem.
Each one of us contributes to the communities and the cultures and the societies that we make up. The end of this spiral of rage and blame begins with one person who refuses to indulge these destructive, seductive impulses. We just have to decide that it's going to start with us.
Svatko od nas pridonosi zajednicama, kulturama i društvima koje činimo. Kraj ovog vrtloga bijesa i krivnje počinje s jednom osobom koja odbija prepustiti se tim destruktivnim, zavodljivim impulsima. Mi samo trebamo odlučiti da će početi s nama.
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Pljesak)