If I should have a daughter, instead of "Mom," she's going to call me "Point B," because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me.
Ako budem imala ćerku, umesto mama, zvaće me Tačka B, jer će tako znati da šta god da se desi, bar će uvek moći da nađe svoj put do mene.
And I'm going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand."
I oslikaću solarni sistem na poleđini njenih dlanova, pa će morati da nauči čitav svemir pre nego što bude rekla: "Oh, znam to kao dlanove svojih ruku."
And she's going to learn that this life will hit you hard in the face, wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry.
I naučiće da će je ovaj život snažno lupiti u lice, sačekati da se podigne, kako bi je mogao udariti u stomak. Ali izbijanje vazduha iz pluća je jedini način da ih podsetiš koliko vole ukus vazduha. Tu postoji povreda koja se ne može zalečiti flasterom ili poezijom.
So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming, I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by herself, because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried. "And, baby," I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him. But I know she will anyway, so instead I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few that chocolate can't fix.
I kada prvi put shvati da Čudesna žena ne doalzi, pobrinuću se da zna da ne mora sama da nosi to breme. Jer bez obzira koliko možeš da raširiš svoje prste, tvoje ruke će uvek biti suviše male da uhvate sav bol koji želiš da izlečiš. Veruj mi, probala sam. "I dušo", reći ću joj, nemoj da držiš nos tako visoko. Znam taj trik; koristila sam ga milion puta. Tražiš dim čiji ćeš trag pratiti nazad do kuće koja gori, kako bi našla dečaka koji je u vatri izgubio sve, da vidiš da li možeš da ga spasiš. Ili bi ipak tražila dečaka koji je izazvao požar, da vidiš da li možeš da ga promeniš." Ali znam da će ipak hteti, pa ću umesto toga uvek imati dodatne zalihe čokolade i čizama za kišu u blizini, jer ne postoji slomljeno srce koje čokolada ne može da izleči. Okej, postoji par slučajeva koje čokolada ne može da popravi.
But that's what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my mom taught me. That there'll be days like this.
Ali zato su tu čizme za kišu. Jer kiša će sve isprati, ako joj to dopustite. Želim da na svet gleda sa donje strane čamca sa staklenim dnom, da gleda kroz mikroskop galaksije koje postoje na krajičku ljudskog uma, jer je tako mene učila moja mama. Da će uvek biti ovakvih dana.
(Singing) There'll be days like this, my momma said. When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment. And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you.
♫ Biće dana kao ovaj, moja mama kaže. ♫ Kada otvoriš svoje ruke da uhvatiš, a završiš samo sa modricama i plikovima; kad izađeš iz telefonske govornice i pokušaš da poletiš i jedini ljudi koje želiš da spasiš su oni koji stoje na tvom plaštu; kada ti se čizme napune kišom, i budeš do guše u razočarenju. I upravo su to dani kada imaš sve razloge da kažeš hvala.
Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's sent away. You will put the wind in win some, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.
Jer ne postoji ništa lepše od načina na koji okean odbija da prestane da ljubi obalu, bez obzira koliko puta je odnosio. Nešto ćete dobiti, nešto izgubiti. Imaćete novih početaka, iznova i iznova. I nema veze koliko nagaznih mina eksplodira u minuti, pobrini se da tvoj um sleti na svu lepotu ovog smešnog mesta zvanog život. I da, na skali od jedan do prepuno-poverenja, ja sam prokleto naivna. Ali želim da ona zna da je ovaj svet napravljen od šećera. Raspadne se tako lako, ali ne plaši se da isplaziš svoj jezik i da ga okusiš.
"Baby," I'll tell her, "remember, your momma is a worrier, and your poppa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more." Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. Always apologize when you've done something wrong, but don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.
"Dušo", reći ću joj, "Zapamti, tvoja mama je borac i tvoj tata je borac, a ti si devojčica sa malim rukama i velikim očima koja nikad ne prestaje da traži još." Zapamti da dobre stvari dolaze utroje kao i loše. I uvek se izvini kada uradiš nešto pogrešno. Ali nikada se ne izvinjavaj zbog načina na koji tvoje oči odbijaju da prestanu da sjaje. Tvoj glas je mali, ali nikad nemoj prestati da pevaš. I kad ti konačno pruže tvoje slomljeno srce kada uguraju rat i mržnju ispod tvojih vrata i ponude ti propagandni materijal na mestu gde se ukrštaju cinizam i poraz, reci im da stvarno moraju da upoznaju tvoju majku.
(Applause)
Hvala vam. Hvala vam.
Thank you. Thank you.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
Thanks.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
All right, so I want you to take a moment, and I want you to think of three things that you know to be true. They can be about whatever you want -- technology, entertainment, design, your family, what you had for breakfast. The only rule is don't think too hard. Okay, ready? Go. Okay.
Dobro, želim da za trenutak mislite na tri stvari za koje znate da su istinite. To može biti bilo šta - tehnologija, zabava, dizajn, vaša porodica, vaš doručak. Jedino pravilo je da ne razmišljate previše. Okej, spremni? Idemo. Okej.
So here are three things I know to be true. I know that Jean-Luc Godard was right when he said that, "A good story has a beginning, a middle and an end, although not necessarily in that order." I know that I'm incredibly nervous and excited to be up here, which is greatly inhibiting my ability to keep it cool.
Evo tri stvari za koje ja znam da su istinite. Znam da je Žan-Luk Godar bio u pravu kada je rekao da "dobra priča ima početak, sredinu i kraj, iako ne nužno tim redom." Znam da sam neverovatno nervozna i uzbuđena što sam ovde gore, što umnogome smanjuje moju sposobnost da budem kul.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
And I know that I have been waiting all week to tell this joke.
I znam da sam cele nedelje čekala da isprčam ovaj vic.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
Why was the scarecrow invited to TED? Because he was out standing in his field.
Zašto je strašilo pozvano na TED? Zato što se izdvajalo na svom polju.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
I'm sorry. Okay, so these are three things I know to be true. But there are plenty of things I have trouble understanding. So I write poems to figure things out. Sometimes the only way I know how to work through something is by writing a poem. Sometimes I get to the end of the poem, look back and go, "Oh, that's what this is all about," and sometimes I get to the end of the poem and haven't solved anything, but at least I have a new poem out of it.
Izvinite. Okej, dakle ovo su tri stvari koje znam da su istinite. Ali postoji mnogo stvari koje mi je teško da razumem. Pa pišem pesme kako bih skontala stvari. Ponekad je pisanje pesama jedini način na koji mogu da izađem na kraj sa stvarima. A ponekad stignem do kraja pesme i pogledam unazadi kažem: "Aha, o tome se radi." A ponekad dođem do kraja pesme, a da ništa nisam rešila, ali bar sam izvukla iz toga novu pesmu.
Spoken-word poetry is the art of performance poetry. I tell people it involves creating poetry that doesn't just want to sit on paper, that something about it demands it be heard out loud or witnessed in person.
Usmena poezija je srce poezije kao nastupa. Kažem ljudima da podrazumeva stvaranje poezije koja ne želi samo da sedi na papiru, već da nešto u vezi sa njom zahteva da se ona čuje naglas ili da joj se posvedoči.
When I was a freshman in high school, I was a live wire of nervous hormones. And I was underdeveloped and over-excitable. And despite my fear of ever being looked at for too long, I was fascinated by the idea of spoken-word poetry. I felt that my two secret loves, poetry and theater, had come together, had a baby, a baby I needed to get to know. So I decided to give it a try. My first spoken-word poem, packed with all the wisdom of a 14-year-old, was about the injustice of being seen as unfeminine. The poem was very indignant, and mainly exaggerated, but the only spoken-word poetry that I had seen up until that point was mainly indignant, so I thought that's what was expected of me.
Kao brucoš u srednjoj školi, bila sam živi splet nervoznih hormona. Bila sam nerazvijena, a previše razdražljiva. I uprkos mom strahu da budem u centru pažnje suviše dugo, fascinirala me je ideja usmene poezije. Osećala sam da su se moje dve tajne ljubavi, poezija i teatar, udružile, napravile bebu, bebu koju sam morala da upoznam. I rešila sam da pokušam. Moja prva pesma, napakovana svom mudrošću jedne četrnaestogodišnjakinje, govorila je o nepravdi toga da budeš viđen kao neženstven. Pesma je bila vrlo ogorčena, i uglavnom preterana, ali jedina usmena poezija koju sam do tog trenutka videla, je mahom bila negodujuća i mislila sam da se to očekuje od mene.
The first time that I performed, the audience of teenagers hooted and hollered their sympathy, and when I came off the stage, I was shaking. I felt this tap on my shoulder, and I turned around to see this giant girl in a hoodie sweatshirt emerge from the crowd. She was maybe eight feet tall and looked like she could beat me up with one hand, but instead she just nodded at me and said, "Hey, I really felt that. Thanks." And lightning struck. I was hooked.
Kada sam je prvi put izvodila publika tinejdžera je hučala i uzvikivala svoje simpatije, a kada sam sišla sa bine, tresla sam se. Osetila sam tapšanje na svom ramenu i okrenula sam se i videla ogromnu devojku u duksu sa kapuljačom kako izlazi iz gomile. Imala je oko dva metra i izgledala je kao da me jednom rukom može prebiti, ali umesto toga mi je samo klimnula glavom i rekla: "Hej, zaista sam osetila to. Hvala." I munja je udarila. Navukla sam se.
I discovered this bar on Manhattan's Lower East Side that hosted a weekly poetry open Mic, and my bewildered, but supportive, parents took me to soak in every ounce of spoken word that I could. I was the youngest by at least a decade, but somehow the poets at the Bowery Poetry Club didn't seem bothered by the 14-year-old wandering about. In fact, they welcomed me.
Otkrila sam taj bar na donjoj istočnoj strani Menhetna koji je imao veče otvorenog mikrofona i moji zbunjeni, ali podržavajući roditelji su me odveli da upijem svaku moguću izgovorenu reč. Bila sam najmlađa, bar za jednu deceniju, ali nekako pesnicima u "Boweri Poetry" klubu nije smetalo to što neko od 14 godina luta naokolo - u stvari, bila sam dobrodošla.
And it was here, listening to these poets share their stories, that I learned that spoken-word poetry didn't have to be indignant, it could be fun or painful or serious or silly. The Bowery Poetry Club became my classroom and my home, and the poets who performed encouraged me to share my stories as well. Never mind the fact that I was 14. They told me, "Write about being 14." So I did and stood amazed every week when these brilliant, grown-up poets laughed with me and groaned their sympathy and clapped and told me, "Hey, I really felt that too."
I tu sam, slušajući te pesnike kako dele svoje priče, tu sam naučila da usmena poezija ne mora da bude neugodna, može da bude zabavna ili bolna, ozbiljna ili smešna. "Boweri Poetry" klub je postao moja učionica i moj dom. I pesnici koji su nastupali su me podsticali da i ja podelim svoju priču. Iako sam imala 14 godina - rekli su mi: "Piši o svojim godinama." I jesam i stajala sam zapanjena svake nedelje kada su se ti sjajni, odrasli pesnici smejali sa mnom i jecali svoje simpatije i tapšali i rekli: "Hej, i ja sam to stvarno osetio."
Now I can divide my spoken-word journey into three steps. Step one was the moment I said, "I can. I can do this." And that was thanks to a girl in a hoodie. Step two was the moment I said, "I will. I will continue. I love spoken word. I will keep coming back week after week." And step three began when I realized I didn't have to write indignant poems, if that's not what I was. There were things that were specific to me, and the more that I focused on those things, the weirder my poetry got, but the more that it felt like mine. It's not just the adage "Write what you know." It's about gathering up all of the knowledge and experience you've collected up to now to help you dive into the things you don't know. I use poetry to help me work through what I don't understand, but I show up to each new poem with a backpack full of everywhere else that I've been.
Mogu da podelim svoje putovanje usmene poezije na tri etape. Prva je bila kada sam rekla: "Mogu. Mogu to da uradim." I to je bilo zahvaljujući devojci u duksu. Druga je bio momenat kada sam rekla: "Hoću. Nastaviću. Volim usmenu poeziju. Nastaviću da dolazim nedelju za nedeljom." A treća je počela kada sam shvatila da ne moram da pišem pesme koje su neugodne, ako to nije ono što sam ja. Postojale su stvari karakteristične za mene i što sam se više fokusirala na njih, čudnija je moja poezija bivala, ali sam sve više osećala da jeste moja. "Piši ono što znaš", nije samo izreka, radi se o okupljanju svog znanja i iskustva koje ste sakupili do sada da vam pomogne da uronite u stvari koje su vam nepoznate. Koristim poeziju da mi pomogne da razumem stvari koje ne razumem i pred svakom pesmom se pojavim sa rancem punim stvari sa svih mesta na kojima sam bila.
When I got to university, I met a fellow poet who shared my belief in the magic of spoken-word poetry. And actually, Phil Kaye and I coincidentally also share the same last name. When I was in high school I had created Project V.O.I.C.E. as a way to encourage my friends to do spoken word with me. But Phil and I decided to reinvent Project V.O.I.C.E., this time changing the mission to using spoken-word poetry as a way to entertain, educate and inspire. We stayed full-time students, but in between we traveled, performing and teaching nine-year-olds to MFA candidates, from California to Indiana to India to a public high school just up the street from campus.
Na fakultetu sam upoznala kolegu pesnika koji je delio moje shvatanje magije usmene poezije. Zapravo, Fil Kej i ja slučajno delimo isto prezime. Dok sam bila u srednjoj školi, napravila sam V.O.I.C.E. projekat, način da ohrabrim svoje prijatelje da sa mnom rade usmenu poeziju. Fil i ja sm odlučili da oživimo ovaj projekat - ovog puta sa promenjenom misijom da usmenu poeziju koristimo kao način da zabavimo, obrazujemo i inspirišemo. Sve vreme smo bili redovni studenti, ali smo mnogo putovali, nastupali i učili devetogodišnjake i kandidate za studije umetnosti, od Kalifornije do Indijane do Indije do državne škole nadomak kampusa.
And we saw over and over the way that spoken-word poetry cracks open locks. But it turns out sometimes, poetry can be really scary. Turns out sometimes, you have to trick teenagers into writing poetry. So I came up with lists. Everyone can write lists. And the first list that I assign is "10 Things I Know to be True." And here's what happens, you would discover it too if we all started sharing our lists out loud. At a certain point, you would realize that someone has the exact same thing, or one thing very similar, to something on your list. And then someone else has something the complete opposite of yours. Third, someone has something you've never even heard of before. Fourth, someone has something you thought you knew everything about, but they're introducing a new angle of looking at it. And I tell people that this is where great stories start from -- these four intersections of what you're passionate about and what others might be invested in.
I iznova i iznova smo viđali kako usmena poezija otvara ljude. Ali ponekada, poezija može biti stvarno strašna. Ispada da ponekada morate da prevarite tinejdžere da pišu poeziju. Pa sam se setila lista. Svako može praviti liste. I prva lista koju sam zadala je "10 stvari koje znam da su istinite." I evo šta se događa i evo šta biste i vi otkrili da podelimo svoje liste međusobno. U određenom trenutku, shvatili biste da neko ima potpuno istu stvar ili jednu stvar vrlo sličnu nekoj vašoj stvari sa liste. I onda neko drugi ima nešto potpuno suprotno vašoj listi. Treće, neko ima nešto što nikada pre niste čuli. I četvrto, neko ima nešto o čemu ste mislili da znate sve, ali vam oni predstavlju novi ugao gledanja. I govorim ljudima da je ovo mesto gde nastaju sjajne priče - ove četiri raskrsnice vaših strasti i onoga do čega je drugima stalo.
And most people respond really well to this exercise. But one of my students, a freshman named Charlotte, was not convinced. Charlotte was very good at writing lists, but she refused to write any poems. "Miss," she'd say, "I'm just not interesting. I don't have anything interesting to say." So I assigned her list after list, and one day I assigned the list "10 Things I Should Have Learned by Now." Number three on Charlotte's list was, "I should have learned not to crush on guys three times my age." I asked her what that meant, and she said, "Miss, it's kind of a long story." And I said, "Charlotte, it sounds pretty interesting to me." And so she wrote her first poem, a love poem unlike any I had ever heard before. And the poem began, "Anderson Cooper is a gorgeous man."
I većina ljudi zaista lepo reaguje na ovu vežbu. Ali jedan od mojih studenata, brucoš, Šarlot, nije bila ubeđena. Bila je zaista dobra u pravljenju lista, ali je odbijala da piše pesme. "Gospođice", rekla bi, "ja jednostavno nisam zanimljiva. Nemam ništa zanimljivo da kažem." Pa sam joj dodeljivala listu za listom i jednog dana sam joj dala listu "10 stvari koje je do sada trebalo da naučim." Treća stvar na njenoj listi je bila: "Trebalo je da naučim da se ne zacopam u momke tri puta starije od mene." Pitala sam je šta to znači, i rekla je: "Gospođice, to je duga priča." A ja sam rekla: "Šarlot, meni to deluje prilično zanimljivo." I tako je napisala svoju prvu pesmu, ljubavnu pesmu, drugačiju od svih koje sam ranije čula. Pesma je počinjala: "Anderson Kuper je divan muškarac."
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
"Did you see him on 60 Minutes, racing Michael Phelps in a pool -- nothing but swim trunks on -- diving in the water, determined to beat this swimming champion? After the race, he tossed his wet, cloud-white hair and said, 'You're a god.' No, Anderson, you're the god."
"Da li ste ga gledali u "60 minuta", kako se trka sa Majklom Felpsom u bazenu - ništa drugo sem kupaćeg - zaranja u vodu, rešen da pobedi plivačkog šampiona? Nakon trke, zabacio je svoju mokru, snežno belu kosu i rekao: "Ti si bog." Ne, Anderson, ti si bog."
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
Now, I know that the number one rule to being cool is to seem unfazed, to never admit that anything scares you or impresses you or excites you. Somebody once told me it's like walking through life like this. You protect yourself from all the unexpected miseries or hurt that might show up. But I try to walk through life like this. And yes, that means catching all of those miseries and hurt, but it also means that when beautiful, amazing things just fall out of the sky, I'm ready to catch them. I use spoken word to help my students rediscover wonder, to fight their instincts to be cool and unfazed and, instead, actively pursue being engaged with what goes on around them, so that they can reinterpret and create something from it.
Ako želiš da budeš kul, znam da je pravilo broj jedan da se ne zbuniš, da nikada ne priznaš da te nešto plaši ili zadivljuje ili uzbuđuje. Neko mi je jednom rekao da to znači ići kroz život ovako. Štitite sebe od svih neočekivanih jadikovanja ili bola koji se možda pojave. Ali ja se trudim da kroz život idem ovako. I da, to znači da ćete uhvatiti sav taj bol i jadikovanje, ali isto tako znači da kada lepe i neverovatne stvari samo padnu sa neba, spremna sam da ih uhvatim. Ja koristim usmenu poeziju da pomognem mojim učenicima da ponovo otkriju čudo, da se bore protiv svog instinkta da budu kul i smireni i da umesto toga aktivno traže da se uključe u stvari koje se dešavaju oko njih, kako bi mogli da reinterpretiraju i stvore nešto iz toga.
It's not that I think that spoken-word poetry is the ideal art form. I'm always trying to find the best way to tell each story. I write musicals; I make short films alongside my poems. But I teach spoken-word poetry because it's accessible. Not everyone can read music or owns a camera, but everyone can communicate in some way, and everyone has stories that the rest of us can learn from. Plus, spoken-word poetry allows for immediate connection. It's not uncommon to feel like you're alone or that nobody understands you, but spoken word teaches that if you have the ability to express yourself and the courage to present those stories and opinions, you could be rewarded with a room full of your peers, or your community, who will listen. And maybe even a giant girl in a hoodie who will connect with what you've shared. And that is an amazing realization to have, especially when you're 14. Plus, now with YouTube, that connection's not even limited to the room we're in. I'm so lucky that there's this archive of performances that I can share with my students. It allows for even more opportunities for them to find a poet or a poem that they connect to.
Ne mislim da je usmena poezija idealna umetnička forma. Uvek pokušavam da nađem najbolji način da ispričam svaku priču. Pišem mjuzikle, pravim kratke filmove pored svojih pesama. Ali predajem usmenu poeziju jer je pristupačna. Ne može svako da svira ili da ima kameru, ali svako može da komunicira na određeni način, i svako ima priče iz kojih ostali mogu da uče. Plus, usmena poezija dozvoljava trenutnu povezanost. Ljudi često imaju utisak da su sami ili da ih niko ne razume, ali usmena poezija uči da ako imate sposobnost da se izrazite i hrabrost da predstavite te priče i stavove, možete biti nagrađeni sobom punom vaših vršnjaka, ili vaše zajednice, koja će slušati. I možda će se i ogromna devojka u duksu povezati sa onim što ste podelili. I shvatiti to je neverovatna stvar, naročito kad imate 14 godina. Plus, sada uz "YouTube", ta povezanost nije ograničena na sobu u kojoj se nalazimo. Srećna sam što postoji arhiva izvođenja koje mogu podeliti sa svojim studentima. To im daje još više prilika da nađu pesnika ili pesmu
Once you've figured this out,
sa kojom se mogu povezati.
it is tempting to keep writing the same poem, or keep telling the same story, over and over, once you've figured out that it will gain you applause. It's not enough to just teach that you can express yourself. You have to grow and explore and take risks and challenge yourself. And that is step three: infusing the work you're doing with the specific things that make you you, even while those things are always changing. Because step three never ends. But you don't get to start on step three, until you take step one first: "I can."
Primamljivo je - jednom kada to shvatite - mami vas da pišete iste pesme, ili da pričate iste priču, iznova i iznova, jednom kada shvatite da vam to donosi aplauz. Nije dovoljno samo shvatiti da možete da se izražavate, morate rasti i istraživati i rizikovati i stavljati izazove pred sebe. I to je treći korak: nadahnite posao koji radite sa specifičnim stvarima koje vas čine posebnim, čak iako se te stvari stalno menjaju. Jer se treći korak nikada ne završava. Ali sa njim ne možete početi dok ne napravite prvi korak: Ja mogu. Putujem mnogo dok predajem
I travel a lot while I'm teaching, and I don't always get to watch all of my students reach their step three, but I was very lucky with Charlotte, that I got to watch her journey unfold the way it did. I watched her realize that, by putting the things that she knows to be true into the work she's doing, she can create poems that only Charlotte can write, about eyeballs and elevators and Dora the Explorer. And I'm trying to tell stories only I can tell -- like this story. I spent a lot of time thinking about the best way to tell this story, and I wondered if the best way was going to be a PowerPoint, a short film -- And where exactly was the beginning, the middle or the end? I wondered whether I'd get to the end of this talk and finally have figured it all out, or not.
i nemam priliku da često vidim kako moji studenti dosegnu treći korak, ali sam imala mnogo sreće sa Šarlot, da vidim kako se njen put odvija na način na koji se odvijao. Videla sam kako shvata da, ako stavi stvari za koje zna da su istinite u svoj rad, može da stvori pesme koje samo ona može da napiše - o očnim jabučicama i liftovima i Dori istraživaču. I ja pokušavam da ispričam priče koje samo ja mogu ispričati - poput ove. Provela sam mnogo vremena razmišljajući kako da najbolje ispričam ovu priču i pitala sam se da li je najbolji način da uradim "PowerPoint" ili kratak film - i gde je tačno početak, sredina ili kraj? I pitala sam se da li ću stići do kraja ovog govora i konačno shvatiti sve ili ne.
And I always thought that my beginning was at the Bowery Poetry Club, but it's possible that it was much earlier. In preparing for TED, I discovered this diary page in an old journal. I think December 54th was probably supposed to be 24th. It's clear that when I was a child, I definitely walked through life like this. I think that we all did. I would like to help others rediscover that wonder -- to want to engage with it, to want to learn, to want to share what they've learned, what they've figured out to be true and what they're still figuring out.
I uvek sam mislila da je moj početak bio "Boweri Poetry" klub, ali moguće je da je to bilo mnogo ranije. Pripremajući se za TED, otkrila sam stranicu u starom dnevniku. Mislim da je 54. decembar zapravo trebao biti 24. Jasno je da sam kao dete sigurno kroz život išla ovako. Mislim da smo svi. Volela bih da pomognem ostalima da otkriju to čudo - da žele da se povežu sa njim, da žele da uče, da žele da dele to što su naučili, šta su shvatili da je istina i šta još uvek pokušavaju da shvate.
So I'd like to close with this poem.
Volela bih da završim sa ovom pesmom.
When they bombed Hiroshima, the explosion formed a mini-supernova, so every living animal, human or plant that received direct contact with the rays from that sun was instantly turned to ash. And what was left of the city soon followed. The long-lasting damage of nuclear radiation caused an entire city and its population to turn into powder. When I was born, my mom says I looked around the whole hospital room with a stare that said, "This? I've done this before." She says I have old eyes. When my Grandpa Genji died, I was only five years old, but I took my mom by the hand and told her, "Don't worry, he'll come back as a baby." And yet, for someone who's apparently done this already, I still haven't figured anything out yet. My knees still buckle every time I get on a stage. My self-confidence can be measured out in teaspoons mixed into my poetry, and it still always tastes funny in my mouth. But in Hiroshima, some people were wiped clean away, leaving only a wristwatch or a diary page. So no matter that I have inhibitions to fill all my pockets, I keep trying, hoping that one day I'll write a poem I can be proud to let sit in a museum exhibit as the only proof I existed. My parents named me Sarah, which is a biblical name. In the original story, God told Sarah she could do something impossible, and -- she laughed, because the first Sarah, she didn't know what to do with impossible. And me? Well, neither do I, but I see the impossible every day. Impossible is trying to connect in this world, trying to hold onto others while things are blowing up around you, knowing that while you're speaking, they aren't just waiting for their turn to talk -- they hear you. They feel exactly what you feel at the same time that you feel it. It's what I strive for every time I open my mouth -- that impossible connection. There's this piece of wall in Hiroshima that was completely burnt black by the radiation. But on the front step, a person who was sitting there blocked the rays from hitting the stone. The only thing left now is a permanent shadow of positive light. After the A-bomb, specialists said it would take 75 years for the radiation-damaged soil of Hiroshima City to ever grow anything again. But that spring, there were new buds popping up from the earth. When I meet you, in that moment, I'm no longer a part of your future. I start quickly becoming part of your past. But in that instant, I get to share your present. And you, you get to share mine. And that is the greatest present of all. So if you tell me I can do the impossible -- I'll probably laugh at you. I don't know if I can change the world yet, because I don't know that much about it -- and I don't know that much about reincarnation either, but if you make me laugh hard enough, sometimes I forget what century I'm in. This isn't my first time here. This isn't my last time here. These aren't the last words I'll share. But just in case, I'm trying my hardest to get it right this time around.
Kada su bombardovali Hirošimu, eksplozija je napravila mini supernovu, i svaka životinja, čovek ili biljka koji su bili u direktnom kontaktu sa sunčevim zracima odmah su pretvoreni u pepeo. To se uskoro desilo i sa ostacima grada. Dugotrajno oštećenje usled nuklearne radijacije izazvalo je da se čitav grad i njegova populacija pretvore u prah. Kada sam se rodila, moja mama kaže da sam pogledala po bolničkoj sobi sa pogledom koji je govorio: "Ovo? Radila sam ovo ranije." Kaže da imam stare oči. Kada je moj deda Gendži umro, imala sam samo pet godina, ali uzela sam moju mamu za ruku i rekla: "Ne brini, vratiće se kao beba." I opet, za nekoga koje navodno ovo već radio, još uvek ništa nisam shvatila. Moja kolena i dalje klecaju svaki put kada sam na bini. Moje samopouzdanje može da se meri kašičicama umešanim u moju poeziju, i još uvek ima čudan ukus u mojim ustima. Ali u Hirošimi, neki ljudi su bili izbrisani sa lica mesta, ostavljajući samo ručni sat ili stranicu dnevnika. Pa iako imam pune džepove prepreka, pokušavam i dalje, nadajući se da ću jednog dana napisati pesmu na koju ću biti ponosna da sedi u muzeju kao jedini dokaz mog postojanja. Moji roditelji su me nazvali Sara, što je biblijsko ime. U izvornoj priči, Bog je rekao Sari da može da napravi nešto nemoguće i ona se nasmejala, jer prva Sara nije znala šta da radi sa nemogućim. A ja? Pa ne znam ni ja, ali vidim nemoguće svakog dana. Nemoguće je pokušaj da se povežemo u ovom svetu, pokušaj da se oslonimo na druge kada se stvari oko nas raspadaju, znajući da dok govorite, oni ne čekaju samo svoj red da govore - oni vas čuju. Osećaju tačno ono što vi osećate u isto vreme kada i vi. To je ono čemu težim svaki put kad otvorim usta - toj nemogućoj povezanosti. Postoji deo zida u Hirošimi koji je potpuno izgoreo od radijacije. Ali ispred njega, sedela je osoba koja je blokirala dolazak zraka do kamena. Jedina stvar koje je sada ostala jeste stalna senka boljeg svetla. Posle A bombe, stručnjaci su rekli da će biti potrebno 75 godina da iz zemljišta koje je oštećeno radijacijom u Hirošimi, ponovo nešto izraste. Ali tog proleća, novi pupoljci su izranjali iz zemlje. Kada sam te upoznala, u tom momentu, više nisam deo tvoje budućnosti. Brzo počinjem bivati deo tvoje prošlosti. Ali u tom trenu, delim tvoju sadašnjost. A ti, ti deliš moju. I to je najveći dar od svih. Tako, ako mi kažete da mogu uraditi nemoguće, verovatno ću se nasmejati. I ne znam još uvek da li mogu promeniti svet, jer ne znam puno o tome - isto tako ne znam puno o reinkarnaciji, ali ako me jako zasmejete, ponekad zaboravim u kom veku se nalazim. Nisam prvi put ovde. Nisam poslednji put ovde. Ovo nisu poslednje reči koje ću podeliti. Ali za svaki slučaj, trudim se da ovaj put to uradim kako treba.
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
Thank you.
(Applause)
Hvala vam.
Thank you.
(Aplauz)
(Applause)
Hvala vam
Thank you.
(Aplauz)
(Applause)