I er så mange.
There's so many of you.
(Laughter)
Da jeg var barn, gemte jeg mit hjerte under sengen, fordi min mor sagde, "Hvis du ikke passer på, vil nogen en dag knuse det." Tro mig. Under sengen er ikke et godt gemmested. Det ved jeg, fordi jeg er blevet skudt ned så mange gange, jeg får højdeskræk af bare at stå for mig selv. Men det er, hvad vi blev fortalt. Stå for dig selv. Det er svært, hvis man ikke ved, hvem man er. Vi forventedes at definere os selv i så tidlig en alder, og hvis vi ikke gjorde det, gjorde andre. Nørd. Tykke. Luder. Bøsse.
When I was a kid, I hid my heart under the bed, because my mother said, "If you're not careful, someday someone's going to break it." Take it from me: Under the bed is not a good hiding spot. I know because I've been shot down so many times, I get altitude sickness just from standing up for myself. But that's what we were told. "Stand up for yourself." And that's hard to do if you don't know who you are. We were expected to define ourselves at such an early age, and if we didn't do it, others did it for us. Geek. Fatty. Slut. Fag.
Og samtidig fik vi at vide, hvad vi var, vi blev spurgt, "Hvad vil du være, når du bliver stor?" Jeg syntes, det var et uretfærdigt spørgsmål. Det forudsætter, at vi ikke kan være, hvad vi allerede er. Vi var børn.
And at the same time we were being told what we were, we were being asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I always thought that was an unfair question. It presupposes that we can't be what we already are. We were kids.
Da jeg var et barn, ville jeg være en mand. Jeg ville have en pension, der kunne give mig slik nok til at forsøde alderdommen. Da jeg var barn, ville jeg barbere mig.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a man. I wanted a registered retirement savings plan that would keep me in candy long enough to make old age sweet. (Laughter)
Ikke så meget længere.
When I was a kid, I wanted to shave. Now, not so much.
Da jeg var otte, ville jeg være marinebiolog. Da jeg var ni, så jeg "Dødens Gab," og tænkte, "Ellers tak." Da jeg var 10, fik jeg at vide, at mine forældre forlod mig, fordi de ikke ville have mig.
(Laughter) When I was eight, I wanted to be a marine biologist. When I was nine, I saw the movie "Jaws," and thought to myself, "No, thank you." (Laughter)
Da jeg var 11, ville jeg lades alene. Da jeg var 12, ville jeg dø. Da jeg var 13, ville jeg dræbe et barn. Da jeg var 14, blev jeg bedt om for alvor at vælge en karrierevej.
And when I was 10, I was told that my parents left because they didn't want me. When I was 11, I wanted to be left alone. When I was 12, I wanted to die. When I was 13, I wanted to kill a kid. When I was 14, I was asked to seriously consider a career path.
Jeg sagde, "Jeg vil gerne være forfatter."
I said, "I'd like to be a writer."
Og de sagde, "Vælg noget realistisk."
And they said, "Choose something realistic."
Så jeg sagde, "Professionel wrestler."
So I said, "Professional wrestler."
Og de sagde, "Vær ikke dum."
And they said, "Don't be stupid."
De spurgte mig, hvad jeg ville være, og sagde så, hvad jeg ikke skulle være.
See, they asked me what I wanted to be, then told me what not to be.
Jeg var ikke den eneste. Vi fik at vide, at vi på en eller anden måde skulle blive, hvad vi ikke er, ofre hvad vi er for at arve maskeraden om, hvad vi vil blive. Jeg skulle acceptere identiteten, som andre ville give mig.
And I wasn't the only one. We were being told that we somehow must become what we are not, sacrificing what we are to inherit the masquerade of what we will be. I was being told to accept the identity that others will give me.
Og jeg undrede mig, hvad gjorde mine drømme så lette at affeje? Selvom mine drømme er generte, fordi de er canadiske. (Latter)
And I wondered, what made my dreams so easy to dismiss? Granted, my dreams are shy, because they're Canadian.
Mine drømme er selvbevidste og overdrevet undskyldende. De står alene til gymnasiegallaen, og de er aldrig blevet kysset. Mine drømme bliver nemlig også kaldt navne. Fjollede. Tåbelige. Umulige. Men jeg blev ved at drømme. Jeg skulle være wrestler. Jeg havde planlagt alt. Jeg ville være Skraldemanden. Mit nådesstød skulle være Komprimeringsmaskinen.
(Laughter) My dreams are self-conscious and overly apologetic. They're standing alone at the high school dance, and they've never been kissed. See, my dreams got called names too. Silly. Foolish. Impossible. But I kept dreaming. I was going to be a wrestler. I had it all figured out. I was going to be The Garbage Man. (Laughter)
Mit slagord skulle være, "Jeg bærer skraldet ud!"
My finishing move was going to be The Trash Compactor. My saying was going to be, "I'm taking out the trash!"
(Latter) (Bifald)
(Laughter)
Og så stjal ham her Duke "Skraldespanden" Droese hele mit nummer.
(Applause) And then this guy, Duke "The Dumpster" Droese, stole my entire shtick.
Jeg var knust som af en komprimeringsmaskine. Jeg tænkte, "Hvad nu? Hvor vender jeg mig hen?"
(Laughter) I was crushed, as if by a trash compactor. (Laughter)
I thought to myself, "What now? Where do I turn?"
Poesi.
Poetry.
Som en boomerang, vendte det, jeg elskede, tilbage. En af de første poetiske linjer, jeg husker at skrive, var som svar til en verden, der krævede, at jeg hadede mig selv. Fra jeg var 15 til 18, hadede jeg mig selv for at blive, hvad jeg hadede: en bølle.
(Laughter) Like a boomerang, the thing I loved came back to me. One of the first lines of poetry I can remember writing was in response to a world that demanded I hate myself. From age 15 to 18, I hated myself for becoming the thing that I loathed: a bully.
Da jeg var 19, skrev jeg, "Jeg vil elske mig selv trods den lethed, med hvilken jeg læner mod det modsatte."
When I was 19, I wrote, "I will love myself despite the ease with which I lean toward the opposite."
At stå for sig selv behøver ikke at betyde at blive voldelig.
Standing up for yourself doesn't have to mean embracing violence.
Da jeg var barn, byttede jeg afleveringer for venskab, gav så hver ven en seddel for aldrig at komme til tiden, og oftest slet ikke. Jeg gav mig selv en pause fra timerne for hvert brudt løfte. Og jeg husker denne plan, undfanget i frustration over et barn, der blev ved at kalde mig "Yogi," og pegede på min mave og sagde, "For mange skovturskurve." Viser sig, det ikke er så svært at narre andre, og en dag før timen, sagde jeg, "Ja, du kan kopiere mine lektier," og jeg gav ham alle de forkerte svar, jeg havde skrevet aftenen før. Han fik sin opgave tilbage og forventede en næsten perfekt karakter og kunne ikke tro det, da han så på tværs af rummet på mig og holdt et nul op. Jeg vidste, jeg ikke var nødt til at holde min opgave op med 28 ud af 30, men min tilfredsstillelse var fuldkommen, da han så forvirret på mig, og jeg tænkte, "Kvikkere end den gennemsnitlige bjørn, røvhul."
When I was a kid, I traded in homework assignments for friendship, then gave each friend a late slip for never showing up on time, and in most cases, not at all. I gave myself a hall pass to get through each broken promise. And I remember this plan, born out of frustration from a kid who kept calling me "Yogi," then pointed at my tummy and said, "Too many picnic baskets." Turns out it's not that hard to trick someone, and one day before class, I said, "Yeah, you can copy my homework," and I gave him all the wrong answers that I'd written down the night before. He got his paper back expecting a near-perfect score, and couldn't believe it when he looked across the room at me and held up a zero. I knew I didn't have to hold up my paper of 28 out of 30, but my satisfaction was complete when he looked at me, puzzled, and I thought to myself, "Smarter than the average bear, motherfucker."
(Latter) (Bifald)
(Laughter)
Dette er, hvem jeg er.
(Applause)
Dette er, hvordan jeg står for mig selv.
This is who I am. This is how I stand up for myself.
Da jeg var barn, plejede jeg at tro, at koteletter og karate hug var det samme. Jeg troede begge dele var koteletter. Og fordi min bedstemor syntes, det var nuttet, og fordi de var min livret, lod hun mig blive ved med det. Ikke noget alvorligt. En dag, før jeg indså, at tykke børn ikke er designet til at klatre i træer, faldt jeg ned fra et træ og slog højre side af min krop. Jeg ville ikke sige det til min bedstemor, fordi jeg var bange for at få problemer for at lege, hvor jeg ikke burde. Et par dage senere lagde idrætslæreren mærke til skaden, og jeg blev sendt til inspektørens kontor. Derfra blev jeg sendt ind i et mindre rum med en rigtig sød dame, som spurgte mig om alt muligt om livet derhjemme. Jeg så ingen grund til at lyve. Så vidt jeg vidste, var livet ret godt. Jeg sagde, når jeg er ked af det, giver min bedstemor mig karatehug.
When I was a kid, I used to think that pork chops and karate chops were the same thing. I thought they were both pork chops. My grandmother thought it was cute, and because they were my favorite, she let me keep doing it. Not really a big deal. One day, before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees, I fell out of a tree and bruised the right side of my body. I didn't want to tell my grandmother because I was scared I'd get in trouble for playing somewhere I shouldn't have been. The gym teacher noticed the bruise, and I got sent to the principal's office. From there, I was sent to another small room with a really nice lady who asked me all kinds of questions about my life at home. I saw no reason to lie. As far as I was concerned, life was pretty good. I told her, whenever I'm sad, my grandmother gives me karate chops.
(Latter)
(Laughter)
Dette ledte til en gennemgribende efterforskning, og jeg blev fjernet fra huset i tre dage, indtil de endelig besluttede at spørge, hvordan jeg fik skaden. Historien bredte sig hurtigt på skolen, og jeg fik mit første øgenavn: Kotelet. Den dag i dag hader jeg koteletter.
This led to a full-scale investigation, and I was removed from the house for three days, until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises. News of this silly little story quickly spread through the school, and I earned my first nickname: Porkchop. To this day, I hate pork chops.
Jeg er ikke den eneste, der voksede op sådan, omringet af folk, der plejede at sige den remse om grene og sten, som om brækkede ben gør mere ondt, end de navne vi blev kaldt, og vi blev kaldt dem alle. Så vi voksede op og troede, ingen ville forelske sig i os, at vi ville være alene for evigt, at vi aldrig ville møde nogen, der fik os til at føle, at solen var noget, de byggede til os i deres værksted. Så de dybe følelser blev tungsindige, og vi forsøgte at tømme os selv, så vi ikke ville mærke noget. Sig ikke, det gør mindre ondt end et brækket ben, at et indgroet liv er noget kirurger kan skære væk, at det ikke kan metastasere; det gør det.
I'm not the only kid who grew up this way, surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme about sticks and stones, as if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called, and we got called them all. So we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us, that we'd be lonely forever, that we'd never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their toolshed. So broken heartstrings bled the blues, and we tried to empty ourselves so we'd feel nothing. Don't tell me that hurts less than a broken bone, that an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away,
Hun var otte, vores første dag i tredje, da hun blev kaldt grim. Vi blev begge flyttet bagest i klassen, så vi ikke blev bombarderet af spytkugler. Men gangene var en slagmark. Vi var i undertal hver eneste forbandede dag. Vi plejede at blive inde i frikvarteret, fordi udenfor var værre. Udenfor skulle vi øve os i flugt, eller lære at stå stille som statuer, lade som om vi ikke var der. I femte klistrede de en seddel forrest på hendes bord, der sagde, "Pas på hunden." Den dag i dag, trods en kærlig mand, tror hun ikke, hun er smuk, på grund af et modermærke, der fylder lidt under halvdelen af ansigtet. Børnene plejede at sige, "Hun ligner et forkert svar, nogen forsøgte at viske ud, men ikke helt kunne gøre det." Og de vil aldrig forstå, at hun opdrager to børn, hvis definition af skønhed begynder med ordet "Mor," fordi de ser hendes hjerte, før de ser hendes hud, fordi hun altid aldrig har været andet end fantastisk.
that there's no way for it to metastasize; it does. She was eight years old, our first day of grade three when she got called ugly. We both got moved to the back of class so we would stop getting bombarded by spitballs. But the school halls were a battleground. We found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day. We used to stay inside for recess, because outside was worse. Outside, we'd have to rehearse running away, or learn to stay still like statues, giving no clues that we were there. In grade five, they taped a sign to the front of her desk that read, "Beware of dog." To this day, despite a loving husband, she doesn't think she's beautiful, because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half her face. Kids used to say, "She looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase, but couldn't quite get the job done." And they'll never understand that she's raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word "Mom," because they see her heart before they see her skin, because she's only ever always been amazing.
Han var en brækket gren, hæftet på et andet stamtræ, adopteret, ikke fordi hans forældre valgte en anden skæbne. Han var tre, da han blev en blandet drik af en del ladt alene og to dele tragedie, begyndte i terapi i ottende, havde en personlighed af prøver og piller, levede som var bakkerne opad bjerge og nedad klippeskrænter, fire femtedele selvmorderisk, en tidevandsbølge af antidepressiva og en pubertet med tilnavnet "Popper," en del på grund af pillerne, 99 dele på grund af grusomheden. Han prøvede at myrde sig selv i tiende, da et barn, som stadig kunne gå hjem til Mor og Far, havde frækhed til at sige, "Kom nu videre." Som om depression er noget, der kunne klares af noget af indholdet i en førstehjælpstaske. Den dag i dag er han en dynamitstang tændt i begge ender, kunne beskrive i detaljer den måde, himlen bøjer øjeblikket før, den falder, og trods en hær af venner, der alle kalder ham en inspiration, forbliver han et samtaleemne mellem folk, der ikke kan forstå, nogle gange har det at være stoffri mindre at gøre med afhængighed og mere at gøre med forstand.
He was a broken branch grafted onto a different family tree, adopted, not because his parents opted for a different destiny. He was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone and two parts tragedy, started therapy in eighth grade, had a personality made up of tests and pills, lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs, four-fifths suicidal, a tidal wave of antidepressants, and an adolescent being called "Popper," one part because of the pills, 99 parts because of the cruelty. He tried to kill himself in grade 10 when a kid who could still go home to Mom and Dad had the audacity to tell him, "Get over it." As if depression is something that could be remedied by any of the contents found in a first-aid kit. To this day, he is a stick of TNT lit from both ends, could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends in the moment before it's about to fall, and despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration, he remains a conversation piece between people who can't understand sometimes being drug-free has less to do with addiction and more to do with sanity.
Vi var ikke de eneste børn, der voksede sådan op. Den dag i dag bliver børn stadig kaldt navne. Klassikerne var "Hey dumme," "Hey spasser." Lader til at hver skole har et arsenal af navne, der opdateres årligt, og hvis et barn bryder sammen i skolen, og ingen omkring vælger at høre, laver de en lyd? Er de bare baggrundsstøj fra en lydspor, der er gået i hak, når folk siger ting som, "Børn kan være onde." Hver skole var et højt cirkustelt, og mobbehierarkiet gik fra akrobater til løvetæmmere, fra klovne til gøglere, alle kilometer foran det, vi var. Vi var vanskabninger --hummerklo-drenge og skæggede kvinder, skævheder jonglerende depression og ensomhed, spillende kabale, flaskehalsen peger på, forsøgte at kysse vores skadede dele og hele, men om natten, mens de andre sov, blev vi ved at gå på linen. Det var øvelse, og ja, nogle af os faldt. Men jeg vil sige dem, at alt dette blot er rester, fra da vi endelig besluttede at smadre alle de ting, vi troede vi plejede at være, og hvis du ikke kan se noget smukt ved dig selv, få et bedre spejl, se lidt nærmere, stir lidt længere, for der er noget inde i dig, der fik dig til at fortsætte, trods alle dem, der bad dig stoppe. Du byggede en kaste om dit knuste hjerte og underskrev det selv. Du underskrev det, "De tog fejl." For måske tilhørte du ikke en gruppe eller en klike. Måske valgte de dig sidst til basketball eller alt. Måske tog du mærker og brækkede tænder til vis-og-fortæl, men fortalte aldrig, for hvordan kan du stå fast, når alle omkring dig vil begrave dig under jorden? Du er nødt til at tro på, de tog fejl. De er nødt til at tage fejl. Hvorfor ville vi ellers stadig være her?
We weren't the only kids who grew up this way. To this day, kids are still being called names. The classics were "Hey, stupid," "Hey, spaz." Seems like every school has an arsenal of names getting updated every year. And if a kid breaks in a school and no one around chooses to hear, do they make a sound? Are they just background noise from a soundtrack stuck on repeat, when people say things like, "Kids can be cruel." Every school was a big top circus tent, and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers, from clowns to carnies, all of these miles ahead of who we were. We were freaks -- lobster-claw boys and bearded ladies, oddities juggling depression and loneliness, playing solitaire, spin the bottle, trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal, but at night, while the others slept, we kept walking the tightrope. It was practice, and yes, some of us fell. But I want to tell them that all of this is just debris left over when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be, and if you can't see anything beautiful about yourself, get a better mirror, look a little closer, stare a little longer, because there's something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit. You built a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself, "They were wrong." Because maybe you didn't belong to a group or a clique. Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything. Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth to show-and-tell, but never told, because how can you hold your ground if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it? You have to believe that they were wrong. They have to be wrong. Why else would we still be here?
Vi voksede op med at heppe på underhunden, fordi vi ser os selv i dem. Vi stammer fra en rod plantet i den tro, at vi ikke er, hvad vi blev kaldt. Vi er ikke forladte biler gået i stå, der står tomme på motorvejen, og hvis vi på en måde er, tag det roligt. Vi steg kun ud for at hente benzin. Vi er studenter fra årgangen af Vi Klarede Det, ikke de falmede ekko af stemmer, der råber, "Navne vil aldrig skade mig." Selvfølgelig gjorde de det. Men vores liv vil aldrig være andet end et balancenummer, der har mindre at gøre med smerte og mere med skønhed.
We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them. We stem from a root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called. We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on some highway, and if in some way we are, don't worry. We only got out to walk and get gas. We are graduating members from the class of We Made It, not the faded echoes of voices crying out, "Names will never hurt me." Of course they did. But our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act that has less to do with pain and more to do with beauty.
(Bifald)
(Applause)