Last year, I went on my first book tour. In 13 months, I flew to 14 countries and gave some hundred talks. Every talk in every country began with an introduction, and every introduction began, alas, with a lie: "Taiye Selasi comes from Ghana and Nigeria," or "Taiye Selasi comes from England and the States." Whenever I heard this opening sentence, no matter the country that concluded it -- England, America, Ghana, Nigeria -- I thought, "But that's not true." Yes, I was born in England and grew up in the United States. My mum, born in England, and raised in Nigeria, currently lives in Ghana. My father was born in Gold Coast, a British colony, raised in Ghana, and has lived for over 30 years in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. For this reason, my introducers also called me "multinational." "But Nike is multinational," I thought, "I'm a human being."
Prošle godine sam prvi put predstavljala svoju knjigu. Za 13 meseci letela sam u 14 zemalja i održala nekih sto govora. Svaki govor, u svakoj zemlji, počinjao je uvodom, a svaki uvod je počinjao lažima: "Taji Selasi je iz Gane i Nigerije," ili "Taji Selasi je iz Engleske i Sjedinjenih Država." Kad god sam čula ovu uvodnu rečenicu, bez obzira na pominjane države - Engleska, Amerika, Gana, Nigerija - pomislila sam: "Ali to nije tačno." Da, rodila sam se u Engleskoj i odrasla u Sjedinjenim Državama. Moja mama se rodila u Engleskoj, odrasla je u Nigeriji, a sada živi u Gani. Otac se rodio u Zlatnoj obali, britanskoj koloniji, odrastao je u Gani, i živi više od 30 godina u Kraljevini Saudijskoj Arabiji. Zbog ovoga su me uvodničari nazivali multinacionalnom. "Najk je multinacionalna kompanija", mislila sam, "Ja sam ljudsko biće."
Then, one fine day, mid-tour, I went to Louisiana, a museum in Denmark where I shared the stage with the writer Colum McCann. We were discussing the role of locality in writing, when suddenly it hit me. I'm not multinational. I'm not a national at all. How could I come from a nation? How can a human being come from a concept? It's a question that had been bothering me for going on two decades. From newspapers, textbooks, conversations, I had learned to speak of countries as if they were eternal, singular, naturally occurring things, but I wondered: to say that I came from a country suggested that the country was an absolute, some fixed point in place in time, a constant thing, but was it? In my lifetime, countries had disappeared -- Czechoslovakia; appeared -- Timor-Leste; failed -- Somalia. My parents came from countries that didn't exist when they were born. To me, a country -- this thing that could be born, die, expand, contract -- hardly seemed the basis for understanding a human being.
Zatim jednog lepog dana, usred turneje, otišla sam u Luizijanu, muzej u Danskoj, gde sam gostovala zajedno sa piscem Kolumom Makenom. Diskutovali smo o tome kakvu ulogu igra okruženje u pisanju i odjednom mi je sinulo. Ja nisam multinacionalna, Nisam uopšte nacionalna. Kako mogu da potičem od nacije? Kako može čovek da potiče od ideje? Ovo pitanje me nervira već dvadeset godina. Iz novina, udžbenika, razgovora, naučila sam da govorim o državama kao večnim, jedinstvenim, prirodnim tvorevinama, ali sam se zapitala: biti poreklom iz neke države - znači da je država jedno savršeno, učvršćeno mesto u vremenu, jedna konstanta, ali, da li je? Za mog života nestale su države, kao Čehoslovačka, pojavile se, kao Istočni Timor; propale, kao Somalija. Moji roditelji su iz država koje nisu postojale kad su se oni rodili. Za mene, država može da se rodi, umre, proširi, smanji - teško može da bude osnova za razumevanje čoveka.
And so it came as a huge relief to discover the sovereign state. What we call countries are actually various expressions of sovereign statehood, an idea that came into fashion only 400 years ago. When I learned this, beginning my masters degree in international relations, I felt a sort of surge of relief. It was as I had suspected. History was real, cultures were real, but countries were invented. For the next 10 years, I sought to re- or un-define myself, my world, my work, my experience, beyond the logic of the state.
Došlo je kao veliko olakšanje otkriti suverenu državu. Ono što mi nazivamo državama, u stvari su razni izrazi suverene državnosti, i ta ideja je ušla u modu pre samo 400 godina. Shvatila sam ovo kada sam počela master studije međunarodnih odnosa, i osetila sam ogromno olakšanje. Moje sumnje su se potvrdile. Realna je istorija, realne su kulture, ali države su izmišljene. U narednih 10 godina nastojala sam da redefinišem sebe, svoj svet, svoj rad, svoje iskustvo, iznad logike države.
In 2005, I wrote an essay, "What is an Afropolitan," sketching out an identity that privileged culture over country. It was thrilling how many people could relate to my experience, and instructional how many others didn't buy my sense of self. "How can Selasi claim to come from Ghana," one such critic asked, "when she's never known the indignities of traveling abroad on a Ghanian passport?"
2005. sam napisala esej "Šta je Afropolitan", skicirajući identitet koji ističe kulturu iznad države. Bilo je uzbudljivo, mnogi su se vezali za moje iskustvo, i poučno, jer mnogi se nisu osećali kao ja. "Kako može Selasi da tvrdi da potiče iz Gane, kada nije iskusila poniženja zbog ganskog pasoša kod putovanja u inostranstvo?", pitao se jedan kritičar.
Now, if I'm honest, I knew just what she meant. I've got a friend named Layla who was born and raised in Ghana. Her parents are third-generation Ghanians of Lebanese descent. Layla, who speaks fluent Twi, knows Accra like the back of her hand, but when we first met years ago, I thought, "She's not from Ghana." In my mind, she came from Lebanon, despite the patent fact that all her formative experience took place in suburban Accra. I, like my critics, was imagining some Ghana where all Ghanaians had brown skin or none held U.K. passports. I'd fallen into the limiting trap that the language of coming from countries sets -- the privileging of a fiction, the singular country, over reality: human experience. Speaking with Colum McCann that day, the penny finally dropped. "All experience is local," he said. "All identity is experience," I thought. "I'm not a national," I proclaimed onstage. "I'm a local. I'm multi-local."
Iskreno rečeno, razumela sam je. Imam jednu drugaricu, Lejlu, koja se rodila i odrasla u Gani. Njeni roditelji su treća generacija Ganijaca libanskog porekla. Lejla, koja tečno govori tvi jezik, poznaje Akru kao svoj džep, ali kad smo se prvi put sreli, pomislila sam: "Ona nije iz Gane." U mojim mislima, ona je iz Libana, uprkos očiglednoj činjenici da se celokupno njeno iskustvo formiralo u predgrađu Akre. Kao i moji kritičari, i ja sam zamišljala Ganu kao mesto gde su svi tamnoputi ili gde niko nema pasoš Ujedinjenog Kraljevstva. Pala sam u zamku da je jezik zemlje porekla iznad - koristeći pravo na zamišljanje jedinstvene države - iznad stvarnosti, iznad čovekovog iskustva. U razgovoru sa Kolumom Makenom tog dana, konačno sam shvatila sve. "Iskustvo se vezuje za mesto" - rekao je. "Identitet je iskustvo." - pomislila sam. Na bini sam obznanila da nisam nacionalna. "Ja sam ovdašnja. Ja pripadam svuda."
See, "Taiye Selasi comes from the United States," isn't the truth. I have no relationship with the United States, all 50 of them, not really. My relationship is with Brookline, the town where I grew up; with New York City, where I started work; with Lawrenceville, where I spend Thanksgiving. What makes America home for me is not my passport or accent, but these very particular experiences and the places they occur. Despite my pride in Ewe culture, the Black Stars, and my love of Ghanaian food, I've never had a relationship with the Republic of Ghana, writ large. My relationship is with Accra, where my mother lives, where I go each year, with the little garden in Dzorwulu where my father and I talk for hours. These are the places that shape my experience. My experience is where I'm from.
Ovo "Taji Selasi je iz Sjedinjenih Država" nije istina. Nemam veze sa Sjedinjenim Državama, ni sa jednom od njih 50. Ali imam veze sa Bruklinom, gradom gde sam odrasla; sa Njujorkom, gde sam počela da radim; sa Lorensvilom, gde provodim Dan zahvalnosti. Amerika mi nije dom zbog mog pasoša ili naglaska, već zbog doživljaja i mesta gde sam ih doživela. Bez obzira što sam ponosna na Eve kulturu, na Blek Starse, i što volim gansku hranu, nikad nisam imala vezu sa Republikom Gana. Ali sam vezana za Akru, gde živi moja mama, i gde odlazim svake godine, vezana sam za vrt u Dzžorvuluu, gde tata i ja pričamo satima. Ovo su mesta koja su oblikovala moje iskustvo. Ja potičem iz mog iskustva.
What if we asked, instead of "Where are you from?" -- "Where are you a local?" This would tell us so much more about who and how similar we are. Tell me you're from France, and I see what, a set of clichés? Adichie's dangerous single story, the myth of the nation of France? Tell me you're a local of Fez and Paris, better yet, Goutte d'Or, and I see a set of experiences. Our experience is where we're from.
Šta bi bilo kada bismo umesto "Odakle si?"- pitali "Gde pripadaš?" Ovo bi više govorilo o nama i o tome koliko smo slični. Kaži mi da si iz Francuske, i šta vidim - gomilu klišea? Adićinu opasnost pojedinačne priče, mit o Francuskoj naciji? Kaži mi da priadaš Fezu ili Parizu, ili još bolje, Gut doru, i već vidim mnoštvo doživljaja. Potičemo iz naših doživljaja.
So, where are you a local? I propose a three-step test. I call these the three "R’s": rituals, relationships, restrictions.
Gde vi pripadate? Predlažem jedan test iz tri dela. Ja ga zovem "RVO": rituali, veze, ograničenja.
First, think of your daily rituals, whatever they may be: making your coffee, driving to work, harvesting your crops, saying your prayers. What kind of rituals are these? Where do they occur? In what city or cities in the world do shopkeepers know your face? As a child, I carried out fairly standard suburban rituals in Boston, with adjustments made for the rituals my mother brought from London and Lagos. We took off our shoes in the house, we were unfailingly polite with our elders, we ate slow-cooked, spicy food. In snowy North America, ours were rituals of the global South. The first time I went to Delhi or to southern parts of Italy, I was shocked by how at home I felt. The rituals were familiar. "R" number one, rituals.
Prvo pomislite na svakodnevne rituale, šta god da su: kuvanje kafe, vožnja do posla, setva useva, molitve. Kakvi su ovo rituali? Gde se javljaju? U kom gradu, ili, u kojim gradovima vas poznaju trgovci? Kao dete, imala sam uobičajne rituale predgrađa Bostona, i prilagođene rituale koje je mama donela iz Londona i Lagosa. U kući smo se izuvali, bili smo nepogrešivo učtivi sa starijima, jeli smo domaće spremljenu, pikantnu hranu. U snežnoj Severnoj Americi naši rituali su bili sa Juga. Kada sam prvi put bila u Delhiju ili na jugu Italije, bila sam šokirana, osećala sam se kao kod kuće. Rituali su bili slični. "R" broj jedan, rituali.
Now, think of your relationships, of the people who shape your days. To whom do you speak at least once a week, be it face to face or on FaceTime? Be reasonable in your assessment; I'm not talking about your Facebook friends. I'm speaking of the people who shape your weekly emotional experience. My mother in Accra, my twin sister in Boston, my best friends in New York: these relationships are home for me. "R" number two, relationships.
Sada razmislite o odnosima sa ljudima, sa kojima ste svakodnevno. Sa kim razgovarate bar jednom nedeljno, oči u oči, ili na fejstajmu. Buditi razboriti u proceni, ne govorim o prijateljima na fejsbuku. Govorim o ljudima koji utiču na vaš emotivni doživljaj. Moja mama u Akri, moja sestra bliznakinja u Bostonu, moji najbolji prijatelji u Njujorku, to su veze, koje su moj dom. Pod dva, V, veze.
We're local where we carry out our rituals and relationships, but how we experience our locality depends in part on our restrictions. By restrictions, I mean, where are you able to live? What passport do you hold? Are you restricted by, say, racism, from feeling fully at home where you live? By civil war, dysfunctional governance, economic inflation, from living in the locality where you had your rituals as a child? This is the least sexy of the R’s, less lyric than rituals and relationships, but the question takes us past "Where are you now?" to "Why aren't you there, and why?" Rituals, relationships, restrictions.
Pripadamo tamo gde izvodimo svoje rituale i održavamo veze, ali naš doživljaj pripadnosti delimično zavisi od naših ograničenja. Pod time mislim na sposobnost gde ste u stanju da živite. Kakav pasoš imate? Da li vas u osećaju punog pripadanja domu sputava, na primer, rasizam ili građanski rat, nefunkcionalna uprava, ekonomska inflacija, da biste živeli na mestu gde ste izvodili rituale kao dete. Ovo "O" je gore od "R" i "V" prozaičnije od rituala i veza, i pitanje nas odvodi od "Gde se sada nalaziš" do pitanja "A zašto nisi tamo" Rituali, veze, oganičenja.
Take a piece of paper and put those three words on top of three columns, then try to fill those columns as honestly as you can. A very different picture of your life in local context, of your identity as a set of experiences, may emerge.
Uzmite papir i napišite te tri reči na vrh tri kolone i popunite kolone najiskrenije. Drugačija slika vašeg života u lokalnom kontekstu, vaš identitet kao zbir doživljaja, može se pojaviti.
So let's try it. I have a friend named Olu. He's 35 years old. His parents, born in Nigeria, came to Germany on scholarships. Olu was born in Nuremberg and lived there until age 10. When his family moved to Lagos, he studied in London, then came to Berlin. He loves going to Nigeria -- the weather, the food, the friends -- but hates the political corruption there. Where is Olu from?
Hajde da pokušamo. Imam prijatelja Olua. Ima 35 godina. Njegovi roditelji, rođeni u Nigeriji, došli su u Nemačku kao stipendisti. Olu se rodio u Nirnbergu i živeo tamo do svoje desete godine. Njegovi su se preselili u Lagos, on je studirao u Londonu, zatim je došao u Berlin. Voli da odlazi u Nigeriju zbog klime, hrane, prijatelja, ali mrzi političku korupciju tamo. Odakle je Olu?
I have another friend named Udo. He's also 35 years old. Udo was born in Córdoba, in northwest Argentina, where his grandparents migrated from Germany, what is now Poland, after the war. Udo studied in Buenos Aires, and nine years ago came to Berlin. He loves going to Argentina -- the weather, the food, the friends -- but hates the economic corruption there. Where is Udo from? With his blonde hair and blue eyes, Udo could pass for German, but holds an Argentinian passport, so needs a visa to live in Berlin. That Udo is from Argentina has largely to do with history. That he's a local of Buenos Aires and Berlin, that has to do with life.
Drugi moj prijatelj je Udo. I on ima 35 godina. Rodio se u Kordobi, na severozapadu Argentine, gde su njegovi baba i deda migrirali iz Nemačke, sad je to Poljska, posle rata. Udo je studirao u Buenos Ajresu, i došao u Berlin pre deset godina. Voli da odlazi u Argentinu zbog klime, hrane, prijatelja, ali mrzi ekonomsku korupciju tamo. Odakle je Udo? Plavokos i plavook, mogao bi da prođe kao Nemac, ali ima argentinski pasoš, i treba mu viza za boravak u Berlinu. To što je Udo iz Argentine, ima veze sa istorijom. To, što on pripada Buenos Ajresu i Berlinu, to ima veze sa njegovim životom.
Olu, who looks Nigerian, needs a visa to visit Nigeria. He speaks Yoruba with an English accent, and English with a German one. To claim that he's "not really Nigerian," though, denies his experience in Lagos, the rituals he practiced growing up, his relationship with family and friends.
Olu, koji izgleda kao Nigerijci, mora da ima vizu da bi posetio Nigeriju. On govori Joruba sa engleskim naglaskom, a engleski sa nemačkim naglaskom. Tvrdnja da on nije pravi Nigerijac, može se osporiti njegovim doživljajima u Lagosu, ritualima koje je izvodio dok je odrastao, njegovom vezom sa porodicom i prijateljima.
Meanwhile, though Lagos is undoubtedly one of his homes, Olu always feels restricted there, not least by the fact that he's gay.
Iako je Lagos nesumnjivo jedan od njegovih zavičaja, Olu se uvek oseća sputano tamo, između ostalog i zato što je gej.
Both he and Udo are restricted by the political conditions of their parents' countries, from living where some of their most meaningful rituals and relationships occur. To say Olu is from Nigeria and Udo is from Argentina distracts from their common experience. Their rituals, their relationships, and their restrictions are the same.
I on i Udo su sputani, političkim uslovima država svojih roditelja, od života tamo, gde se najznačajniji rituali i veze događaju. Reći da je Olu iz Nigerije a Udo iz Argentine, odudara od njihovog uobičajnog iskustva. Njihovi rituali, veze i ograničenja su isti.
Of course, when we ask, "Where are you from?" we're using a kind of shorthand. It's quicker to say "Nigeria" than "Lagos and Berlin," and as with Google Maps, we can always zoom in closer, from country to city to neighborhood. But that's not quite the point. The difference between "Where are you from?" and "Where are you a local?" isn't the specificity of the answer; it's the intention of the question. Replacing the language of nationality with the language of locality asks us to shift our focus to where real life occurs. Even that most glorious expression of countryhood, the World Cup, gives us national teams comprised mostly of multilocal players. As a unit of measurement for human experience, the country doesn't quite work. That's why Olu says, "I'm German, but my parents come from Nigeria." The "but" in that sentence belies the inflexibility of the units, one fixed and fictional entity bumping up against another. "I'm a local of Lagos and Berlin," suggests overlapping experiences, layers that merge together, that can't be denied or removed. You can take away my passport, but you can't take away my experience. That I carry within me. Where I'm from comes wherever I go.
Kada upitamo nekog "Odakle si?" koristimo neku vrstu skraćenice. Brže je reći Nigerija nego Lagos i Berlin, i kao sa gugl kartama, možemo se približiti državi, gradu, susedstvu. Ali nije u tome suština. Razlika između pitanja "Odakle si?" i "Gde pripadaš?" nije u specifičnosti odgovora, već u tome šta je namera pitanja. Stavljanje naglaska na pripadnost umesto na državljanstvo pomera centar posmatranja na realan život. Čak i na Svetskom prvenstvu, blistavom izražavanju pripadnosti naciji, reprezentacije su sastavljene od igrača iz raznih država. Država nije prava jedinica mere za izražavanje ljudskog iskustva. Zato Olu kaže: "Ja sam Nemac, ali moji roditelji potiču iz Nigerije." To "ali" pobija nefleksibilnost u jedinicama, jer se sudaraju jedan fiksni i jedan fiktivni entitet. "Ja pripadam Lagosu i Berlinu," navodi na prošireno iskustvo, na slojeve koji se spajaju i ne mogu se poreći ili odstraniti. Mogu mi oduzeti pasoš, ali ne mogu oduzeti ono što sam iskusila. To je deo mene. Poreklo me svuda prati.
To be clear, I'm not suggesting that we do away with countries. There's much to be said for national history, more for the sovereign state. Culture exists in community, and community exists in context. Geography, tradition, collective memory: these things are important. What I'm questioning is primacy. All of those introductions on tour began with reference to nation, as if knowing what country I came from would tell my audience who I was. What are we really seeking, though, when we ask where someone comes from? And what are we really seeing when we hear an answer?
Ne sugerišem da se odreknemo države. Ima mnogo da se priča o nacionalnoj istoriji, više nego o suverenoj državi. Kultura egzistira u zajednici, a zajednica u okruženju. Važne su geografija, tradicija i kolektivno sećanje. Ja se samo pitam, šta je primarno. Svi uvodni govori na turneji upućivali su na naciju, kao da bi zemlja porekla govorila publici nešto o meni. Šta zapravo tražimo kada nekog pitamo odakle je? I šta zaista vidimo kad čujemo odgovor?
Here's one possibility: basically, countries represent power. "Where are you from?" Mexico. Poland. Bangladesh. Less power. America. Germany. Japan. More power. China. Russia. Ambiguous.
Evo jedne mogućnosti: u osnovi, države predstavljaju snagu. "Odakle si?" Meksiko, Poljska, Bangladeš. Manja moć. Amerika, Nemačka, Japan. VIše moći. Kina, Rusija. Dvosmisleno.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
It's possible that without realizing it, we're playing a power game, especially in the context of multi-ethnic countries. As any recent immigrant knows, the question "Where are you from?" or "Where are you really from?" is often code for "Why are you here?"
Moguće je da bez sopstvenog znanja igramo igru moći, naročito u kontekstu multietničkih država. Svi noviji imigranti znaju da pitanje "Odakle si?" ili "Odakle si, stvarno?", znači, u stvari: "Zašto si ovde?"
Then we have the scholar William Deresiewicz's writing of elite American colleges. "Students think that their environment is diverse if one comes from Missouri and another from Pakistan -- never mind that all of their parents are doctors or bankers."
Tu je i pisanje akademika Vilijama Deresevica o elitnim američkim koledžima. "Studenti misle da je njihovo okruženje raznoliko ako je neko iz Misurija, a neko iz Pakistana, ne mareći o tome da su svima roditelji doktori ili bankari."
I'm with him. To call one student American, another Pakistani, then triumphantly claim student body diversity ignores the fact that these students are locals of the same milieu. The same holds true on the other end of the economic spectrum. A Mexican gardener in Los Angeles and a Nepali housekeeper in Delhi have more in common in terms of rituals and restrictions than nationality implies.
Slažem se s njim. Nazvati nekog studenta Amerikancem, drugog Pakistancem, zatim trijumfalno izjaviti da postoji raznolikost studenata, zapostavlja činjenicu da ovi studenti pripadaju istom miljeu. Isto je na drugom kraju ekonomskog spektra. Meksički baštovan u Los Anđelesu i nepalski domaćin u Delhiju imaju više zajedničkog u smislu rituala i ograničenja nego što im na to ukazuje nacionalnost.
Perhaps my biggest problem with coming from countries is the myth of going back to them. I'm often asked if I plan to "go back" to Ghana. I go to Accra every year, but I can't "go back" to Ghana. It's not because I wasn't born there. My father can't go back, either. The country in which he was born, that country no longer exists. We can never go back to a place and find it exactly where we left it. Something, somewhere will always have changed, most of all, ourselves. People.
Možda je moj najveći problem u vezi porekla mit o povratku na to mesto. Često me pitaju da li planiram da se "vratim" u Ganu. Svake godine odlazim u Akru, ali ne mogu da se "vratim" u Ganu. Ne zato što se nisam rodila tamo. Ni moj otac ne može da se vrati. Država u kojoj se rodio više ne postoji. Nikad ne možemo da se vratimo i da je nađemo tamo, gde smo je ostavili. Uvek će se negde nešto promeniti, a najviše mi sami. Mi, ljudi.
Finally, what we're talking about is human experience, this notoriously and gloriously disorderly affair. In creative writing, locality bespeaks humanity. The more we know about where a story is set, the more local color and texture, the more human the characters start to feel, the more relatable, not less. The myth of national identity and the vocabulary of coming from confuses us into placing ourselves into mutually exclusive categories. In fact, all of us are multi -- multi-local, multi-layered. To begin our conversations with an acknowledgement of this complexity brings us closer together, I think, not further apart. So the next time that I'm introduced, I'd love to hear the truth: "Taiye Selasi is a human being, like everybody here. She isn't a citizen of the world, but a citizen of worlds. She is a local of New York, Rome and Accra."
Na kraju, pričamo o ljudskom iskustvu, o opštepoznatoj i veličanstvenoj, neuređenoj stvari. U stvaralačkom pisanju pripadanje mestu je znak humanosti. Što više znamo o tome gde je priča smeštena, što je više boja i teksture, tim su likovi humaniji, mnogo više ljudski. Mit o nacionalnom identitetu i poreklu unosi zabunu i postavlja nas u međusobno isključive kategorije. U stvari, svi smo multi-lokalni. Započeti razgovore priznanjem ove složenosti, dovešće do međusobnog zbližavanja, a ne do podele. Sledeći put, kada me budu predstavljali, volela bih da čujem istinu: "Taji Selasi je ljudsko biće, kao i svi ovde. Ona nije građanin sveta, već građanin svetova. Ona pripada Njujorku, Rimu, Akri.
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)