中英文稿

好多人呀。

當(dāng)我還是小孩子的時(shí)候， 我把自己的心藏在床底下，因?yàn)槲业膵寢尭嬖V我， “你要是不小心保管，終有一天有人會(huì)摧毀它?！?聽我說，床底下并不是藏東西的好地方， 我很清楚因?yàn)槊慨?dāng)我想要站起來，自強(qiáng)不息的時(shí)候 都會(huì)因?yàn)椤案咴磻?yīng)”而被一次次打倒在地。 但這就是別人教我們的。 自強(qiáng)不息。 如果你沒有明確的定位，你很難做到自強(qiáng)不息。 我們還很小的時(shí)候就被要求明確自己的定位， 如果我們做不到，別人就會(huì)代勞。 “呆子”。“胖子”?！笆帇D”。“苦力”。

在我們被賦予身份定位的同時(shí)， 我們總是被人問到， “長大后你想做什么？” 我一直覺得這個(gè)問題問得很不公平。 它預(yù)先假設(shè)了我們不能維持現(xiàn)在的樣子。 我們是小孩子。

當(dāng)我是小孩子的時(shí)候，我想變成一個(gè)男人。 我想要有自己的養(yǎng)老金賬戶， 錢足夠我把余下的一輩子時(shí)間都只花在制作老式糖果上 當(dāng)我是小孩子的時(shí)候，我希望可以刮胡子。 現(xiàn)在？不想了。 八歲的時(shí)候，我想當(dāng)海洋生物學(xué)家。 九歲的時(shí)候，我看了《大白鯊》。 然后我對(duì)自己說，“還是算了吧。” 十歲的時(shí)候，我的生父母離開了我，他們不要我了。 11歲的時(shí)候，我希望自己一個(gè)人生活。 12歲的時(shí)候我不想活了。13歲的時(shí)候我想殺掉一個(gè)小孩。 14歲的時(shí)候我被要求嚴(yán)肅的考慮以后的職業(yè)生涯。

我說，“我想做一個(gè)作家。”

他們說：“說個(gè)現(xiàn)實(shí)點(diǎn)的工作?！?/p>

于是我說，“職業(yè)摔跤運(yùn)動(dòng)員?！?/p>

他們說，“別傻了?！?/p>

你看，他們問我想做什么， 然后又告訴我統(tǒng)統(tǒng)不能做。

而且不止是對(duì)我一個(gè) 不知道為什么，我們總是被灌輸，我們必須變成跟自己 不同的樣子，犧牲原本的自我， 來適應(yīng)我們將要戴上的身份面具。 我總是被要求接受 別人賦予我的身份。

我不明白，為什么我的夢(mèng)想就這么容易被否定？ 好吧，我的夢(mèng)想們都很害羞， 因?yàn)樗鼈兌际羌幽么笕?。（笑聲?我的夢(mèng)想們，她們都太難為情、太謙卑了。 它們孤零零的站在高中舞會(huì)的角落， 從未被人欣賞過她們。 你瞧，我的夢(mèng)想們也被人起了外號(hào)。 傻瓜。笨蛋。異想天開。 但是我一直懷有夢(mèng)想。 我要做一個(gè)摔跤運(yùn)動(dòng)員。一切都想好了。 我要像垃圾搬運(yùn)工一樣（去摔跤）。 我摔跤的結(jié)束動(dòng)作也會(huì)像垃圾壓實(shí)機(jī)一樣。 我的臺(tái)詞是，“我要把這垃圾扔出去！”

然后這個(gè)人，杜克·“回收站”·卓斯， 搶走了我所有的臺(tái)詞。 我的心就像是被垃圾壓實(shí)機(jī)壓過一樣沮喪。 我問自己，“怎么辦？我還能做什么？”

詩歌。 我喜愛的東西像回旋鏢一樣又回到了我身邊。 我記得我寫下的第一行詩歌 是對(duì)這個(gè)讓我憎恨我自己的世界的回應(yīng)。 在15到18歲之間，我憎恨自己， 憎恨我變成了我厭惡的樣子：一個(gè)恃強(qiáng)凌弱的人。

19歲的時(shí)候，我寫道， “我將愛我自己，不去在乎自己” “是否站在自己討厭的位置?！?/p>

自強(qiáng)不息并不表示你需要 使用暴力。

當(dāng)我還是小孩子的時(shí)候， 我用我的家庭作業(yè)換取友誼， 然后又通過遲到避開所有的朋友， 一般都不會(huì)有什么問題。 每次爽約我都能立刻原諒自己。 有次，一個(gè)小孩子讓我很沮喪， 他一直叫我“修行者”，指著我的肚子說， “好大的野餐籃子。” 因此我有了一個(gè)計(jì)劃。 我發(fā)現(xiàn)原來戲弄一個(gè)人也不難， 有一天快上課的時(shí)候，我對(duì)他說 “嘿，給你抄我的作業(yè)，” 然后我把自己昨天寫好的 錯(cuò)誤答案遞給了他。 他懷著滿分的期待去拿作業(yè)，卻得了0分 他無法相信，在教室的另一頭望著我，做出“零”的手勢(shì)。 我知道我不用把自己接近滿分的作業(yè)舉起來給他看， 很奇怪，他看著我的時(shí)候，我感到很滿足， 我對(duì)自己說，“比一般人聰明嘛，狗娘養(yǎng)的?！?/p>

這就是我。 這就是我自強(qiáng)的方式。

當(dāng)我是小孩子的時(shí)候， 我曾經(jīng)認(rèn)為“豬排骨(pork chops)”和“空手劈(karate chops)”是一樣的。 我以為它們都是豬排的意思。 而我的奶奶覺得我這樣很可愛， 而因?yàn)槲蚁矚g這些，所以她并沒有糾正我。 這也不是什么大事。 有一天我去爬樹，我才知道胖子是不適合爬樹的， 我從樹上摔了下來，身體的右側(cè)擦傷了。 我不想告訴我的奶奶，我怕惹麻煩， 因?yàn)楸緛砣ノ夷莻€(gè)地方玩就被認(rèn)為是不應(yīng)該的。 幾天之后，體育老師發(fā)現(xiàn)了我身上的傷痕， 我被帶到了校長辦公室， 然后又從那里被轉(zhuǎn)到一個(gè)小房間， 一個(gè)很和藹的女士問了我很多家里的事情。 我實(shí)話實(shí)說。 當(dāng)時(shí)我感覺，這一切都還蠻好的。 我告訴她，每當(dāng)我不開心的時(shí)候，我的奶奶就會(huì)給我“空手劈（karate chops)”。

這引發(fā)了一次全面的（反虐待兒童）調(diào)查。 我被從家里轉(zhuǎn)移出來，被托管了三天， 直到他們問起我身上的淤青是怎么來的。 這個(gè)愚蠢的故事很快就在學(xué)校傳開了， 我有了第一個(gè)外號(hào)： “豬排（porkchop）” 時(shí)至今日，我都討厭聽到“豬排”這個(gè)詞。

很多小孩的成長環(huán)境都跟我相似， 周圍都是一些成天舞刀弄槍 欺負(fù)別人的人， 仿佛肉體的傷痛比侮辱的外號(hào)帶給我們的痛苦更多， 而我們同時(shí)感受到了這些痛苦。 所以我們長大后，覺得沒有人會(huì)愛上我們， 我們注定孤獨(dú)一輩子， 而我們遇到的那些把我們當(dāng)作太陽的人， 不過是把我們當(dāng)作是一種備選的工具。 我們破碎的心里流淌著憂傷，想要麻木自己感不到疼痛。 不要跟我說內(nèi)心的傷痛比不上骨折的痛苦， 不要跟我說內(nèi)在的痛苦可以通過外科手術(shù)切掉， 不要跟我說沒有辦法轉(zhuǎn)移；它可以。

我認(rèn)識(shí)一個(gè)女孩，9歲 升到三年級(jí)的第一天便有人喚她丑。 我倆都搬到了教室后排 這樣就不會(huì)老是被人丟紙團(tuán)了。 但是學(xué)校的走廊還是跟戰(zhàn)場(chǎng)一樣。 我們寡不敵眾，每天都被人欺負(fù)。 我們常常躲在學(xué)校，因?yàn)橥饷娴沫h(huán)境更糟。 在外面，我們需要時(shí)刻準(zhǔn)備做著逃跑的準(zhǔn)備， 或者像雕塑一樣一動(dòng)不動(dòng)，不讓人注意到。 五年級(jí)的時(shí)候，他們?cè)谒恼n桌前貼了一張紙， 上面寫著，“注意，狗出沒?！?時(shí)至今日，她都無法發(fā)現(xiàn)自己的美，即使她有深愛她的丈夫 因?yàn)樗哪樕希幸粔K小小的胎記。 小伙伴們總說，“她的臉就像是寫了錯(cuò)誤答案的紙， 被人用橡皮擦來擦去，卻總是擦不干凈?！?他們永遠(yuǎn)的無法理解，她撫養(yǎng)的兩個(gè)孩子 將身為母親的她視為美的化身。 因?yàn)樗暮⒆酉瓤吹搅怂膬?nèi)心，然后才是她的皮膚， 只有她的內(nèi)心一直保持著如此的迷人。

這個(gè)男生被嫁接在另外一個(gè)家庭上 被人領(lǐng)養(yǎng)， 并不是因?yàn)樗母改鸽x婚了。 他在三歲的時(shí)候就飲下了 一杯孤獨(dú)、兩杯苦難勾兌的酒， 八年級(jí)的時(shí)候開始接受治療， 各種心理測(cè)試和藥丸塑造了他的人格， 他的生活就像是過山車一樣顛簸不定， 四五次自殺未遂，一波一波的抗抑郁藥， 還有“嗜藥者”的外號(hào)。 1%是由于這些藥丸， 99%是因?yàn)樯畹臍埧帷?十年級(jí)的時(shí)候嘗試自殺， 那個(gè)時(shí)候他還在家住，他的爸爸媽媽 跟他說的只是，“你要克服它?！?就好像抑郁可以輕易的被急救藥箱 里面的什么東西修復(fù)好的一樣。 今天，他就像是一根TNT炸藥桶，兩端都被點(diǎn)燃了， 他會(huì)告訴你，當(dāng)天空開始?jí)嬄鋾r(shí) 天空將會(huì)如何的扭曲彎折。 盡管很多的朋友都稱贊他的才華， 他依然免不了成為別人的談資，這些人無法理解， 一個(gè)人是否吸毒，跟藥物上癮關(guān)系不大， 更多的取決于他的理智。

像我們這樣成長起來的孩子還有很多。 時(shí)至今日，有的孩子還在被人取侮辱的外號(hào)。 比如，“笨蛋”，“怪胎”。 似乎每個(gè)學(xué)校里面都有一個(gè)彈藥庫存儲(chǔ)這些外號(hào)， 一年一年的更新?lián)Q代， 如果學(xué)校里一個(gè)孩子受了傷卻沒人愿意理他， 他們會(huì)讓人知道么？ 還是說他們就像錄音磁帶的噪音一樣反復(fù)不停， 而人們只是說著“孩子也會(huì)很壞”這樣的話？ 每個(gè)學(xué)校都像是一個(gè)大馬戲團(tuán)， 人與人之間等級(jí)分明，從雜耍員到馴獸師， 從小丑到龍?zhí)?，他們的等?jí)都比我們高好幾層樓。 我們是怪胎——女孩長著胡子，男孩長著龍蝦的爪子 被鄙棄，被戲弄，感到沮喪，感到孤獨(dú)， 一個(gè)人玩紙牌，一個(gè)人玩轉(zhuǎn)瓶子， （轉(zhuǎn)瓶選擇接吻對(duì)象的游戲） 親吻自己的傷口，嘗試治愈自己， 但每每夜深人靜， 我們會(huì)走上鋼絲，默默練習(xí)。 是的，也有不成功的例子 但是我想要告訴他們， 當(dāng)我們決定跟過去的自己決裂，開始全新的自己， 這些經(jīng)歷不過是我們拋棄的廢墟， 如果你無法看到自己的美， 換個(gè)更好的鏡子，湊得更近一點(diǎn)，看得更久一點(diǎn)， 因?yàn)槟愕膬?nèi)心深處有個(gè)聲音 一直在阻止你離開現(xiàn)在的自己。 你在自己破碎的心靈周圍筑起城墻 并親手寫上：“他們是錯(cuò)的?！?或許因?yàn)槟悴槐蝗魏我粋€(gè)小團(tuán)體接納。 或許他們只是找不到人玩的時(shí)候才拉上你。 或許你想要向他們展示自己的傷口，但是你從來沒有， 你怎么能在一個(gè)所有人都敵視你的環(huán)境中 表露自己的弱點(diǎn)呢？ 你不得不相信他們是錯(cuò)的。 他們必須是錯(cuò)的。 不然我們?yōu)楹未嬖冢?/p>

我們?yōu)槭≌吆炔剩?因?yàn)槲覀兙褪撬麄儭?我們并不像那些強(qiáng)加給我們的外號(hào)一樣不堪， 這是我們得以成長的信念。 我們并不是高速路邊 被拋棄的破舊車輛， 即使有些相似，也沒有關(guān)系。 我們只需要一些汽油，就能開起來。 我們的成功是靠自己努力的克服這些， 而不是反復(fù)的騙自己， “我永遠(yuǎn)不會(huì)被這些侮辱的外號(hào)所傷” 它們當(dāng)然會(huì)傷害你。 但是我們的生活本來就是如此， 不斷在喜怒哀樂之間平衡反復(fù) 更少的回味痛苦 體驗(yàn)更多的美。

There's so many of you.

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.

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.

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.

When I was a kid, I wanted to shave. Now, not so much.

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."

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.

I said, "I'd like to be a writer."

And they said, "Choose something realistic."

So I said, "Professional wrestler."

And they said, "Don't be stupid."

See, they asked me what I wanted to be, then told me what not to be.

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.

And I wondered, what made my dreams so easy to dismiss? Granted, my dreams are shy, because they're Canadian.

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.

My finishing move was going to be The Trash Compactor. My saying was going to be, "I'm taking out the trash!"

And then this guy, Duke "The Dumpster" Droese, stole my entire shtick.

I was crushed, as if by a trash compactor.

I thought to myself, "What now? Where do I turn?"

Poetry.

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.

When I was 19, I wrote, "I will love myself despite the ease with which I lean toward the opposite."

Standing up for yourself doesn't have to mean embracing violence.

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."

This is who I am. This is how I stand up for myself.

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.

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.

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, 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.

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.

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?

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.