这
捧
烈
酒
，
这
片
咸
腥
之
地
阿巴尼讲故事狠好玩的，讲到有趣地方，他会笑得自己也有些失控，眼里有泪水。
他讲述发生在身边的真实故事，稍微特别的是，这些事只有极少数人看到。
▌ 在卢旺达，上百万的人曾像牲口一样被砍刀和钝器屠杀；在监狱里，十几岁男孩的生殖器被铁钉钉入桌子，直到血尽而亡；而在他的乡下，成人礼常常与杀戮有关，比如杀死小动物一类的。
▌ 尼日利亚内战后，父亲故乡村庄里的妇女们，将死去亲人的名字唱成挽歌。挽歌非常忧伤，她们在播种稻米的时候才唱，仿佛把一颗颗死去的心葬进泥土，植入谷粒。但是到了收获季节，她们又用这歌串起当年新生婴儿的名字。这时候，是欢乐的歌谣。
比之程度轻微的忧伤事情或无奈境遇每天都在发生；每个人，我觉得是每个人的一生都会遭受至少一次类似的黑暗时光 —— 我们发现人性中最为黑暗的一面，或陷入难以理解的无奈境地并知道疗愈的过程遥遥无期，甚至，最终的结局也残酷到让人绝望——比如男孩子真的流血而亡，成人礼中的小动物一定会被刀杀。
这种时候，我们常以为瞥见了人性的“真相”。
但真正的真相却是：人性自有两面，丑陋人性与至美人性总是相生相伴，它们此起彼伏、延绵不断，就如挽歌忧伤和欢乐歌谣。
而至深黑暗并非没有裨益，它带来的更大可能是令人转化，甚至将我们引向卓越和光明——就如Igbo部族的人既能拥立神祗，诚心祷祝和祈福，也能在神祗成为牢笼之日，彻底放手并重归静寂；就如阿巴尼经历所有这一切，仍能最终抵达力量与光明：这正是给你的，我的父，这捧烈酒，这片咸腥之地。
或者，最起码，听过这次演讲，当我们再次面临人生中艰难时光，我们能对自己说：“这种事，永远都是很难的。不过如果每次都这么哭，心会碎掉，人会（哭）死。”
这样更容易云淡风轻。而等到一切过去，我们可以说“有时候，知道难，就够了”。
PS.
这是我们一生中听到的最为动人的演讲，极度忧伤，又极度美好，以至于我们几乎没有力气把它整理成帖——数次打开，又数次放弃。
在放置三四个月之后，研墨丫头将它翻译了出来；虽然视频有中文注释，但她坚持自己重新做。
然后再放置了两三个月，今天终于整理出来。
成帖并没达到我们想要的样子，但，正如标题所说，做成这个帖子，我们知道难，就够了。
配图来自德国摄影师Ute Mahler，从风景到城镇，从原野、树、水到人群和建筑，生活的每个瞬间在摄影师眼里流动不息。无所谓决定性，每个瞬间都是决定性，他只是负责选择其中一个，按下快门，达成对生活之美、生活之痛的领悟和升华。
首图是远方的水——任何时候，水是唯一的胜利者，它利善万物而不争。
——美树嘉文艺志
艺术之美 人文之思 美树嘉文艺志
《 人 性 之 思 》
文 Chris Abani / 译 研墨丫头
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我所致力的研究，一直在设法寻找那样一些故事：它们足以被记载、值得分享，并见证着许多的普通人。这些事迹能令人转化、洗心革面，甚至将我们引向卓越，但绝不仅仅是多愁善感的心灵鸡汤——这些故事从不回避那些最黑暗的一面。
我真的相信，人最丑陋的时候也正是我们的至美之时，因为只有此时，我们才能瞥见人性的真相。
就像Chris说的那样，我在尼日利亚长大。整个80年代，我目睹了学生反抗独裁统治（现在已经结束）的漫长过程，这个经历不仅仅影响了我，而是整整一代人。
而我从中学到的是：世界并不会因由某个救世主的伟大神迹而改变，而是来自那些看似柔软轻微、甚至微不足道的悲悯。正是这些点点滴滴、日复一日中积累而来的悲悯改变着人间。
在南非，有一个词Ubuntu（人性之光）来源于这样一种哲理：一个人之所以为人，是当他/她通过别人的反照见到了自己。不过通常，比如说我的天性可能更像一扇窗玻璃，我平时看不见它，或者说根本注意不到它的存在，直到某一天有只苍蝇“啪”地死在上面——然后我突然发现它了——这决非什么乐事。又或者我堵在路上，朝着那个一边开车，一边喝咖啡一边发邮件还一边记笔记的家伙骂骂咧咧的时候——这可也不怎么样。所以，Ubuntu的真意是在说我们不可能孤立为人。这实在是非常简单而又非常复杂的事情。
还是开始讲故事吧，应该先讲个了不起的人对吧，那好像只能说说我老妈了。（笑）不过她也有黑暗面哈～她是英国人，我父母是在50年代的英国牛津相识的，然后她移居到尼日利亚。她长得很娇小（5.2英尺），不过相当有活力也相当的“英国范儿”。
我先给你们讲讲她曾经有多“英国”吧（她刚刚去世了）：她来洛杉矶看我，我们一起去了著名的Malibu（译注：好莱坞附近的海滨城市），可她觉得万分失望。（笑）然后我们去了一个海鲜餐厅，里面的服务员就是那种边冲浪边打工的家伙啦～他叫Chad。我妈彬彬有礼地问他：“请问你们今天有什么特别料理么，小伙子？”Chad就说：“啊，当然……这个、三文鱼啦、那个、卷着吃的...和芥末一块儿…呃…就是会有点脆啊神马的，反正都酷爆了…”然后，我老妈就转过来对我说：“他说的这是哪国话啊？！”（笑）我回答：“英文啊，妈～”她摇着头说：“唉～这些美国佬，我们把好端端的英文送给他们，怎么就不会用呢？！”（笑）
是的，就是这样一个女人，当年在和我父亲结婚后，她放弃自己原来的信仰（英国国教），皈依了天主教——没有比这种皈依更激进的了——她居然决定到尼日利亚的乡村去做支教，特别是给Igbo部族的妇女教授如何用比林斯排卵计算法来避孕：这是天主教会允许的唯一一种避孕方法。
不过，她的Igbo语不怎么样，于是总把我带在身边做翻译，我呢，当时只有7岁。（笑）这些当地妇女，从来都不会和哪怕自己的丈夫谈生理期这些事情，而到了这里，我会问她们：“您的例假周期是多少天啊？”（笑）或者“您注意到从那里有什么排出物吗？”（笑）又或者“您阴部的肿胀程度如何？”（笑）我妈妈从不认为自己是个女权主义者，但她总是说：“男人能做的一切，万一出了事，我都能给修好。”（鼓掌）当我爸看到这种不合时宜的状况，他向我妈抱怨：“天哪，你这是在把他变成……呃，是在教他怎么当个女人嘛！”我妈则回道：“可不，总得有人教他啊！”（笑）
是的，就是这样一个女人，在尼日利亚内战（译注：1967-1970）时，经历了被捕和种种磨难。我的妈妈，领着我们5个孩子，一年之中辗转于一个又一个避难所，想尽一切办法要带我们飞离战乱。
在每一个难民营里，她都必须面对要把我九岁的哥哥Mark带走充军的纠纷。你能想像吗？一个只有5.2英尺的弱小女子，一次次直面那些随时可能射杀我们的枪管？整整一年的颠沛流离，我从没见她哭过——哪怕一次。
直到我们最终抵达里斯本，即将转机飞回英格兰的时候，在机场，一个女人看到了我母亲——她当时穿着被洗得已经褪色菲薄的衣衫，带着五个面黄肌瘦的孩子。于是，她走上前来问我们发生了什么。知道了我们的情况后，这个好心的女人倾尽所有，把她衣箱中的全部衣服都给了妈妈，给了我们，还有她自己孩子的玩具——可能她小孩已经不太喜欢了吧！（笑）
不过，那是让妈妈唯一落泪的一次。很多年以后，当我回忆起这件事时问她：“你当时为什么会哭？”妈妈告诉我：“知道吗？你可以硬起心肠对付各种纷争与恐惧，然而，当面对来自素不相识者的善举——哪怕只是很简单的一点善意，都会让你瞬间坍塌。”
父亲故乡村庄里的妇女们，在那场战争爆发以后，为了纪念无数死去的同胞，她们会将死者的名字唱成挽歌。那挽歌有多凄厉多忧郁？听到它，足以让你心如死灰吧……
她们只会在播种稻米的时候唱那样的挽歌，就仿佛是在把一颗颗死去的心葬进泥土，植入谷粒。可是，一旦到了收获稻谷的季节，你只会听到欢快的歌谣，她们会用这歌谣串起当年每一个新生婴儿的名字。直到下一个季节，她们又会再次唱起忧伤的挽歌或快乐的歌谣，哀悼和祝福着那些让人刻骨铭心的生者与逝者。正是这些女人，用她们独有的方式，演绎着我前面提到的那种“转化”——那的确是一种绝美的蜕变。
然而你们是否知道，在卢旺达的种族大屠杀之前（译注：1994年，亡者近百万人），“强奸”一词曾与“结婚”别无两样？不过时至今日，卢旺达的女性们已经得到重建了。而你们又是否知道，当种族隔离之势退去，新政府接管议会大厦的时候，发现大楼里甚至连女厕所都没有？就好像这一切都与女性没有丝毫关系一样，所有的这些，不管是恐惧还是死亡，女性从未被计入在内。她们的人性之光从未得到应有的认可。
我在尼日利亚长大的时候——嗯，我不该只说尼日利亚，那样太过宽泛了，其实是在Afikpo，是那个国家Igbo族群的聚集区。在那里，对一个男孩子的成人礼，都有他们自己的习俗。而在乡下，这种仪式常常与杀戮有关，比如杀死小动物一类的。
所以当我快13岁的时候——我是说到了13岁就差不多要接受这样的考验了。再说，在那个农耕为生的乡下，总归需要宰杀牲畜，毕竟那儿也没有Whole Food（译注：美国大型有机食品连锁超市）这样的地方能买到袋鼠肉扒这些。所以，到了我13岁的时候，就被派去杀一只小山羊。
我那时又各色又敏感，根本不可能干这样的事情但又不得不去。而且，从道理上讲，我得独自完成这件事。但是我的一个朋友，Emmanuel，他愿意陪我去。他比我大不少，而且曾在内战中当过真正的童子兵。这让我感觉好多了，因为他可是见多识广啊！他曾给我讲过各种故事，比如被刺刀刺中的人怎么肠子都流出来了还在继续跑……总之他要和我一起去。不知道你们是否听见过山羊的叫声或者见过真的山羊,它听起来就像人一样。就为这个，我们才会把受害者称为“羔羊”吧。
我的朋友BradKessler则告诉我：没有亲手杀过羊的人是算不上人类的。但是不管怎样，这只小山羊的眼睛在我看来就像小孩，而我根本下不了手！于是，Emmanuel 弯下腰，用手捂住了小羊的嘴，遮住了它的眼睛——这样我终于不用在杀死它的时候与它“面对”。这似乎并不像一个已然经历过那么多恐怖事情的人会做的行为，更何况杀一只小羊，对他来说简直就不值一提。但就是这样的他，仍觉得要尽可能地呵护我。
我窝囊得很，事后哭了很久，而他就在那一言不发地陪着我。等到一切都过去了，他对我说：“这种事，永远都是很难的。不过如果每次都像你这么哭，心会碎掉，人会死的。有时候，知道难，就够了。”
对了，说到山羊我就禁不住想起绵羊，而且有点坏坏的。（笑）我的生日刚好是圣诞节后的两天，所以从小到大，我可得到蛋糕和各种庆祝，但是，从没人送我专门的礼物，因为刚过完圣诞嘛。在我大概9岁那年，舅舅从德国回来与我们聚会，当时家里还来了个天主教区的神父在做客，我妈正用茶水点心款待客人。舅舅突然说：“Chris的生日礼物呢？”我妈就提醒他：“别在客人面前说这个呀～”但舅舅急于表示他那归来游子的善意，把我叫过来：“你去我的卧室，打开行李箱，想拿什么都行，就当作你的生日礼物啦！”我后来猜想他一定是以为我会拿本书或者恤衫之类的……结果我居然找到了一只没充气的“白绵羊”（笑）然后，我把它吹得鼓鼓的跑进客厅，手指头一边戳着不该戳的地方，一边挥舞着那只哔哔响的“绵羊”……然后，我就看到老妈几乎晕厥的表情。（笑）而McGetrick神父则不动声色地搅拌着他的茶，看着我妈说：“没关系，Daphne，我也算是苏格兰人呢！”（笑/掌声）
我在狱中最后的日子——那最后18个月中的头一年，我的囚室里同住着一个14岁的男孩。他的名字是John James，在那个年代，如果某人被判犯罪在逃，军方会把他家里的任何一个人抓来做人质，直到犯人来自首。所以，这个年仅14的无辜孩子也被排在了死刑犯的行列。
当然，这里不是每个人都是像我那样的政治犯，其中颇有一些无恶不作的家伙。John私自带进来两本漫画书，一本《蜘蛛侠》，一本《X战警》。他看得入迷，读累了的时候，他就会教其他死刑犯读书——就用那两本漫画书。我记得曾夜复一夜地，听着这群冷血的罪犯们围着John James像孩子般地背诵书里的台词：“拿去吧，蜘蛛大侠！”（笑）真是难以置信。
我自己当时非常担心，John却根本不知道死刑犯意味着什么。我已经来过两次了，很害怕自己会真的被处死。而John则总是笑呵呵的说：“得啦，别担心，咱们会出去的。”我问：“你怎么知道？”他说：“我有小道消息啊～”后来，那些人杀死了John：他们将他铐在椅子上，用一根6英寸长的铁钉把他的生殖器钉入桌子，直到他流血过度而亡…….
我后来一直被隔离单独关押，因为我要向别人说出自己的真实感受。是的，就在我们的世界里，就在也许任何一个地方，有着像这样的一些人。
Igbo部族的人曾说过：他们会拥立自己神祗，他们会聚集一处表达自己的愿望，然后呈给族中的祭司；也会恭建圣坛、供奉牺牲，在庄严仪式中诚心祷祝和祈福。
然而，如果所谓的神明在某一天也变得无法无天，贪得无厌地索要人血做祭，他们就会毫不犹豫地毁掉这样的神；拆除神龛、唾弃神名——这是他们赎回人性的方式。
每一天，就在这里，我们正在制造着日益凌驾而失控的偶像与神话，是到了该击碎和遗忘他们的时候了。这并不需要什么惊天之举，需要的只是睁开眼睛看每一天发生的事，以及那些只有极少的人会看到的人，就像我刚才讲的那些故事。
在座的各位，不乏精英，你们像一面面镜子，能让其他人照见自我。我想用一首美国诗人Lucille Clifton写的诗结束我的讲述。诗的题目是《祭酒》，也把它献给我正陪伴在这里的朋友Vusi。
祭酒
北卡罗来纳/1999
我要献给这大地，以这烈酒
如见一位老者 正在此地悄悄饮泣
极力躲避着监视的目光
他用舌抵住空洞的牙床
全身难保，齿之焉附
舌尖之痛，回荡在那空无的所在
在他曾经的故土
曾经的家、曾经的妻儿
曾经美丽的爱女
他拭去哀伤老泪
把干枯手指伸向同样干枯的舌
去品尝那咸
是了，这正是给你的，我的父
这捧烈酒
这片咸腥之地
···
ted视频 人性之思
···
附录：英文原文
On humanity
Chris Abani
My search is always to find ways to chronicle, to share and to document stories about people, just everyday people. Stories that offer transformation, that lean into transcendence, but that are never sentimental, that never look away fromthe darkest things about us. Because I really believe that we're never morebeautiful than when we're most ugly. Because that's really the moment we reallyknow what we're made of.
As Chris said, I grew up in Nigeria with a whole generation -- in the '80s -- ofstudents who were protesting a military dictatorship, which has finally ended.So it wasn't just me, there was a whole generation of us.But what I've come tolearn is that the world is never saved in grand messianic gestures, but in thesimple accumulation of gentle, soft, almost invisible acts of compassion,everyday acts of compassion. In South Africa, they have a phrase called Ubuntu.Ubuntu comes out of a philosophy that says, the only way for me to be human isfor you to reflect my humanity back at me. But if you're like me, my humanityis more like a window. I don't really see it, I don't pay attention to it untilthere's, you know, like a bug that's dead on the window. Then suddenly I seeit, and usually, it's never good. It's usually when I'm cussing in traffic atsomeone who is trying to drive their car and drink coffee and send emails andmake notes. So what Ubuntu really says is that there is no way for us to behuman without other people. It's really very simple, but really very complicated.
So,I thought I should start with some stories. I should tell you some storiesabout remarkable people, so I thought I'd start with my mother. (Laughter) Andshe was dark, too. My mother was English. My parents met in Oxford in the '50s,and my mother moved to Nigeria and lived there. She was five foot two, veryfeisty and very English. This is how English my mother is -- or was, she justpassed. She came out to California, to Los Angeles, to visit me, and we went toMalibu, which she thought was very disappointing. (Laughter) And then we wentto a fish restaurant, and we had Chad, the surfer dude, serving us, and he cameup and my mother said, 'Do you have any specials, young man?' AndChad says, 'Sure, like, we have this, like, salmon, that's, like, rolledin this, like, wasabi, like, crust. It's totally rad.' And my motherturned to me and said, 'What language is he speaking?' (Laughter) Isaid, 'English, mum.' And she shook her head and said, 'Oh,these Americans. We gave them a language, why don't they use it?'(Laughter)
So,this woman, who converted from the Church of England to Catholicism when shemarried my father -- and there's no one more rabid than a Catholic convert --decided to teach in the rural areas in Nigeria, particularly among Igbo women,the Billings ovulation method, which was the only approved birth control by theCatholic Church. But her Igbo wasn't too good. So she took me along totranslate. I was seven. (Laughter) So, here are these women, who never discusstheir period with their husbands, and here I am telling them, 'Well, howoften do you get your period?' (Laughter) And, 'Do you notice anydischarges?' (Laughter) And, 'How swollen is your vulva?'(Laughter) She never would have thought of herself as a feminist, my mother,but she always used to say, 'Anything a man can do, I can fix.'(Applause) And when my father complained about this situation, where she'staking a seven-year-old boy to teach this birth control, you know, he used tosay, 'Oh, you're turning him into -- you're teaching him how to be awoman.' My mother said, 'Someone has to.' (Laughter)
Thiswoman -- during the Biafran war, we were caught in the war. It was my motherwith five little children. It takes her one year, through refugee camp afterrefugee camp, to make her way to an airstrip where we can fly out of thecountry. At every single refugee camp, she has to face off soldiers who want totake my elder brother Mark, who was nine, and make him a boy soldier. Can youimagine this five-foot-two woman, standing up to men with guns who want to killus? All through that one year, my mother never cried one time, not once. Butwhen we were in Lisbon, in the airport, about to fly to England, this woman sawmy mother wearing this dress, which had been washed so many times it wasbasically see through, with five really hungry-looking kids, came over andasked her what had happened. And she told this woman. And so this woman emptiedout her suitcase and gave all of her clothes to my mother, and to us, and the toysof her kids, who didn't like that very much, but -- (Laughter) -- that was theonly time she cried. And I remember years later, I was writing about my mother,and I asked her, 'Why did you cry then?' And she said, 'Youknow, you can steel your heart against any kind of trouble, any kind of horror.But the simple act of kindness from a complete stranger will unstitchyou.'
Theold women in my father's village, after this war had happened, memorized thenames of every dead person, and they would sing these dirges, made up of thesenames. Dirges so melancholic that they would scorch you. And they would singthem only when they planted the rice, as though they were seeding the hearts ofthe dead into the rice. But when it came for harvest time, they would singthese joyful songs, that were made up of the names of every child who had beenborn that year. And then the next planting season, when they sang the dirge,they would remove as many names of the dead that equaled as many people thatwere born. And in this way, these women enacted a lot of transformation,beautiful transformation.
Didyou know, that before the genocide in Rwanda, the word for rape and the wordfor marriage was the same one? But today, women are rebuilding Rwanda. Did youalso know that after apartheid, when the new government went into theparliament houses, there were no female toilets in the building? Which wouldseem to suggest that apartheid was entirely the business of men. All of this tosay, that despite the horror, and despite the death, women are never reallycounted. Their humanity never seems to matter very much to us.
WhenI was growing up in Nigeria -- and I shouldn't say Nigeria, because that's toogeneral, but in Afikpo, the Igbo part of the country where I'm from -- therewere always rites of passage for young men. Men were taught to be men in theways in which we are not women, that's essentially what it is. And a lot ofrituals involved killing, killing little animals, progressing along, so when Iturned 13 -- and, I mean, it made sense, it was an agrarian community, somebodyhad to kill the animals, there was no Whole Foods you could go and get kangaroosteak at -- so when I turned 13, it was my turn now to kill a goat. And I wasthis weird, sensitive kid, who couldn't really do it, but I had to do it. And Iwas supposed to do this alone. But a friend of mine, called Emmanuel, who wassignificantly older than me, who'd been a boy soldier during the Biafran war,decided to come with me. Which sort of made me feel good, because he'd seen alot of things. Now, when I was growing up, he used to tell me stories about howhe used to bayonet people, and their intestines would fall out, but they wouldkeep running. So, this guy comes with me. And I don't know if you've ever hearda goat, or seen one -- they sound like human beings, that's why we calltragedies 'a song of a goat.' My friend Brad Kessler says that wedidn't become human until we started keeping goats. Anyway, a goat's eyes arelike a child's eyes. So when I tried to kill this goat and I couldn't, Emmanuelbent down, he puts his hand over the mouth of the goat, covers its eyes, so Idon't have to look into them, while I kill the goat. It didn't seem like a lot,for this guy who'd seen so much, and to whom the killing of a goat must haveseemed such a quotidian experience, still found it in himself to try to protectme. I was a wimp. I cried for a very long time. And afterwards, he didn't say aword. He just sat there watching me cry for an hour. And then afterwards hesaid to me, 'It will always be difficult, but if you cry like this everytime, you will die of heartbreak. Just know that it is enough sometimes to knowthat it is difficult.'
Ofcourse, talking about goats makes me think of sheep, and not in good ways.(Laughter)
So,I was born two days after Christmas. So growing up, you know, I had a cake andeverything, but I never got any presents, because, born two days afterChristmas. So, I was about nine, and my uncle had just come back from Germany,and we had the Catholic priest over, my mother was entertaining him with tea.And my uncle suddenly says, 'Where are Chris' presents?' And mymother said, 'Don't talk about that in front of guests.' But he wasdesperate to show that he'd just come back, so he summoned me up, and he said,'Go into the bedroom, my bedroom. Take anything you want out of thesuitcase. It's your birthday present.' I'm sure he thought I'd take a bookor a shirt, but I found an inflatable sheep. (Laughter) So, I blew it up and raninto the living room, my finger where it shouldn't have been, I was waving thisbuzzing sheep around, and my mother looked like she was going to die of shock.(Laughter) And Father McGetrick was completely unflustered, just stirred histea and looked at my mother and said, 'It's all right Daphne, I'mScottish.' (Laughter) (Applause)
Mylast days in prison, the last 18 months, my cellmate -- for the last year, thefirst year of the last 18 months -- my cellmate was 14 years old. The name wasJohn James, and in those days, if a family member committed a crime, themilitary would hold you as ransom till your family turned themselves in. So,here was this 14-year-old kid on death row. And not everybody on death row wasa political prisoner. There were some really bad people there. And he hadsmuggled in two comics, two comic books -- 'Spiderman' and'X-Men.' He was obsessed. And when he got tired of reading them, hestarted to teach the men in death row how to read, with these comic books. Andso, I remember night after night, you'd hear all these men, these reallyhardened criminals, huddled around John James, reciting, 'Take that,Spidey!' (Laughter) It's incredible. I was really worried. He didn't knowwhat death row meant. I'd been there twice, and I was terribly afraid that Iwas going to die. And he would always laugh, and say, 'Come on, man, we'llmake it out.' Then I'd say, 'How do you know?' And he said,'Oh, I heard it on the grapevine.' They killed him. They handcuffedhim to a chair, and they tacked his penis to a table with a six-inch nail, thenleft him there to bleed to death. That's how I ended up in solitary, because Ilet my feelings be known. All around us, everywhere, there are people likethis.
TheIgbo used to say that they built their own gods. They would come together as acommunity, and they would express a wish. And their wish would then be broughtto a priest, who would find a ritual object, and the appropriate sacrificeswould be made, and the shrine would be built for the god. But if the god becameunruly and began to ask for human sacrifice, the Igbos would destroy the god.They would knock down the shrine, and they would stop saying the god's name.This is how they came to reclaim their humanity. Every day, all of us here,we're building gods that have gone rampant, and it's time we started knockingthem down and forgetting their names. It doesn't require a tremendous thing.All it requires is to recognize among us, every day -- the few of us that cansee -- are surrounded by people like the ones I've told you.
There are some of you in this room, amazingpeople, who offer all of us the mirror to our own humanity. I want to end witha poem by an American poet called Lucille Clifton. The poem is called'Libation,' and it's for my friend Vusi who is in the audience heresomewhere. 'Libation, North Carolina, 1999. I offer to this ground, thisgin. I imagine an old man crying here, out of the sight of the overseer. Hepushes his tongue through a hole where his tooth would be, if he were whole. Itaches in that space where his tooth would be, where his land would be, hishouse, his wife, his son, his beautiful daughter. He wipes sorrow from hisface, and puts his thirsty finger to his thirsty tongue, and tastes the salt. Icall a name that could be his. This is for you, old man. This gin, this saltyearth.' Thank you. (Applause)
Libation
NorthCarolina, 1999
Ioffer to this ground, this gin.
Iimagine an old man crying here,
outof the sight of the overseer.
Hepushes his tongue through a hole
wherehis tooth would be, if he were whole.
It aches in that space where his tooth wouldbe,
where his land would be,
his house, his wife, his son,
his beautiful daughter.
Hewipes sorrow from his face,
andputs his thirsty finger to his thirsty tongue,
and tastes the salt.
Icall a name that could be his,
thisis for you, old man.
Thisgin,
this salty earth.
译者简介
研 墨 丫 头
谋生之余，耗时于阅读、旅行、白日梦。
静噪皆喜，耽美不倦。
认可自我意识、自我承担的生活态度。
是立足于现实的揖让进退者；
同时亦鼓励各种有益身心、百无禁忌的跨界与整合。
现居美国。
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