From: [The 60-Seconds Novelist], Dan Hurley.
[End of the work week]
Jeffrey is an opera singer. He is both a student and a performer, having sung at the Met, City opera, and in Europe. This week he just finished his exams, but his work is not done. It's the end of the work week for some, but not for him. He keeps working. He keeps learning. Until his last breath, he'll keep going.
He's a man full of surprises. One does not often see a black opera singer, and he has learned to expect people to be surprised. AND he seems kind of sick of it. Why should they be surprised? Why can't a black man sing opera?
When I said to him that it seemed natural to me that black men should sing opera, since they often seem to have deeper, more resonant voices than many white guys, he replied, "It's the watermelon and the fried chicken."
This was the kind of reaction I remember getting in Monument Valley, Utah, when I was travelling across America with Alice and met a group of Native Americans. They were offering horse rides for $25. And while we rode with them, we asked them questions about their lives. And they reacted quite sarcastically.
When Alice, who loves to talk about food, asked them what they like to eat, they replied, "We drink cold coffee and eat beans out of a can."
When I asked who owns the reservation, they said, "We all do. We can do whatever we want to it. If we want to build a casino on top of the mountain, we can do that. And then all the tourists can come and fall off."
I had felt bad that he was assuming that our curious questions were rude, or ignorant. He seemed to be sick of the presumptions of white men. He was sick of the prejudices, the caricatures.
He was sick of being reduced to a wigwam and a blanket.
And it seems to me now that Jeffrey has some of that same anger and annoyance at the presumptions and prejudices being dumped on him. He wants to be accepted on his own terms, as who he is. He wants to define himself for himself, and not have others define him.
As the 60-Second Novelist, I have experienced the same thing, People are always wondering what the hell I'm doing with the typewriter. "Why are you doing that?" they ask. "Are you a writer? Don't you want to do REAL writing someday?"
And they can't understand that for me this IS real writing, that this for me is the best writing I could possibly do. I've written articles for The New York Times and Good Housekeeping and People and New York and TV Guide, but for me the best thing I've ever done is this writing on the streets for ordinary people one at a time.
And so maybe it's our lot, Jeffrey, for all of us humans to be misunderstood.
Not just blacks.
Not just Native Americans.
Not just 60-Second Novelists.
But anyone who is trying to break the rules, trying to define his or her own life, trying to find his or her own soul and follow his or her own path.
No one ever said it would be easy.
And no one ever said that everybody would stand and applaud our efforts.
Or that they would even understand.
And why do they need to understand?
We're doing it for ourselves, after all, not for anyone else. Which is why we should all of us remember the words of counsel once given to me by a very wise woman;
Be very understanding of their lack of understanding.
[End of the work week]
Jeffrey is an opera singer. He is both a student and a performer, having sung at the Met, City opera, and in Europe. This week he just finished his exams, but his work is not done. It's the end of the work week for some, but not for him. He keeps working. He keeps learning. Until his last breath, he'll keep going.
He's a man full of surprises. One does not often see a black opera singer, and he has learned to expect people to be surprised. AND he seems kind of sick of it. Why should they be surprised? Why can't a black man sing opera?
When I said to him that it seemed natural to me that black men should sing opera, since they often seem to have deeper, more resonant voices than many white guys, he replied, "It's the watermelon and the fried chicken."
This was the kind of reaction I remember getting in Monument Valley, Utah, when I was travelling across America with Alice and met a group of Native Americans. They were offering horse rides for $25. And while we rode with them, we asked them questions about their lives. And they reacted quite sarcastically.
When Alice, who loves to talk about food, asked them what they like to eat, they replied, "We drink cold coffee and eat beans out of a can."
When I asked who owns the reservation, they said, "We all do. We can do whatever we want to it. If we want to build a casino on top of the mountain, we can do that. And then all the tourists can come and fall off."
I had felt bad that he was assuming that our curious questions were rude, or ignorant. He seemed to be sick of the presumptions of white men. He was sick of the prejudices, the caricatures.
He was sick of being reduced to a wigwam and a blanket.
And it seems to me now that Jeffrey has some of that same anger and annoyance at the presumptions and prejudices being dumped on him. He wants to be accepted on his own terms, as who he is. He wants to define himself for himself, and not have others define him.
As the 60-Second Novelist, I have experienced the same thing, People are always wondering what the hell I'm doing with the typewriter. "Why are you doing that?" they ask. "Are you a writer? Don't you want to do REAL writing someday?"
And they can't understand that for me this IS real writing, that this for me is the best writing I could possibly do. I've written articles for The New York Times and Good Housekeeping and People and New York and TV Guide, but for me the best thing I've ever done is this writing on the streets for ordinary people one at a time.
And so maybe it's our lot, Jeffrey, for all of us humans to be misunderstood.
Not just blacks.
Not just Native Americans.
Not just 60-Second Novelists.
But anyone who is trying to break the rules, trying to define his or her own life, trying to find his or her own soul and follow his or her own path.
No one ever said it would be easy.
And no one ever said that everybody would stand and applaud our efforts.
Or that they would even understand.
And why do they need to understand?
We're doing it for ourselves, after all, not for anyone else. Which is why we should all of us remember the words of counsel once given to me by a very wise woman;
Be very understanding of their lack of understanding.
인디언들은 자신들이 인디언 천막과 인디언 옷으로만 세상에 비춰지는 것에 신물이 났다. 자신들을 하나의 구경거리로 여기는 사람들의 편견에 질려버린 것이다.
지금 흑인 오페라 가수 제프리는 자신에게 쏟아지는 선입견과 편견에 대해 인디언들과 똑같은 분노를 느끼는 듯하다. 그는 자신이 갖고 있는 모습 그대로 받아들여지기를 바란다. 그는 자신이 어떤 사람인지 스스로 정의하기를 바라지, 다른 사람이 자신을 정의하기를 원치 않는다. 60초 소설가로서 나도 똑같은 일을 경험한다. 사람들은 내가 타자기를 갖고 도대체 무엇을 하는지 늘 궁금해 한다. 그들은 묻는다.
“당신은 왜 이런 일을 하는 거죠? 당신은 작가가 아닌가요? 언젠가 ‘진짜’ 글을 쓰고 싶지 않나요?”
이것이 나에게는 진짜 글쓰기이며 내가 할 수 있는 최선의 문학이라는 것을 그들은 이해할 수 없다. 내가 지금까지 한 일 중에서 가장 좋은 일은 거리에서 평범한 사람들을 위해 한 번에 한 사람씩 이런 그을 쓰는 것이다. 그러니 제프리, 오해받는 것은 아마도 모든 인간의 운명인 듯 하다.
단지 흑인만이 아니라,
단지 아메리카 원주민만이 아니라,
단지 60초 소설가만이 아니라.
세상의 낡은 규칙을 깨고, 자신의 삶을 분명히 정의하고, 자신의 영혼을 발견하고, 자신의 길을 따라 가려고 하는 사람은 누구든 오해를 받기 마련이다. 그 일이 쉬울 거라고 말한 이는 지금까지 아무도 없었다. 모든 사람이 우리의 노력을 참고 지켜보며 박수 보낼 것이라고 말하는 이도 없었다. 사람들이 우리를 이해할 것이라고 말하는 이도 없었다. 하지만 왜 그들이 우리를 이해해야만 하는가?
결국 우리는 우리 자신을 위해 그 일을 하고 있는 게 아닌가? 우리는 정말 지혜로운 여자가 해준 다음 말을 기억해야 한다.
사람들의 이해심이 부족한 것을 깊이 이해하라고.
---------------
어느 날, 라디오를 듣는데 이런 내용이 흘러 나왔다.
“자신감이 없는 사람은 자기 존재의 가치를 모르는 것이고,
남을 무시하는 사람은 타인을 이해하지 못하는 것이다.“
자신감이 없는 사람들, 남을 무시하는 사람들.
그들을 이해하자.
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