Steaua inaugurării prezidenţiale

amanda gorman (sursa: cnn.com)

Primul meu gând: cum a ajuns copila aia fascinantă să-şi recite poemul de vis în faţa lumii, într-o clipă astrală cu încărcătură simbolică şi intensitate media fără pereche ca impact? Cui i-a dat pronia inspiraţia fără seamăn să ne-o dăruiască tuturor, atunci şi acolo, spre admiraţie şi bucurie? Cine a putut gândi şi acţiona atât de generos? Apoi am aflat: Dr. Jill Biden. The First Lady. Om de şcoală, adică. Educator pe bune. Cum de nu mă miră?

Joseph Robinette Biden, Jr., POTUS, împlineşte anul acesta 79 de ani. Dr. Jill Tracy Biden, First Lady, 70. Kamala Devi Harris, VPOTUS, 57.

Şi Amanda S.C. Gorman, poeta laureată, 23.

Două-trei generaţii zdravene, în timp, între protagoniştii-seniori de drept ai ceremoniei de ieri de pe treptele Capitoliului – readus firesc la măreţia sa consacrată, sobră-impunătoare marcă a democraţiei constituţionale de nestrămutat, la doar două săptămâni după asaltul de noaptea minţii asupra sa, hâd uncivil war, când somnul de coşmar al raţiunii a născut monştri de neînchipuit, sub ochii noştri – şi tânăra strălucind de inteligenţă sclipitoare şi încredere abdolută în forţa propriului vis înalt, asemeni zborului măiastrei în spaţiu, despre a cărei prestaţie lirică The Guardian a titrat sec: The Hill We Climb: the Amanda Gorman poem that stole the inauguration show.

Mai multe nu am a spune, decât un lucru pe care nu l-am spus încă, şi unul deja spus. For the record.

Cel deja spus. Aşa a fost să fie, şi nu altfel, şi deloc întâmplător, ca tocmai un om al şcolii şi nu altcineva, Dr. Jill Biden în speţă, să fi pus ochii pe minunea de copil încă de cu patru ani în urmă, şi apoi să fi pus lucrurile cap la cap ca la carte: Joe Biden, inaugurare, Amanda Gorman, poezie ieşită din comun… The rest is history…

“How Gorman got here feels more like fate than simple serendipity. A powerful reading of her poem ‘In This Place: An American Lyric’, delivered at the Library of Congress in 2017, caught the eye of Dr. Jill Biden, who contacted her last month about writing an original poem for her husband’s swearing-in ceremony.”

Asta înseamnă să fii Însoţitor adevărat, atunci când menirea ta pe lume este să le dăruieşti celor la început de viaţă cerul cel mai înalt în care să-şi etaleze zobrul. Well done, First Lady Dr. Jill Biden – RESPECT!

Şi cel nespus încă. Aşa a fost să fie, şi nu altfel, ca tânăra poetă să fi făcut şcoală pe bune: Harvard Class of 2020.

"The former sociology concentrator is the U.S.’s first youth poet laureate. At 22 years old, she is also the youngest to present the inaugural reading, following in the footsteps of Maya Angelou, Robert Frost, and Elizabeth Alexander."

Barack Obama, ex-POTUS, Harvard ’91, a dat reacţionat instant pe Twitter:

Iar restul…

Restul este miracolul etern al jocului cu mărgele de sticlă, în starea poetică Elytis…

            toate frunţile libere

            iar ca sentiment un cristal

Aici, povestea poemului scris şi recitat de Amanda: The Hill We Climb.

Iar aici, textul. Gând bun tuturor.

When day comes, we ask ourselves where can we find light in this never-ending shade?

The loss we carry, a sea we must wade.
We’ve braved the belly of the beast.
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace,
and the norms and notions of what “just” is isn’t always justice.
And yet, the dawn is ours before we knew it.
Somehow we do it.
Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken,
but simply unfinished.
We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president, only to find herself reciting for one.

And yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine,

but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.
We are striving to forge our union with purpose.
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters, and conditions of man.
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us, but what stands before us.
We close the divide because we know, to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another.
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew.
That even as we hurt, we hoped.
That even as we tired, we tried.
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.
Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division.

Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree and no one shall make them afraid.
If we’re to live up to our own time, then victory won’t lie in the blade, but in all the bridges we’ve made.
That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb, if only we dare.
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit.
It’s the past we step into and how we repair it.
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation rather than share it.
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.
This effort very nearly succeeded.
But while democracy can be periodically delayed,
it can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth, in this faith, we trust,
for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.
This is the era of just redemption.
We feared it at its inception.
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour,
but within it, we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves.
So while once we asked, ‘How could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?’ now we assert, ‘How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?’

We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be:
A country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free.
We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation.
Our blunders become their burdens.
But one thing is certain:
If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change, our children’s birthright.

So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.
With every breath from my bronze-pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.
We will rise from the golden hills of the west.
We will rise from the wind-swept north-east where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states.
We will rise from the sun-baked south.
We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover.
In every known nook of our nation, in every corner called our country,
our people, diverse and beautiful, will emerge, battered and beautiful.
When day comes, we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid.
The new dawn blooms as we free it.
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.