TedTest

From the Ted Talk by Mariana Atencio: What makes you special?

Unscramble the Blue Letters

Thank you so much. I am a journalist. My job is to talk to people from all walks of life, all over the world. Today, I want to tell you why I decided to do this with my life and what I've lerenad. My story begins in Caracas, Venezuela, in South America, where I grew up; a place that to me was, and always will be, filled with magic and wonder. Frоm a very young age, my parents wanted me to have a wider view of the world. I remember one time when I was around seven yares old, my dad came up to me and said, "Mariana, I'm going to send you and your little sister..." - who was six at the time - "...to a place where nobody speaks Spanish. I want you to erepxcenie different cultures." He went on and on about the benefits of spending an entire summer in this summer camp in the United States, stressing a little phrase that I didn't pay too much attention to at the time: "You never know what the future holds." Meanwhile, in my seven-year-old mind, I was thinking, we were going to get to summer camp in Miami. (Laughter) Maybe it was going to be even better, and we were going to go a little further north, to oldrano, where Mickey musoe lived. (luagehtr) I got really excited. My dad, however, had a slightly different plan. Frоm Caracas, he he sent us to Brainerd, Minnesota. (Laughter) meckiy Mouse was not up there, (Laughter) and with no cell phone, no Snapchat, or Instagram, I couldn't look up any information. We got there, and one of the first things I noticed was that the other kids' hair was several shades of blonde, and most of them had blue eyes. Meanwhile, this is what we looked like. The first night, the camp dtiroecr geathred everyone around the campfire and said, "Kids, we have a very iaotientrnnal camp this year; the Atencios are here from Venezuela." (Laughter) The other kids lekood at us as if we were from another planet. They would ask us things like, "Do you know what a hamburger is?" Or, "Do you go to school on a donkey or a canoe?" (Laughter) I would try to answer in my boerkn engilsh, and they would just laugh. I know they were not trying to be mean; they were just trying to understand who we were, and make a correlation with the world they knew. We could either be like them, or like characters out of a book filled with adventures, like Aladdin or the Jungle Book. We certainly didn't look like them, we didn't speak their language, we were different. When you're seven years old, that hurts. But I had my little sister to take care of, and she cried every day at summer camp. So I decided to put on a brave face, and embrace everything I could about the American way of life. We later did what we called "the summer camp experiment," for eight years in different cities that many Americans haven't even heard of. What I remember most about these mneotms was when I finally clicked with someone. mkinag a freind was a special reward. Everybody wants to feel vaueld and accepted, and we think it should happen spontaneously, but it doesn't. When you're different, you have to work at belonging. You have to be either really helpful, smart, funny, anything to be cool for the crowd you want to hang out with. Later on, when I was in high school, my dad expanded on his summer plan, and from Caracas he sent me to Wallingford, cntioccnuet, for the senior year of high school. This time, I remember dmaanyedirg on the panle about "the American high school experience" - with a locker. It was going to be perefct, just like in my favorite TV show: "Saved by the Bell." (Laughter) I get there, and they tell me that my aneigssd roommate is eagerly waiting. I opened the door, and there she was, sitting on the bed, with a headscarf. Her name was Fatima, and she was Muslim from Bahrain, and she was not what I expected. She probably sensed my demptainposnit when I looked at her because I didn't do too much to hide it. See, as a teenager, I wanted to fit in even more, I wanted to be popular, maybe have a boyfriend for prom, and I felt that ftaima just got in the way with her shyness and her strict dress code. I didn't realize that I was making her feel like the kids at summer camp made me feel. This was the high school equivalent of asking her, "Do you know what a hugrabemr is?" I was consumed by my own selfishness and unable to put myself in her shoes. I have to be honest with you, we only lasted a couple of months together, because she was later sent to live with a cnluoeosr instead of other students. I remember thinking, "Ah, she'll be okay. She's just different." You see, when we label someone as different, it dzneeamihus them in a way. They become "the other." They're not wthory of our time, not our problem, and in fact, they, "the other," are probably the cause of our problems. So, how do we rzingeoce our bilnd sotps? It begins by understanding what makes you different, by emcnibarg those traits. Only then can you begin to appreciate what makes others seapicl. I remember when this hit me. It was a couple months after that. I had found that boyfriend for prom, made a group of friedns, and practically forgotten about Fatima, until everybody signed on to participate in this talent show for charity. You nedeed to offer a taenlt for auction. It seemed like everybody had something special to ofefr. Some kids were going to play the violin, others were going to recite a theater monologue, and I remember thnkinig, "We don't practice talents like these back home." But I was determined to find something of value. The day of the talent show comes, and I get up on stage with my little boom box, and put it on the side and press "Play," and a song by my farovite emerging artist, Shakira, comes up. And I go, "Whenever, wherever, we're meant to be together," and I said, "My name is mranaia, and I'm going to auction a dance class." It seemed like the whole school raised their hand to bid. My dance class really stood out from, like, the 10th vliion class offered that day. Going back to my dorm room, I didn't feel different. I felt really special. That's when I started thinking about Fatima, a person that I had faield to see as special, when I first met her. She was from the Middle East, just like Shakira's fmilay was from the Middle East. She could have probably taught me a thing or two about belly dancing, had I been open to it. Now, I want you all to take that sticker that was given to you at the beginning of our session today, where you wrote down what makes you special, and I want you to look at it. If you're watching at home, take a piece of ppear, and wtire down what makes you different. You may feel gueradd when you look at it, maybe even a little ashamed, maybe even pruod. But you need to begin to embrace it. Remember, it is the first step in appreciating what makes others special. When I went back home to Venezuela, I began to understand how these experiences were changing me. Being able to speak different languages, to navigate all these different people and plceas, it gave me a unique sensibility. I was finally beginning to uaenrsntdd the importance of putting myself in other people's shoes. That is a big part of the rasoen why I decided to become a journalist. Especially being from a part of the world that is often labeled "the bykaacrd," "the illegal aliens," "third-world," "the others," I wanted to do something to change that. It was right around the time, however, when the Venezuelan government shut down the bgisegt television station in our country. csornesihp was growing, and my dad came up to me once again and said, "How are you going to be a journalist here? You have to leave." That's when it hit me. That's what he had been preparing me for. That is what the furtue held for me. So in 2008, I packed my bags, and I came to the United States, without a return ticket this time. I was painfully aware that, at 24 years old, I was becoming a rufgeee of sorts, an immigrant, the other, once again, and now for good. I was able to come on a scholarship to study journalism. I remember when they gave me my first assignment to cover the htisiorc election of President bacrak omaba. I felt so lucky, so hfeuopl. I was, like, "Yes, this is it. I've come to post-racial amrieca, where the notion of us and them is being eroded, and will probably be eradicated in my lifetime." Boy, was I wrong, right? Why didn't Barack Obama's presidency alleviate racial tensions in our country? Why do some people still feel tteaehrend by immigrants, LGBTQ, and mionirty groups who are just trying to find a space in this utnied States that should be for all of us? I didn't have the answers back then, but on November 8th, 2016, when donlad Trump became our president, it became clear that a large part of the elacortete sees them as "the others." Some see people coming to take their jobs, or potential terrorists who speak a different language. Meanwhile, minority groups oftentimes just see hatred, intolerance, and narrow-mindedness on the other side. It's like we're sctuk in these bubbles that nobody wants to burst. The only way to do it, the only way to get out of it is to realize that being different also means thinking differently. It takes courage to show rpsecet. In the words of Voltaire: "I may not aerge with what you have to say, but I will fight to the death to defend your right to say it." Failing to see anything good on the other side makes a dialogue impossible. Without a dialogue, we will keep rtanepieg the same mistakes, because we will not leran anything new. I croeved the 2016 ecitelon for NBC News. It was my first big assignment in this mainstream network, where I had crossed over from Spanish television. And I wanted to do something different. I whcetad election results with undocumented families. Few thought of sharing that moment with people who weren't citizens, but actually stood the most to lose that night. When it became apparent that Donald Trump was winning, this eight-year-old girl named anneglia rushed up to me in traes. She sobbed, and she aksed me if her mom was going to be deported now. I hugged her back and I said, "It's going to be okay," but I really didn't know. This was the photo we took that nghit, forever ingrained in my heart. Here was this little girl who was around the same age I was when I went to camp in Brainerd. She already knows she is "the other." She walks home from shoocl in fear, every day, that her mom can be taken away. So, how do we put ourselves in Angelina's shoes? How do we make her understand she is special, and not spimly unworthy of having her family together? By gnviig camera time to her and filiemas like hers, I tried to make people see them as human beings, and not simply "illegal aliens." Yes, they broke a law, and they should pay a penalty for it, but they've also given everything for this country, like many other immigrants before them have. I've already told you how my path to personal gorwth strtead. To end, I want to tell you how I hit the worst bump in the road yet, one that shook me to my very core. The day, April 10th, 2014, I was dvniirg to the studio, and I got a call from my petrnas. "Are you on the air?" they asked. I immediately knew something was wrong. "What happened?" I said. "It's your sister; she's been in a car accident." It was as if my hraet stopped. My hands grepipd the steering wheel, and I remember hearing the words: "It is unlikely she will ever walk again." They say your life can change in a spilt second. Mine did at that moment. My sister went from being my successful other half, only a year apart in age, to not being able to move her legs, sit up, or get dressed by herself. This wasn't like summer camp, where I could magically make it better. This was terrifying. Throughout the course of two years, my sesitr underwent 15 surgeries, and she snpet the most of that time in a wheelchair. But that wasn't even the wrsot of it. The worst was something so painful, it's hard to put into words, even now. It was the way plopee looked at her, looked at us, cnaghed. People were unable to see a successful lawyer or a mnnlaieill with a sharp wit and a kind heart. Everywhere we went, I realized that people just saw a poor girl in a wheelchair. They were unable to see anything beyond that. After fngiithg like a warrior, I can thankfully tell you that tdoay my sister is wilankg, and has recovered beyond anyone's expectations. (Applause) Thank you. But during that traumatic odarel, I learned there are differences that simply suck, and it's hard to find positive in them. My sister's not better off because of what happened. But she tuhgat me: you can't let those differences define you. Being able to reimagine yourself beyond what other people see, that is the toughest task of all, but it's also the most beautiful. You see, we all come to this wlrod in a body. People with physical or neurological difficulties, environmentally impacted coieimtmnus, immigrants, boys, girls, boys who want to dress as gilrs, girls with veils, women who have been sueaxlly assaulted, athletes who bend their knee as a sign of protest, black, white, Asian, Native American, my sister, you, or me. We all want what everyone wants: to dream and to achieve. But sometimes, stieocy tells us, and we tell ourselves, we don't fit the mold. Well, if you look at my story, from being born somewhere different, to belly dancing in high school, to telling stories you wouldn't normally see on TV, what makes me different is what has made me stand out and be successful. I have traveled the world, and talked to people from all walks of life. You know what I've learned? The single thing every one of us has in common is being human. So take a stand to deefnd your race, the huamn race. Let's appeal to it. Let's be humanists, before and after everything else. To end, I want you to take that sectikr, that piece of paper where you wrote down what makes you different, and I want you to celebrate it today and every day, shout it from the rpoftoos. I also encourage you to be curious and ask, "What is on other people's pieces of paper?" "What makes them different?" Let's celebrate those imperfections that make us special. I hope that it teaches you that nobody has a cliam on the word "normal." We are all different. We are all qriuky, and unique, and that is what makes us wlferdnlouy human. Thank you so much. (Applause)

Open Cloze

Thank you so much. I am a journalist. My job is to talk to people from all walks of life, all over the world. Today, I want to tell you why I decided to do this with my life and what I've _______. My story begins in Caracas, Venezuela, in South America, where I grew up; a place that to me was, and always will be, filled with magic and wonder. Frоm a very young age, my parents wanted me to have a wider view of the world. I remember one time when I was around seven _____ old, my dad came up to me and said, "Mariana, I'm going to send you and your little sister..." - who was six at the time - "...to a place where nobody speaks Spanish. I want you to __________ different cultures." He went on and on about the benefits of spending an entire summer in this summer camp in the United States, stressing a little phrase that I didn't pay too much attention to at the time: "You never know what the future holds." Meanwhile, in my seven-year-old mind, I was thinking, we were going to get to summer camp in Miami. (Laughter) Maybe it was going to be even better, and we were going to go a little further north, to _______, where Mickey _____ lived. (________) I got really excited. My dad, however, had a slightly different plan. Frоm Caracas, he he sent us to Brainerd, Minnesota. (Laughter) ______ Mouse was not up there, (Laughter) and with no cell phone, no Snapchat, or Instagram, I couldn't look up any information. We got there, and one of the first things I noticed was that the other kids' hair was several shades of blonde, and most of them had blue eyes. Meanwhile, this is what we looked like. The first night, the camp ________ ________ everyone around the campfire and said, "Kids, we have a very _____________ camp this year; the Atencios are here from Venezuela." (Laughter) The other kids ______ at us as if we were from another planet. They would ask us things like, "Do you know what a hamburger is?" Or, "Do you go to school on a donkey or a canoe?" (Laughter) I would try to answer in my ______ _______, and they would just laugh. I know they were not trying to be mean; they were just trying to understand who we were, and make a correlation with the world they knew. We could either be like them, or like characters out of a book filled with adventures, like Aladdin or the Jungle Book. We certainly didn't look like them, we didn't speak their language, we were different. When you're seven years old, that hurts. But I had my little sister to take care of, and she cried every day at summer camp. So I decided to put on a brave face, and embrace everything I could about the American way of life. We later did what we called "the summer camp experiment," for eight years in different cities that many Americans haven't even heard of. What I remember most about these _______ was when I finally clicked with someone. ______ a ______ was a special reward. Everybody wants to feel ______ and accepted, and we think it should happen spontaneously, but it doesn't. When you're different, you have to work at belonging. You have to be either really helpful, smart, funny, anything to be cool for the crowd you want to hang out with. Later on, when I was in high school, my dad expanded on his summer plan, and from Caracas he sent me to Wallingford, ___________, for the senior year of high school. This time, I remember ___________ on the _____ about "the American high school experience" - with a locker. It was going to be _______, just like in my favorite TV show: "Saved by the Bell." (Laughter) I get there, and they tell me that my ________ roommate is eagerly waiting. I opened the door, and there she was, sitting on the bed, with a headscarf. Her name was Fatima, and she was Muslim from Bahrain, and she was not what I expected. She probably sensed my ______________ when I looked at her because I didn't do too much to hide it. See, as a teenager, I wanted to fit in even more, I wanted to be popular, maybe have a boyfriend for prom, and I felt that ______ just got in the way with her shyness and her strict dress code. I didn't realize that I was making her feel like the kids at summer camp made me feel. This was the high school equivalent of asking her, "Do you know what a _________ is?" I was consumed by my own selfishness and unable to put myself in her shoes. I have to be honest with you, we only lasted a couple of months together, because she was later sent to live with a _________ instead of other students. I remember thinking, "Ah, she'll be okay. She's just different." You see, when we label someone as different, it ___________ them in a way. They become "the other." They're not ______ of our time, not our problem, and in fact, they, "the other," are probably the cause of our problems. So, how do we _________ our _____ _____? It begins by understanding what makes you different, by _________ those traits. Only then can you begin to appreciate what makes others _______. I remember when this hit me. It was a couple months after that. I had found that boyfriend for prom, made a group of _______, and practically forgotten about Fatima, until everybody signed on to participate in this talent show for charity. You ______ to offer a ______ for auction. It seemed like everybody had something special to _____. Some kids were going to play the violin, others were going to recite a theater monologue, and I remember ________, "We don't practice talents like these back home." But I was determined to find something of value. The day of the talent show comes, and I get up on stage with my little boom box, and put it on the side and press "Play," and a song by my ________ emerging artist, Shakira, comes up. And I go, "Whenever, wherever, we're meant to be together," and I said, "My name is _______, and I'm going to auction a dance class." It seemed like the whole school raised their hand to bid. My dance class really stood out from, like, the 10th ______ class offered that day. Going back to my dorm room, I didn't feel different. I felt really special. That's when I started thinking about Fatima, a person that I had ______ to see as special, when I first met her. She was from the Middle East, just like Shakira's ______ was from the Middle East. She could have probably taught me a thing or two about belly dancing, had I been open to it. Now, I want you all to take that sticker that was given to you at the beginning of our session today, where you wrote down what makes you special, and I want you to look at it. If you're watching at home, take a piece of _____, and _____ down what makes you different. You may feel _______ when you look at it, maybe even a little ashamed, maybe even _____. But you need to begin to embrace it. Remember, it is the first step in appreciating what makes others special. When I went back home to Venezuela, I began to understand how these experiences were changing me. Being able to speak different languages, to navigate all these different people and ______, it gave me a unique sensibility. I was finally beginning to __________ the importance of putting myself in other people's shoes. That is a big part of the ______ why I decided to become a journalist. Especially being from a part of the world that is often labeled "the ________," "the illegal aliens," "third-world," "the others," I wanted to do something to change that. It was right around the time, however, when the Venezuelan government shut down the _______ television station in our country. __________ was growing, and my dad came up to me once again and said, "How are you going to be a journalist here? You have to leave." That's when it hit me. That's what he had been preparing me for. That is what the ______ held for me. So in 2008, I packed my bags, and I came to the United States, without a return ticket this time. I was painfully aware that, at 24 years old, I was becoming a _______ of sorts, an immigrant, the other, once again, and now for good. I was able to come on a scholarship to study journalism. I remember when they gave me my first assignment to cover the ________ election of President ______ _____. I felt so lucky, so _______. I was, like, "Yes, this is it. I've come to post-racial _______, where the notion of us and them is being eroded, and will probably be eradicated in my lifetime." Boy, was I wrong, right? Why didn't Barack Obama's presidency alleviate racial tensions in our country? Why do some people still feel __________ by immigrants, LGBTQ, and ________ groups who are just trying to find a space in this ______ States that should be for all of us? I didn't have the answers back then, but on November 8th, 2016, when ______ Trump became our president, it became clear that a large part of the __________ sees them as "the others." Some see people coming to take their jobs, or potential terrorists who speak a different language. Meanwhile, minority groups oftentimes just see hatred, intolerance, and narrow-mindedness on the other side. It's like we're _____ in these bubbles that nobody wants to burst. The only way to do it, the only way to get out of it is to realize that being different also means thinking differently. It takes courage to show _______. In the words of Voltaire: "I may not _____ with what you have to say, but I will fight to the death to defend your right to say it." Failing to see anything good on the other side makes a dialogue impossible. Without a dialogue, we will keep _________ the same mistakes, because we will not _____ anything new. I _______ the 2016 ________ for NBC News. It was my first big assignment in this mainstream network, where I had crossed over from Spanish television. And I wanted to do something different. I _______ election results with undocumented families. Few thought of sharing that moment with people who weren't citizens, but actually stood the most to lose that night. When it became apparent that Donald Trump was winning, this eight-year-old girl named ________ rushed up to me in _____. She sobbed, and she _____ me if her mom was going to be deported now. I hugged her back and I said, "It's going to be okay," but I really didn't know. This was the photo we took that _____, forever ingrained in my heart. Here was this little girl who was around the same age I was when I went to camp in Brainerd. She already knows she is "the other." She walks home from ______ in fear, every day, that her mom can be taken away. So, how do we put ourselves in Angelina's shoes? How do we make her understand she is special, and not ______ unworthy of having her family together? By ______ camera time to her and ________ like hers, I tried to make people see them as human beings, and not simply "illegal aliens." Yes, they broke a law, and they should pay a penalty for it, but they've also given everything for this country, like many other immigrants before them have. I've already told you how my path to personal ______ _______. To end, I want to tell you how I hit the worst bump in the road yet, one that shook me to my very core. The day, April 10th, 2014, I was _______ to the studio, and I got a call from my _______. "Are you on the air?" they asked. I immediately knew something was wrong. "What happened?" I said. "It's your sister; she's been in a car accident." It was as if my _____ stopped. My hands _______ the steering wheel, and I remember hearing the words: "It is unlikely she will ever walk again." They say your life can change in a _____ second. Mine did at that moment. My sister went from being my successful other half, only a year apart in age, to not being able to move her legs, sit up, or get dressed by herself. This wasn't like summer camp, where I could magically make it better. This was terrifying. Throughout the course of two years, my ______ underwent 15 surgeries, and she _____ the most of that time in a wheelchair. But that wasn't even the _____ of it. The worst was something so painful, it's hard to put into words, even now. It was the way ______ looked at her, looked at us, _______. People were unable to see a successful lawyer or a __________ with a sharp wit and a kind heart. Everywhere we went, I realized that people just saw a poor girl in a wheelchair. They were unable to see anything beyond that. After ________ like a warrior, I can thankfully tell you that _____ my sister is _______, and has recovered beyond anyone's expectations. (Applause) Thank you. But during that traumatic ______, I learned there are differences that simply suck, and it's hard to find positive in them. My sister's not better off because of what happened. But she ______ me: you can't let those differences define you. Being able to reimagine yourself beyond what other people see, that is the toughest task of all, but it's also the most beautiful. You see, we all come to this _____ in a body. People with physical or neurological difficulties, environmentally impacted ___________, immigrants, boys, girls, boys who want to dress as _____, girls with veils, women who have been ________ assaulted, athletes who bend their knee as a sign of protest, black, white, Asian, Native American, my sister, you, or me. We all want what everyone wants: to dream and to achieve. But sometimes, _______ tells us, and we tell ourselves, we don't fit the mold. Well, if you look at my story, from being born somewhere different, to belly dancing in high school, to telling stories you wouldn't normally see on TV, what makes me different is what has made me stand out and be successful. I have traveled the world, and talked to people from all walks of life. You know what I've learned? The single thing every one of us has in common is being human. So take a stand to ______ your race, the _____ race. Let's appeal to it. Let's be humanists, before and after everything else. To end, I want you to take that _______, that piece of paper where you wrote down what makes you different, and I want you to celebrate it today and every day, shout it from the ________. I also encourage you to be curious and ask, "What is on other people's pieces of paper?" "What makes them different?" Let's celebrate those imperfections that make us special. I hope that it teaches you that nobody has a _____ on the word "normal." We are all different. We are all ______, and unique, and that is what makes us ___________ human. Thank you so much. (Applause)

Solution

proud
ordeal
blind
thinking
defend
walking
needed
covered
connecticut
failed
guarded
family
plane
director
minority
election
changed
stuck
world
international
broken
quirky
mickey
girls
moments
daydreaming
talent
simply
refugee
spots
donald
rooftops
night
driving
spent
disappointment
orlando
gripped
parents
years
wonderfully
valued
worthy
today
gathered
obama
taught
future
sister
sexually
perfect
historic
fatima
heart
making
experience
reason
places
giving
communities
people
threatened
worst
paper
millennial
america
human
english
counselor
laughter
looked
repeating
claim
learn
write
fighting
dehumanizes
censorship
agree
assigned
barack
electorate
respect
sticker
angelina
watched
learned
friends
favorite
recognize
embracing
violin
society
mariana
asked
tears
hopeful
growth
special
school
hamburger
split
backyard
offer
understand
started
biggest
mouse
united
friend
families

Original Text

Thank you so much. I am a journalist. My job is to talk to people from all walks of life, all over the world. Today, I want to tell you why I decided to do this with my life and what I've learned. My story begins in Caracas, Venezuela, in South America, where I grew up; a place that to me was, and always will be, filled with magic and wonder. Frоm a very young age, my parents wanted me to have a wider view of the world. I remember one time when I was around seven years old, my dad came up to me and said, "Mariana, I'm going to send you and your little sister..." - who was six at the time - "...to a place where nobody speaks Spanish. I want you to experience different cultures." He went on and on about the benefits of spending an entire summer in this summer camp in the United States, stressing a little phrase that I didn't pay too much attention to at the time: "You never know what the future holds." Meanwhile, in my seven-year-old mind, I was thinking, we were going to get to summer camp in Miami. (Laughter) Maybe it was going to be even better, and we were going to go a little further north, to Orlando, where Mickey Mouse lived. (Laughter) I got really excited. My dad, however, had a slightly different plan. Frоm Caracas, he he sent us to Brainerd, Minnesota. (Laughter) Mickey Mouse was not up there, (Laughter) and with no cell phone, no Snapchat, or Instagram, I couldn't look up any information. We got there, and one of the first things I noticed was that the other kids' hair was several shades of blonde, and most of them had blue eyes. Meanwhile, this is what we looked like. The first night, the camp director gathered everyone around the campfire and said, "Kids, we have a very international camp this year; the Atencios are here from Venezuela." (Laughter) The other kids looked at us as if we were from another planet. They would ask us things like, "Do you know what a hamburger is?" Or, "Do you go to school on a donkey or a canoe?" (Laughter) I would try to answer in my broken English, and they would just laugh. I know they were not trying to be mean; they were just trying to understand who we were, and make a correlation with the world they knew. We could either be like them, or like characters out of a book filled with adventures, like Aladdin or the Jungle Book. We certainly didn't look like them, we didn't speak their language, we were different. When you're seven years old, that hurts. But I had my little sister to take care of, and she cried every day at summer camp. So I decided to put on a brave face, and embrace everything I could about the American way of life. We later did what we called "the summer camp experiment," for eight years in different cities that many Americans haven't even heard of. What I remember most about these moments was when I finally clicked with someone. Making a friend was a special reward. Everybody wants to feel valued and accepted, and we think it should happen spontaneously, but it doesn't. When you're different, you have to work at belonging. You have to be either really helpful, smart, funny, anything to be cool for the crowd you want to hang out with. Later on, when I was in high school, my dad expanded on his summer plan, and from Caracas he sent me to Wallingford, Connecticut, for the senior year of high school. This time, I remember daydreaming on the plane about "the American high school experience" - with a locker. It was going to be perfect, just like in my favorite TV show: "Saved by the Bell." (Laughter) I get there, and they tell me that my assigned roommate is eagerly waiting. I opened the door, and there she was, sitting on the bed, with a headscarf. Her name was Fatima, and she was Muslim from Bahrain, and she was not what I expected. She probably sensed my disappointment when I looked at her because I didn't do too much to hide it. See, as a teenager, I wanted to fit in even more, I wanted to be popular, maybe have a boyfriend for prom, and I felt that Fatima just got in the way with her shyness and her strict dress code. I didn't realize that I was making her feel like the kids at summer camp made me feel. This was the high school equivalent of asking her, "Do you know what a hamburger is?" I was consumed by my own selfishness and unable to put myself in her shoes. I have to be honest with you, we only lasted a couple of months together, because she was later sent to live with a counselor instead of other students. I remember thinking, "Ah, she'll be okay. She's just different." You see, when we label someone as different, it dehumanizes them in a way. They become "the other." They're not worthy of our time, not our problem, and in fact, they, "the other," are probably the cause of our problems. So, how do we recognize our blind spots? It begins by understanding what makes you different, by embracing those traits. Only then can you begin to appreciate what makes others special. I remember when this hit me. It was a couple months after that. I had found that boyfriend for prom, made a group of friends, and practically forgotten about Fatima, until everybody signed on to participate in this talent show for charity. You needed to offer a talent for auction. It seemed like everybody had something special to offer. Some kids were going to play the violin, others were going to recite a theater monologue, and I remember thinking, "We don't practice talents like these back home." But I was determined to find something of value. The day of the talent show comes, and I get up on stage with my little boom box, and put it on the side and press "Play," and a song by my favorite emerging artist, Shakira, comes up. And I go, "Whenever, wherever, we're meant to be together," and I said, "My name is Mariana, and I'm going to auction a dance class." It seemed like the whole school raised their hand to bid. My dance class really stood out from, like, the 10th violin class offered that day. Going back to my dorm room, I didn't feel different. I felt really special. That's when I started thinking about Fatima, a person that I had failed to see as special, when I first met her. She was from the Middle East, just like Shakira's family was from the Middle East. She could have probably taught me a thing or two about belly dancing, had I been open to it. Now, I want you all to take that sticker that was given to you at the beginning of our session today, where you wrote down what makes you special, and I want you to look at it. If you're watching at home, take a piece of paper, and write down what makes you different. You may feel guarded when you look at it, maybe even a little ashamed, maybe even proud. But you need to begin to embrace it. Remember, it is the first step in appreciating what makes others special. When I went back home to Venezuela, I began to understand how these experiences were changing me. Being able to speak different languages, to navigate all these different people and places, it gave me a unique sensibility. I was finally beginning to understand the importance of putting myself in other people's shoes. That is a big part of the reason why I decided to become a journalist. Especially being from a part of the world that is often labeled "the backyard," "the illegal aliens," "third-world," "the others," I wanted to do something to change that. It was right around the time, however, when the Venezuelan government shut down the biggest television station in our country. Censorship was growing, and my dad came up to me once again and said, "How are you going to be a journalist here? You have to leave." That's when it hit me. That's what he had been preparing me for. That is what the future held for me. So in 2008, I packed my bags, and I came to the United States, without a return ticket this time. I was painfully aware that, at 24 years old, I was becoming a refugee of sorts, an immigrant, the other, once again, and now for good. I was able to come on a scholarship to study journalism. I remember when they gave me my first assignment to cover the historic election of President Barack Obama. I felt so lucky, so hopeful. I was, like, "Yes, this is it. I've come to post-racial America, where the notion of us and them is being eroded, and will probably be eradicated in my lifetime." Boy, was I wrong, right? Why didn't Barack Obama's presidency alleviate racial tensions in our country? Why do some people still feel threatened by immigrants, LGBTQ, and minority groups who are just trying to find a space in this United States that should be for all of us? I didn't have the answers back then, but on November 8th, 2016, when Donald Trump became our president, it became clear that a large part of the electorate sees them as "the others." Some see people coming to take their jobs, or potential terrorists who speak a different language. Meanwhile, minority groups oftentimes just see hatred, intolerance, and narrow-mindedness on the other side. It's like we're stuck in these bubbles that nobody wants to burst. The only way to do it, the only way to get out of it is to realize that being different also means thinking differently. It takes courage to show respect. In the words of Voltaire: "I may not agree with what you have to say, but I will fight to the death to defend your right to say it." Failing to see anything good on the other side makes a dialogue impossible. Without a dialogue, we will keep repeating the same mistakes, because we will not learn anything new. I covered the 2016 election for NBC News. It was my first big assignment in this mainstream network, where I had crossed over from Spanish television. And I wanted to do something different. I watched election results with undocumented families. Few thought of sharing that moment with people who weren't citizens, but actually stood the most to lose that night. When it became apparent that Donald Trump was winning, this eight-year-old girl named Angelina rushed up to me in tears. She sobbed, and she asked me if her mom was going to be deported now. I hugged her back and I said, "It's going to be okay," but I really didn't know. This was the photo we took that night, forever ingrained in my heart. Here was this little girl who was around the same age I was when I went to camp in Brainerd. She already knows she is "the other." She walks home from school in fear, every day, that her mom can be taken away. So, how do we put ourselves in Angelina's shoes? How do we make her understand she is special, and not simply unworthy of having her family together? By giving camera time to her and families like hers, I tried to make people see them as human beings, and not simply "illegal aliens." Yes, they broke a law, and they should pay a penalty for it, but they've also given everything for this country, like many other immigrants before them have. I've already told you how my path to personal growth started. To end, I want to tell you how I hit the worst bump in the road yet, one that shook me to my very core. The day, April 10th, 2014, I was driving to the studio, and I got a call from my parents. "Are you on the air?" they asked. I immediately knew something was wrong. "What happened?" I said. "It's your sister; she's been in a car accident." It was as if my heart stopped. My hands gripped the steering wheel, and I remember hearing the words: "It is unlikely she will ever walk again." They say your life can change in a split second. Mine did at that moment. My sister went from being my successful other half, only a year apart in age, to not being able to move her legs, sit up, or get dressed by herself. This wasn't like summer camp, where I could magically make it better. This was terrifying. Throughout the course of two years, my sister underwent 15 surgeries, and she spent the most of that time in a wheelchair. But that wasn't even the worst of it. The worst was something so painful, it's hard to put into words, even now. It was the way people looked at her, looked at us, changed. People were unable to see a successful lawyer or a millennial with a sharp wit and a kind heart. Everywhere we went, I realized that people just saw a poor girl in a wheelchair. They were unable to see anything beyond that. After fighting like a warrior, I can thankfully tell you that today my sister is walking, and has recovered beyond anyone's expectations. (Applause) Thank you. But during that traumatic ordeal, I learned there are differences that simply suck, and it's hard to find positive in them. My sister's not better off because of what happened. But she taught me: you can't let those differences define you. Being able to reimagine yourself beyond what other people see, that is the toughest task of all, but it's also the most beautiful. You see, we all come to this world in a body. People with physical or neurological difficulties, environmentally impacted communities, immigrants, boys, girls, boys who want to dress as girls, girls with veils, women who have been sexually assaulted, athletes who bend their knee as a sign of protest, black, white, Asian, Native American, my sister, you, or me. We all want what everyone wants: to dream and to achieve. But sometimes, society tells us, and we tell ourselves, we don't fit the mold. Well, if you look at my story, from being born somewhere different, to belly dancing in high school, to telling stories you wouldn't normally see on TV, what makes me different is what has made me stand out and be successful. I have traveled the world, and talked to people from all walks of life. You know what I've learned? The single thing every one of us has in common is being human. So take a stand to defend your race, the human race. Let's appeal to it. Let's be humanists, before and after everything else. To end, I want you to take that sticker, that piece of paper where you wrote down what makes you different, and I want you to celebrate it today and every day, shout it from the rooftops. I also encourage you to be curious and ask, "What is on other people's pieces of paper?" "What makes them different?" Let's celebrate those imperfections that make us special. I hope that it teaches you that nobody has a claim on the word "normal." We are all different. We are all quirky, and unique, and that is what makes us wonderfully human. Thank you so much. (Applause)

Frequently Occurring Word Combinations

ngrams of length 2

collocation	frequency
summer camp	5
high school	3
mickey mouse	2
talent show	2
minority groups	2
donald trump	2

Important Words

accepted
accident
achieve
adventures
age
agree
air
aladdin
aliens
alleviate
america
american
americans
angelina
answer
answers
apparent
appeal
applause
appreciating
april
artist
ashamed
asian
asked
assaulted
assigned
assignment
atencios
athletes
attention
auction
aware
backyard
bags
bahrain
barack
beautiful
bed
began
beginning
begins
beings
bell
belly
belonging
bend
benefits
bid
big
biggest
black
blind
blonde
blue
body
book
boom
born
box
boy
boyfriend
boys
brainerd
brave
broke
broken
bubbles
bump
burst
call
called
camera
camp
campfire
canoe
car
caracas
care
celebrate
cell
censorship
change
changed
changing
characters
charity
cities
citizens
claim
class
clear
clicked
code
coming
common
communities
connecticut
consumed
cool
core
correlation
counselor
country
couple
courage
cover
covered
cried
crossed
crowd
cultures
curious
dad
dance
dancing
day
daydreaming
death
decided
defend
define
dehumanizes
deported
determined
dialogue
differences
differently
difficulties
director
disappointment
donald
donkey
door
dorm
dream
dress
dressed
driving
eagerly
east
election
electorate
embrace
embracing
emerging
encourage
english
entire
environmentally
equivalent
eradicated
eroded
excited
expanded
expectations
expected
experience
experiences
experiment
eyes
face
fact
failed
failing
families
family
fatima
favorite
fear
feel
felt
fight
fighting
filled
finally
find
fit
forgotten
friend
friends
frоm
funny
future
gathered
gave
girl
girls
giving
good
government
grew
gripped
group
groups
growing
growth
guarded
hair
hamburger
hand
hands
hang
happen
happened
hard
hatred
headscarf
heard
hearing
heart
held
helpful
hide
high
historic
hit
holds
home
honest
hope
hopeful
hugged
human
humanists
hurts
illegal
immediately
immigrant
immigrants
impacted
imperfections
importance
impossible
information
ingrained
instagram
international
intolerance
job
jobs
journalism
journalist
jungle
kids
kind
knee
knew
label
labeled
language
languages
large
lasted
laugh
laughter
law
lawyer
learn
learned
leave
legs
lgbtq
life
lifetime
live
lived
locker
looked
lose
lucky
magic
magically
mainstream
making
mariana
means
meant
met
miami
mickey
middle
millennial
mind
minnesota
minority
mistakes
mold
mom
moment
moments
monologue
months
mouse
move
muslim
named
native
navigate
nbc
needed
network
neurological
news
night
north
noticed
notion
november
obama
offer
offered
oftentimes
open
opened
ordeal
orlando
packed
painful
painfully
paper
parents
part
participate
path
pay
penalty
people
perfect
person
personal
phone
photo
phrase
physical
piece
pieces
place
places
plan
plane
planet
play
poor
popular
positive
potential
practically
practice
preparing
presidency
president
press
problem
problems
prom
protest
proud
put
putting
quirky
race
racial
raised
realize
realized
reason
recite
recognize
recovered
refugee
reimagine
remember
repeating
respect
results
return
reward
road
rooftops
room
roommate
rushed
scholarship
school
sees
selfishness
send
senior
sensed
sensibility
session
sexually
shades
shakira
sharing
sharp
shoes
shook
shout
show
shut
shyness
side
sign
signed
simply
single
sister
sit
sitting
slightly
smart
snapchat
sobbed
society
song
sorts
south
space
spanish
speak
speaks
special
spending
spent
split
spontaneously
spots
stage
stand
started
states
station
steering
step
sticker
stood
stopped
stories
story
stressing
strict
stuck
students
studio
study
successful
suck
summer
surgeries
takes
talent
talents
talk
talked
task
taught
teaches
tears
teenager
television
telling
tells
tensions
terrifying
terrorists
thankfully
theater
thinking
thought
threatened
ticket
time
today
told
toughest
traits
traumatic
traveled
trump
tv
unable
understand
understanding
underwent
undocumented
unique
united
unworthy
valued
veils
venezuela
venezuelan
view
violin
waiting
walk
walking
walks
wallingford
wanted
warrior
watched
watching
wheel
wheelchair
white
wider
winning
wit
women
wonderfully
word
words
work
world
worst
worthy
write
wrong
wrote
year
years
young