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现代大学英语精读5lesson2课文TwoKindsdoc
TwoKinds
AmyTan
MymotherbelievedyoucouldbeanythingyouwantedtobeinAmerica.Youcouldopenarestaurant.Youcouldworkforthegovernmentandgetgoodretirement.Youcouldbuyahousewithalmostnomoneydown.Youcouldbecomerich.Youcouldbecomeinstantlyfamous.
“Ofcourse,youcanbeaprodigy1,too,”mymothertoldmewhenIwasnine.“Youcanbebestanything.WhatdoesAuntieLindoknow?
Herdaughter,sheisonlybesttricky.”
Americawaswhereallmymother’shopeslay.ShehadcometoSanFranciscoin1949afterlosingeverythinginChina:
hermotherandfather,herhome,herfirsthusband,andtwodaughters,twinbabygirls.Butsheneverlookedbackwithregret.Thingscouldgetbetterinsomanyways.
Wedidn’timmediatelypicktherightkindofprodigy.AtfirstmymotherthoughtIcouldbeaChineseShirleyTemple2.We’dwatchShirley’soldmoviesonTVasthoughtheyweretrainingfilms.Mymotherwouldpokemyarmandsay,“Nikan.Youwatch.”AndIwouldseeShirleytappingherfeet,orsingingasailorsong,orpursingherlipsintoaveryroundOwhilesaying“Oh,mygoodness.”
“Nikan,”mymothersaid,asShirley’seyesfloodedwithtears.“Youalreadyknowhow.Don’tneedtalentforcrying!
”
SoonaftermymothergotthisideaaboutShirleyTemple,shetookmetothebeautytrainingschoolintheMissionDistrictandputmeinthehandsofastudentwhocouldbarelyholdthescissorswithoutshaking.Insteadofgettingbigfatcurls,Iemergedwithanunevenmassofcrinklyblackfuzz3.Mymotherdraggedmeofftothebathroomandtriedtowetdownmyhair.
“YoulooklikeaNegroChinese,”shelamented,asifIhaddonethisonpurpose.
Theinstructorofthebeautytrainingschoolhadtolopoff4thesesoggyclumpstomakemyhairevenagain.“PeterPan5isverypopularthesedays”theinstructorassuredmymother.Inowhadbadhairthelengthofaboy’s,withcurlybangsthathungataslanttwoinchesabovemyeyebrows.Ilikedthehaircut,anditmademeactuallylookforwardtomyfuturefame.
Infact,inthebeginningIwasjustasexcitedasmymother,maybeevenmoreso.Ipicturedthisprodigypartofmeasmanydifferentimages,andItriedeachoneonforsize.Iwasadaintyballerinagirlstandingbythecurtain,waitingtohearthemusicthatwouldsendmefloatingonmytiptoes.IwasliketheChristchildliftedoutofthestrawmanger,cryingwithholyindignity.IwasCinderella6steppingfromherpumpkincarriagewithsparklycartoonmusicfillingtheair.
InallofmyimaginingsIwasfilledwithasensethatIwouldsoonbecomeperfect:
Mymotherandfatherwouldadoreme.Iwouldbebeyondreproach.Iwouldneverfeeltheneedtosulk,ortoclamorforanything.Butsometimestheprodigyinmebecameimpatient.“Ifyoudon’thurryupandgetmeoutofhere,I’mdisappearingforgood,”itwarned.“Andthenyou’llalwaysbenothing.”
EverynightafterdinnermymotherandIwouldsitattheFormica7toppedkitchentable.Shewouldpresentnewtests,takingherexamplesfromstoriesofamazingchildrenthatshereadinRipley’sBelieveItorNotorGoodHousekeeping,Reader’sdigest,oranyofadozenothermagazinesshekeptinapileinourbathroom.Mymothergotthesemagazinesfrompeoplewhosehousesshecleaned.Andsinceshecleanedmanyhouseseachweek,wehadagreatassortment.Shewouldlookthroughthemall,searchingforstoriesaboutremarkablechildren.
Thefirstnightshebroughtoutastoryaboutathree-year-oldboywhoknewthecapitalsofallthestatesandeventhemostoftheEuropeancountries.Ateacherwasquotedassayingthatthelittleboycouldalsopronouncethenamesoftheforeigncitiescorrectly.“What’sthecapitalofFinland?
”mymotheraskedme,lookingatthestory.
AllIknewwasthecapitalofCalifornia,becauseSacramento8wasthenameofthestreetwelivedoninChinatown9.“Nairobi10!
”Iquessed,sayingthemostforeignwordIcouldthinkof.Shecheckedtoseeifthatmightbeonewaytopronounce“Helsinki11”beforeshowingmetheanswer.
Thetestsgotharder-multiplyingnumbersinmyhead,findingthequeenofheartsinadeckofcards,tryingtostandonmyheadwithoutusingmyhands,predictingthedailytemperaturesinLosangeles,NewYork,andLondon.
OnenightIhadtolookatapagefromtheBibleforthreeminutesandthenreporteverythingIcouldremember.“NowJehoshaphathadriches12andhonorinabundanceandthat’sallIremember,Ma,”Isaid.
Andafterseeing,onceagain,mymother’sdisappointedface,somethinginsidemebegantodie.Ihatedthetests,theraisedhopesandfailedexpectations.BeforegoingtobedthatnightIlookedinthemirrorabovethebathroomsink,andIsawonlymyfacestaringback---andunderstoodthatitwouldalwaysbethisordinaryface---Ibegantocry.Suchasad,uglygirl!
Imadehigh-pitchednoiseslikeacrazedanimal,tryingtoscratchoutthefaceinthemirror.
AndthenIsawwhatseemedtobetheprodigysideofme---afaceIhadneverseenbefore.Ilookedatmyreflection,blinkingsothatIcouldseemoreclearly.Thegirlstaringbackatmewasangry,powerful.SheandIwerethesame.Ihadnewthoughts,willfulthoughtsorrather,thoughtsfilledwithlotsofwon’ts.Iwon’tletherchangeme,Ipromisedmyself.Iwon’tbewhatI’mnot.
Sonowwhenmymotherpresentedhertests,Iperformedlistlessly,myheadproppedononearm.Ipretendedtobebored.AndIwas.IgotsoboredthatIstartedcountingthebellowsofthefoghornsoutonthebaywhilemymotherdrilledmeinotherareas.Thesoundwascomfortingandremindedmeofthecowjumpingoverthemoon.AndthenextdayIplayedagamewithmyself,seeingifmymotherwouldgiveuponmebeforeeightbellows.AfterawhileIusuallycountedonyonebellow,maybetwoatmost.Atlastshewasbeginningtogiveuphope.
Twoorthreemonthswentbywithoutanymentionofmybeingaprodigy.AndthenonedaymymotherwaswatchingtheEdSullivanShow13onTV.TheTVwasoldandthesoundkeptshortingout.Everytimemymothergothalfwayupfromthesofatoadjusttheset,thesoundwouldcomebackonandSullivanwouldbetalking.Assoonasshesatdown,Sullivanwouldgosilentagain.Shegotup,theTVbrokeintoloudpianomusic.Shesatdown,silence.Upanddown,backandforth,quietandloud.Itwaslikeastiff,embracelessdancebetweenherandtheTVset.Finally,shestoodbythesetwithherhandonthesounddial.
Sheseemedentrancedbythemusic,afrenziedlittlepianopiecewithamesmerizingquality,whichalternatedbetweenquick,playfulpassagesandteasing,liltingones.
“Nikan,”mymothersaid,callingmeoverwithhurriedhandgestures.“Lookhere.”
Icouldseewhymymotherwasfascinatedbythemusic.ItwasbeingpoundedoutbyalittleChinesegirl,aboutnineyearsold,withaPeterPanhaircut.ThegirlhadthesaucinessofaShirleyTemple.Shewasproudlymodest,likeaproperChineseChild.Andshealsodidafancysweepofacurtsy,sothatthefluffyskirtofherwhitedresscascadedtothefloorlikepetalsofalargecarnation.
Inspiteofthesewarningsigns,Iwasn’tworried.Ourfamilyhadnopianoandwecouldn’taffordtobuyone,letalonereamsofsheetmusicandpianolessons.SoIcouldbegenerousinmycommentswhenmymotherbadmouthed14thelittlegirlonTV.
“Playnoteright,butdoesn’tsoundgood!
”mymothercomplained“Nosingingsound.”
“Whatareyoupickingonherfor?
”Isaidcarelessly.“She’sprettygood.Maybeshe’snotthebest,butshe’stryinghard.”IknewalmostimmediatelythatIwouldbesorryIhadsaidthat.
“Justlikeyou,”shesaid.“Notthebest.Becauseyounottrying.”Shegavealittlehuffassheletgoofthesounddialandsatdownonthesofa.
ThelittleChinesegirlsatdownalso,toplayanencoreof“Anitra’sTanz,”byGrieg15.Irememberthesong,becauselateronIhadtolearnhowtoplayit.
ThreedaysafterwatchingtheEdSullivanShowmymothertoldmewhatmyschedulewouldbeforpianolessonsandpianopractice.ShehadtalkedtoMr.Chong,wholivedonthefirstfloorofourapartmentbuilding.Mr.Chongwasaretiredpianoteacher,andmymotherhadtradedhousecleaningservicesforweeklylessonsandapianoformetopracticeoneveryday,twohoursaday,fromfouruntilsix.
Whenmymothertoldmethis,IfeltasthoughIhadbeensenttohell.IwishedandthenkickedmyfootalittlewhenIcouldn”tstanditanymore.
“Whydon’tyoulikemethewayIam?
I’mnotagenius!
Ican’tplaythepiano.AndevenifIcould,Iwouldn’tgoonTVifyoupaidmeamilliondollars!
”Icried.
Mymotherslappedme.“Whoaskyoubegenius.”sheshouted.“Onlyaskyoubeyourbest.Foryousake.YouthinkIwantyoubegenius?
Hnnh!
Whatfor!
Whoaskyou!
”
“Soungrateful,”Iheardhermutterinchinese.“Ifshehadasmuchtalentasshehadtemper,shewouldbefamousnow.”
Mr.Chong,whomIsecretlynicknamedOldChong,wasverystrange,alwaystappinghisfingerstothesilentmusicofaninvisibleorchestra.Helookedancientinmyeyes.Hehadlostmostofthehairontopofhisheadandheworethickglassesandhadeyesthatalwaysthought,sincehelivedwithhismotherandwasnotyetmarried.
ImetOldLadyChongonce,andthatwasenough.Shehadapeculiarsmell,likeababythathaddonesomethinginitspants,andherfingersfeltlikeadeadperson’s,likeanoldpeachIoncefoundinthebackoftherefrigerator:
itsskinjustslidoffthefleshwhenIpickeditup.
IsoonfoundoutwhyOldChonghadretiredfromteachingpiano.Hewasdeaf.“LikeBeethoven!
”heshoutedtome“We’rebothlisteningonlyinourhead!
”Andhewouldstarttoconducthisfranticsilentsonatas16.
Ourlessonswentlikethis.He