综合教学方针教育材料5课文课本与课文课本翻译.doc

-/ THE FOURTH OF JULY Audre Lorde 1 The first time I went to Washington D.C. was on the edge of the summer when I was supposed to stop being a child. At least thats what they said to us all at graduation from the eighth grade. My sister Phyllis graduated at the same time from high school. I don’t know what she was supposed to stop being. But as graduation presents for us both, the whole family took a Fourth of July trip to Washington D.C., the fabled and famous capital of our country. Detailed Reading 2 It was the first time Id ever been on a railroad train during the day. When I was little, and we used to go to the Connecticut shore, we always went at night on the milk train, because it was cheaper. 3. Preparations were in the air around our house before school was even over. We packed for a week. There were two very large suitcases that my father carried, and a box filled with food. In fact, my first trip to Washington was a mobile feast; I started eating as soon as we were comfortably ensconced in our seats, and did not stop until somewhere after Philadelphia. I remember it was Philadelphia because I was disappointed not to have passed by the Liberty Bell. 4. My mother had roasted two chickens and cut them up into dainty bite-size pieces. She packed slices of brown bread and butter, and green pepper and carrot sticks. There were little violently yellow iced cakes with scalloped edges called "marigolds," that came from Cushmans Bakery. There was a spice bun and rock-cakes from Newtons, the West Indian bakery across Lenox Avenue from St. Marks school, and iced tea in a wrapped mayonnaise jar. There were sweet pickles for us and dill pickles for my father, and peaches with the fuzz still on them, individually wrapped to keep them from bruising. And, for neatness, there were piles of napkins and a little tin box with a washcloth dampened with rosewater and glycerine for wiping sticky mouths. 5. I wanted to eat in the dining car because I had read all about them, but my mother reminded me for the umpteenth time that dining car food always cost too much money and besides, you never could tell whose hands had been playing all over that food, nor where those same hands had been just before. My mother never mentioned that Black people were not allowed into railroad dining cars headed south in 1947. As usual, whatever my mother did not like and could not change, she ignored. Perhaps it would go away, deprived of her attention. 6. I learned later that Phylliss high school senior class trip had been to Washington, but the nuns had given her back her deposit in private, explaining to her that the class, all of whom were white, except Phyllis, would be staying in a hotel where Phyllis "would not be happy," meaning, Daddy explained to her, also in private, that they did not rent rooms to Negroes. "We still take among-you to Washington, ourselves, "my father had avowed, "and not just for an overnight in some measly fleabag hotel." 7. In Washington D.C., we had one large room with two double beds and an extra cot for me. It was a back-street hotel that belonged to a friend of my fathers who was in real estate, and I spent the whole next day after Mass squinting up at the Lincoln Memorial where Marian Anderson had sung after the D.A.R. refused to allow her to sing in their auditorium because she was Black. Or because she was "Colored", my father said as he told us the story. Except that what he probably said was "Negro", because for his times, my father was quite progressive. 8. I was squinting because I was in that silent agony that characterized all of my childhood summers, from the time school let out in June to the end of July, brought about by my dilated and vulnerable eyes exposed to the summer brightness. 9. I viewed Julys through an agonizing corolla of dazzling whiteness and I always hated the Fourth of July, even before I came to realize the travesty such a celebration was for Black people in this country. 10. My parents did not approve of sunglasses, nor of their expense. 11. I spent the afternoon squinting up at monuments to freedom and past presidencies and democracy, and wondering why the light and heat were both so much stronger in Washington D.C., than back home in New York City. Even the pavement on the streets was a shade lighter in color than back home. 12. Late that Washington afternoon my family and I walked back down Pennsylvania Avenue. We were a proper caravan, mother bright and father brown, the three of us girls step-standards in-between. Moved by our historical surroundings and the heat of early evening, my father decreed yet another treat. He had a great sense of history, a flair for the quietly dramatic and the sense of specialness of an occasion and a trip. 13. "Shall we stop and have a little something to cool off, Lin? " 14. Two blocks away from our hotel, the family stopped for a dish of vanilla ice cream at a Breyers ice cream and soda fountain. Indoors, the soda fountain was dim and fan-cooled, deliciously relieving to my scorched eyes. 15. Corded and crisp and pinafored, the five of us seated ourselves one by one at the counter. There was I between my mother and father, and my two sisters on the other side of my mother. We settled ourselves along the white mottled marble counter, and when the waitress spoke at first no one understood what she was saying, and so the five of us just sat there. 16. The waitress moved along the line of us closer to my father and spoke again. "I said I kin give you to take out, but you cant eat here, sorry." Then she dropped her eyes looking very embarrassed, and suddenly we heard what it was she was saying all at the same time, loud and clear. 17. Straight-backed and indignant, one by one, my family and I got down from the counter stools and turned around and marched out of the store, quiet and outraged, as if we had never been Black before. No one would answer my emphatic questions with anything other than a guilty silence. "But we hadnt done anything!" This wasnt right or fair! Hadnt I written poems about freedom and democracy for all? 18. My parents wouldnt speak of this injustice, not because they had contributed to it, but because they felt they should have anticipated it and avoided it. This made me even angrier. My fury was not going to be acknowledged by a like fury. Even my two sisters copied my parents pretense that nothing unusual and anti-American had occurred. I was left to write my angry letter to the president of the United States all by myself, although my father did promise I could type it out on the office typewriter next week, after I showed it to him in my copybook diary. 19. The waitress was white, and the counter was white, and the ice cream I never ate in Washington D.C., that summer I left childhood was white, and the white heat and the white pavement and the white stone monuments of my first Washington summer made me sick to my stomach for the whole rest of that trip and it wasnt much of a graduation present after all. 我第一次去华盛顿是在那年刚入夏，这个夏天也是我从此告别孩提时代的开始。至少，这是他们在我们八年级毕业时对大家这么说的。我的姐姐菲利丝同时从高中毕业。我不清楚她应该告别什么阶段。不过，作为给我们俩毕业的礼物，全家人于七月四日赴华盛顿旅游，前往我们国家寓言般的、闻名遐迩的首都。 2. 那是我第一次大白天乘火车。小时候，我们常去康涅狄格海边，我们总是晚上搭乘运送牛奶的火车，因为车票更便宜。 3. 早在放假前，家里就洋溢着准备出发的气氛。我们打包就花了一个星期。有两个很大的箱子，是爸爸拿的，还有一个装满食品的盒子。事实上，我的那第一次前往华盛顿的旅途是个流动的宴席；舒舒服服地在座位上刚坐下来，我就开吃了，一直吃到火车抵达费城附近的地方。我记得那是费城，是因为没有路过自由大钟而感到失望的缘故。 4. 我妈妈烤了两只鸡，还将它们很漂亮地切成一口一块那么大小。她带了黑面包片、黄油、青椒和胡萝卜条；还有那边上点缀着叫做“万寿菊”的有点儿黄黄的冰镇蛋糕，是从库什曼面包房买来的。有在牛顿店里买来的辣面包卷和硬饼，就是在伦诺克斯大街圣马可学校对面的那家西部印第安面包房。有包裹得好好的灌在色拉酱瓶里的冰茶。有给我们吃的甜泡菜，有给爸爸吃的小茴香泡菜，还有长着绒毛的桃子，每一只都分开来包，以免碰伤。此外，为了整洁，还有一沓沓的餐巾，一块放在小铁盒子里浸泡着玫瑰水和甘油的小毛巾，擦黏糊糊的嘴巴用的。 5. 我想要到餐车去吃饭，因为我阅读过这方面的内容。但是，妈妈已经无数次地提醒过我，在餐车里吃饭要花很多钱，而且还不知道那些吃的东西出自于什么人的手，也不知道那双手刚碰过什么东西。妈妈从来不提及，1947年开往南方的火车上，黑人是不准进餐车的。一如既往，凡是妈妈不喜欢的东西和不能改变的事情，她一概不予理睬。也许因为得不到她的关注，这种事情就会消失。 6. 我后来获悉，菲利丝高三班级的旅游也是去华盛顿，但是那几个嬷嬷悄悄地把她交的预付款退还给她，对她解释说，除了她，全班都是白人学生。他们要待在一家旅馆里，菲利丝在那儿会“不开心的”，意思是说他们不租房间给黑人，爸爸也是这么悄悄地对她解释的。“我们还是要带你们去华盛顿的，我们自己去，”爸爸信誓旦旦，“而且远不止住在便宜肮脏的旅馆里待一个晚上。” 7. 在华盛顿，我们有一间大房间，两张双人床，外加一张给我的儿童床。那是一家位于后街的旅馆，店主是爸爸的朋友，此人从事房地产业。第二天做完弥撒之后，我便一整天眯起眼睛抬头仰望林肯纪念堂。在这里玛丽安安德森放声高歌，之前美国革命女儿会因为她是黑人拒绝她在他们的礼堂歌唱。或许就因为她是“有色的”，就像爸爸给我们讲这个故事的时候那么说的。要么他很可能说的是“黑人(Negro)”，因为在当时我父亲是相当进步的。 8. 我眯起双眼，因为我默默承受着自己童年时代每年夏天都要承受的痛苦，从六月底学校放假开始到七月底。这个痛苦是因为在夏日的强光下张大眼睛受到伤害而造成的。 9. 我是通过一层令人痛苦的圆环状的耀眼强光看见七月份的。我一直痛恨七月四日，甚至在我意识到这种骗人的鬼话之前：这种庆祝是为这个国家的黑人的。 10. 我的父母不认可太阳眼镜，也接受不了太阳镜的价格。 11. 整个下午我眯起双眼抬头张望那些自由、逝去的总统以及民主的纪念碑，心想为什么华盛顿的光线和热量要比在纽约家乡强得多，甚至街上人行道的颜色也比家里的要白一些。 12. 在华盛顿一天下午黄昏的时候，我和家人沿着宾夕法尼亚大道往回走。我们俨然一个旅行团，妈妈白晳亮丽，爸爸棕色皮肤，我们三个女孩的肤色介于两者之间，由浅至深。受到周围历史气氛和黄昏热浪的影响，爸爸决定再次请客。他有很强的历史感，他天生有种并不张扬的戏剧性，而且对场景和旅行有种特殊的感触。 13. “我们停下来吃些东西凉快凉快好吗，琳？” 14. 离我们住的旅馆两个街区之遥，我们一家人停下脚步，在一家布雷耶冰淇淋和汽水店买了一盘冰淇淋。室内，柜台光线昏暗，电扇下凉风习习，让我被强光照耀的双眼感到轻松多了。 15. 我们的座位用绳子连在一起，个个神清气爽，围着餐巾，五个人并排在柜台前坐下。我在爸爸和妈妈中间，两个姐姐在妈妈的另一边。我们一字排开，靠着带有花纹的大理石柜台坐下。女服务员张口说话，一开始谁也没听懂她在说什么，于是我们五个人就坐在那儿。 16. 女服务员沿着我们向爸爸走去，再次说道，“我刚才说可以让你们外带，但是你们不能在这儿吃，对不起。”然后，她垂下双眼，一副尴尬的样子。我们突然听见她说的话了，同时听见的，响亮清晰。 17. 挺起胸膛，义愤填膺，我和家人一个接一个地从柜台前的凳子上站起身来，转身大步跨出店堂，一言不发，但怒火中烧，似乎我们以前从来就不是黑人。我加重语气地说道，“我们什么也没有做呀!”就是不对，不公平呀!难道我没有写过所有人都该享有自由民主的诗歌吗？除了因愧疚而默默无声，谁也没有对我的问题做出应答。 18. 我的爸爸妈妈对不公正缄默无语，不是因为他们对此有什么责任，而是因为他们觉得本应该早有预料，并应该加以避免的。这让我更加愤怒。我的怒火并没人认可，也没人像我一样愤怒。连我那两个姐姐也随着爸爸妈妈，装作没有发生过什么非同寻常、反美国的事情。那只好由我自己来给美国总统写封信，表达自己的愤怒。不过，我给爸爸看了我写在练习簿的信之后，他保证我下周可以在他的办公室打字机上将信打出来。 19 那个女服务员是个白人，那张柜台是白色的，那份我从来没在华盛顿吃的冰淇淋，以及我告别了童年的夏天都是白色的。还有那年夏天我第一次去华盛顿的白色的热浪、白色的人行道和白色的石柱纪念碑在接下来的旅程中让我恶心。那可算不上一件毕业礼物啊。 第二课 THE STRUGGLE TO BE AN ALL-AMERICAN GIRL Elizabeth Wong 1. Its still there, the Chinese school on Yale Street where my brother and I used to go. Despite the new coat of paint and the high wire fence, the school I knew 10 years ago remains remarkably, stoically the same. 2. Every day at 5 p.m., instead of playing with our fourth- and fifth-grade friends or sneaking out to the empty lot to hunt ghosts and animal bones, my brother and I had to go to Chinese school. No amount of kicking, screaming, or pleading could dissuade my mother, who was solidly determined to have us learn the language of our heritage. 3. Forcibly, she walked us the seven long, hilly blocks from our home to school, depositing our defiant tearful faces before the stern principal. My only memory of him is that he swayed on his heels like a palm tree, and he always clasped his impatient twitching hands behind his back. I recognized him as a repressed maniacal child killer, and knew that if we ever saw his hands wed be in big trouble. Detailed Reading 4. We all sat in little chairs in an empty auditorium. The room smelled like Chinese medicine, an imported faraway mustiness. Like ancient mothballs or dirty closets. I hated that smell. I favored crisp new scents, like the soft French perfume that my American teacher wore in public school. 5. Although the emphasis at the school was mainly language — speaking, reading, writing — the lessons always began with an exercise in politeness. With the entrance of the teacher, the best student would tap a bell and everyone would get up, kowtow, and chant, "Sing san ho," the phonetic for "How are you, teacher?" Detailed Reading 6. Being ten years old, I had better things to learn than ideographs copied painstakingly in lines that ran right to left from the tip of a moc but, a real ink pen that had to be held in an awkward way if blotches were to be avoided. After all, I could do the multiplication tables, name the satellites of Mars, and write reports on Little Women and Black Beauty. Nancy Drew, my favorite book heroine, never spoke Chinese. Detailed Reading 7. The language was a source of embarrassment. More times than not, I had tried to disassociate myself from the nagging loud voice that followed me wherever I wandered in the nearby American supermarket outside Chinatown. The voice belonged to my grandmother, a fragile woman in her seventies who could outshout the best of the street vendors. Her humor was raunchy, her Chinese rhythmless and patternless. It was quick, it was loud, it was unbeautiful. It was not like the quiet, lilting romance of French or the gentle refinement of the American South. Chinese sounded pedestrian. Public. 8. In Chinatown, the comings and goings of hundreds of Chinese on their daily tasks sounded chaotic and frenzied. I did not want to be thought of as mad, as talking gibberish. When I spoke English, people nodded at me, smiled sweetly, said encouraging words. Even the people in my culture would cluck and say that Id do well in life. "My, doesnt she move her lips fast," they would say, meaning that Id be able to keep up with the world outside Chinatown. 9. My brother was even more fanatical than I about speaking English. He was especially hard on my mother, criticizing her, often cruelly, for her pidgin speech — smatterings of Chinese scattered like chop suey in her conversation. "Its not What it is, Mom," he would say in exasperation. "Its What is it, what is it, what is it!" Sometimes Mom might leave out an occasional "the" or "a", or perhaps a verb of being. He would stop her in mid-sentence, "Say it again, Mom. Say it right." When he tripped over his own tongue, hed blame it on her, "See, Mom, its all your fault. You set a bad example." 10. What infuriated my mother most was when my brother cornered her on her consonants, especially "r". My father had played a cruel joke on Mom by assigning her an American name that her tongue wouldnt allow her to say. No matter how hard she tried, "Ruth" always ended up "Luth" or "Roof". 11. After two years of writing with a moc but and reciting words with multiples of meanings, I finally was granted a cultural divorce. I was permitted to stop Chinese school. 12. I thought of myself as multicultural. I preferred tacos to egg rolls; I enjoyed Cinco de Mayo more than Chinese New Year. 13. At last, I was one of you; I wasnt one of them. 14. Sadly, I still am. 我和弟弟小时候上的那所耶鲁大街上的中文学校还在那儿。除了新刷的油漆和高高的电网，我10年前就认识的这所学校依然一切如故。。 2. 每天下午5点钟，我和弟弟不能和四年级、五年级的伙伴们玩耍，也不能偷偷溜进那片空地去寻找鬼魂和动物骨头，而非得去中文学校上课。无论怎么跺脚踢腿、大喊大闹、或者苦苦哀求，妈妈都无动于衷。她下定决心要让我们学会祖传的语言。 3. 连拖带拽，她带着我们走过那长长的七个街区的陡坡路来到学校，把我们扔在那无比严酷的校长面前，我们满脸都是倔强的泪水。我头脑里只记得，那个校长像一棵棕榈树，双脚站立，身体左右摇晃，双手手指交叉放在背后总不耐烦地抽动着。在我眼里，他是个心情压抑、行为狂躁的谋杀小孩的凶手，而且还知道，如果一旦看见他的手，我们就有大麻烦了。 4. 我们都坐在空空荡荡礼堂里的小椅子上。屋内散发着像中药似的气味，一种来自远方的陈年霉味，像年代久远的樟脑丸或肮脏的小房间里的味道。我对那种味道深恶痛绝。我喜爱清新的香味，比如我的那位公立学校美国老师身上的那种温馨的法国香水味。 5. 虽然在那所学校里主要是学习语言——说话、阅读、写字，但是每堂课总是以操练礼貌开始。老师一走进教室，最好的那个学生就打铃，于是大家全体起立、磕头、并齐声说，“先生好”，即“老师您好”的中文发音。 6. 那年我十岁，比起用毛笔从右至左一横一竖、煞费苦心地写方块字，我有更好的东西去学习。毛笔是一支真正的墨水笔，要避免弄出墨点儿来，就得别别扭扭地握住笔。我毕竟背得出乘法口诀，说得出火星的卫星名字，还写过《小妇人》和《黑美人》的读书报告。南希德鲁是我最喜欢的书籍里的女主人翁，她可从来不说中文。 7. 语言真给人带来尴尬。很多次我去逛唐人街附近的美国超市时，就会从身后传来喋喋不休的大声喧哗。我经常要想方设法摆脱这个声音。那是我奶奶的声音，她已年逾七旬，身体脆弱，但是她的喉咙超过街上最棒的小贩。她有一种低俗的幽默，说的中文既缺乏节奏，又没有句型。那声音说得很快、很响、很不美；不像那细声细气、抑扬顿挫的浪漫法语，也不像温柔上乘的美国南部的声音。中文听上去就是有市井气，不登大雅之堂。 8. 在唐人街，数以千计的华人为了生计来往忙碌，他们说起话的声音杂乱无章。我可不想被人以为疯了，以为在胡言乱语。我开口说英语时，人们对我点头示意、报以微笑，还说上几句鼓励的话。甚至连与我同民族的人也会忙不迭地说我以后会有出息。“天哪，她那小嘴唇动得多快，”他们说道，意思是说我跟得上唐人街外面世界的步伐。 9. 提到说英语，我弟弟比我更吹毛求疵。他对妈妈特别严格，经常批评她的