Unit-2-The-Struggle-to-Be-an-All-American-Girl-课文翻译.doc

UNIT 2THE STRUGGLE TO BE AN ALL-AMERICAN GIRLElizabeth Wong1. 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 Reading4.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 Reading6.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 Reading7.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. 为成为一个完全彻底的美国女孩而努力1.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，经常批评她的洋泾浜英语，丝毫不留情面说她的英语会话中像炒杂碎似的夹杂着一两句中文。“不是What it is,妈妈，” 他会很生气地说。“是What is it, what is it, what is it!”有的时候，妈妈也许会漏掉“the”或“a, 或者忘掉动词“being”。他就会在她说到一半的时候打断她。“再说一次，妈妈。要说正确了。”他自己口误时，就会把责任推给她。“瞧，妈妈，都是因为你，是你树立的坏榜样。”10.最让妈妈怒不可遏的是弟弟抓住她在辅音上出的错，尤其是“r”这个音。爸爸对妈妈恶作剧，给她取了一个美国名字，她那舌头就是发不出这个音。无论怎么努力，她说“Ruth”，结果不是“Luth”，就是“Roof”。11. 用毛笔写了两年字，背了两年有几个意思的汉字，我终于获准在文化上脱离了，获准不再上中文学校了。12. 我原来以为自己具有多元文化的背景。我喜欢吃墨西哥玉米卷，不爱吃蛋卷。比起过春节，我更喜欢五月五日死亡节。13.最终，我成了你们当中的一员，不再是他们当中的一员。14.令我难过的是，我现在还是这样。