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新概念英语青少版 1a---- 在秉承《新概念英语》先进教学理念的基础上, 《新概念英语青少版》拥有更多不同的特质Unit 1Lesson 1 Meet the family! (认识下我的家人William: Hello. My name is William Jenkins.This is my family.This is Karen. Karen is my wife.(你好,我的名字叫威廉 . 詹金斯,这是我的家人,这是凯伦,是我的妻子。
Karen: How do you do?(你好William:This is Lucy. Lucy’s my daughter.(这是露西,露西是我的女儿。
Lucy :Hello!(你好William: This is my son, Robert.(这是我的儿子,罗伯特。
Robert: Hi!(嗨。
William:And this is Paul. Paul’s my nephew.(这是保罗,保罗是我的侄子。
Paul: Hello! Nice to meet you! (你好,很高兴见到你。
Rhyme 英语童谣:One, two, this is my shoe One, two, this is my shoe Three, four, that is the door Five, six, pick up sticks Seven, eight, open the gate. Nine, ten, say this again.Unit 2 What is it? (那是什么?Robert: Hey, this is good! Look, Lucy! What is this? (嘿,这个真不错,看,露西,这是什么?Lucy: It's a wheel.(是车轮。
Robert : No, it isn't! Look! It's green! It's a hat! (不是,看,它是绿色的额,是个帽子。
《梦娜在希望之乡》中母女矛盾再探析刘昕丹内容提要：华裔美国作家任碧莲的作品通常以家庭成员之间的关系为出发点，探讨各种社会问题。
在第二部小说《梦娜在希望之乡》中，作者着重描写了海伦和梦娜之间的母女矛盾。
结合作品的创作背景和作者的经历，本文指出这一矛盾反映了两个更深层次的内涵：其一是白人至上的主流文化与多元文化主义之间的冲突，其二是任碧莲与其他华裔美国作家的创作分歧，即以血统为主和以文化为主的创作之间的分歧。
关键词：《梦娜在希望之乡》 母女矛盾 文化冲突 创作分歧作者简介：刘昕丹，北京外国语大学英语学院，研究方向为美国文学。
Title: On the Mother-Daughter Conflicts in Mona in the Promised LandAbstract: The Chinese American writer Gish Jen usually explores various problems on the basis of the relationship between the family members. In her second novel Mona in the Promised Land, Gish Jen mainly talks about the mother-daughter conflicts between Helen and Mona. With the combination of the background of the novel and the experiences of the author, the present article points out that these conflicts reflect two profound meanings: one is the conflicts between the white-supremacy mainstream culture and the multiculturalism in the American society; the other is the creation discrepancy between Gish Jen and other Chinese American writers, that is, the ancestry-oriented creation and the culture-oriented creation.Key words: Mona in the Promised Land mother-daughter conflicts cultural conflicts creation discrepancyAuthor: Liu Xindan is from the School of English and International Studies, Beijing Foreign Studies University, specializing in American Literature.《梦娜在希望之乡》是华裔美国作家任碧莲的第二部小说，母女矛盾是其主题之一。
the sheik's white donkey 的内容概括"The Sheik's White Donkey" is a French documentary film directed by French-Algerian filmmaker Rithy Panh. The film explores the lasting effects of war and trauma on individuals and societies, using the metaphor of a white donkey as a symbol for hope, resilience, and the search for meaning in a post-war world. This 1500-2000 word essay will discuss the key elements of the film, its narrative structure, themes, and its impact on the audience."The Sheik's White Donkey" is a deeply introspective and poetic documentary that takes its viewers on an emotional journey. The film tells the story of the director's personal experiences as a survivor of the Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia and his reflections on the aftermath of war and genocide. By using the metaphor of a white donkey, Panh attempts to convey his understanding of resilience and the human spirit's ability to find solace and hope even in the darkest times.The film unfolds through a series of visual and narrative layers, blending Panh's personal narration, archival footage, and poignant reenactments. It begins with Panh introducing his whitedonkey, a gift from a sheik, as a symbol of individual and collective healing, transformation, and redemption. The donkey becomes a metaphor for the resilience and strength of the Cambodian people who endured unspeakable horrors. Through the lens of this stoic and loyal animal, the film explores the lasting effects of war, displacement, loss, and trauma on individuals and communities.Panh uses an unconventional narrative structure to convey his message. He intertwines his personal memories and the donkey's journey, drawing parallelism between their shared experiences. The donkey's physical transformation, from a starved and exhausted creature to a majestic and powerful being, represents the healing process of the Cambodian people. This visual metaphor is skillfully woven into the storyline, emphasizing the theme of hope and resurrection after immense suffering.The documentary also addresses the psychological toll that war and trauma inflict on individuals. Panh reflects on his own struggles with survivor's guilt, post-traumatic stress disorder, and the emotional scars left on his soul. Through his narration, heinvites the viewers to embark on a journey of self-reflection and introspection, questioning their own capacity for empathy, understanding, and forgiveness.One of the key themes explored in "The Sheik's White Donkey" is the search for meaning and purpose in a post-war world. Panh contemplates the concept of justice and the complexities of forgiveness. He poses a profound question: how can one find reconciliation between the perpetrator and the victim? By challenging the viewers' preconceived notions of right and wrong, Panh opens a dialogue about the complexities of humanity and the long-lasting consequences of war.The film's impact on the audience is profound. It portrays the human spirit's resilience and ability to find hope in the most desperate circumstances. Panh's narration, combined with the striking visuals, creates an emotionally charged atmosphere that lingers with the viewers long after the film ends. "The Sheik's White Donkey" prompts viewers to reflect on their own experiences of war, trauma, and healing, fostering empathy and understanding for survivors of violence around the world.In conclusion, "The Sheik's White Donkey" is a captivating documentary that delves into the lasting effects of war and trauma. Through the metaphor of a white donkey, director Rithy Panh explores themes of resilience, hope, and the search for meaning in a post-war world. The film's narrative structure, visual storytelling, and emotional impact make it a thought-provoking experience for its audience. It serves as a poignant reminder of the human capacity to heal, find solace, and build a future even in the face of unimaginable tragedy.。
Unit 2 When Cultures MeetI.Unit overviewAccording to Canadian scholar Marshall McLuhan, we are now living in a global village, indicating the entire world is becoming more and more interconnected. The 21st century has witnessed more frequent and active communication and interaction between different nations. Questions like how to better adapt to the intercultural communication and interaction are surfacing and becoming increasingly urgent at present. This unit tends to discuss those questions and provide certain answers.Text A in this unit is an excerpt taken from Maxine Hong Kingston’s masterpiece, The Woman Warrior: Memoirs of a Girlhood Among Ghosts, which tells us how eager Brave Orchid was as an immigrant in the U.S. to meet her younger sister after 30 years’ separation, while how indifferent her children brought up in America were indifferent to this meeting. Text B, written by the Asian American writer Amy Tan, reveals her understanding of the English used by her immigrant mother and explores how the languages her mother has used also influence her own identity and writing career. The two texts together demonstrate that when different cultures meet, conflicts and misunderstanding will be definitely emerging but mutual understanding and agreement are also possible. Communication among cultures is never a one-way street, and nobody can escape from this intercultural involvement in the age of globalization, be it an active or a passive one.II.Teaching plan按照《指南》规定，综合英语总学时是64课时，每周4课时，每单元上8课时。
《典型美国佬》：美国民族身份认同的消解和建构闫正坤【摘要】Over years, American identity has been not only the core value of American literary criticism, but also the constant interest for ethnic writersto question and enhance. This essay textualizes Typical American, a well-received novel by the contemporary Chinese American writer Gish Jen, and analyzes both American stereotypes （with their incarnates in the novel）and the image of family, through which, the essay comes to the conclusion that Gish Jen not only invalidates the fixed American identity and breaks the barriers of Orientalism, but also reconstructs a family-based identity in the muhicultural context.%美国民族身份认同是美国文学批评所关注的核心问题，亦是族裔作家不断质疑完善的重要概念之一。
文章以当代华裔作家任碧莲的小说《典型美国佬》为文本，审视典型美国人固有形象及其在小说中的化身以及家庭意象。
她不但消解了美国固有的民族认同，突破了东方主义的藩篱，而且重新建构了一个多元文化语境下的以家庭为核心的杂和认同。
【期刊名称】《遵义师范学院学报》【年(卷),期】2012(014)002【总页数】4页(P65-68)【关键词】美国民族认同;固有形象;消解;家庭【作者】闫正坤【作者单位】安徽财经大学外国语学院,安徽蚌埠233030【正文语种】中文【中图分类】I106.4一、引言《典型美国佬》是美国华裔作家任碧莲（Gish Jen）的第一部小说。
BENEATH AN UMBRELLABy Nathaniel Hawthorne Pleasant is a rainy winter's day,within doors!The best study for such a da y,or the best amusement,-call it which you will,-is a book of travels,describi ng scenes the most unlike that sombre one,which is mistily presented throu gh the windows.I have experienced,that fancy is then most successful in im parting distinct shapes and vivid colors to the objects which the author has s pread upon his page,and that his words become magic spells to summon up a thousand varied pictures.Strange landscapes glimmer through the familiar walls of the room,and outlandish figures thrust themselves almost within the sacred precincts of the hearth.Small as my chamber is,it has space enough to contain the ocean-like circumference of an Arabian desert,its parched sa nds tracked by the long line of a caravan,with the camels patiently journeyi ng through the heavy sunshine.Though my ceiling be not lofty,yet I can pil e up the mountains of Central Asia beneath it,till their summits shine far ab ove the clouds of the middle atmosphere.And,with my humble means,a w ealth that is not taxable,I can transport hither the magnificent merchandise of an Oriental bazaar,and call a crowd of purchasers from distant countries, to pay a fair profit for the precious articles which are displayed on all sides. True it is,however,that amid the bustle of traffic,or whatever else may see m to be going on around me,the rain-drops will occasionally be heard to pa tter against my window-panes,which look forth upon one of the quietest str eets in a New England town.After a time,too,the visions vanish,and will n ot appear again at my bidding.Then,it being nightfall,a gloomy sense of un reality depresses my spirits,and impels me to venture out,before the clock shall strike bedtime,to satisfy myself that the world is not entirely made up of such shadowy materials,as have busied me throughout the day.A dreame r may dwell so long among fantasies,that the things without him will seem as unreal as those within.When eve has fairly set in,therefore,I sally forth,tightly buttoning my sha ggy overcoat,and hoisting my umbrella,the silken dome of which immediatel y resounds with the heavy drumming of the invisible rain-drops.Pausing on t he lowest doorstep,I contrast the warmth and cheerfulness of my deserted fi reside with the drear obscurity and chill discomfort into which I am about to plunge.Now come fearful auguries,innumerable as the drops of rain.Did n ot my manhood cry shame upon me,I should turn back within doors,resum e my elbow-chair,my slippers,and my book,pass such an evening of sluggis h enjoyment as the day has been,and go to bed inglorious.The same shiver ing reluctance,no doubt,has quelled,for a moment,the adventurous spirit o f many a traveller,when his feet,which were destined to measure the earth around,were leaving their last tracks in the home-paths.In my own case,poor human nature may be allowed a few misgivings.I l ook upward,and discern no sky,not even an unfathomable void,but only a black,impenetrable nothingness,as though heaven and all its lights were blot ted from the system of the universe.It is as if nature were dead,and the w orld had put on black,and the clouds were weeping for her.With their tears upon my cheek,I turn my eyes earthward,but find little consolation here b elow.A lamp is burning dimly at the distant corner,and throws just enough of light along the street,to show,and exaggerate by so faintly showing,the perils and difficulties which beset my path.Yonder dingily white remnant of a huge snow-bank,-which will yet cumber the sidewalk till the latter days of March,-over or through that wintry waste I must stride onward.Beyond,lies a certain Slough of Despond,a concoction of mud and liquid filth,ankle-deep, leg-deep,neck-deep,-in a word,of unknown bottom,on which the lamplight does not even glimmer,but which I have occasionally watched,in the gradu al growth of its horrors,from morn till nightfall.Should I flounder into its de pths,farewell to upper earth!And hark!how roughly resounds the roaring of a stream,the turbulent career of which is partially reddened by the gleamof the lamp,but elsewhere brawls noisily through the densest gloom.O,sho uld I be swept away in fording that impetuous and unclean torrent,the coro ner will have a job with an unfortunate gentleman,who would fain end his t roubles anywhere but in a mud-puddle!Pshaw!I will linger not another instant at arm's length from these dim ter rors,which grow more obscurely formidable,the longer I delay to grapple wit h them.Now for the onset!And to!with little damage,save a dash of rain in the face and breast,a splash of mud high up the pantaloons,and the left boot full of ice-cold water,behold me at the corner of the street.The lamp throws down a circle of red light around me;and twinkling onward from co rner to corner,I discern other beacons marshalling my way to a brighter sce ne.But this is alone some and dreary spot.The tall edifices bid gloomy defi ance to the storm,with their blinds all closed,even as a man winks when h e faces a spattering gust.How loudly tinkles the collected rain down the tin spouts!The puffs of wind are boisterous,and seem to assail me from variou s quarters at once.I have often observed that this corner is a haunt and loit ering-place for those winds which have no work to do upon the deep,dashi ng ships against our iron-bound shores;nor in the forest,tearing up the sylv an giants with half a rood of soil at their vast roots.Here they amuse thems elves with lesser freaks of mischief.See,at this moment,how they assail yon der poor woman,who is passing just within the verge of the lamplight!One blast struggles for her umbrella,and turns it wrong side outward;another w hisks the cape of her cloak across her eyes;while a third takes most unwarr antable liberties with the lower part of her attire.Happily,the good dame is no gossamer,but a figure of rotundity and fleshly substance;else would the se aerial tormentors whirl her aloft,like a witch upon a broomstick,and set her down,doubtless,in the filthiest kennel hereabout.From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the centre of the town.Her e there is almost as brilliant an illumination as when some great victory has been won,either on the battle-field or at the polls.Two rows of shops,withwindows down nearly to the ground,cast a glow from side to side,while t he black night hangs overhead like a canopy,and thus keeps the splendor fr om diffusing itself away.The wet sidewalks gleam with a broad sheet of red light.The rain-drops glitter,as if the sky were pouring down rubies.The spou ts gush with fire.Methinks the scene is an emblem of the deceptive glare, which mortals throw around their footsteps in the moral world,thus bedazzli ng themselves,till they forget the impenetrable obscurity that hems them in, and that can be dispelled only by radiance from above.And after all,it is a cheerless scene,and cheerless are the wanderers in it.Here comes one wh o has so long been familiar with tempestuous weather that he takes the blus ter of the storm for a friendly greeting,as if it should say,"How fare ye,br other?"He is a retired sea-captain,wrapped in some nameless garment of th e pea-jacket order,and is now laying his course towards the Marine Insuranc e Office,there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreck,with a crew of old sead ogs like himself.The blast will put in its word among their hoarse voices,an d be understood by all of them.Next I meet an unhappy slipshod gentleman, with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders,running a race with boisterous winds,and striving to glide between the drops of rain.Some domestic emer gency or other has blown this miserable man from his warm fireside in ques t of a doctor!See that little vagabond,-how carelessly he has taken his stand right underneath a spout,while staring at some object of curiosity in a sho p-window!Surely the rain is his native element;he must have fallen with it from the clouds,as frogs are supposed to do.Here is a picture,and a pretty one.A young man and a girl,both envelop ed in cloaks,and huddled underneath the scanty protection of a cotton umbr ella.She wears rubber overshoes;but he is in his dancing-pumps;and they a re on their way,no doubt,to sonic cotillon-party,or subscription-ball at a do llar a head,refreshments included.Thus they struggle against the gloomy tem pest,lured onward by a vision of festal splendor.But,ah!a most lamentable disaster.Bewildered by the red,blue,and yellow meteors,in an apothecary's window,they have stepped upon a slippery remnant of ice,and are precipi tated into a confluence of swollen floods,at the corner of two streets.Luckl ess lovers!Were it my nature to be other than a looker-on in life,I would a ttempt your rescue.Since that may not be,I vow,should you be drowned,t o weave such a pathetic story of your fate,as shall call forth tears to drown you both anew.Do ye touch bottom,my young friends?Yes;they emerge li ke a water-nymph and a river deity,and paddle hand in hand out of the de pths of the dark pool.They hurry homeward,dripping,disconsolate,abashed, but with love too warm to be chilled by the cold water.They have stood a test which proves too strong for many.Faithful,though over head and ears in trouble!Onward I go,deriving a sympathetic joy or sorrow from the varied aspect of mortal affairs,even as my figure catches a gleam from the lighted window s,or is blackened by an interval of darkness.Not that mine is altogether a c hameleon spirit,with no hue of its own.Now I pass into a more retired stre et,where the dwellings of wealth and poverty are intermingled,presenting a range of strongly contrasted pictures.Here,too,may be found the golden m ean.Through yonder casement I discern a family circle,-the grandmother,the parents,and the children,-all flickering,shadow-like,in the glow of a wood-fir e.Bluster,fierce blast,and beat,thou wintry rain,against the window-panes! Ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that fireside.Surely my fate is hard,that I should be wandering homeless here,taking to my bosom night,and storm, and solitude,instead of wife and children.Peace,murmurer!Doubt not that darker guests are sitting round the hearth,though the warm blaze hides all but blissful images.Well;here is still a brighter scene.A stately mansion,illu minated for a ball,with cut-glass chandeliers and alabaster lamps in every ro om,and sunny landscapes hanging round the walls.See!a coach has stopped, whence emerges a slender beauty,who,canopied by two umbrellas,glides within the portal,and vanishes amid lightsome thrills of music.Will she ever feel the night-wind and the rain?Perhaps,-perhaps!And will Death and Sorrow ever enter that proud mansion?As surely as the dancers will be gay wit hin its halls to-night.Such thoughts sadden,yet satisfy my heart;for they te ach me that the poor man,in his mean,weather-beaten hovel,without a fir e to cheer him,may call the rich his brother,brethren by Sorrow,who must be an inmate of both their households,-brethren by Death,who will lead th em,both to other homes.Onward,still onward,I plunge into the night.Now have I reached the utm ost limits of the town,where the last lamp struggles feebly with the darknes s,like the farthest star that stands sentinel on the borders of uncreated spac e.It is strange what sensations of sublimity may spring from a very humble source.Such are suggested by this hollow roar of a subterranean cataract,w here the mighty stream of a kennel precipitates itself beneath an iron grate, and is seen no more on earth.Listen awhile to its voice of mystery;and fan cy will magnify it,till you start and smile at the illusion.And now another s ound,-the rumbling of wheels,-as the mail-coach,outward bound,rolls heavily off the pavements,and splashes through the mud and water of the road.Al l night long,the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro between drowsy watch and troubled sleep,and will dream of their own quiet beds,and awak e to find themselves still jolting onward.Happier my lot,who will straightway hie me to my familiar room,and toast myself comfortably before the fire, musing,and fitfully dozing,and fancying a strangeness in such sights as all m ay see.But first let me gaze at this solitary figure,who comes hitherward wi th a tin lantern,which throws the circular pattern of its punched holes on t he ground about him.He passes fearlessly into the unknown gloom,whither I will not follow him.This figure shall supply me with a moral,wherewith,for lack of a more ap propriate one,I may wind up my sketch.He fears not to tread the dreary p ath before him,because his lantern,which was kindled at the fireside of his home,will light him back to that same fireside again.And thus we,night-wa nderers through a stormy and dismal world,if we bear the lamp of Faith,enkindled at a celestial fire,it will surely lead us home to that Heaven whence its radiance was borrowed.。
H10000825Multicultural LiteratureEdwardA White Heron: The Flying Independent Soul of Little SylviaProcess of growth is not always with pleasant surprise to learn new things, but sometimes can be a pressure of compromising with the world around us and abandoning something innocent deep within our soul. This is particularly for Sylvia, a tiny little girl who lived in a conservative village, during whose period of life women tend to submit to men’s will. By telling a fiction story, Sarah Orne Jewett expresses a good will of keeping the innocence regardless of the temptation from the outside world, and raises the awareness of female independence.Sylvia is the main character in the story. She is a typical little girl who posses all the personalities of pure human nature: innocent, brave, solitary and a little bit shy when she meets strangers. The story opens with Sylvia in village surrounded by nature and she. Sylvia has not always lived in the forest, as the writer tells us, she “had tried to grow for eight years in a crowded manufacturing town, but, as for Sylvia herself, it seemed as if she never had been alive at all before she came to live at the farm.”Here the manufacturing town becomes a metaphor of developed human society and personalities, and little Sylvia is quite unadjusted to it. When she thinks of city, only the noisy town and the red-faced boy who used to chase and frighten her comes to her mind. Absolutely, here author creates Sylvia to stand for thehuman nature which is unshaped and original, quite different from the highly developed ones.Also,the name Sylvia gives us a clue to the little girl’s personality. Sylvia means woods or forests. Maybe the author wants us to think the girl is much like the forests. She belongs to the forests, and that’s why she never had been alive in the city.The white heron in this story is a metaphor of the innocence Sylvia possesses. In this story, the life of the white heron is under threat, and the innocence within Sylvia’s soul is almost deserted because of the young sportsman’s appearance. For little Sylvia, he is “a hand first put out on her from the great world”--a temptation from the outside world. He comes to the peaceful village from the city, and breaks the peace of Sylvia’s heart. He is nice to her, and promises if she shows him where the bird is, he will gave her a large sum of money.In the story, the relationship between the young man and Sylvia is typical for most men and women in that time---women tend to be dependent on men, and they usually give up their will and follow the men’s. After the young man leaves, Sylvia feels that she “could have served and followed him and loved him as a dog loves!” The image of the young hunter stands for the perfect man image-- he is young, handsome, wealthy, well educated, kind and appeals to women. He awakes the women’s love asleep in little Sylvia who almost makes up her mind to follow him and be loyal to him as a dog does. Here author indicates the relationship between men and women inlove is sort of unequal, and when they have different views of something, women’s wills are often influenced by men’s.Further more, forests are always a metaphor for the women’s body. The young hunter carries a gun into the forest. Obviously, he is a conqueror of the forest and women. The climax of this story is when Sylvia climbs up to the top of tree and observe all this vast and awesome world, and the whole process symbolize Sylvia’s self-awareness awaking. The dawning sun makes a golden dazzle on the sea, and two hawks fly toward glorious east. The most exciting scene is when the white flies “by the landmark pine with steady sweep of wing and outstretched slender neck and crested head”. That is really an awesome trembling dawn filled with hope. Little Sylvia is shocked by the magnificent landscape and the solemn bird, and changes her mind. When she stands at the top the forest, she knows she is a part of it. If she help young man do any damage to the forest, it also causes damage to herself. She wants to protect the bird, which shows the beauty of the nature and also arouses the kindness deep inside Sylvia’s heart to rid her of the young man’s temptation. Also as a woman, Sylvia’s self-awareness awakes. She is no longer those women who are totally dependent on men. She has her own ideas and sticks to what she believes. Finally,she has the independent soul.The novel White Heron is a story about the little girl Sylvia’s growth, and every one can recognize themselves from her experience. Like the solemn pure white heron flying in the sky of the golden dawn, after experiencing all these difficult situations,little Sylvia has the flying independent soul, and she keeps the innocence within her heart.。
高中英语文化传承意义单选题50题1. Which of the following festivals is known for giving thanks and having a big feast?A. ChristmasB. ThanksgivingC. HalloweenD. Easter答案：B。
本题考查对西方节日的了解。
Christmas（圣诞节）主要是庆祝耶稣诞生和互赠礼物。
Thanksgiving 感恩节）以感恩和丰盛的聚餐闻名。
Halloween（ 万圣节）是关于装扮和讨糖果。
Easter（ 复活节）与宗教和春天的象征有关。
2. In China, which festival is associated with family reunions and eating mooncakes?A. Spring FestivalB. Mid-Autumn FestivalC. Dragon Boat FestivalD. Lantern Festival答案：B。
此题考查中国传统节日。
Spring Festival（春节）特点是拜年、红包等。
Mid-Autumn Festival 中秋节）人们通常团聚并吃月饼。
Dragon Boat Festival（ 端午节）会赛龙舟、吃粽子。
Lantern Festival 元宵节）看花灯、吃元宵。
3. Which festival is celebrated by lighting lamps and flying lanterns?B. HanukkahC. Bonfire NightD. Valentine's Day答案：A。
这道题考不同文化中的节日。
Diwali（ 排灯节）会点灯和放孔明灯。
Hanukkah 光明节）以点燃烛台为特色。
Bonfire Night 篝火之夜）主要是篝火活动。
Valentine's Day（ 情人节）侧重于情侣之间表达爱意。
第２期２００８年４月吉林师范大学学报（人文社会科学版）ＪｏｕｒｎａｌｏｆＪｉｌｉｎＮｏｒｍａｌＵｎｉｖｅｒｓｉｔｙ（Ｈｕｍａｎｉｔｉｅｓ＆ＳｏｃｉａｌＳｃｉｅｎｃｅＥｄｉｔｉｏｎ）Ｎｏ．２Ａｐｒ．２００８［收稿日期］２００８－０１－１０［作者简介］关春梅（１９７１－），女，吉林市人，吉林师范大学外国语学院讲师，研究方向：英美文学；王思懿（１９８１－），女，吉林四平人，吉林师范大学外国语学院硕士研究生，研究方向：英美文学。
一、美国当代华裔女性文学的产生与发展美国华裔女性文学通常被定义为由在美国出生或后移居美国、有华裔血统的女性作家用英语所写的文学作品。
因此美国华裔女性文学的源头可追溯到在美国华裔文学开创初期产生过较大影响的一对中英混血儿姐妹艾迪丝・伊顿（ＥｄｉｔｈＥａｔｏｎ）和温妮弗莱德・伊顿（ＷｉｎｎｉｆｒｅｄＥａｔｏｎ）的作品。
尤其是姐姐艾迪丝・伊顿常被视为美国华裔文学的先驱，是北美第一位华裔女作家。
她于１９１２年发表的短篇故事集《春香夫人》（Ｍｒｓ．ＳｐｒｉｎｇＦｒａｇｒａｎｃｅ）描写了中国血统的女子在西方的处境，开创了美国华裔女性文学的先河。
同时，这部作品也被视为美国华裔文学的开山之作。
身为第二代的美国华人，黄玉雪（ＪａｄｅＳｎｏｗＷｏｎｇ）创作的《华女阿五》（ＦｉｆｔｈＣｈｉｎｅｓｅＤａｕｇｈｔｅｒ）成为最早的畅销自传。
此书以出生于美国的华裔女性的自传方式，呈现出作为美国模范弱势族裔的华裔美国人。
在经历了二次世界大战和６０年代的民权运动后，华裔的社会地位有了较大的提高。
反越战运动、女权主义运动、多元文化的兴起、美国亚裔运动等，都对华裔作家的创作产生了深远的影响，美国华裔女性文学也得到了蓬勃发展。
历史的机遇使４０、５０年代出生的华裔美国女性作家走出了“边缘”，步入了美国“主流”文坛，因此，２０世纪７０、８０年代便成美国华裔女性文学走向成熟和繁荣的一个重要阶段。
被誉为“亚裔写作先驱”的汤亭亭（ＭａｘｉｎｅＨｏｎｇＫｉｎｇｓｔｏｎ）是这一时期的代表。
100部值得看的英文原著原文书名书名汉译作者姓名原文作者姓名汉译The Adventures of Augie March（奥吉·玛琪历险记）Saul Bellow （索尔·贝罗）All the King’s Men（国王人马）Robert Penn Warren（R·P·沃伦）American Pastoral（美国牧师）Philip Roth（菲利普·罗斯）An American Tragedy（美国悲剧）Theodore Dreiser（狄德罗·德莱塞）Animal Farm（动物农场）George Orwell（乔治·奥维尔）Appointment in Samarra（相约萨玛拉）John O’Hara（约翰·奥哈拉）Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret（神哪，您在那里吗？是我，玛格丽特）Judy Blume（朱迪·布罗姆）The Assistant（助手）Bernard Malamud（伯纳德·马拉迈德）At Swim-Two-Birds（双鸟嬉戏池塘边）Flann O’Brien（弗兰·奥伯兰）Atonement（救赎）艾恩·麦克埃文Beloved（宠儿）Toni Morrison（托尼·莫里逊）The Berlin Stories（柏林故事集）Christopher Isherwood（克里斯托夫·埃舍伍德）The Big Sleep（夜长梦多）Raymond Chandler（雷蒙·珊德勒）The Blind Assassin（盲人杀手）Margaret Atwood（玛格丽特·埃特伍德）Blood Meridian（血色子午线）Cormac McCarthy（考麦克·麦卡锡）Brideshead Revisited （旧地重游）Evelyn Waugh （埃菲琳·瓦）The Bridge of San Luis Rey（圣路易雷桥）Thornton Wilder（桑顿·王尔德）Call It Sleep（睡眠）Henry Roth（亨利·罗斯）Catch-22 （第二十二条军规）Joseph Heller（约瑟·海勒）The Catcher in the Rye（麦田守望者）J.D. Salinger（J·D·塞林格）A Clockwork Orange（发条橙子）Anthony Burgess（安东尼·伯格斯）The Confessions of Nat Turner（纳特·特纳的忏悔）William Styron（威廉·斯太龙）The Corrections（纠正）Jonathan Franzen（约那逊·弗兰森）The Crying of Lot 49（拍卖第49号]）Thomas Pynchon（托马斯·品钦）A Dance to the Music of Time（随时间音乐起舞）Anthony Powell（安东尼·鲍威）The Day of the Locust（蝗虫肆虐日）Nathanael West（那瑟那尔·威斯特）Death Comes for the Archbishop（大主教之死）Willa Cather（威拉·凯瑟）A Death in the Family（家族成员之死）James Agee（詹姆斯·阿吉）The Death of the Heart（心脏之死）Elizabeth Bowen（伊丽莎白·伯文）Deliverance（释放）James Dickey（詹姆斯·迪克）Dog Soldiers（亡命之徒）Robert Stone（罗伯特·斯通）Falconer（放鹰者）John Cheever（约翰·契佛）The French Lieutenant’s Woman （法国中尉的女人）John Fowles（约翰·弗勒斯）The Golden Notebook（金色笔记）Doris Lessing（D·莱辛）Go Tell it on the Mountain（山上高呼）James Baldwin（詹姆斯·鲍德温）Gone With the Wind（飘）Margaret Mitchell（玛格丽特·米切尔）The Grapes of Wrath（愤怒的葡萄）John Steinbeck（约翰·斯坦伯克）Gravity’s Rainbow（引力彩虹）Thomas Pynchon（托马斯·品钦）The Great Gatsby（了不起的盖茨比）F. Scott Fitzgerald（F·斯考特·菲茨杰拉德）A Handful of Dust（一掬尘土）Evelyn Waugh（埃菲琳·瓦）The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter（心是孤独的猎手）Carson McCullers（卡尔逊·迈勒斯）The Heart of the Matter（核心问题）Graham Greene（G·格林）Herzog（赫尔佐格）Saul Bellow（索尔·贝罗）Housekeeping（管家）Marilynne Robinson （玛琳·罗伯逊）A House for Mr. Biswas（毕斯瓦思先生之屋）V.S. Naipaul （V·S·纳保罗）I, Claudius（我，克劳迪斯）Robert Graves（罗伯特·格里夫斯）Infinite Jest（无尽的玩笑）David Foster Wallace（戴维·弗斯特·华莱士）Invisible Man（隐形人）Ralph Ellison（拉尔芙·埃利逊）Light in August（八月之光）William Faulkner（威廉·福克纳）The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe（狮子，女巫和魔衣橱）C.S. Lewis（C·S·Lewis）Lolita（洛丽塔）Vladimir Naboko 弗拉基米尔·那波克Lord of the Flies（蝇王）William Golding 威廉·格尔丁The Lord of the Rings（指环王）by J.R.R. Tolkein （J·R·R·托肯）Loving（爱）Henry Green（亨利·格林）Lucky Jim（幸运的吉姆）Kingsley Amis（金斯利·埃米斯）The Man Who Loved Children （那个喜欢孩子的人）Christina Stead（克里斯蒂·斯太德）Midnight's Children（午夜之子）Salman Rushdie（萨尔曼·拉什迪）Money（金钱）Martin Amis（马丁·埃米斯）The Moviegoer（电影迷）Walker Percy（沃克·泊西）Mrs. Dalloway（达罗薇夫人）Virginia Woolf（芙吉妮亚·伍尔夫）Naked Lunch（裸体午餐）William Burroughs （威廉·伯罗斯）Native Son（土著之子）Richard Wright（理查·莱特）Neuromancer（神经漫游者）William Gibson（威廉·吉普逊）Never Let Me Go（别让我走）Kazuo Ishiguro （卡佐·伊什古罗）1984（一九八四）George Orwell（乔治·奥维尔）On the Road（在路上）by Jack Kerouac（杰克·克鲁亚克）One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest（飞越疯人院）Ken Kesey（肯·克西）The Painted Bird（染色鸟）Jerzy Kosinski（泽西·克金斯基）Pale Fire（幽冥火）Vladimir Nabokov（弗拉基米尔·那巴克夫）A Passage to India（印度之行）E.M. Forster（E·M·弗斯特）Play It As It Lays（顺其自然）Joan Didion（琼·迪丹）Portnoy's Complaint （波特诺的抱怨）Philip Roth（菲利普·罗斯）Possession（占有）A.S. Byatt（A·S·伯亚特）The Power and the Glory（权力与荣耀）Graham Greene（G·格林）The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie（让·布罗迪小姐的巅峰时刻）Muriel Spark（莫里·斯巴克）Rabbit, Run（兔子，跑吧）John Updike（约翰·厄普代克）Ragtime（雷格泰姆音乐）E.L. Doctorow（E·L·多克特罗）The Recognitions（辨识）William Gaddis（威廉·格迪斯）Red Harvest（红色收获）Dashiell Hammett （达斯·哈迈特）Revolutionary Road（革命之路）Richard Yates（理查·叶茨）The Sheltering Sky（僻护天空）Paul Bowles（保罗·保尔斯）Slaughterhouse-Five（第五号屠场）Kurt Vonnegut（克特·冯尼格特）Snow Crash（雪崩）Neal Stephenson（尼尔·史蒂文森）The Sot-Weed Factor（因素）John Barth（约翰·伯斯）The Sound and the Fury（喧哗与骚动）William Faulkner（威廉·福克纳）The Sportswriter（体育新闻记者）Richard Ford（理查·福特）The Spy Who Came in From the Cold（柏林谍影）John LeCarre（约翰·勒克）The Sun Also Rises（太阳照样升起）Ernest Hemingway（厄内斯特·海明威）Their Eyes Were Watching God（他们仰望上帝）Zora Neale Hurston（佐拉·尼尔·赫斯顿）Things Fall Apart（瓦解）Chinua Achebe（切努瓦·阿切比）To Kill a Mockingbird（杀死一只知更鸟）Harper Lee（哈普·李）To the Lighthouse（到灯塔去）Virginia Woolf（芙吉妮亚·伍尔夫）Tropic of Cancer（北回归线）Henry Miller（亨利·米勒）Ubik（尤比克）Philip K. Dick （菲·K·迪克）Under the Net（网下）Iris Murdoch（埃尔斯·莫多克）Under the Volcano（火山下）Malcolm Lowrey（马尔孔·罗瑞）Watchmen by Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons（守夜者）White Noise（白噪音）Don DeLillo（丹·迪里罗）White Teeth（白色的牙齿）Zadie Smith（匝迪·史密斯）Wide Sargasso Sea（野海草之海）Jean Rhys（让·里斯）。
用英语介绍著名华裔作文A Celebration of Chinese-American Literary Voices The tapestry of American literature is woven with threads from countless cultures, and the contributions of Chinese-American authors have significantly enriched its texture and depth. From early immigrant narratives to contemporary explorations of identity, these writers have carved a unique space, offering invaluable insights into the complexities of the Chinese-American experience. Their work, often traversing the chasms between two cultures, resonates with universal themes of belonging, displacement, and the enduring power of the human spirit. One of the earliest and most influential figures is Maxine Hong Kingston, whose 1976 memoir, “The Woman Warrior,” shattered literary conventions. Interweaving Chinese folklore with personal history, Kingston’s wor k delved into the immigrant experience with unflinching honesty, exploring themes of female empowerment, cultural dissonance, and the weight of ancestral legacy. Her innovative blend of fiction and reality, myth and autobiography, paved the way for a generation of writers to experiment with form and voice, pushing the boundaries of traditional storytelling. Amy Tan, another iconic figure, achieved widespread recognition with her 1989 novel “The Joy Luck Club.” This poignant tale, narrated through the inter woven stories of four Chinese immigrant mothers and their American-born daughters, delved into the intricate dynamics of family, communication, and the cultural gulf that can exist between generations. Tan’s lyrical prose and nuanced portrayal of complex m other-daughter relationships resonated deeply with readers, catapulting her to literary stardom and solidifying her place as a leading voice in Asian-American literature. Beyond these pioneers, a diverse array of Chinese-American authors have continued to captivate readers with their unique perspectives and captivating narratives. Gish Jen, in novels like “Typical American” and “Mona in the Promised Land,” masterfully captures the nuances of assimilation, exploring the often-humorous clashes between Chinese tradition and American ideals. Her characters grapple with questions of identity, ambition, and the allure of the American Dream, offering a nuanced perspective on the immigrant experience that is both insightful and deeply human. Ha Jin, a Pulitzer Prize winner, brings a distinct voice to the literary landscape with his poignant stories of Chinese immigrants navigating life in a newland. His novels, including “Waiting” and “War Trash,” delve into the emotional complexities of displacement, exploring themes of love, loss, and the enduring resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity. Through his stark prose and unflinching portrayal of human vulnerability, Jin offers a window into the struggles and triumphs of those seeking a foothold in a foreign land. The rise of a new generation of Chinese-American authors further enriches the literary landscape. Celeste Ng, with her bestselling novel "Everything I Never Told You," tackles themes of family secrets, racial prejudice, and the weight of unspoken expectations. Weike Wang, in her critically acclaimed debut novel "Chemistry," offers a fresh perspective on the complexities of identity, ambition, and the challenges faced by young Chinese Americans navigating academic pressures and cultural expectations. These contemporary voices continue to push boundaries, exploring themes of identity, belonging, and the ever-evolving nature of the Chinese-American experience. The contributions of Chinese-American writers extend beyond fictional narratives. Memoirs like “The Making of Asian America” by Erika Lee offer insightful historical analyses of the Chinese-American community,tracing their journey from early immigration to contemporary struggles. Poets such as Marilyn Chin and Li-Young Lee weave evocative verses that explore themes of cultural identity, displacement, and the search for belonging, enriching the poetic landscape with their unique voices and perspectives. The tapestry of American literature is continuously enriched by the voices of Chinese-American authors. Their unique perspectives, compelling narratives, and insightful exploration of the complexities of cultural identity have earned them a prominent place in the literary landscape. Through their words, they offer a window into the Chinese-American experience, fostering greater understanding, empathy, and appreciation for the diverse voices that contribute to the richness of American culture. As new generations of writers emerge, their contributions will continue to shape and redefine the literary landscape, ensuring that the voices of Chinese-Americans continue to resonate for generations to come.。
白朗宁夫人十四行诗四十四首中英双译我想起，当年希腊的诗人曾经歌咏：I thought once how Theocritus had sung年复一年，那良辰在殷切的盼望中Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, 翩然降临，各自带一份礼物Who each one in a gracious hand appears分送给世人－－年老或是年少。
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:当我这么想，感叹着诗人的古调，And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,穿过我泪眼所逐渐展开的幻觉，I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,我看见，那欢乐的岁月、哀伤的岁月－－The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,我自己的年华，把一片片黑影接连着Those of my own life, who by turns had flung掠过我的身。
紧接着，我就觉察A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,（我哭了）我背后正有个神秘的黑影So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move在移动，而且一把揪住了我的发，Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;往后拉，还有一声吆喝（我只是在挣扎）：And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, --“这回是谁逮住了你？猜！”“死，”我答话。
`Guess now who holds thee?' -- `Death.' I said. But, there 听哪，那银铃似的回音：“不是死，是爱！”The silver answer rang, -- `Not Death, but love.'*02.EEB白朗宁夫人抒情十四行诗集第二首可是在上帝的全宇宙里，总共才只But only three in all God's universe三个人听见了你那句话：除了Have heard this word thou hast said, -- Himself, beside 讲话的你、听话的我，就是他－－Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied上帝自己！我们中间还有一个One of us ... _that_ was God, ... and laid the curse出来答话；那昏黑的诅咒落上So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce我的眼皮，挡了你，不让我看见，My sight from seeing thee, -- that if I had died,就算我瞑了目，放上沉沉的“压眼钱”，The death-weights, placed there, would have signified 也不至于那么彻底隔绝。
The White Umbrella by Gish JenWhen I was twelve, my mother went to work without telling me or my little sister.“Not that we need the second income.” The lilt of her accent drifted from the kitchen up to the top of the stairs, where Mona and I were listening.“No,” said my father, in a barely audible voice. “Not like the Lee family.”The Lees were the only other Chinese family in town. I remembered how sorry my parents had felt for Mrs. Lee when she started waitressing downtown the year before; and so when my mother began coming home late, I didn’t say anything and tried to keep Mona from saying anything either.“But why shouldn’t I?” she argued. “Lots of people’s mothers work.” “Those are American people,” I said. “So what do you think we are? I can do the pledge of allegiancewith my eyes closed.” Nevertheless, she tried to be discreet; and if my mother wasn’thome by 5:30, we would start cooking by ourselves, to make sure dinner would be on time. Mona would wash the vegetables and put on the rice; I would chop.For weeks we wondered what kind of work she was doing. I imagined that she was selling perfume, testing dessert recipes for the local newspaper. Or maybe she was working for the florist. Now that she had learned to drive, she might be delivering boxes of roses to people.“I don’t think so,” said Mona as we walked to our piano lesson after school. “She would’ve hit something by now.”A gust of wind littered the street with leaves.“Maybe we better hurry up,” she went on, looking at the sky. “It’s going to pour.”“But we’re too early.” Her lesson didn’t begin until 4:00, mine until 4:30, so we usually tried to walk as slowly as we could. “And anyway, those aren’t the kind of clouds that rain. Those are cumulus clouds.”We arrived out of breath and wet.“Oh you poor, poor dears,” said old Miss Crosman. “Why don’t you call me the next time it’s like this out? If your mother won’t drive you, I can come pick you up.”“No, that’s okay,” I answered. Mona wrung her hair out on Miss Crossman’s rug. “We just couldn’t get the roof our car to close, is all. We took it to the beach last summer and got sand in the mechanism.” I pronounced this last word carefully, as if the credibility of my liedepended on its middle syllable. “It’s never been the same.” I thought for a second. “It’s a convertible.”“Well the make yourselves at home.” She exchanged looks with Eugenie Roberts, whose lesson we were interrupting. Eugenie smiled good-naturedly. “The towels are in the closet across from the bathroom.”Huddling at the end of Miss Crosman’s nine-foot leather couch, Mona and I watched Eugenie play. She was a grade ahead of me and, according to school rumor, had a boyfriend in high school. I believed it... She had auburn hair, blue eyes, and, I noted with a particular pang, a pure white folding umbrella.“I can’t see,” whispered Mona. “So clean your glasses.” “My glasses are clean. You’re in the way.” I looked at her. “They look dirty to me.” “That’s because your glasses are dirty.” Eugenie came bouncing to the end of herpiece. “Oh! Just stupendous!” Miss Crosman hugged her, then looked upas Eugenie’s mother walked in. “Stupendous!” she said again. “Oh! Mrs. Roberts! Your daughter has a gift, a real gift. It’s an honor to teach her.”Mrs. Roberts, radiant with pride, swept her daughter out of the room as if she were royalty, born to the piano bench. Watching the way Eugenie carried herself, I sat up and concentrated so hard on sucking in my stomach that I did not realize until the Robertses were gone that Eugenie had left her umbrella. As Mona began to play, I jumped up and ran to the window, meaning to call to them –only to see their brake lights flash then fade at the stop sign at the corner. As if to allow them passage, the rain had let up; a quivering sun lit their way.The umbrella glowed like a scepter on the blue carpet while Mona, slumping over the keyboard, managed to eke out a fair rendition of a cat fight. At the end of the piece, Miss Crosman asked her to stand up.“Stay right there,” she said, then came back a minute later with a towel to cover the bench. “You must be cold,” she continued. “Shall I call your mother and have her bring over some dry clothes?”“No,” answered Mona. “She won’t come because she...” “She’s too busy,” I broke in from the back of the room. “I see.” Miss Crosman sighed and shook her head a little. “Yourglasses are filthy, honey,” she said to Mona. “Shall I clean themfor you?” Sisterly embarrassment seized me. Why hadn’t Mona wiped her l enses when I told her to? As she resumed abuse of the piano, I stared at the umbrella. I wanted to open it, twirl it around by its slender silver handle; I wanted to dangle it from my wrist on the way to school the way the other girls did. I wondered what Miss Crosman would say if I offered to bring it to Eugenie at school tomorrow. She would be impressed with my consideration for others; Eugenie would be pleased to have it back; and Iwould have possession of the umbrella for an entire night. I looked at it again, toying with the idea of asking for one for Christmas. I knew, however, how my mother would react.“Things,” she would say. “What’s the matter with a raincoat? All you want is things, just like an American.”Sitting down for my lesson, I was careful to keep the towel under me and sit up straight.“I’ll bet you can’t see a thing wither,” said Miss Crosman, reaching for my glasses. “And you can relax, you poor dear...This isn’t a boot camp.”When Miss Crosman finally allowed me to start playing, I played extra well, as well as I possibly could. See, I told her with my fingers. You don’t have to feel sorry for me.“That was wonderful,” said Miss Crosman. “Oh! Just wonderful.” An entire constellation rose in my heart. “And guess what,” I announced proudly. “I have a surprise for you.” Then I played a second piece for her, a much more difficult onethat she had not assigned. “Oh! That was stupendous,” she said without hugging me.“Stupendous! You are a genius, young lady. If your mother had started you younger, you’d be playing like Eugenie Roberts by now!”I looked at the keyboard, wishing that I had still a third, even more difficult piece to play for her. I wanted to tell her that I was the school spelling bee champion, that I wasn’t ticklish, that I could do karate.“My mother is a concert pianist,” I said.She looked at me for a long moment, then finally, without saying anything, hugged me. I didn’t say anything about bringing the umbrella to Eugenie at school.The steps were dry when Mona and I sat down to wait for my mother.“Do you want to wait inside?” Miss Crosman looked anxiously at the sky.“No,” I said. “Our mother will be here any minute.” “In a while,” said Mona. “Any minute,” I said again, even though my mother had been atleast twenty minutes late every week since she started working. According to the church clock across the street we had beenwaiting twenty-five minutes when Miss Crosman came out again. “Shall I give you ladies a ride home?” “No,” I said. “Our mother is coming any minute. “Shall I at least give her a call and remind her you’re here? Maybeshe forgot about you.”“I don’t think she forgot,” said Mona. “Shall I give her a call anyway? Just to be safe?” “I bet she already left,” I said. “How could she forget about us?” Miss Crosman went in to call. “There’s no answer,” she said, coming b ack out. “See, she’s on her way,” I said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come in?” “No,” said Mona. “Yes,” I said. I pointed at my sister. “She meant yes too. She meantno, she wouldn’t like to go in.” Miss Crosman looked at her watch. “It’s 5:30 now, ladies. My potroast will be coming out in fifteen minutes. Maybe you’d like to come in and have some then?”“My mother’s almost here,” I said. “She’s on her way.”We watched and watched the street. I tried to imagine what my mother was doing; I tried to imagine her writingmessages in the sky, even though I knew she was afraid of planes. I watched as the branches of Miss Crosman’s big willow tree started to sway; they had all been trimmed to exactly the same height off the ground, so they looked beautiful, like hair in the wind.It started to rain. “Miss Crosman is coming out again,” said Mona. “Don’t let her talk you into going inside,” I whispered. “Why not?” “Because that would mean Mom really isn’t coming any minute.” “But she isn’t,” said Mona. “She’s working.” “Shhh! Miss Crosman’s going to hear you.” “She’s working! She’s working! She’s working!” I put my hand over her mouth, but she licked it, and so I was wipingmy hand on my wet dress when the front dooropened. “We’re getting even wetter,” said Mona right away. “Wetter andwetter.” “Shall we all go in?” Miss Crosman pulled Mona to her feet. “Beforeyou young ladies catch pneumonia? You’ve been out here an hour already.”“We’re freezing.” Mona looked up at Miss Crosman. “Do you have any hot chocolate? We’re going to catch pneumonia.”“I’m not going in,” I said. “My mother’s coming any minute.” “Come on,” said Mona. “Use your noggin.” “Any minute.” “Come on, Mona,” Miss Crosman opened the door. “Shall we getyou inside first? “See you in the hospital,” said Mona as she went in. “See you in thehospital with pneumonia.”I stared out into the empty street. The rain was prickling me all over; I was cold; I wanted to go inside. I wanted to be able to let myself go inside. If Miss Crosman came out again, I decided, I would go in.She came out with a blanket and the white umbrella.I could not believe that I was actually holding the umbrella, opening it. It sprang up by itself as if it were alive, as if that were what it wanted to do –as if it belonged in my hands,above my head. I stared up at the network of silver spokes, then spun the umbrella around and around and around. It was so clean and white that it seemed to glow, to illuminate everything around it. “It’s beautiful,” I said.Miss Crosman sat down next to me, on one end of the blanket. I moved the umbrella over so that it covered that too. I could feel the rain on my left shoulder and shivered. She put her arm around me.“You poor, poor dear.”I knew that I was in store for another bolt of sympathy, and braced myself by staring up into the umbrella.“You know, I very much wanted to have children when I was younger,” she continued.“You did?”She stared at me a minute. Her face looked dry and crusty, like day-old frosting.“I did. But then I never got married.” I twirled the umbrella around again. “This is the most beautiful umbrella I have ever seen,” I said. “Ever,in my whole life.” “Do you have an umbrella?” “No. But my mother’s going to get me one just like this forChristmas.” “Is she? I tell you what. You don’t have to wait until Christmas. Youcan have this one.” “But this one belongs to Eugenie Roberts,” I protested. “I have togive it back to her tomorrow in school.” “Who told you it belongs to Eugenie? It’s not Eugenie’s. It’s mine.And now I’m giving it to you, so it’s yours.” “It’s mine?” I didn’t know what to say. “Mine?” Suddenly I wasjumping up and down in the rain. “It’s beautiful! Oh! It’s beautiful!” I laughed.Miss Crosman laughed too, even though she was getting all wet.“Thank you, Miss Crosman.Thank you very much. Thanks a zillion. It’s beautiful. It’s stupendous!”“You’re quite welcome,” she said.“Thank you,” I said again, but that didn’t seem like enough. Suddenly I knew just what she wanted to hear. “I wish you were my mother.”Right away I felt bad.“You shouldn’t say that,” she said, but her face was opening into a huge smile as the lights of my mother’s car cautiously turned the corner. I quickly collapsed the umbrella and put it up my skirt, holding onto it from the outside, through the material.“Mona!” I shouted into the house. “Mona! Hurry up! Mom’s here! I told you she was coming!”Then I ran away from Miss Crosman, down to the curb. Mona came tearing up to my side as my mother neared the house. We both backed up a few feet so that in case she went onto the curb, she wouldn’t run us over.“But why didn’t you go inside with Mona?” my mother asked on the way home. She had taken off her own coat to put over me and had the heat on high.“She wasn’t using her noggin,” said Mona, next to me in the back seat.“I should call next time,” said my mother. “I just don’t like to say where I am.”That was when she finally told us that she was working as a check-out clerk in the A&P. She was supposed to be on the day shift, but the other employees were unreliable, and her boss had promised her a promotion if she would stay until the evening shift filled in.For a moment no one said anything. Even Mona seemed to find the revelation disappointing.“A promotion already!” she said, finally. I listened to the windshield wipers. “You’re so quiet.” My mother looked at me in the rear view mirror.“What’s the matter?” “I wish you would quit,” I said after a moment. She sighed. “The Chinese have a saying: one beam cannot holdthe roof up.” “But Eugenie Roberts’s father supports their family.” She sighed once more. “Eugenie Roberts’s father is EugenieRoberts’s father,” she said. As we entered the downtown area, Mona started leaning hardagainst me every time the car turned right, trying to push me over. Remembering what I had said to Miss Crosman, I tried to maneuver the umbrella under my leg so she wouldn’t feel it.“What’s under your skirt?” Mona wanted to know as we came to a traffic light. My mother, watching us in the rear view mirror again, rolled slowly to a stop.“What’s the matter?” she asked.“There’s something under her skirt,” said Mona, pulling at me. “Under her skirt.”Meanwhile, a man crossing the street started to yell at us. “Who do you think you are, lady?” he said. “You’re blocking the whole crosswalk.”We all froze. Other people walking by stopped to watch.“Didn’t you hear me?” he went on, starting to thump on the hood with his fist. “Don’t you speak English?”My mother began to back up, but the car behind us honked. Luckily, the light turned green right after that. She sighed in relief.“What were you saying, Mona?” she asked.We wouldn’t have hit the car behind us that hard if he hadn’t been moving too but as it was, our car bucked violently, throwing us all first back and then forward.“Uh oh,” said Mona when we stopped. “Another accident.”I was relieved to have attention diverted from the umbrella. Then I noticed my mother’s head, tilted back onto the seat. Her eyes were closed.“Mom!” I screamed. “Mom! Wake up!”She opened her eyes. “Please don’t yell,” she said. “Enough people are going to yell already.”“I thought you were dead,” I said, starting to cry. “I thought you were dead.”She turned around, looking at me intently, then put her hand to my forehead.“Sick,” she confirmed. “Some kind of sick is giving you crazy ideas.”As the man from the car behind us started tapping on the window, I moved the umbrella away from my leg. Then Mona and my mother were getting out of the car. I got out after them; and while everyone else was inspecting the damage we’d done, I threw the umbrella down a sewer.。
