Two Kinds Amy Tan
My mother believed you could be anything you wanted to be in America. You could open a restaurant. You could work for the government and get good retirement. You could buy a house with almost no money down. You could become rich. You could become instantly famous. “Of course, you can be a prodigy1, too,” my mother told me when
I was nine. “You can be best anything. What does Auntie Lindo know? Her daughter, she is only best tricky.” America was where all my mother’s hopes lay. She had come
to San Francisco in 1949 after losing everything in China: her mother and father, her home, her first husband, and two daughters, twin baby girls. But she never looked back with regret. Things could get better in so many ways. We didn’t immediately
pick the right kind of prodigy. At first my mother thought I could be a Chinese Shirley Temple2. We’d watch Shirley’s old movies on TV as though they were training films. My mother would poke my arm and say, “Ni kan.You watch.” And I would see Shirley
tapping her feet, or singing a sailor song, or pursing her lips into a very round O while saying “Oh, my goodness.” “Ni kan,” my mother said, as Shirley’s eyes
flooded with tears. “You already know how. Don’t need talent for crying!” Soon
after my mother got this idea about Shirley Temple, she took me to the beauty training school in the Mission District and put me in the hands of a student who could barely hold the scissors without shaking. Instead of getting big fat curls, I emerged with an uneven mass of crinkly black fuzz3. My mother dragged me off to the bathroom and tried to wet down my hair. “You look like a Negro Chinese,” she lamented, as if
I had done this on purpose. The instructor of the beauty training school had to lop off4 these soggy clumps to make my hair even again. “Peter Pan5 is very popular these
days” the instructor assured my mother. I now had bad hair the length of a boy’
s, with curly bangs that hung at a slant two inches above my eyebrows. I liked the haircut, and it made me
actually look forward to my future fame. In fact, in the beginning I was just as excited as my mother, maybe even more so. I pictured this prodigy part of me as many different images, and I tried each one on for size. I was a dainty ballerina girl standing by the curtain, waiting to hear the music that would send me floating on my tiptoes. I was like the Christ child lifted out of the straw manger, crying with holy indignity. I was Cinderella6 stepping from her pumpkin carriage with sparkly cartoon music filling the air. In all of my imaginings I was filled with a sense that I would soon become perfect: My mother and father would adore me. I would be beyond reproach. I would never feel the need to sulk, or to clamor for anything. But sometimes the prodigy in me became impatient. “If you don’t hurry up and get me out of here,
I’m disappearing for good,” it warned. “And then you’ll always be nothing.” Every
night after dinner my mother and I would sit at the Formica7 topped kitchen table. She would present new tests, taking her examples from stories of amazing children that she read in Ripley’s Believe It or Not or Good Housekeeping, Reader’s digest,
or any of a dozen other magazines she kept in a pile in our bathroom. My mother got these magazines from people whose houses she cleaned. And since she cleaned many
houses each week, we had a great assortment. She would look through them all, searching for stories about remarkable children. The first night she brought out a story about a three-year-old boy who knew the capitals of all the states and even the most of the European countries. A teacher was quoted as saying that the little boy could also pronounce the names of the foreign cities correctly. “What’s the capital of Finland?”
my mother asked me, looking at the story. All I knew was the capital of California, because Sacramento8 was the name of the street we lived on in Chinatown9. “Nairobi10!”
I quessed, saying the most foreign word I could think of. She checked to see if that might be one way to pronounce “Helsinki11” before showing me the answer. The tests
got harder - multiplying numbers in my head, finding the queen of hearts in a deck of cards, trying to stand on my head without using my hands, predicting the daily temperatures in Los angeles, New York, and London.
One night I had to look at a page from the Bible for three minutes and then report everything I could remember. “Now Jehoshaphat had riches12 and honor in abundance
and that’s all I remember, Ma,” I said. And after seeing, once again, my mother’
s disappointed face, something inside me began to die. I hated the tests, the raised hopes and failed expectations. Before going to bed that night I looked in the mirror above the bathroom sink, and I saw only my face staring backand understood that it would always be this ordinary face I began to cry. Such a sad, ugly girl! I made high-pitched noises like a crazed animal, trying to scratch out the face in the mirror. And then I saw what seemed to be the prodigy side of mea face I had never seen before. I looked at my reflection, blinking so that I could see more clearly. The girl staring back at me was angry, powerful. She and I were the same. I had new thoughts, willful thoughts or rather, thoughts filled with lots of won’ts. I won’t let her change
me, I promised myself. I won’t be what I’m not. So now when my mother presented
her tests, I performed listlessly, my head propped on one arm. I pretended to be bored. And I was. I got so bored that I started counting the bellows of the foghorns out on the bay while my mother drilled me in other areas. The sound was comforting and reminded me of the cow jumping over the moon. And the next day I played a game with myself, seeing if my mother would give up on me before eight bellows. After a while I usually counted ony one bellow, maybe two at most. At last she was beginning to give up hope. Two or three months went by without any mention of my being a prodigy. And then one day my mother was watching the Ed Sullivan Show13 on TV. The TV was old and the sound kept shorting out. Every time my mother got halfway up from the sofa to adjust the set, the sound would come back on and Sullivan would be talking. As soon as she sat down, Sullivan would go silent again. She got up, the TV broke into loud piano music. She sat down, silence. Up and down, back and forth, quiet and loud. It was like a stiff, embraceless dance between her and the TV set. Finally, she stood by the set with her hand on the sound dial. She seemed entranced by the music, a frenzied little piano piece with a mesmerizing quality, which alternated between quick, playful passages and teasing,
lilting ones. “Ni kan,” my mother said, calling me over with hurried hand
gestures. “Look here.” I could see why my mother was fascinated by the music. It was being pounded out by a little Chinese girl, about nine years old, with a Peter
Pan haircut. The girl had the sauciness of a Shirley Temple. She was proudly modest, like a proper Chinese Child. And she also did a fancy sweep of a curtsy, so that the fluffy skirt of her white dress cascaded to the floor like petals of a large carnation. In spite of these warning signs, I wasn’t worried. Our family had no piano and we
couldn’t afford to buy one, let alone reams of sheet music and piano lessons. So I could be generous in my comments when my mother badmouthed14 the little girl on TV. “Play note right, but doesn’t sound good!” my mother complained “No singing
sound.” “What are you picking on her for?” I said carelessly. “She’s pretty good.
Maybe she’s not the best, but she’s trying hard.” I knew almost immediately that
I would be sorry I had said that. “Just like you,” she said. “Not the best. Because
you not trying.” She gave a little huff as she let go of the sound dial and sat down on the sofa. The little Chinese girl sat down also, to play an encore of “Anitra’
s Tanz,” by Grieg15. I remember the song, because later on I had to learn how to play it. Three days after watching the Ed Sullivan Show my mother told me what my schedule would be for piano lessons and piano practice. She had talked to Mr. Chong, who lived on the first floor of our apartment building. Mr.Chong was a retired piano teacher, and my mother had traded housecleaning services for weekly lessons and a piano for me to practice on every day, two hours a day, from four until six. When my mother told me this, I felt as though I had been sent to hell. I wished and then kicked my foot a little when I couldn”t stand it anymore. “Why don’t you like me
the way I am? I’m not a genius! I can’t play the piano. And even if I could, I wouldn’
t go on TV if you paid me a million dollars!” I cried. My mother slapped me. “Who
ask you be genius.”she shouted. “Only ask you be
your best. For you sake. You think I want you be genius? Hnnh! What for! Who ask you!” “So ungrateful,”I heard her mutter in chinese. “If she had as much talent
as she had temper, she would be famous now.” Mr. Chong, whom I secretly nicknamed
Old Chong, was very strange, always tapping his fingers to the silent music of an invisible orchestra. He looked ancient in my eyes. He had lost most of the hair on top of his head and he wore thick glasses and had eyes that always thought, since he lived with his mother and was not yet married. I met Old Lady Chong once, and that was enough. She had a peculiar smell, like a baby that had done something in its pants, and her fingers felt like a dead person’s, like an old peach I once found in the
back of the refrigerator: its skin just slid off the flesh when I picked it up. I soon found out why Old Chong had retired from teaching piano. He was deaf. “Like
Beethoven!” he shouted to me “We’re both listening only in our head!” And he would
start to conduct his frantic silent sonatas16. Our lessons went like this. He would open the book and point to different things, explaining, their purpose: “Key! Treble!
Bass! No sharps or flats! So this is C major! Listen now and play after me!” And
then he would play the C scale a few times, a simple cord, and then, as if inspired by an old unreachable itch, he would gradually add more notes and running trills and a pounding bass until the music was really something quite grand. I would play after him, the simple scale, the simple chord, and then just play some nonsense that sounded like a cat running up and down on top of garbage cans. Old Chong would smile and applaud and say “Very good! Bt now ou must learn to keep time!” So that’s how I discovered
that Old Chong’s eyes were too slow to keep up with the wrong notes I was playing. He went through the motions in half time. To help me keep rhythm, he stood behind me and pushed down on my right shoulder for every beat. He balanced pennies on top of my wrists so that I would keep them still as I slowly played scales and arpeggios17. He had me curve my hand around an apple and keep that shame when playing chords. He marched stiffly to show me how to make
each finger dance up and down, staccato18 like an obedient little soldier. He taught me all these things, and that was how I also learned I could be lazy and get away with mistakes, lots of mistakes. If I hit the wrong notes because I hadn’t
practiced enough, I never corrected myself, I just kept playing in rhythm. And Old Chong kept conducting his own private reverie.19 So maybe I never really gave myself a fair chance. I did pick up the basics pretty quickly, and I might have become a good pianist at the young age. But I was so determined not to try, not to be anybody different, and I learned to play only the most ear-splitting preludes, the most discordant hymns. Over the next year I practiced like this, dutifully in my own way. And then one day I heard my mother and her friend Lindo Jong both after church, and I was leaning against a brick wall, wearing a dress with stiff white petticoats. Auntie Linds daughter, Waverly, who was my age, was standing farther down the wall, about five feet away. We had grown up together and shared all the closeness of two sisters, squabbling over crayons and dolls. In other words, for the most part, we hated each other. I thought she was snotty. Waverly Jong had gained a certain amount of fame as “Chinatown’s Littlest Chinese Chess Champion.” “She bring home too many trophy.”
Auntie Lindo lamented that Sunday. “All day she play chess. All day I have no time
do nothing but dust off her winnings.” She threw a scolding look at Waverly, who
pretended not to see her. “You lucky you don’t have this problem,” Auntie Lindo
said with a sigh to my mother. And my mother squared her shoulders and bragged “our
problem worser than yours. If we ask Jing-mei wash dish, she hear nothing but music. It’s like you can’t stop this natural talent.” And right then I was determined
to put a stop to her foolish pride. A few weeks later Old Chong and my mother conspired to have me play in a talent show that was to be held in the church hall. But then my parents had saved up enough to buy me a secondhand piano, a black Wurlitzer spinet with a scarred bench. It was the showpiece of our living room. For the talent show I was to play a piece called “Pleading Child” from
Schumann’s Scenes From Childhood. It was a simple, moody piece that sounded more difficult than it was. I was supposed to memorize the whole thing. But I dawdled over it, playing a few bars and then cheating, looking up to see what notes followed. I never really listed to what I was playing. I daydreamed about being somewhere else, about being someone else. The part I liked to practice best was the fancy curtsy: right foot out, touch the rose on the carpet with a pointed foot, sweep to the side, bend left leg, look up, and smile. My parents invited all the couples from their social club to witness my debut. Auntie Lindo and Uncle Tin were there. Waverly and her two older brothers had also come. The first two rows were filled with children either younger or older than I was. The littlest ones got to go first. They recited simple nursery rhymes, squawked out tunes on miniature violins, and twirled hula hoops20
in pink ballet tutus21, and when they bowed or curtsied, the audience would sigh in unison, “Awww,” and then clap enthusiastically. When my turn came, I was very confident. I remember my childish excitement. It was as if I knew, without a doubt, that the prodigy side of me really did exist. I had no fear whatsoever, no nervousness. I remember thinking, This is it! This is it! I looked out over the audience, at my mother’s blank face, my father’s yawn, Auntie Lindo’s stiff-lipped smile, Waverly’
s sulky expression. I had on a white dress, layered with sheets of lace, and a pink bow in my Peter Pan haircut. As I sat down, I envisioned people jumping to their feet and Ed Sullivan rushing up to introduce me to everyone on TV. And I started to play. Everything was so beautiful. I was so caught up in how lovely I looked that I wasn’
t worried about how I would sound. So I was surprised when I hit the first wrong note. And then I hit another and another. A chill started at the top of my head and began to trickle down. Yet I couldn’t stop playing, as though my hands were bewitched.
I kept thinking my fingers would adjust themselves back, like a train switching to the right track. I played this strange jumble through to the end, the sour notes staying with me all the way. When I stood up, I discovered my legs were shaking. Maybe I had just been
nervous, and the audience, like Old Chong had seen me go through the right motions and had not heard anything wrong at all. I swept my right foot out, went down on my knee, looked up, and smiled. The room was quiet, except fot Old Chong, who was beaming and shouting “Bravo! Bravo! Well done!” By then I saw my mother’s face, her stricken
face. The audience clapped weakly, and I walked back to my chair, with my whole face quivering as I tried not to cry, I heard a little boy whisper loudly to his mother. “That was awful,” and mother whispered “Well, she certainly tried.”
And now I realized how many people were in the audience, the whole world, it seemed. I was aware of eyes burning into my back. I felt the shame of my mother and father as they sat stiffly through the rest of the show. We could have escaped during intermission. Pride and some strange sense of honor must have anchored my parents to their chairs. And so we watched it all. The eighteen-year-old boy with a fake moustache who did a magic show and juggled flaming hoops while riding a unicycle. The breasted girl with white make up who sang an aria from Madame Butterfly22 and got an honorable mention. And the eleven-year-old boy who was first prize playing a tricky violin song that sounded like a busy bee. After the show the Hsus, the Jongs, and the St. Clairs, from the Joy Luck Club, came up to my mother and father. “Lots
of talented kids,” Auntie Lindo said vaguely, smiling broadly. “That was something
else,” my father said, and I wondered if he was referring to me in a humorous way, or whether he even remembered what I had done. Waverly looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. “You aren’t a genius like me,” she said matter-of-factly. And if I hadn’
t felt so bad, I would have pulled her braids and punched her stomach. But my mother’
s expression was what devastated me: a quiet, blank look that said she had lost everything. I felt the same way, and everybody seemed now to be coming up, like gawkers at the scene of an accident to see what parts were actually missing. When we got on the bus to go home, my father was humming the busy-bee tune and my mother kept silent. I kept thinking she wanted to wait until we got home
before shouting at me. But when my father unlocked the door to our apartment, my mother walked in and went straight to the back, into the bedroom. No accusations, No blame. And in a way, I felt disappointed. I had been waiting for her to start shouting, so that I could shout back and cry and blame her for all my misery. I had assumed that my talent-show fiasco meant that I would never have to play the piano again. But two days later, after school, my mother came out of the kitchen and saw me watching TV. “Four clock,” she reminded me, as if it were any other day. I was stunned, as though she were asking me to go through the talent-show torture again. I planted myself more squarely in front of the TV. “Turn off TV,” she called from
the kitchen five minutes later. I didn’t budge. And then I decided, I didn’t have
to do what mother said anymore. I wasn’t her slave. This wasn’t China. I had listened
to her before, and look what happened she was the stupid one. She came out of the kitchen and stood in the arched entryway of the living room. “Four clock,” she said
once again, louder. “I’m not going to play anymore,” I said nonchalantly23. “Why
should I? I’m not a genius.” She stood in front of the TV. I saw that her chest
was heaving up and down in an angry way. “No!” I said, and I now felt stronger,
as if my true self had finally emerged. So this was what had been inside me all along. “No! I won’t!” I screamed. She snapped off the TV, yanked me by the arm and pulled me off the floor. She was frighteningly strong, half pulling, half carrying me towards the piano as I kicked the throw rugs under my feet. She lifted me up onto the hard bench. I was sobbing by now, looking at her bitterly. Her chest was heaving even more and her mouth was open, smiling crazily as if she were pleased that I was crying. “You want me to be something that I’m not!” I sobbed. “I’ll never be the kind
of daughter you want me to be!” “Only two kinds of daughters,” she shouted in Chinese.
“Those who are obedient and those who follow their own mind! Only one kind of daughter can live in this
house. Obedient daughter!” “Then I wish I weren’t your daughter, I wish you
weren’t my mother,” I shouted. As I said these things I got scared. It felt like worms and toads and slimy things crawling out of my chest, but it also felt good, that this awful side of me had surfaced, at last. “Too late to change this,” my
mother said shrilly. And I could sense her anger rising to its breaking point. I wanted see it spill over. And that’s when I remembered the babies she had lost in China, the ones we never talked about. “Then I wish I’d never been born!” I shouted. “I
wish I were dead! Like them.” It was as if I had said magic words. Alakazam!-her
face went blank, her mouth closed, her arms went slack, and she backed out of the room, stunned, as if she were blowing away like a small brown leaf, thin, brittle, lifeless. It was not the only disappointment my mother felt in me. In the years that followed, I failed her many times, each time asserting my will, my right to fall short of expectations. I didn’t get straight As24. I didn’t become class president. I
didn’t get into Stanford. I dropped out of college. Unlike my mother, I did not believe I could be anything I wanted to be, I could only be me. And for all those years we never talked about the disaster at the recital or my terrible delarations afterward at the piano bench. Neither of us talked about it again, as if it were a betrayal that was now unspeakable. So I never found a way to ask her why she had hoped for
something so large that failure was inevitable. And even worse, I never asked her about what frightened me the most: Why had she given up hope? For after our struggle at the piano, she never mentioned my playing again. The lessons stopped The lid to the piano was closed shutting out the dust, my misery, and her dreams. So she surprised me. A few years ago she offered to give me the piano, for my thirtieth birthday. I had not played in all those years. I saw the offer as a sign of forgiveness, a tremendous burden removed. “Are you sure?” I asked shyly. “I mean, won’t you and
Dad miss it?” “No, this your piano,” she said firmly. “Always your
piano. You only one can play.” “Well, I probably can’t play anymore,” I said.
“It’s been years.” “You pick up fast,” my mother said, as if she knew this was
certain. “You have natural talent. You could be a genius if you want to.” “No,
I couldn’t.” “You just not trying,” my mother said. And she was neither angry
nor sad. She said it as if announcing a fact that could never be disproved. “Take
it,” she said. But I didn’t at first. It was enough that she had offered it to me. And after that, everytime I saw it in my parents’living room, standing in front of
the bay window, it made me feel proud, as if it were a shiny trophy that I had won back. Last week I sent a tuner over to my parent’s apartment and had the piano
reconditioned, for purely sentimental reasons. My mother had died a few months before and I had been bgetting things in order for my father a little bit at a time. I put the jewelry in special silk pouches. The sweaters I put in mothproof boxes. I found some old chinese silk dresses, the kind with little slits up the sides. I rubbed the old silk against my skin, and then wrapped them in tissue and decided to take them hoe with me. After I had the piano tuned, I opened the lid and touched the keys. It sounded even richer that I remembered. Really, it was a very good piano. Inside the bench were the same exercise notes with handwritten scales, the same sedcondhand music books with their covers held together with yellow tape. I opened up the Schumann book to the dark little piecce I had played at the recital. It was on the left-hand page, “Pleading Child” It looked more difficult than I remembered. I played a few bars, surprised at how easily the notes came back to me. And for the first time, or so it seemed, I noticed the piece on the right-hand side, It was called “Perfectly Contented”
I tried to play this one as well. It had a lighter melody but with the same flowing rhythm and turned out to be quite easy. “Pleading Child” was shorter but slower;
“Perfectly Contented” was longer but faster. And after I had played them both a few times, I realized they were two halves of the same song.
授课教案:现代大学英语精读第5 授课教案:现代大学英语精读第5册 Unit Two Two
课程名称(高级英语 课程名称(高级英语 教学对象(英语专业本科三年级 教学对象(
英语专业本科三年级 教学目的 1. 了解作者及其背景知识) 2?熟悉本文使用的写作手法)
3?掌握修辞疑问句、倒装句等修辞 手法等 4?熟练掌握三类构词法) 5?通过深刻理解文
章内涵?培养学 生社会洞察力和相关的讨论能力?同时掌握文中 的核心语言点。
教学内容 1. 热身 2?作者 教育与背景 3?作品赏析( ? 结构分析 ? 如何赏析 文学
作品 ? 扩展式讨论 4?写作技巧( ? 省略疑问句和修辞疑问句 ? 倒装句 5?语言理解 ? 核
心词汇学习 6?课堂讨论 7?练与讲 教学重点 1. 文学作品的赏析) 2?文学中的修辞手
法―― antithesis?反对?、 ?文学中的修辞手法―― antithesis?反对?、 Anaphora(首
语重复法) Anaphora(首语重复法) 教学方法 讲授、问答、讨论、模仿、练习 教学手段多媒
The background of the story: The story is taken from The Joy Luck Club which contains a series of short stories. In surface, it depicts the conflicts between the two generations, but deep down, it reflects the confrontations between two cultures. The mother, who was born and educated in China,represented Chinese culture and traditional value outlook, but the daughter, who was born and educated in America, represented alien culture and value outlook. The title, which seems very simple, is profound in meaning. It can be understood as the conflict between two kinds of person, between two kinds of culture, between two kinds of value outlook„ outlook„The
writer skillfully uses the rhetorical device: pun: n. 双关语 Pun is a rhetorical
device which can express double meaning, for instance, “The river is rich because
it has two banks.” Hemingway also uses the banks.” same rhetorical device in his
novel Farewell to Arms. The word arms has two meanings here. One is weapon, and the other is female arms or love. The author also uses the rhetorical device in her mother’
s name Suyuan, a sound translation from 天the Chinese words 宿愿, which means “old
dream” 宿愿, dream” in English. The name alludes that her mother hoped her old dream would come true in her daughter.
3 Elements from Novel can be read of a novel, it Although “Two Kinds” is taken
as a complete short story. Being a story, it must have 3 elements of its own. The 3 elements mean characters, plots and environments. Characters can be divided into major ones and miner ones. A major character can be called either as a hero or a heroine. The hero means a major male character , and the heroine refers to a major female one in a story. There are two heroines in the story Two Kinds: the daughter and the mother. The daughter serves as the narrator for the first person in the story. The plot of the traditional short story contains three parts: beginning, middle and end. It often moves through five stages exposition(铺垫),rising action(开端,上升
情节 ), crisis exposition(铺垫),rising action(开端, or climax( 高潮), falling
action(高潮之后的部分 ), 高潮), action(高潮之后的部分 resolution( 结局). In Two
Kinds, Paras. 1-3 can be 结局). 1regarded as the beginning, Part One; Paras. 4-76 can be 4taken as the middle, Part Two; Paras.77-93 can referred to Paras.77as the end, Part Three. Environment means either natural one or social one.
IllustrationClimax Elements of 3
Rising actionCharacter Falling action
Guide to Reading
mahmah-jongg 麻将 dim sum:[ 'dim's?m ] n. <汉>点心 sum:[ 'dim's? <汉 finalist:
[ 'fain?list ] n. 参加决赛者 a contestant who reaches the final stages of a
competition The judges awarded both finalists equal points. 裁判员判定决赛双方分
数 相同 bittersweet: a. 又苦又甜的,苦乐参半的 又苦又甜的, 1. tinged with sadness 2.
having a taste that is a mixture of bitterness and sweetness A bittersweet longing for things, persons, or situations of the past. 怀旧 对过去事物、人或环境苦乐参半
的渴望 cliche: [ 'kli:?ei; kli:'?ei ] n. 陈腔滥调a trite or obvious remark Cliche
is 'kli:? kli:'? 陈腔滥调a a feature of bad journalism. 使用套语是拙劣的新闻体的
特点. compelling: 使用套语是拙劣的新闻体的特点. [ k?m'peli? ] a. 强制的,强迫性的,
令人注目的,引起兴趣的 强制的,强迫性的,令人注目的, 1. driving or forcing 2. tending
to persuade by forcefulness of argument pathos: [ 'peiθ?s ] n. 感伤,悲怅,悲情 'pei
θ? 感伤,悲怅, a feeling of sympathy and sorrow for the misfortunes of others The play is notable for the pathos of its final scene. 该剧以最后一场的哀 婉动人而著
称。rend: 婉动人而著称。rend: [ rend ] v. 分裂,劈开,强夺tear or be torn violently
分裂,劈开,强夺tear 1.The stillness was rent by thunderous applause. 雷鸣般的掌声
打破了寂静。 2.Children were rent from their mothers' arms by the brutal soldiers. 凶残 的士兵把孩子们从母亲的怀抱中夺走了。
Text Part I (Paras. 1-3) 1The firs part, Paras. 1-3 , provides the reader with some background information. 1The mother had to be here in America after losing everything in China in 1949. It tells about the mother and her hopes for her daughter, which paves the way for the development of the conflict between the two generations. From these paragraphs, we can deduce the reasons why the mother placed high hopes on her daughter. Firstly, she held that anything can be got in the society. Whether she was aware or not, she was influenced by and believed in the “American Dream”.
Secondly, she was competing with her best friend Lindo, who had a smart daughter. Thirdly, she had lost everything In China and had come to America with The determination to make things better. She was transferring her own hopes to her daughter. prodigy: [ 'pr?did?i ] 'pr? n. 惊人的事物,不凡的人,神童 惊人的事物,不凡
的人, an unusually gifted or intelligent (young) person; someone whose talents excite wonder and admiration Einstain did not seem to be a prodigy when he was a child.
“You can be best anything”: To be anything” grammatically correct, one should
say: “You can be the best in anything. ” “She is only best tricky”: She is only
good at being tricky” tricky.
Part II (Paras. 4-76) 4Subsection 1 (Paras. 4-11) 4Paras. 4-11 form the firs subsection of the 4body of the story. This part is about the mother’ mother’s
unsuccessful attempt to change her daughter into a Chinese Shirley Temple. In the beginning the child was as excited as the mother about becoming a prodigy. At this point, the conflict between mother and daughter was not visible.
poke: [ p?uk ] v. 拨开,刺,探索1. poke or thrust 拨开, 探索1. abruptly ; hit hard
with the hand, fist, or some heavy instrument 1.He is poking the fire with a poker. 他正用通条 捅火。2.He 捅火。2.He nearly poked me in the eye with his stick. 他的
竿子几乎扎着我的眼睛。purse: 他的竿子几乎扎着我的眼睛。purse: [ p?:s ] v. 皱起?
使缩拢 contract one‘s lips into one‘ a rounded shape crinkly: [ ’kri?kli ] a. 起
绉的,绉褶多的 full of 起绉的, wrinkles. fuzz: [ f?z ] n. 细毛,绒毛filamentous
hairlike f? 细毛,绒毛filamentous growth on a plant A peach skin is covered with fuzz. 桃上有一层细 fuzz. 毛.
A peach skin is covered with fuzz. 桃上有一层细毛.
lament: [ l?'ment ] n. 悲叹,悔恨,恸哭 悲叹,悔恨, v. 哀悼,悔恨,悲叹 1. a cry of
sorrow and grief ; 哀悼,悔恨, express grief verbally 1.He deeply lamented the death of his wife. 他 对妻子的去世深感悲痛。 2.She's always lamenting the lack of sports facilities in town. 她总是抱怨伦敦缺少体育设施. 她总是抱怨伦敦缺少体育设施.
3.Short pleasure, long lament. 【谚】痛快一时? lament. 痛苦一世。
lop off: v. 砍掉 remove by or as if by cutting , cut off, chop off off, 1.Some train services have been lopped off this line. 这条路线已 经有几辆火车停开了。2.He
经有几辆火车停开了。2.He had his arm lopped off by an electric saw. 他让电锯锯掉
了一只胳膊。 soggy: [ 's?gi ] a. 湿透的1. (of soil) soft and watery 's? 湿透的1.
1.The ground was soggy after heavy rain. 下了一场大雨, 地面很湿. 下了一场大雨, 地
面很湿. 2.If you boil the vegetables too long, they‘ll go soggy. 要是你把蔬 they
‘ soggy. 菜煮得太久?菜就糊了 straightstraight-across bangs:流海a piece of hair
on a lady’s forehead. bangs:流海a lady’ slant: [ slɑ:nt ] n. 倾斜,斜面a. 倾斜
的 v. 使倾斜,倾斜 slɑ 倾斜,斜面a. 使倾斜, a biased way of looking at or presenting something ;present with a bias 1.Most handwriting slants to the right. 大多数手写
体都向右斜。 2.Has your roof a sharp slant? 你的屋顶是否有一个陡峭的斜面? slant?
3.We slanted across the river. 我们斜渡过河
I pictured this prodigy of me„trying each one on for size.
The sentence means I imagined myself as different types of prodigy, trying to find out which one suited me the best. Trying each one for size: to try something, especially clothing, to see if it is the right size for you a dainty ballerina girl:
a small, pretty and delicate girl who dances in ballets. dainty: [ ‘deinti ] a 娇
小的delicately beautiful 娇小的delicately Tom prefers to marry a dainty girl. ballerina: [ .b?l?‘ri:n? ] n. 芭蕾舞女演员 .b?l?‘ manger: [ 'meind?? ] n. 槽,
牛槽 a container (usually in a barn or stable) from which cattle or horses feed He put some grass in the manger. 他在食槽里放了些草 manger.
adore: [ ?‘d?: ] v. 崇拜,爱慕,喜爱 love intensely 1.The boys ?‘ 崇拜,爱慕, adore
their mothers. 男孩们敬慕他们的母亲。2.All the girls in our 男孩们敬慕他们的母亲。
2.All school adore the handsome mathematics teacher who happens to be a bachelor. 我们学校里所有女孩子都崇拜那个恰巧是单身汉的英 俊数学老师 I would be beyond
reproach. 我会完美无缺。 reproach: [ ri'pr?ut? ] n. 责备,耻辱v. 责备,申斥 ri'pr?ut?
责备,耻辱v. 责备, 1.His reply sounded to me like a reproach. 他的回答在我听来象
是 reproach. 责备。2.She 责备。2.She reproached her husband for having forgotten their wedding anniversary. 她责怪丈夫忘了他们的结婚周年纪念日。 3.Her behaviour was
above/beyond reproach. 她的行为是无可指责 reproach. 的. sulk: [ s?lk ] a. 生气的
v.,愠怒,生气 be in a huff and display one's s? 生气的v.,愠怒, displeasure He's been
sulking for days about being left out of the team. 他嗔 怪队里没要他, 怪队里没要
Subsection 2( Paras. 12-20) 12Paras. 12-20 form the second subsection 12of Part