作者：293871:塞尔,Sell,张德玉,杨华$$(美){0}({1} C.)著,{2},{3}注释
出版社：青岛出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
师恩难忘试读：
译者序
在坎坷的人生道路上，是谁为我们点燃了一盏最明亮的灯；在荆棘的人生旅途中，是谁甘做引路人为我们指明前进的方向……是您，老师，把雨露洒遍大地，把幼苗辛勤哺育！看这满园鲜花、遍地桃李，无不渗透着您的心血！
通过本书，你将记住那位竭尽全力使学生敞开心扉的老师，那位勇于面对挑战默默无私奉献的老师，那位精心传递知识火种、帮学生到达成功彼岸的老师，那位为学生铺平人生道路的老师……他们或貌不惊人或美丽大方，或和蔼可亲或严厉至极，或沉默寡言或个性开朗，但他们内心所蕴含的殷殷真情无时无刻不感动着学生们的心灵，影响着他们的人生历程。
正如爱因斯坦所说：“老师崇高的人格魅力如神奇的钥匙，唤醒我们创新的思维，开启我们求知的心房。”让我们尽情领略本书中不同教师的迥然风采吧。
中国海洋大学
张德玉 杜敏
PREFACE
Colleen Sell
The Cup of Comfort anthology series was created at the dawn of the new millennium to provide a forum by which ordinary people could share true stories about the experiences and people that have inspired them. My hope was that these uplifting personal stories would create a bridge between people of different circumstances and cultures by reminding them of the universal truths that make us all human and that give us hope and happiness. It is certainly not a new concept.
Since human beings first acquired the ability to communicate, we have used stories to share humanity's most empowering truths and most powerful lessons. For hundreds of thousands of years, the uniquely human gift of story has guided and comforted us, connecting us to our inner spirits and to one another.
And now the stories in this book are reaching across continents and oceans to connect people in North America with people in China. The Cup of Comfort authors and I are humbled and honored by this privilege, and we sincerely hope that these stories bring you comfort and joy.
序言
科琳·塞尔《一杯安慰》系列丛书问世于新千年伊始。该丛书为人们提供了一个交流平台，普通人可以在这里讲述他们的真实故事，讲述感动过他们的经历和人。他们的个人经历，使人振奋，揭示了赋予我们人性、带给我们希望和快乐的普遍道理。我希望该故事丛书能为不同背景、不同文化的人们架起一座交流和沟通的桥梁。诚然，以书为桥不是一个新的概念。
自从人类获得交流沟通的能力以来，我们就用故事来传播最发人深省的人生道理，传授最重要的生活经验。千万年来，故事这一非同寻常的人类礼物指引着我们人生的道路，带给我们心灵的慰籍，让我们了解自己的内心世界，是连接我们和他人之间的纽带。
本书中的故事跨越了不同的大陆，飘洋过海，把北美和中国不同地域的人们连接在一起。我和《一杯安慰》的各位作者享此殊荣，不胜荣幸。我们衷心地希望书中故事给你们带去安慰和快乐。
徐莉娜 译
Why I Teach
Iknow my students. Masses of awkward seventh graders swarm the halls of my rural middle school each day, hauling backpacks over one shoulder, talking and shuffling along the tile hallway floor① from class to class. I watch them like a general from my post (my classroom door) and smile at the fact that I can call each one by name.
I know their secrets, their stories. Dora slouches② and is shy, and I know it is because she spends all her time at home trying not to get noticed, so she won't feel the brunt of her stepfather's angry hand. Jay can pitch like a tenth grader, and all the girls swoon when he and his blond hair strut by, but I know he doesn't really even like baseball that much (he plays because his dad wants him to) and he is too scared to ask out the girl he likes. The kids think Keith is just the class clown, but I know of his dreams to become an astronaut (and I've recommended him for space camp). I know my students because I am their writing teacher. They trust me with their stories and so I am given the privilege of having a secret bond with each and every one of them.
I teach my students about the power of words, and I try to let them find release and expression through writing. We learn to trust each other in writing class because we learn how hard it is to write openly and honestly, and we learn that sharing your words takes courage. I see courage every day in my classroom, and I am always amazed at the words that come from my students' hearts.
One such example of courage took place during author's chair, a sharing session at the end of our writer's workshop in which students volunteer to share what they have written. We had a new student to the school, Al. Al was small and, with his dimpled cheeks and baby face, he looked younger than his classmates.
In fact, when Al was first introduced to the class two weeks earlier, one student said, “You're not in the seventh grade. You're a baby.”
To that, Al quickly responded, “I'm Al Billslington, and I am in the seventh grade.”
Despite his obvious courage, Al had been with us for only a short while and was still trying to fit in, so I was a little surprised when he volunteered to read during author's chair. I had one of those teacher moments, when I smiled and nodded for him to read, while inside I said a silent prayer that the other students would not tease the new kid after he read. The room fell silent, and Al began to read.
“If I had one wish, it would be to meet my dad...” He started out loud and clear and held the attention of my usually restless seventh graders as he read on for what seemed like fifteen minutes. He told of how he had never known his father, who had left the family when Al was a baby. He shared the intimate details of his struggles to be the only man in the house at such a young age, of having to mow the lawn and fix broken pipes. He revealed to us the thoughts that raced through his mind constantly about where his father might be and why he might have left.
My eyes scanned the room for snickering faces③ of seventhgrade kids who I knew were prone to jump at a weakness and try to crack a joke, but there were no snickers. There were no rolling eyes or gestures insinuating boredom or pending attacks④. All of my seventhgrade students were listening, really listening. Their eyes were on Al, and they were absorbing his words like sponges. My heart was full.
Al continued on, telling of nightmares at night, of never knowing a man so important to him, yet so unreal. I could hear his voice growing shaky as he read such passionate and honest words, and I saw a tear roll down one of his dimpled cheeks. I looked to the audience. There were tears on Jessica's face and on the faces of a few others seated quietly, intently listening.
They are letting him do this, I thought. They are allowing him to share something he perhaps has never shared before, and they aren't judging him or teasing him. I felt a lump in my own throat.
Al finished, struggling now to read his last sentence. “If I had one wish, it would be to meet my dad, so I wouldn't...” His tears were rolling now, and so were ours,“...so I wouldn't have to close my eyes in bed every night just wondering what he looks like.”
Without any cue from me, the class stood up and applauded. Al smiled from ear to ear as they all rushed him with hugs. I was floored.
This is why I teach. I teach because I am allowed to learn the stories behind the faces. I teach because I can watch kids grow and laugh and learn and love. I teach because of students like Al.
— Whitney L. Grady
Notes:
① ...shuffling along the tile hallway floor: ……沿着走廊的瓷砖地面慢吞吞地走着
② slouch: 无精打采,懒洋洋
③ My eyes scanned the room for snickering faces...: 我扫视了一下屋子, 寻找那些窃笑的面孔……
④ ...insinuating boredom or pending attacks: ……显示出厌烦或准备攻击的姿势
我之所以教书
我对我的学生们了如指掌。在我们的乡村中学里，每天一群青涩的七年级学生，肩上吊着背包，吵吵嚷嚷地，沿着走廊的瓷砖地面，慢吞吞地从一间教室走向另一间教室。我站在自己的岗位——教室门口——看着他们，仿佛一个将军在检阅自己的士兵。我为能叫出他们每个人的名字而欣喜。
我知道他们的秘密、他们的故事。多拉是个无精打采而羞涩的女孩。我知道这是因为她在家时把所有时间都花在尽量不惹人注意上，以免挨上继父那愤怒的拳头。杰能像一个十年级学生一样扔棒球。当他顶着一头金发昂首走过时，女生们通常都会眩晕。但是我却知道他自己并不喜欢打棒球，只是迫于父命而已；而且他也很害怕约喜欢的女孩子出去。学生们都认为凯斯只不过是班上的小丑，可我知道他一直都梦想成为一名宇航员（同时我也把他推荐到一个太空夏令营）。我了解我的学生是因为我是他们的作文老师。他们对我敞开心扉，于是我就有了与他们分享秘密的特权。
我教他们文字的力量，教他们尝试从文字中释放自己，表达自己。在作文课上我们学会了相互信任，因为我们深知：诚实、公开地写作并非易事;分享自己的语言更是需要鼓足勇气的。每天在教室里我都能看到这种勇气，也常常震惊于学生们的肺腑之言。
这里就是一个考验勇气的例子。它发生在小作者讲座——“作者工作室”里学生们自愿分享文字的一个环节中。学校里新来了一个学生阿尔。他很瘦小，两个酒窝再加上一张娃娃脸，让他看起来比所有的同学都要小。
事实上，两周前当阿尔第一次来到班上时，有一个同学就说:“你不应该上七年级吧，你还是个小孩呢！”
阿尔当即回答说:“我叫阿尔·比尔史灵顿，我上七年级。”
虽然他的勇气是显而易见的，但毕竟来到我们中间不久，还处在试着融入这个班集体的阶段。因而，当他毛遂自荐要在小作者讲座上朗读自己的作文时，我还是有点吃惊。像往常一样，我微笑着点头示意他开始朗读，内心却在为他默默地祈祷，希望其他同学不会奚落这位新来的同学。教室里安静下来，阿尔开始朗读了。“如果说我有什么心愿的话，那将是见到我的爸爸……”他的声音洪亮而清晰，在接下来的大约15分钟的朗读过程中，紧紧抓住了我那些平常就骚动不安的七年级学生的心。他讲述了自己从未见过父亲的原因：在他还是个孩子的时候父亲就离家出走了。他与大家分享了一些隐私的细节，如自己如此年轻，就为成为家里唯一的男人而努力，再如刈草坪和修理下水管道等。他还透露出自己心里一直有着父亲究竟在哪里，以及他为什么离开的疑问。
我环视了一下屋子，寻找那些窃笑的面孔。因为，我深知，这些七年级学生习惯拿别人的弱点来开心、作乐。但是并没有人笑。我很欣慰地看到，没有人左顾右盼或作出显示厌烦或准备攻击的姿势。所有人都全神贯注地听着。他们看着阿尔，像海绵吸水一般不放过每一句话。我心满意足。
阿尔继续朗读着，述说自己的那些噩梦，述说自己从来没有感觉到一个男人对自己来说如此地重要，而离自己又如此地遥远。当他读着如此打动人心而又真诚的话语时，我能感到他的声音越来越颤抖，还看到一颗泪珠从他那挂着酒窝的脸颊上滑落。我看了看观众，只见杰希卡和其他几个坐在那里静听的孩子的脸上也泪光滢滢。“他们允许他这么做。”我想。“他们允许他分享一些可能从来没有分享过的东西，并且他们并没有看不起他、嘲笑他!” 我哽咽了。
阿尔快结束了，正费力地朗读最后一句话。“如果说我有什么心愿的话，那将是见到我的爸爸，那么我就不会——”他已经泪如雨下，我们也一样。“那么我就不会每晚躺在床上，想像他的模样了。”
在没有我任何指示的情况下，全体同学站起来开始鼓掌。当大家纷纷跑上前去拥抱他的时候，阿尔会心地笑了。
这便是我之所以教书的原因。之所以教书，是因为我可以了解到那些面孔下面隐藏的故事；是因为我可以看着孩子们成长、欢笑、学习和友爱；更是因为那些像阿尔一般的孩子们。
——惠特尼·L·葛拉德
A Pair of Nothings
Iheld my breath as I watched my brother's finger trace through the newspaper listing of teachers assigned to third graders. I squeezed my eyes shut tight①. Please, please, don't let it be Miss Ball.
“Miss Ball.”
My brother's words hit me like a punch to the stomach. Wasn't it bad enough that third graders had to learn their multiplication tables② before they could pass to fourth grade? No one wanted to be in Miss Ball's class to do it. She was scary.
According to my father, Miss Ball's badly scarred face was the result of smallpox in her youth. Knowing the cause didn't diminish the effect. Tall and slender, with eyes as black and shiny as onyx and lean fingers that could snap like a rifle shot, she was the most intimidating figure③ on the entire second floor.
That September I dragged my newly shod feet into class, completely demoralized by my class assignment④. With such a stern demeanor⑤, Miss Ball would have even less of a sense of humor than the teachers I'd experienced previously. No tolerance for a creative imagination in her class. I prepared myself to hate every minute of the next nine months.
Reading was the first class. A breeze for me. My older brother Doug had taught me to read when I was four. Geography was a snap, too. Same with history. When we came back to the classroom after lunch recess, there it was on the blackboard: the first row of the dreaded multiplication table. The “zero times.” The school chili gurgled in my stomach. By the end of the day, we would be repeating the numbers in that mindless prisonerofwar style I had learned to resent from my first day of first grade. I planted my face on my fists.
Zero times zero made sense. I could even accept one times zero. But I had to question why two times zero was still zero. I was just a farm kid, but I knew when you had two of anything you had something. My hand shot up, wagging.
“Doesn't that two mean anything?”
Miss Ball stared at me, her black eyes unreadable. My classmates stared at me. I held my breath until my vision blurred. Maybe it really was possible to slither to the floor and sink into one of the cracks between those worn hardwood slats.
Then Miss Ball did something beyond my realm of experience. She smiled. A gentle smile. Not that evil smile teachers get when they sense a smart aleck in the class. I'd expected reproach. What I got was goose bumps⑥. This was definitely new territory for me. Now everyone was staring at the woman at the front of the room and not at me. I could breathe again.
She turned to the blackboard and drew a large rectangle, which she divided into halves. “This,” she said, pointing to the blank interior of the left block, “is a nothing. A zero.” Next she gestured to include both portions of the divided rectangle. “And these are two nothings. Class, what do you get when you have one nothing and one nothing?”
“Nooothiiing, Miiiss Baaall.”
I stared at that divided rectangle long after Miss Ball and my classmates had moved on to discuss other zeroes. A blank domino⑦. A pair of nothings. I wanted to hug myself with delight. At last, a teacher who could illustrate a point, who could make me visualize rather than merely saying, “Just because.” Even back then, before analysis of learning behavior became popular, she was perceptive about some students learning better through visual aids and reinforcement rather than auditory instruction.
In later lessons, when her personal stock of colored chalk appeared, I discovered Miss Ball could draw flowering trees with nests hiding in them, clouds with exotic birds flying around the sky, and rays of sunshine and rippling water with lily pads that looked real. She could write poems, too. Short poems with exciting new words that expanded my vocabulary and my horizons.
Miss Ball was a kindred soul. A creative soul. A beautiful soul.
Later in the year a box appeared on the activity table. It was full of 3by8inch cards. On each card was a word. On the back of the card was the definition of that word. Nothing in my education to that point had ever struck such a spark of excitement. Words were some of my most favorite things in the world. I found words fascinating, not so much the sounds they made when you spoke them as their appearance, their meanings, how they could be employed in a sentence to alter meanings. These were all new words, big ones, 250 of them. This was not the vocabulary you learned on the farm. Not a single domestic animal resided in their midst. The box represented the lexicon of journalists, scholars, and philosophers.
Like a new kid in class, the words became my friends. I copied them, played with them, and introduced them into my conversation. And, like any other eightyearold, I'm sure I mistreated them on occasion. I hardly noticed that none of my classmates shared my enthusiasm. The words were my companions on the baseball field and playground as well as in the library and the classroom.
Tears stung my eyes that final day with Miss Ball. I had more to learn from this wonderful teacher. She had so much more to teach. There were more boxes full of those musical, magical new words.
Fifty years have passed since I sat behind that old wooden desk with notches and initials carved by generations of students and darkened with decades of varnish, ink, and grime. Of all my teachers, I remember Miss Ball most, not for her flawed complexion and intimidating demeanor, but for her ability to spark the imagination of a dirtpoor, pigtailed country girl. Thanks to Matilda Ball, the desire to learn burns as brightly for me today as it did when she drew that simple whitechalk rectangle filled with a pair of nothings.
— Kathleen Ewing
Notes:
① I squeezed my eyes shut tight. 我紧紧闭上眼睛。
② multiplication table: 乘法表
③ the most intimidating figure: 最令人感到恐怖的身影
④ ...completely demoralized by my class assignment: ……被课堂作业整得筋疲力尽。demoralize，意为“泄气、沮丧”。
⑤ stern demeanor: 严酷的举止。demeanor，指“举止、风度”。
⑥ goose bump: 鸡皮疙瘩
⑦ a blank domino： 一个空白的多米诺骨牌。多米诺骨牌：一个小长方木头或塑料块儿，其面分两半，每半或者空白或者刻有一到六个类似于骰子上的点。
二乘以零得几
报纸上列出了教三年级学生的老师名单，哥哥正在查找。看着他的手指在报纸上划过，我紧闭双眼，屏住了呼吸。拜托，拜托，千万别是鲍老师……“鲍老师。”
哥哥的话如一拳打在胃上，给了我重重一击。三年级的学生在升入四年级之前必须学乘法表，这还不算糟糕吗？没人想进鲍老师班学乘法。她让人望而却步。
听父亲讲，鲍老师的脸之所以疤痕累累，是因为早年得过天花。可就算知道了原因也还是不能减少对她的恐惧。她又高又瘦，眼睛如缟玛瑙般黑亮，细指如子弹般活动敏捷。整个二楼，她最让人害怕。
那年九月，我拖着新鞋进了教室，对班级的分配失望透顶。我想：鲍老师外表那么严厉，肯定比以前的老师缺乏幽默感，她的课堂上不会容得下富于创造力的想像的。我已经做好准备——接下来的九个月在憎恨中度过每一分钟。
第一堂课是阅读，这对我来说轻而易举。在我四岁的时候哥哥就教过我了。地理、历史也都是小菜一碟。可是吃过午饭回到教室，我们就发现黑板上写着那可恶的乘法表第一行的内容——零的倍数。吃的辣椒开始在肚子里咯咯作响。我想，天黑之前我们就得像囚犯一样重复这些数字了。打我上一年级的第一天起，对此就十分怨恨。我把脸伏到了拳头上。
零零得零讲得通，我甚至可以接受一乘零得零。但我不得不问，为什么二乘零还是零？我是个乡下孩子，但我知道任何东西当你有了两个便不会感到一无所有。我摇摇晃晃地举起了手。“难道这个二没有意义吗？”
鲍老师盯着我，目光不可捉摸。同学们也都盯着我。我屏住了呼吸，直至视线变得模糊。也许我应该滑到地上，在那些破裂的硬木板上找个缝钻进去。
鲍老师接下来的做法出乎我的意料。她笑了，和蔼的笑，而不是坏笑。我原以为她会责备我，因而起了一身鸡皮疙瘩。这对我来说绝对新鲜。每个人都把目光转向教室前面这个女人，我又能呼吸了。
她转向黑板画了一个大大的矩形，并分成两半。她指着左半边矩形的空白部分说：“这什么也没有，是个零。”接着她又指向矩形的两半，“这是两个零，同学们，如果给你一个零后再给你一个零，你们会得到什么？”“零，鲍老师！”大家异口同声地回答。
我盯着这个被分成两半的矩形思忖良久，而鲍老师和其他同学早去讨论其他的零了。一副空白的多米诺骨牌，两个零。一个老师用图形的阐释给了我直观的感受，而不仅仅告诉我“没有为什么”。在有关学习行为的分析还不流行的时候，她已经感觉到，对某些学生而言，直观的辅助物比单纯的讲授更有利于他们的学习。
在后来的课上，鲍老师不时地拿出她的彩色粉笔。我发现她能绘出树木开满鲜花，鸟巢隐匿其中；能绘出天空布满云朵，奇异的鸟儿飞翔；还能绘出明媚的阳光下荷叶漂浮的、泛着涟漪的水面。在她的笔下，这一切都栩栩如生。她还能写诗，很短的诗，那些令人激动的新词丰富了我的词汇，也开阔了我的视野。
鲍老师是一个富于创造力的人，一个美丽的人。
后来，活动课桌上放了一个盒子，里面全是八英寸长三英寸宽的卡片，每个卡片上都有一个词。以往的学习中从来没什么能让我如此兴奋。文字是世界上我最喜欢的东西之一。 这些都是新词、大词，共有250个。这不是在农场能学到的，没有一个是关于家畜的，而是记者、学者和哲学家们的措辞。
这些词就像班里的新同学，成了我的朋友。我抄写它们、摆弄它们，并将它们用于日常谈话中。像任何一个八岁的孩子一样，我肯定有时也会用错。但我沉浸在自己的喜悦里，几乎没注意到根本没有同学分享我的热情。无论在棒球场、操场，还是在图书馆、教室，这些词都是我的伙伴。
当我最后一天见鲍老师时，泪水刺痛了我的双眼。我还有好多东西没向这位好老师学习，而她也有好多东西还没教给我们。还有好多盒卡片，写满了悦耳的神秘的文字。
曾几何时，我在那张旧课桌上学习，上面布满了一届届学生留下的刻痕，积年累月的清漆、墨水、尘垢早已使其黯然失色。如今50年过去了，在所有教过我的老师中，我对鲍老师的记忆最清晰，不是因为她面目可憎、为人严厉，而是因为她触发了一个扎着小辫的乡下穷孩子的无尽的想像。感谢鲍老师，当她用白粉笔画下那个由两个零组成的简单的矩形时，强烈的求知欲便在我心中点燃，直至今日仍不熄灭。
——凯瑟琳·艾温
Because It Matters
High school was pretty easy for me, and I wasn't alone. Everyone in the honors program typically cruised through our classes without breaking a sweat. The first month of honors American history class did nothing to challenge that expectation. Sure, we had a substitute from the first day on, but those first four weeks of memorizing names and dates were as easy, and as boring, as we'd all expected.
Mr. King came back just in time to give us the first test. He was a sight. He'd had a serious bout with hepatitis① and was still frail and jaundiced from months spent recovering. His voice was just above a whisper, but he spoke with dignity and precision.
Even if he hadn't, we would have been riveted by his discussion of the results of that first test. After all, we were honors students②. The question, though, wasn't whether we'd received an A; the question was who got the highest score.
The answer in this case was my friend Paul Larick. Paul was fiercely intelligent and fiercely competitive. He allowed himself to grin as Mr. King began with, “Mr. Larick, you earned the highest grade on the first test.” His smile vanished when Mr. King went on to say, “You earned a D.”
Mr. King paused to glance around the room, and to rest, before speaking again. “The rest of you,” he said, “did not do so well, earning Dminuses or below.”
“But —” someone said.
“That's not fair!” someone else cried.
“But you tested us on things we hadn't studied,” a third person tried.
I don't remember who said these things. It wasn't me. I was too stunned to speak.
Mr. King looked at us. “The work you submitted,” he whispered, “was not honors quality.”
Mr. King was not unfair. He threw out all grades for the first test. He was not unkind. That was the last time he ever discussed grades publicly. And he was not without a sense of humor. He opened each class with an invitation of, “Does anyone have a good joke?” and closed class with “Questions? Comments? Obscure conundrums③?” When someone shared a good joke, he often laughed so hard he fell over. When someone offered a good conundrum, he saluted its difficulty.
But what Mr. King was not, finally, was ever unclear about his standards, and that was a shock to us. We were all so used to getting As as a matter of course that we tried every strategy in the book to sway Mr. King.
“You graded my paper down for grammar and spelling. This isn't an English class,” one of us would whine.
Mr. King would peer at us through or, if he was particularly testy, over his glasses and say, “Perhaps I should speak with Mr. Froelich about what you're learning in his English classes. If you apply your skills only in the classes in which they are studied, what good are they?”
I remember trying one such whine. “What do you mean, my thesis isn't supported? Isn't my idea original?”
Unblinking eyes gazed at me through a pair of heavy glasses. “Those two points are not, as I trust you know, related. Your idea is quite original. Daring, even. Now you need to support it.”
Bitter, I tried again. “It would have been good enough in my honors English class.”
“Well, it's not good enough here.” Mr. King spoke quietly, to keep the matter private.
My answer was louder, an attempt to enlist the entire class behind me. “Well, why isn't it good enough?”
“Because my subject matter is important,” he said. “Because it is desperately important for you to learn your country's history — not just the names and dates, but the laws and debates behind the laws, their economic implications, and what the period perspectives were. Because it is desperately important for all of you to be able to form a cogent, wellsupported argument that you deliver in clear, grammatically correct prose.”
He had to rest then, but he went on when he could. “This is school, but if that's all it is, it's worthless. My standards are high because this matters.”
After that, I would have followed him anywhere — and I would have killed to get an A in that class. But that, too, would have been the easy way out. Instead, I had to work. We had four textbooks for the class — economic, diplomatic, and military histories as well as a standard overall history of the United States. We also used primary sources.
We learned that just because an essay test was timed, that didn't mean one could cast aside a thesis statement or good organization. We learned history, but we also learned to research, to write, and to reason.
And because Mr. King did not play favorites and had reasons for all of his grading criteria, we learned two more things. We learned to stop thinking of grades as something personal and instead to use them to measure our performance of a given task. And we learned the value of rigor in the service of an important goal.
These lessons were underscored by Mr. King's frail health. In every other class I'd had in which an instructor fell ill, the class had been made easier, allowing teacher and students to coast. Every time Mr. King stood up to explain something or held a position when challenged, the effort was visible and it underscored that primary explanation of his rigor: because it matters.
I didn't become a teacher until years later, but when a student asked a question late one semester, I realized how much Mr. King had influenced me.
“Hey, did you know we're doing more work in this class than they're doing in other freshmen English classes?” a student asked.
“Yes,” I said. “By my estimate, you're doing thirty to forty percent more work in this class than the other sections are doing, and you're held to higher standards.”
“You knew that?” he asked. “But why?”
Rather than answering directly, I waved a hand. “Pick someone. Anyone.”
Mystified, he pointed hesitantly at one of his classmates.
“Do you like writing?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
The first student winced④.
I shook my head in agreement. “Never turn away from honesty. Now, the key questions: Do you like it more than you did? And are you better at it?”
“Yes,” he said. “I used to hate it. Now, it's okay, and I tutor the guys in my frat on how to write papers.”
I nodded. “Pick someone else.”
He did, and we repeated the process. Some loved writing; some liked it; some still hated it but were teaching their friends to write. All had improved.
I returned the question to the student who had asked the question. “So, why are you held to higher standards in this class?”
“So we'll learn what we need to,” he said.
“Exactly,” I said, “because it matters.”
I went on to explain why they needed to be able to reason and to articulate their thoughts and opinions⑤, but it wasn't my explanation. The words I spoke were James King's words, tumbling out halfway across the country and many years later. And they were still true.
— Greg Beatty
Notes:
① hepatitis: 肝炎
② honors student: 优等生
③ obscure conundrum: 难题
④ wince: 畏缩,退缩
⑤ ...to articulate their thoughts and opinions: ……说出他们的想法和观点
因为有必要
高中对我来说可谓小菜一碟，也不只我一个人这么认为。实验班的每个学生都能毫不费力地学完所有的课程。美国历史课实验班的第一个月完全如人所料。虽然每天都是学些不同的东西，但是四个星期来背诵名称和日期，就像我们想像的那样简单和无聊。
金老师刚好赶上回来给我们考第一场试，他很引人注目。他刚得了一场严重的肝炎病，调养了几个月，但仍然很虚弱，脸色蜡黄。他的声音很低，但说起话来，十分威严，令人深信不疑。
就算他不提，我们也会关注他对第一场考试结果的看法。毕竟，我们是优等生。然而，我们关注的不是得了优秀与否，而是谁的分数最高。结果一般是我的朋友保罗·拉里克独占鳌头。保罗非常聪明，也很狂妄。当金老师说到“拉里克同学，你在第一次考试中得了最高分”时，拉里克对他露齿而笑，而当金老师继续说到“等级是及格”时，他的笑容消失了。
金老师停下来扫视了一下屋子，然后对剩下的人说：“而其他人，” 他说，“考得就没那么好了，有的人没有及格，有的人更差。”“可是……”有人说道。“这不公平！”另一人说。“可是，你考的是我们没有学过的东西。”第三个人说道。
我不记得是谁说的那些话，反正不是我，考试的结果让我哑口无言。
金老师看着我们。“你们的答卷，”他低声道，“哪像优等生的样子？”
金老师并不是不公平，他公布了所有的分数。他也不是不够意思，这是他最后一次公开地讨论考试分数。他也并非没有幽默感，每次上课前他都会问：“谁有什么有意思的笑话吗?”若有人讲个有意思的笑话后，他总是会笑得前仰后合。若有人出了个谜语，他也会绞尽脑汁地思考答案。
然而金老师的阅卷标准却从不含糊。这一点很让我们担惊受怕。我们都是得惯了优秀的人，因此，我们用上了书上所有的策略来让金老师改变心意。“因为我的拼写和语法错误，你就给我打了低分，可是这又不是英语课。”有人就可能如此抱怨。
金老师一眼就能看穿我们，如果适逢他很生气的话，他就会说：“看来我要和你们的英语老师弗罗利兹先生谈谈，告诉他，你们在他的课上都学到了什么东西。如果你们只能在本课堂上用本课堂学到的东西，学来又有什么用？”
记得有一次，我试着如此抱怨：“你说我的论文缺乏佐证究竟是什么意思?难道我的观点不新颖吗？”
金老师一双眼睛透过厚厚的镜片，瞪着我：“我认为你也明白，那两个论点是无关的。你的观点很新颖，甚至很大胆，但你需要证明它。”
我带着挖苦的语气说：“在实验班的英语课上，它恐怕都能行吧？”“可是在我这里不行!”金老师低声道。尽量不让别人听到我们的谈话内容。
我的回答却很大声，试着引起身后全班同学的注意。“那么，为什么不行呢？”“因为我的课程很重要。”他说。“因为，对你而言，了解你的祖国的历史极其重要。历史不仅是名称与日期，还包括法律和法律背后的争论、它们的经济意义，以及当时的时代背景。因为，对你们每个人而言，能够用正确的语法、清晰的文风，写一篇切题、有说服力的议论文极其重要。”
说到这里，他已经需要休息。但他又很快接着说了下去：“这里是学校，但如果仅此而已，它就毫无用处。我的标准确实是高，那是因为它有必要高。”
从那以后，我就唯他马首是瞻，到处跟着他——在他的课上，我得费尽九牛二虎之力才能得优秀。然而，跟着他也许会是个好出路。事实上，我也要付出实际劳动。历史课我们有四本教材——经济史、外交史、军事史，以及标准美国通史。我们也会用到第一手史料。
我们因为作文考试即将到来而学习，但并不意味着可以忽略中心论点的陈述和文章结构。我们不但要学历史，还要学调研、写作和思考。
另外，金老师毫不偏心，他的每一个评分标准都理由充分。我们还学会了两样其他东西。即不把分数看成一种个人情感的反映，而用它来量化自己完成任务时的表现；同时，我们也懂得了吃苦耐劳在完成一个重要目标过程中的价值。
金老师虚弱的身体增添了课程的分量。在其他课上，如果老师身体欠佳，上课就会变得轻松一些，老师和学生可以随心所欲地安排进度。每当金老师站起来解释一个问题或者迎接来自另一个立场的挑战，他所做出的努力是那么显而易见、惊心动魄，这更强调了他先前对自己苛刻的解释——因为，它有必要！
多年以后我也成了一名老师。当一个学生在学期末问我一个问题时，我才意识到金老师对我的影响有多深。“嘿，你知道我们班的作业比其他一年级英语班的作业要多很多吗？”一个学生如是问道。“是的。” 我回答道。“根据我的估计，你们比其他班要多做30%到40%的作业。因而，你们现在的水平也要高些。”“你确定吗？”他问。“可是为什么会这样?”
我没有直接回答，而是摆了摆手。“随便挑一个，谁都行。”
他很迷惑，迟疑地指了一个同学。“你喜欢作文吗？”我问他。“不喜欢。”他回答说。
先前那个学生有点退缩了。
我赞同地点点头。“永远别对诚实不屑一顾。现在的主要问题是：你现在是不是比以前要喜欢些？是不是比以前写得要好些？”“是的。”他说。“我以前讨厌写作文，现在好多了。我还教兄弟会那帮哥们如何写论文呢。”
我点了点头。“再挑一个。”
他又挑了一个。我们重复了刚才的步骤。结果是：有人爱好写作文，有人喜欢写作文，有人虽然还是讨厌作文，但却在教朋友如何写。人人都有了进步。“那么说来，我们是在学习我们需要的东西。”他说。“正是。”我说。“因为有必要。”
我接着解释为什么他们需要学会思考，能够说出自己的想法和观点。但是，我用的不是自己的解释。我说的是金老师的话，那些话千里迢迢、一路颠簸到多年后的今天，依然适用。
——葛里格·贝蒂
The First Day
Dozens of eyes stared at me. A sea of unfamiliar faces loomed large and forbidding.① My teaching career was off to a nervewracking② start. Terrified, I summoned the courage to smile. The appearance of several eager grins reassured me. Eyes and grins turned, expectant, and I knew I had to speak.
“Hello, boys and girls,” I said, and introduced myself to the group of children standing in front of me. “I'm so glad you all came today.”
My words sounded weak and small. Project your voice③, I thought.
“This is such a special and exciting day — your first day of grade one.”
Several children straightened their shoulders as if suddenly aware of their importance.
I directed my next comments to the intimidating row of parents lining the back of the room. Nothing in my education courses at university had prepared me for the folded arms④, the candid looks of appraisal, and the eyes narrowed with suspicion⑤. I was twenty years old, and I looked about fifteen. My shaky voice and nervous mannerisms had betrayed me. No wonder the parents were less than enthusiastic.
“Of course, the moms and dads are welcome to spend the morning with us,” I said. “However, I'm sure some of you have other things you need to do.”
Go home, I thought. Please go home and leave me alone. I don't know about you, but I have the feeling I'm in the wrong place.
No one moved. No one spoke.
“I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have,” I said.
More silence.
I took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should get started.”
I picked up a list of the students' names from my desk and began to read. “Tommy Adams. Are you here?”
A tentative hand went up, and I felt a flicker of relief.
“Tommy,” I said. “Can you tell me your address and phone number?” In a moment of optimistic inspiration earlier that morning, I had decided not only to call the roll but also to check whether each child knew his home contact information.
Tommy frowned. “No,” he said.
The flicker of relief I felt a moment earlier sputtered and died. I nodded.
“That's perfectly all right,” I said, as Tommy's head drooped in defeat.
Great, I thought. I ask the poor kid his first question, and he doesn't know the answer. Forget the phone numbers and addresses. I glanced at the wrinkled paper clutched in my sweaty hand.
“David Allen, are you here?”
Another hand went up. His eyes glittered with excitement.
“I know my address and phone number,” he announced with a triumphant glance⑥ at Tommy.
Tommy's eyes widened with indignation. “I know my phone number and address, too, David. I'm just not going to tell her,” he said, pointing at me. “She's a stranger, and my mom told me never to tell a stranger my phone number or address.”
Oh, God, I thought, what ever made me believe I could be a teacher?
There were mutters and whispers from the parents brigade at the back, and several mothers, after saying goodbye to their children, left the room.
Like rats leaving a sinking ship, I thought.
I gestured toward the rows of desks in front of me. “I'd like everyone to find their seat now. You'll find your name taped to the top righthand corner. I'll take the roll after you're all seated.” And just before I run screaming from the room.
A few more mothers kissed their children goodbye, glanced my way as if to say, “My kid had better be in one piece when I get back,” and departed.
The room came to life with excited chatter and the sounds of wooden chairs being pulled across the floor. Then, a child's mournful wail filled the room. In the corner, clinging to his mother's coat like a baby orangutan⑦, was Tommy Adams.
“I want to go home,” he sobbed. “I want to go home.”
The room fell silent as everyone stopped to watch the drama. I reached out to touch Tommy's shoulder, and he flinched⑧.
An apologetic look appeared on his mother's face. “He doesn't like new things, but he's never made a fuss like this.”
I knelt down. In a soft, low voice, I attempted to comfort him. “It's all right, Tommy. Please don't cry. Everything's going to be okay.”
I suppose I was consoling myself, too. This was not how I had pictured my first day of teaching, and a part of me wanted to howl and cry just like Tommy.
I tried bribing him. “Tommy, would you like to be in charge of picking out a story for me to read to the class?” I said.
His face buried in his mother's leg, he shook his head.
“Would you like to be my helper and collect the milk money?”
He hesitated for a moment this time, but after a few seconds, he shook his head again.
I glanced up at his mother. Her eyes and voice pleaded with me. “I have to get to work.” This announcement provoked more crying from Tommy, this time louder and more desperate.
“Can I tell you a secret, Tommy?” I whispered.
I held my breath and waited. He stopped crying. He was listening.
“This is my first day, too,” I said. “I'm new, and I'm kind of nervous and scared.”
He turned around and stared at me, his red and swollen eyes full of incredulity. “You're scared?”
I shrugged and nodded. “A little. I've never been a teacher before, but you were in kindergarten, right?”
“Yes, I was. I used to get a sticker almost every day.”
“I can tell just by looking at you that you're the kind of boy who would get a sticker almost every day.” I reached out and held his hand. This time he didn't pull away. “I need your help,” I said.“I could really use a friend. Someone who knows all about school. Someone like you.”
A thoughtful look appeared on his face, and I gently squeezed the tiny hand. “Would you please stay and help me out?”
He sniffed, wiped at his eyes with one hand, and nodded. With a silent prayer of gratitude⑨, I stood up and led Tommy to his desk. When I glanced back at his mother, she smiled and nodded. I gave Tommy a gentle nudge⑩. “Tell your mom you'll see her in a little while.”
I held my breath as the little body stiffened, but then he turned around and waved. “Bye, Mom. See you after school.”
I exhaled with relief and looked up at the clock. It was 9∶30. Only two hours to go until lunch. I might just make it.
— Susan B. Townsend
Notes:
① A sea of unfamiliar faces loomed large and forbidding.一群陌生的面孔渐渐变得清晰，令人望而生畏。
② nervewracking: 高度紧张的
③ project your voice: 提高嗓门,大声说
④ folded arms: 双臂交叉放在胸前
⑤ ...the eyes narrowed with suspicion: ……疑惑地眯着眼睛
⑥ a triumphant glance: 用胜利的目光扫了一眼
⑦ orangutan: 猩猩
⑧ flinch: 畏缩,退缩
⑨ prayer of gratitude: 怀有感激的祈祷
⑩ a gentle nudge: 轻轻地推了一下
I exhaled with relief...: 我松了一口气……
初为人师
数十双眼睛齐刷刷地瞪着我。一群陌生的面孔逐渐变得清晰，令人望而生畏。我的教书生涯在极度紧张中开始了。我鼓起勇气笑了笑，有个孩子也咧着嘴笑了，他们渴望的神情让我打消了顾虑。孩子们的眼神和笑声越发期待了，我知道自己必须说点什么了。“同学们好！”我说。然后向站在面前的一群孩子作了自我介绍。“很高兴你们今天都来了。”
我的话听起来有气无力。“要提高嗓门！”我对自己说。“今天是一个特别的日子，也是一个激动人心的日子——从今天起，你们就是一年级的学生了。”
几个孩子挺直了肩，仿佛是忽然意识到了自己的重要性。
接下来我注意到了站在屋子后面的那些虎视眈眈的家长了。他们双臂交叉着放在胸前，眯着怀疑的眼睛，一副明显要考察我的神情。我在学校里可从没有学过如何应对这样的场面。当时我已经20岁了，但看起来还只有15岁。我颤抖的声音和紧张的神色出卖了我，难怪家长们不太热情。“当然，我们欢迎爸爸妈妈们今天上午留在这里。”我说。“但我相信你们有的人也有要紧事要做。”“回去吧。”我心里想。“快回去吧，让我一个人待在这里就行。我不了解你们，但是我感觉很不自在。”
他们一动不动，一言不发。“我很乐意回答你们的任何问题。”我说。
教室里越发安静了。
我深吸一口气。“也许我们该开始上课了。”
我从讲台上拿起花名册开始点名：“汤米·亚当斯，你来了吗？”
一个小手试探着举了起来，我松了一口气。“汤米，你能告诉我你的家庭住址和电话号码吗？” 我说。这天早上早些时候，出于乐观的灵感，我决定不但要点点名，还要看看是不是每个孩子都知道自己的家庭联系方式。
汤米皱了皱眉，说：“不能。”
刚才的轻松变得荡然无存。我点了点头。“完全没关系的。” 看到汤米垂头丧气，我赶紧安慰他。“厉害。”我想。“我第一次问这个可怜的孩子问题，他就回答不上来。别管电话号码和家庭住址了吧。”我看了一眼抓在手里的汗涔涔的、皱巴巴的名单。“大卫·阿伦，你来了吗?”
又一只手举了起来。他的眼睛放着兴奋的光彩。“我知道我的家庭住址和电话号码。”他用胜利的眼光扫了一眼汤米，然后宣布道。
汤米怒目而视。“我也知道我的家庭住址和电话号码，大卫。只是我不会告诉她。”他指着我说，“她是陌生人，妈妈对我说过：千万不要告诉陌生人电话或住址。”“哦，我的天！”我想。“我怎么会觉得自己能胜任当老师呢？”
教室后面的家长们开始嘀咕起来，几个母亲对孩子说了声再见便离开了。“就像老鼠纷纷逃离要沉的船一样。”我想。
我指着面前的桌椅，说：“现在，每个人找到自己的位子坐下来。你们的名字贴在桌子的右上角。坐好了咱们再点名。”我几乎要尖叫着冲出教室去。
又有几个母亲吻别了自己的孩子，朝我望了望，似乎在说，“等我回来时，我的孩子最好是毫发未损！”然后就离开了。
兴奋的攀谈声和木椅在地板上拖动的声音让教室重新焕发出生机。突然教室里响起了一个孩子伤心的哭叫声。在教室的一角，一个小孩像一只小猩猩般抓住妈妈的外套不放。那小孩不是别人，正是汤米。“我要回家。”他抽泣着。“我要回家。”
教室里突然安静了下来。大家都停下来看这出戏。我伸出手要抚摸汤米的肩，他却往后缩了一缩。
看得出来，他的母亲满怀歉意。“他不喜欢新的事物，可是他还没有这么大惊小怪过。”
我蹲下去，柔声地安慰他说:“没关系的，汤米。不要哭了，好吗？不会有什么事儿的。”
我想，当时我这么说，也是在安慰自己。这根本就不是我想像中第一天上课的情形。我也想像汤米那样号啕大哭。
我又试着贿赂他。“汤米，你想帮老师挑一篇文章向全班朗读吗？”我说。
他把脸埋在妈妈的两腿间，摇了摇头。“你想当老师的助手，帮我收一下牛奶钱吗？”
这次他迟疑了一会儿，但几秒钟后又摇了摇头。
我抬头看了看他母亲，她正眼巴巴地看着我，恳求说：“我必须去上班。”这句话使得汤米哭得更加厉害、更加绝望了。“告诉你一个秘密吧，汤米。”我轻声说。“今天我也是第一次来上课。”我说。“我是新来的，有点紧张和害怕。”
他转过头来瞪着我，哭得红肿的眼睛里满是怀疑。“你害怕？”
我耸耸肩，点点头。“和你有一点不同的是:我以前从没有当过老师,但是你上过幼儿园不是?”“是的，我上过。我以前经常得小红花呢。”“我一看就知道你是那种几乎每天都能得小红花的孩子。”我握住他的手。这次他没有抽回去。“我需要你的帮助。”我说：“我很需要一个朋友，一个了解学校的人，就像你一样。”
他开始思考。我轻轻地捏了捏他的手。“你能留下来帮帮老师吗？”
他吸吸鼻子，用手擦擦眼睛，就点了点头。怀着感激的祈祷，我站起来，把汤米带到他的座位上。当我回头看他的母亲，只见她微笑着向我点头道谢。我轻轻地推了推汤米：“告诉妈妈，待会儿见。”
我屏住了呼吸。小男孩挺直了身板，转身向妈妈挥了挥手。“拜拜，妈妈。放学后见。”
我松了口气。抬头看看钟，已经九点半了，再过两个小时就该吃午饭了。说不定，我可以顺利渡过难关呢！
——苏珊·唐森德
Snapshots
Like most people, I collect photographs in elegant boxes (and shoeboxes) and neatly organized (and not so organized) albums. They hold tangible reminders of moments I want never to forget①. During my thirty years as a high school teacher, I have also stored up another collection of images that will never make their way to my photo boxes or albums; they have been captured not on film but in my mind and in my heart.
Alexi comes in late again. He hates clocks and schedules. He hates rules and assignments. But he likes me, so he is only ten minutes late...on most days. Today a music box is playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” in his pocket, and as he peels a banana and drops his knapsack, he tells me he has written some things.
Alexi will write only on scraps of paper I give him. He seems to feel that his thoughts fit nicely on long, slim, ripped pieces in the many colors I have salvaged. Today, in his completely dysgraphic way, he writes of churches and boxes and pieces of twine and fake faces melting in the snow. He writes that all these things are the same and wants to know if I agree, or at least see. He wants to know if what he has written is a poem. That is only one strip of paper.
He has filled an artist's sketchbook with pictures but refuses to keep a writer's notebook of images cast in words. He is himself a sight to note②: half high on caffeine, half asleep, big silver earrings, almost Rasta hair. His mother is only fourteen years older than he is. His father is long gone, after saying one day to Alexi, “You are not my son.” Now, Alexi is in my class, mine now, since being let out of psychiatric lockup after four years of being angry. I have no paperwork on him; I just have him. Yet, when he asks for scissors and glue and gets out a razor, I somehow know he will use them only to work in some new way with paper and markers, creating another kind of picture of his own. Snap.
Tom peeks in, on his way to someone else's class. His head is mowed in uneven strips with only a little eye makeup on today. He hands me something. “Here,” he says. “I thought you might want your own fake blood capsule.” I assure him I do, and as the next bell rings, he leaves. Snap.
Just before our test on Catcher in the Rye, after our class has spent days trying to figure out what it is that Holden needs to survive, Heaven comes up and asks me for a BandAid. She shows me her palm with two blisters. She wants me to know how hard it is twirling a flag for the band front. She likes my BandAids, which are cool DayGlo orange and neon green with sea horses and stars all over them. These are juniors in high school, and I see a line forming. All the girls are making up booboos because they like my BandAids. The boys are hacking so that I will give them cough drops from my jar, because they are hungry and this period is just before lunch. They need so much attention. Snap.
During lunch Jay finds me with half a tuna sandwich sticking out of my mouth. He wears the uniform of the United States Marines. He wants to show me what a man he has become in the year since I have seen him. He tells me how many pushups he can do and then tells me the Marine name for all the objects in my room.
“We call the window the ‘porthole③,’ and that pole is a ‘stanchion,’” he says.
The next day we join NATO in sending troops to Bosnia. Snap.
In the block after lunch, Josh falls asleep while everyone else in this senior class is doing information searches about Vietnam. They are ignoring him. I do, too, until I see that, openmouthed, he has actually begun to drool from the desk down to the floor. Mean, mouthy Rich has started to notice. Time to wake up Josh and remind him of his promise to do his work so he can qualify for basketball. The “things they carried” in author Tim O'Brien's Vietnam do not interest Josh, and he does not know from Bosnia. Snap.
The staff of the literary magazine comes in. Sara wears a blue stickum star on her cheek and glitter on her eyelids, like star dust. I love the way she sparkles, both the girl and her writing. Meanwhile, Katie, using a blunt eyebrow pencil, has drawn a big flower around one of her eyes with leaves and tendrils looping down one side of her face. She plays the harmonica outside my classroom, but when the bell rings, she sits down to write about daggers and revenge. Snap.
Raub has shaved off all his hair except for one tuft. There is a scab where he pressed too hard. He looks like Zippy the Pinhead. Today he wears what looks like radioactive protective gear, a silver jacket and silver pants. Yesterday it was a lemon yellow sheath dress over brown corduroy pants④. While many students torment each other over differences, Raub shrugs it off and never stoops to make a nasty remark about another living soul. He does, however, as usual, have a wild, onesentence, thirtysecond, breathless story to tell me before he can settle down to work. Snap.
I am sitting in the computer lab during the last block of the day, and the teacherwhoditchesstudents has sent a dozen down to me. Noel is happy I am there. His twin brother, Gunnar, is in a class of mine, and Noel wants me to know that he is a writer, too. He types and then nudges me. “What do you think of this?”
He says he brought a story for me. It is in his locker. Can he go get it? He wants me to know that his brother is not always as nice as the teachers seem to think. He wants me to know that when he and his twin were six, Gunnar tried to poison him by putting something awful in his macaroni and cheese.Snap.
A new student comes up to me at the end of the day with a photograph album. “This is my mother,” she says, opening her plastic book. She shows me her mother in a hospital bed with tubes in her nose. She died of AIDS.
“This is my sister. She is in Mrs. Hobart's class. Maybe you remember her from study hall last year? She says she knows you.
“This is one of my foster mothers.
“This is my cousin and her baby. My cousin is fifteen. She is so lucky. I can't wait to have a baby.
“Here is a picture of my father. He sent it to me. I never met him, but I am going to see him someday.
“Look at the nice Christmas tree we had last year.
“This is where I live now. My sister lives there, too, so I like it.
“Do you still publish students' poetry for the school? See here? I wrote this about my mother. It rhymes and it's short. Do you think you could put it in the magazine?”
She picks up the album and hugs it, staring at me until I say, “Yes, of course. Of course I will publish your poem.”Snap.
Every day I add more pictures. The boxes are overflowing, the albums bulge⑤, and the walls are covered. Somehow, I always find room for more, and there is always space in my mind and in my heart. Snap.
— Beverly Carol Lucey
Notes:
① They hold tangible reminders of moments I want never to forget. 他们令我想起那些永远难忘的时刻。
② He is himself a sight to note. 他本身就很引人注目
③ porthole: 舷窗，位于船的一侧的小的、通常为圆形的窗口
④ corduroy pants: 灯芯绒裤子
⑤ ...the albums bulge:……影集塞满了照片
生活小照
像许多人一样，我把收集的照片放在漂亮的盒子（也有鞋盒子）以及排列整齐（也有的不那么整齐）的相册里。它们让我怀念那些永远难忘的岁月。我从事高中教学30多年，也收集另外一些照片，这些是永远也不会放入我的相册或盒子里的，它们印在了我的脑海里、心坎上。
阿利克斯又来晚了。他讨厌遵时守刻。他讨厌循规蹈矩，不喜欢写作业。好在他喜欢我，因而大多数时候他只迟到10分钟……今天，他过来时，口袋里的音乐盒还在放着“一闪一闪亮晶晶，满天都是小星星”的旋律。他一边剥香蕉，一边把背包一扔，跟我说他写了些东西。
阿利克斯只会在我给他的纸片上写东西。他似乎觉得他的想法和我撕下的那些细细长长、五颜六色的纸条很是相宜。今天，他以一种非常不正统的方式，写了些关于教堂、匣子、细绳以及雪地里那些虚假的脸庞的东西。他写到这些东西都是一样的，想知道我是否同意，或者至少应该能理解吧。他想知道他写的算不算是一首诗。其实那只不过是一张纸片而已。
他把一个艺术家的素描册里夹满了照片，但却拒绝保存一个作家的字里行间透着意象的笔记。他本身就很引人注意：半睡半醒（还是借助咖啡因），戴着大大的银耳环，留着拉斯塔法里式头。他母亲生他时仅14岁。他父亲好久之前就离家出走了，走之前曾对他说“你不是我儿子”。阿利克斯在精神病监护所度过了愤怒的四年，释放出来后，就来到了我的班上。我从不布置他写作业。他跟我要剪刀、胶水，并拿出剃刀时，我就隐约知道他要用独特的方式制作属于他自己的图画。（咔嚓）
汤姆去上其他人的课时，往我班里瞅了瞅。他的头发剪成坑坑洼洼的条纹状，眼睛化了一点点妆。他递给我一些东西，“给。”他说。“我想你可能想要你自己的假冒抽血囊。”我告诉他正是，铃声响起的时候，他走了。（咔嚓）
学习《麦田的守望者》的时候，我们花了几天才弄清楚霍尔顿如何才能在现实社会中生存下来。就在我们要进行测试时，海文来向我要创可贴。她给我看她手掌上的两个水泡，想让我知道为乐队打前锋旗是多么困难。她很喜欢我的创可贴，有明亮的橘黄色的，也有霓虹绿的，上面尽是海马与海星的图案。他们都是高二的学生。我看到外面排起了队。女孩子都假做伤痕，只因为他们喜欢我的创可贴。男孩子都猛烈干咳，想要我瓶子里的止咳药。他们都饿了，而现在恰好就要吃午饭了。他们需要别人的关注。（咔嚓）
午饭时候，杰伊找到我，当时我嘴里正含着半截金枪鱼三明治。他穿着美国海军制服，想告诉我从我上次见他之后他已经变成了一个怎样的男人。他告诉我他能做多少俯卧撑，然后告诉我屋子里的东西用海军术语怎么说。“我们管窗户叫做弦窗，那根竿子叫做支柱。”他说。
第二天我们参加了北约向波斯尼亚派军的行动。（咔嚓）
午饭过后，所有毕业班的学生都在忙着搜索关于越南的信息，乔希却呼呼大睡。大家都忽视了他的存在，起初我也没留意到他，后来我看见他嘴巴大张，口水都流到地板上了。挑剔又唠叨的里奇也看到了。该叫乔希起来干活了，提醒他别忘了完成作业，否则就没资格打篮球了。乔希对奥布莱恩的“他们背负的物件”不感兴趣，对波斯尼亚也一无所知。（咔嚓）
文学社社员进来了。萨拉脸上贴着蓝色的星星，眼睑闪烁着星星般的光芒。我喜欢她的闪亮之处，不仅她本人，她写的东西也是。这时候，凯蒂用一支钝钝的眉笔，在她的一只眼睛周围画上大大的花，花的叶子和藤须垂到另一边脸上。她在教室外边吹口琴，但是铃声响起的时候，她就坐下来写关于短剑和复仇之类的东西。（咔嚓）
罗布把自己所有的头发都剃光了，只留了一撮。他摁得太用力的地方有一个疤痕，使得他看起来像个大头针。今天他穿着那套看起来像防辐射的行头，银色的夹克、银色的裤子。昨天他穿的是柠檬黄外套和棕色的裤子。许多学生都取笑他人的特别，而罗布从不在意，也从不屑于对他人做恶意的评价。像往常一样，在他坐下上课之前，一定会给我讲一个只有一个句子、用不了30秒钟就能一口气讲完的故事。（咔嚓）
最后一节课，我坐在电脑房里。那个喜欢开学生的老师甩给我一些学生。诺埃尔很高兴看到我。他的双胞胎兄弟——贡纳，在我的班里。他想让我知道他像贡纳一样也能写东西。他打了一会儿字，又用胳膊肘捣我一下。“你觉得这个怎样？”
他告诉我他给我带了一个故事，不过是在他的储物柜里，他能不能去拿？他说他兄弟并不总像老师认为的那么优秀。在他们六岁的时候，他兄弟曾经往他的通心面和奶酪里下过毒。（咔嚓）
在即将放学的时候，一个新生带着相册来找我。她打开影集说：“这是我妈妈。”她躺在病床上，鼻孔里插着管子，后来死于艾滋。“这是我姐姐，她在霍巴特老师的班里。或许你能记起去年在自修室见过她，她认识你。”“这是我的一位养母。”“这是我的表姐和她的宝宝，她15岁了。她太幸运了，我也很想要个宝宝。”“这是我爸爸的照片，是他寄给我的。我还没见过他，但总有一天会的。”“看看这张，这是我们去年的圣诞树，很漂亮。”“这是我现在住的地方，我很喜欢，因为我姐姐也住这儿。”“你还给学生发表诗吗？看，这是我写的诗，关于我妈妈的，很押韵也很短，你能不能给发表到杂志上？”
她收起相册，抱在怀里，一直看着我。我只能告诉她：“当然。我一定会帮你发表的。”（咔嚓）
每天我都会加进一些照片。盒子都装不下了，影集也塞满了，墙上更是挂得满满的。不管怎么说，我总能找到地方；而且我的脑海里、我的心中会一直留有足够的空间的。（咔嚓）
——贝弗里·卡罗·路西
What Teaching Justin Taught Me
The first time I met Justin, his face twisted with red rage. After years of public school teaching, it takes a lot to unsettle me, but when Justin strode into my room, tossed his flimsy notebook on the desk①, and defiantly put his feet up on the table, I froze. I had known him exactly three seconds, and he was already being insolent② to my authority.
I politely asked Justin to remove his muddy feet from the furniture and carefully mentioned that there was an assignment on the board.
“I ain't got no pen,” he spat.
I was ready to launch into my “how old are you, and can't you bring a pen to class” lecture when it occurred to me that he must be at least twenty years old. As a vocational school teacher, I often see older students, but Justin possessed a terrifiedlittleboy quality wrapped up in a man's body. His face was weathered and pockmarked with bright red acne③. He wore a dirty plaid shirt over torn, mudcaked jeans ripped at the hem and written on with green marker. His shoes were untied, and his brown socks slumped at his ankles.
Everything about Justin suggested troublemaker — including, and except for, his eyes. A steely blue, they pierced through me with a warning glare. Yet, those same crystalclear blue eyes, like deep pools of water, are what made me quietly place my own pen on his desk and walk away. It was a small gesture of armistice④ to let him know I wasn't the enemy. I thought it might allow him to drop his guard a bit, but he had already decided to hate me. He leisurely opened his notebook and began writing. I sighed and continued walking the aisles, glancing back toward Justin with the softest smile I could muster.
It had taken five hard years of teaching for me to learn which battles to pick on the first day of class. Not being prepared for class was a battle for the second day. I knew a few things, but Justin taught me many new lessons over the course of our eighteen weeks together. I struggled to help him improve his writing with the goal in mind that he might be able to complete a job application. He lacked basic skills of every kind; he didn't capitalize the first word in sentences, and he wrote as if he had never heard of punctuation. He struggled to contain his constantly boiling anger, but it was so bottled up that some days the cork burst and pelted whoever was near⑤. The other students learned to avoid Justin, and the seats on either side of him were always empty. He acted as if his social leprosy⑥ didn't bother him and took his space as an invitation to lounge his limbs on the vacant seats.
Usually, his rage was directed at an inanimate object, a chair or one of my computers. “I hate these stupid things, and they hate me,” he would shout. I would quickly join Justin at his workstation and instruct him how to work through the printing problem or how to access his work on the school's server. I had taught him these simple tasks a dozen times, but Justin could never retain the knowledge and every day was a trial of patience for both of us.
I knew that answering his rage with anger would only escalate⑦ an argument to a dangerous level. The day his fury finally erupted at me was one of the most frightening of my teaching career. I was seated at a work table conferencing quietly with two students who had peer edited each other's essays. “Your thesis is strong, and I like the way you organized the conclusion,” I counseled, “Maybe you should...” My voice trailed off as I saw Justin out of the corner of my eye kick the computer table.
Without turning my face, I called in his direction, “Justin, move your chair away from the computer and count to ten. I will be there to help you soon.”
Assuring Justin in this way typically bought me some time until I could finish working with another student. I was always careful not to immediately drop what I was doing and race to Justin's side, fearing that would simply reward his impatience and send the message that his fury was justified. Just as I was resuming my conference, Justin let loose.
“I can't do any of this, and it's your fault, Mrs. Young!”
He flung the contents of the table in my direction. I stared at the papers at my feet, hoping his tirade⑧ would end. Justin repeatedly kicked the tower of the computer, crumpling the metal. He stormed from the room, tears of fury glistening in his eyes.
Silence descended as all eyes watched to see what I would do next. The tension was as thick as soup. I was actually thankful that Justin had left, because it avoided the scene of kicking him out or having him removed for his behavior. I knew that his outburst had gone too far. This time, I would not be able to coax him through his anger or listen while he lamented all the things that went wrong in his life. I walked casually to the door, trying to calm my beating heart. The hallway was as empty as a tomb. I telephoned the dean's office to let them know that he was loose. Then I closed my classroom door and resumed class. Though my pulse was racing, I wanted to reassure my students that the situation was under control.
When the bell rang I took to the hallways looking for Justin. I wasn't sure what I would say, but I knew that his punishment would be out of my hands. His discipline record at our school was already thick with pink slips, and I knew that he was on the verge of expulsion⑨. He had already been expelled from any other place he might be able to go, including the trailer he shared with his aunt and her four children. Justin had backed himself into a tight corner with no clear exits.
During my next two class periods, I heard his name called repeatedly over the intercom. When the bell finally rang for lunch, I decided to check the bathrooms one last time. As I called into the boys' restroom, I heard a strange scratching sound coming from the carpentry class⑩ next door. The building was supposed to be empty, as the lunchroom is across campus, so I quietly opened the shop door.
There was Justin, furiously sanding away at the leg of a table. He didn't see me at first, and I watched as he slid his hand gracefully over the surface, checking its smoothness. When he finished sanding, he reached for the clear stain and the paintbrush and noticed my presence. He hesitated for a moment, but then continued his work without saying a word. It was then that I noticed the table and its design. The wood was a marbled red pine with carefully carved edges. The surface had been masterfully engraved with a rose pattern and the legs finished in a powerful yet delicate claw. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture, and the skill and labor put into it were evident.
“Justin, that is exquisite!” I exclaimed, forgetting my anger.
He bowed his head and shrugged. “I just want to finish it before I leave,” he mumbled.
My heart sank as I lowered myself to the floor to watch. We both checked the clock to see how much time until the next bell, when our secret would be revealed. Punishment was the last thing on my mind. I felt hopeless to help Justin, knowing the hole he had dug was his own. But as I watched him work, a feeling of hope for this young man washed over me. I chided myself for dismissing his abilities and judging him to be handicapped simply because he couldn't write complete sentences. Justin had a gift. If only he could channel his talent and couple it with some selfcontrol, he could achieve something remarkable or at least support himself and his family.
I don't know where Justin is today. He left the carpentry class before the final coat of stain he'd so carefully applied to the table had dried. I think of him often and sometimes imagine him as an apprentice in a cabinetry or furniture shop somewhere, working away at another masterpiece in an environment where he has better outlets for his emotions and more support for his ambitions. I think of what he taught me about judging people too quickly. I don't know whether the patience I showed Justin gave him an example of an alternative way of being. I hope so. Sometimes, though, I feel that the baggage students come in with is just too heavy to unpack. But as I sit back in my classroom and admire his beautiful table in front of me, I am reminded that we all have value.
— Melissa Scholes Young
Notes:
① ...tossed his flimsy notebook on the desk:……将他那薄薄的笔记本扔到课桌上
② insolent: 傲慢无礼的
③ ...pockmarked with bright red acne:……布满了显眼的红色痤疮
④ gesture of armistice: 停战的手势
⑤ ...cork burst and pelted whoever was near:……塞子飞了出去（这里指发怒）, 谁靠近谁遭殃
⑥ leprosy: 麻风病
⑦ escalate: 升级,加剧
⑧ tirade: 长篇激烈的话语
⑨ on the verge of expulsion: 处于被开除的边缘
⑩ carpentry class: 上木工课的教室
mumble: 喃喃而语
an appentice in a cabinetry: 家具厂的一名学徒
天生我才必有用
第一次见到贾斯汀时，他的脸因愤怒而涨得通红。在公立学校任教这么多年，我已经很少惊慌失措了。但是当贾斯汀大步走进教室，一把将他薄薄的笔记本扔在课桌上，目中无人地把腿翘在桌子上时，我居然不寒而栗。认识他才3秒钟，他就已经开始藐视我的权威了。
我客气地让他把腿拿下来，然后小心翼翼地提及黑板上的作业。“我没笔。”他吐出一句话。
我刚要责问他“你多大了？不知道上课要带笔吗？”忽然又意识到，他至少也有20岁了。作为一个职业学校的老师，我经常会碰到年纪稍大的学生。但是，贾斯汀成熟的身体里裹着的分明是一个受惊的小男孩。他脸上布满了显眼的红色痤疮，上身穿一件脏兮兮的方格衬衣，下身穿一条满是泥巴、印着绿色字母的牛仔裤，裤脚处已经裂开。他没系鞋带，袜子耷拉在脚踝上。
贾斯汀浑身上下透着一股捣蛋劲儿——这既包括又不包括他的眼睛。他那坚定的眼神仿佛能看穿我，让我不敢大意；但又是这双晶莹的蓝色眼睛，如同一汪清水，使得我平静地放下自己的笔后走开了。这个小小的停战的表示，是想让他明白我并不是他的敌人，而稍稍放松心里的戒备，谁知他已经恨上我了。只见他悠闲地翻开笔记本，开始写作业。我松了口气，继续在座位间的通道上走着，不时回头看看他，并试着挤出一个最温柔的笑容。
五年艰苦的教学经历才让我学会了在第一堂课上挑拣什么样的战役。比如，没有备课就意味着第二天要面对战役。对教学我原也略知一二，但接下来与贾斯汀相处的18个星期里我学会了很多新东西。我努力教他提高写作技能，希望他有朝一日能够顺利地填写求职表。他的基础知识极为匮乏，甚至不知道一句话第一个词的首字母要大写，也不管什么标点符号。他极力控制自己不断膨胀的愤怒，然而愤怒已经满怀，总有一天会爆发，伤及任何靠近他的人。同学们都避开他，因而他两边的座位总是空空如也。他对自己的“社交麻风病”倒是不屑一顾，反而把腿放到旁边的空桌椅上，堂而皇之地占领这些空间。
通常他会对身边的无生命物体，如一把椅子或我的电脑，发泄自己的愤怒。“我讨厌这些愚蠢的东西，它们也讨厌我。”他总是如是大叫。而我会马上走到他的身边，提示他怎样打印，或是帮他在学校的服务器上交作业。这些简单的任务我不知道教过他多少遍，但他总是记不住，于是每一天对我们两个人的耐心来说都是一场考验。
我知道以怒制怒只会把我们的矛盾提升到不可收拾的地步。那天他对我的愤怒终于爆发。这成为我教学生涯中最可怕的经历。当时我正坐着与两个刚刚相互修改了作文的同学商谈。“你的文章很有说服力，组织得也不错。”我协商道。“也许你应该……”此时我眼睛的余光瞟见贾斯汀正在踢着电脑桌，我的声音逐渐变小了。
我没有转头，而是朝着他的方向喊道：“贾斯汀，把你的椅子搬离电脑桌，然后数到十，我马上就过来帮你。”
这样向贾斯汀保证，我通常能赢得时间来完成和另一个学生的工作。我一般很少马上放下手头的事，冲到他的身边，以免宠坏他的急躁脾气，并让他错误地认为自己愤怒是正当的。就在我要继续刚才的谈话时，贾斯汀失控了。“我啥都不会，杨老师，都是你的错！”
他把书桌里的东西朝我扔了过来。我看着脚下的书本，希望他长篇激烈的话语能及早结束。贾斯汀不停地踢着电脑底座，挤压着上面的金属。他冲出了教室，眼里噙满愤怒的泪水。
教室里安静了下来，大家都想看我接下来怎么收场。紧张的局势一触即发。事实上我很感激贾斯汀的离去，因为这样避免了把他撵出去或者开除他的念头。我知道他的爆发太过分了。这次，我不能再哄着他压下胸中的怒火，或是听他诉说生活中的不幸。我若无其事地走向门口，一边竭力地平静心跳。走廊上空无一人。我往教导主任的办公室打了个电话，告诉他们贾斯汀失控的事儿。然后，我关上门，重新开始上课。尽管我自己的心跳在加速，我希望能让学生们相信一切都在掌控之中。
下课铃响后，我去走廊上找贾斯汀。我也不确定该对他说些什么，但我知道对他的惩罚将不是我所能控制的。他在学校的处分记录早已挂起了红灯，处在被开除的边缘。先前他已经被所有能去的学校开除过了；他的阿姨和四个表兄妹也把他从活动房屋里赶了出来。贾斯汀已经退到了死胡同里了。
接下来的两节课上，我听到贾斯汀的名字在学校的内部通信联络系统里被点了好几次。午饭铃声终于响了，我决定最后一次看一下浴室里有没有人。当我走进男生休息室时，忽然听到隔壁的木工课实验室里传来一阵嚓嚓声。食堂在校园的另一头，这栋楼应该没有人才对啊。我轻轻推开了门。
贾斯汀就在这里。他正在用力地打磨一只桌子腿。起初，他没有发现我，他用一只手优美地滑过桌子腿的表面，检查其光滑性。打磨完成后，他伸手去取光亮着色漆和刷子时，才看到了我。他迟疑了一会儿，接着继续自己的工作，一句话也没说。也是此时，我才注意到那张桌子及其设计。木材用的是有着大理石花纹的红松木，边缘已经被仔细地雕刻过了。桌面上刻着一个玫瑰图案，桌腿一端则被做成坚固而精致的爪形。多么华丽的家具！它明显凝聚着贾斯汀的匠心和功夫。“真漂亮啊，贾斯汀。”我叫道。早已将先前的不快抛到九霄云外去了。
他低着头，耸了耸肩。“我只是想在离开之前把它做好。”他咕哝道。
我低身坐到地板上观看，心也不断地下沉。我们一起看表，想知道到下次打铃还有多少时间，届时我们的秘密就会被人发现了。我早忘记了贾斯汀会受到的惩罚。他一人做事一人当，我也爱莫能助。看着他的工作，我忽然浑身充满了对这个年轻人的希望。我不禁深深责怪起自己。怪自己仅仅因为他不会写一个完整的句子，就否认他的能力，认为他智力有缺陷。而贾斯汀有自己的天分。只要他能够利用自己的天分，控制自己的情绪，就能取得非凡的成就，至少可以养家糊口。
我不知道贾斯汀今天身在何方。他小心翼翼刷完最后一道漆后，就离开了那个木工实验室。我经常想起他，有时候会设想他在某个家具厂当学徒，或者在某个家具店上班。也许他正在完成另一件杰作吧。如今，他的工作环境应该能够更好地疏导他的情绪，支撑他的理想。我想起他教会我不能对人匆忙下评语的道理。但愿我对他的耐心能够使他明白生活尚有另一种方式。有时候，我会觉得学生们背负着过于沉重的包裹，难以卸载。然而，当我坐在教室里，欣赏面前贾斯汀做的漂亮的桌子时，我会想到：天生我才必有用。
——麦丽莎·S·杨
What I Never Learned in Kindergarten
M y kindergarten classroom was located on the left side of a hallway at the end of a corridor in a school so small it held only five classrooms. I was afraid of everything. I was afraid of not being able to open the large front door, the science experiments we sometimes did, and, most of all, my teacher.
Mrs. Monestel never smiled. She was old, wrinkled, and overweight. She frequently said, “That makes me very cross,” with a deep scowl. In my memory, she always wore the same dress.
I remember very little else of my time in kindergarten, except that we read Weekly Readers and one of the boys kept coming out of the inclass bathroom with his pants down.
During a conference, Mrs. Monestel told my mother that, unfortunately, I was a very average child. I don't remember her acting as if anyone else in the class was particularly special, either. In the current debate about teachers who overinflate① their students' selfesteem, Mrs. Monestel would have been championed by those who believe we are now overdoing it. I think that Mrs. Monestel didn't realize that, however small her students were, they were capable of having important moments.
My son's kindergarten teacher couldn't have been more different. At the end of Jeremy's kindergarten year, I went to see him perform in his class puppet show. I arrived early and admired the classroom. Projects were displayed all over the place. There was a chickhatching project, a number of reading readiness projects, a book corner for those who were already readers, and a selfportrait project. There was a block corner, a few computers, clusters of desks and chairs where the children worked, mailboxes for the children, and a chart showing the weather. The room was exciting and warm at the same time, an inviting world for hungry minds.
First, I looked over all of Jeremy's work. Then I took my seat, my father's video camera in hand, in the rows of chairs that had been set aside for the parents to watch the puppet show. I had made an error regarding the time of the show and so had an opportunity not usually afforded those of us who are perpetually tardy: I had a preshow adventure.
Mrs. Feldheim was Jeremy's kindergarten teacher. She was rather petite and dressed in a very casual manner. She wore slightly Bohemian earrings and a smile. Never saccharine, she was always warm. She was walking around her classroom interacting with her students at work when there was a knock at the door.
“Mrs. Feldheim, may I come in?” a little boy asked tentatively.
“Oh, Paul, of course.” Mrs. Feldheim bounded toward the door. Then she introduced the visitor. “Class, Paul has come here on a very special assignment today.”
Paul's shoulders relaxed.
“He's in the second grade, you know.”
Mrs. Feldheim's class grew quieter.
“He has chosen our class for his project. He's going to interview us about what it's like to spend a day in our kindergarten class. Let's all sit on the carpet.”
Paul, whose head barely reached Mrs. Feldheim's hips, walked next to her. He was holding one of those thick pencils for kids who have just learned to write. His palms had pencil lead all over them. His wellbitten fingernails were also nearly black. He carried a tablet of extrawide lined paper. Paul was a man on a mission.
Mrs. Feldheim's class went to the corner, where they had a brown, fuzzy carpet for their daily meetings, the kindergarten equivalent of a conference table. Once they were settled, the interview began. Paul stood beside Mrs. Feldheim, poised to ask his first question. The children were unusually quiet. Highly amused, I thought I wasn't going to be able to keep myself together. But Mrs. Feldheim took the matter entirely to heart.
“Paul, how would you like to conduct this interview? Would you like to ask one question to each student? How would that be?”
Paul appeared to be feeling terribly grand now. He had his pad and pencil ready to go, and he nodded that Mrs. Feldheim's suggestion was a good one.
“What is the first thing you do when you come in the room?” he asked the first little girl.
“Hang up my coat.” She thought a bit more. “Well, only if it's cold outside.”
Very slowly, Paul wrote down her response. He had to sit down, because he couldn't write in a standing position. I had been wondering if he could write at all.
“Good answer, Casey,” said Mrs. Feldheim, and Casey beamed.
Now comfortably seated, Paul pointed to the next little girl. He was getting the hang of it. “What is your favorite activity?”
“Well, if someone is having a birthday, then that's it. But if not, maybe it's the weather report part.”
“Ana, great answer,” said Mrs. Feldheim, “very thoughtful.”
Once again, Paul was busy writing. I could hardly contain myself. Paul couldn't have felt more important if he had been a cub reporter for the New York Times.
One by one, he quizzed the children. He wrote furiously and flipped pages as his notes grew longer. Occasionally, he would say something like, “Just give me a minute to finish here.”
It was all I could do not to laugh. But Mrs. Feldheim wasn't laughing. Given the expression on her face, what was going on might well have had a profound effect on our national security.
As Paul's interview continued, the children grew more interested and their answers became more thoughtful. I think Paul even adlibbed a few questions by virtue of his having been a student of Mrs. Feldheim's two years earlier. Finally, he completed his task. He looked plainly exhausted. All of that writing had used up his entire tablet and most of his strength. But he was proud. Mrs. Feldheim's class had remained attentive to the end, which was remarkable.
Paul stood up, and Mrs. Feldheim shook his dirty little hand. Her expression remained earnest. “Paul, thank you so much for choosing our class for your interview,” she said, as though he'd had a wide range of venues from which to choose. As Paul began to leave, she said, “Oh, Paul? If you write it up, I would really appreciate it if you could make me a copy for my files.”
I don't know if Paul was ever able to compile a meaningful piece of writing from his notes, and it is even more doubtful that Mrs. Feldheim ever received a copy of it, but after the puppet show, which was its own wonderful experience, I began thinking about Mrs. Feldheim. I realized that her response to Paul's assignment was the reason she is a teacher and I am not. Something that I saw as comical, she took seriously. She took what could have been a routine exchange and created several moments of personal history, not only for Paul, but for all the students in her class.
I eventually came to know “Mrs. Feldheim” as “Naomi.” In a gesture that I found flattering, she invited me to dinner after Jeremy graduated kindergarten. As for Paul, our budding journalist②, I don't know what became of him. I suppose he's applying to college now. One thing for sure, he and my son were lucky they didn't have to suffer with the very cross Mrs. Monestel.
— Debbi Klopman
Notes:
① overinflate: 过分夸大
② budding journalist: 崭露头角的记者
我没上过的幼儿园
我的幼儿园教室位于学校走廊尽头的大厅左面，学校很小，只有五间教室。儿时的我胆小怕事，害怕打不开那扇巨大的前门，害怕有时要做的科学试验，不过，最害怕的还是我的老师。
莫里斯特老师不苟言笑。她年纪很大，满脸皱纹，身体超重。她经常满脸怒容地说：“我很生气。”在我的记忆里，她总是穿着同样的衣服。
幼儿园里其他的事我已记不太清了。只记得我们读《每周阅读》时，老是有一个小男孩从教室里的洗手间里出来，裤子还没提好。
一次家长会上，莫里斯特老师对我的母亲说，很不幸我是一个很普通的孩子。她说话的表情好像其他的孩子就相当特别，对此我已记不清楚了。目前，人们对于那些太重视孩子自尊心的老师们褒贬不一。莫里斯特老师肯定会大受那些持批评观点者的欢迎。我想，她肯定没有想过，不管学生年纪有多小，也有对他们来说重要的时刻。
我儿子的幼儿园老师就大不一样了。杰瑞米快从幼儿园毕业的时候，我去看他和班上同学表演木偶剧。我提前到了教室，里面的设施让我叹为观止。屋里到处都陈列着教学设计，有“小鸡孵化”设计，有“阅读准备”设计，有一个为已经能读书的孩子准备的“读书角”，也有一个“自画像”设计等等；还有一个堆积木的角落，几台电脑，以及供孩子用的桌椅、信箱和一张气象图。整个房间充满着生机和温暖，正是一个个求知心灵的诱人家园。
我首先翻看了一下杰瑞米所有的作业。然后拿着父亲的摄像机，在专门为家长准备的几排椅子中间找了个座位坐了下来，准备观看木偶剧。由于搞错了木偶剧开演的时间，我有机会看到了一场预先上演的插曲。而对像我这样一辈子经常迟到的人来说，很少能碰到这样的机会。
菲尔赫蒙老师是杰瑞米的幼儿园老师。她身材娇小，一身休闲的打扮。戴着一副稍另类的耳环，脸上挂着笑容。她总是很亲切，从来不会情绪化。她在教室里走来走去，和忙碌的学生们互动着，这时，响起一阵敲门声。“菲尔赫蒙老师，我可以进来吗？”一个小男孩探头探脑地问道。“哦，是保罗啊，快进来吧！”费尔赫蒙老师向门口走去。接着，她向全班同学介绍了这个到访者。“同学们，保罗今天来是有个特殊的任务。”
保罗放松了下来。“你们知道吗？他上二年级了。”
教师里越发安静了。“他特意挑选了我们班来进行他的研究。他将采访大家，了解一下幼儿园的学习生活情况。我们都坐到地毯上去吧。”
保罗走在菲尔赫蒙老师的身边，还不及她的大腿高。他手里握着一枝刚学会写字的孩子用的那种铅笔，手掌上沾满了铅笔灰，修剪得整整齐齐的指甲也被染得黢黑。他还拿着一个书写板，板上夹着超宽的纸张。那架势还真像在执行什么重要任务。
同学们都走到教室的一角，那里铺着一张孩子们日常聚会用的、棕色的毛质地毯；旁边还放着一张幼儿园专用的会议桌。大家坐好后，采访也就正式开始了。保罗站在菲尔赫蒙老师身边，准备抛出第一个问题。孩子们都异常地安静。我深感有趣，觉得自己快忍俊不禁了。但是，菲尔赫蒙老师倒是对整件事由衷地重视。“保罗，你打算怎样进行这次采访呢？你要每一个人都回答一个问题吗？你觉得如何？”
看起来，保罗现在觉得自己异常地高大、神气。他准备好纸笔，并对菲尔赫蒙老师的建议点头称是。“你进教室第一件事是做什么？”他对第一个小女孩问道。“把外套挂起来。”她又想了想说。“嗯，只有外面冷的时候才这样。”
保罗慢慢地记下她回答的内容。他不能站着写字，所以只好坐下来。我还一直在怀疑，他究竟会不会写字呢。“回答得很好，凯西！”菲尔赫蒙老师说。凯西高兴地笑了。
很舒服地坐好以后，保罗又指着下一个女孩。他已经驾轻就熟了。“你最喜欢的活动是什么？”“嗯，如果有人要过生日的话，那就是我最喜欢的事了。不然，就是看天气预报。”“安娜，答得好。”菲尔赫蒙老师说。“很有深度。”
保罗又开始忙着记录。我都快忍不住了。他即使当上《纽约时报》初出茅庐的新闻记者也不会像现在这样得意吧。
就这样，保罗一个一个地提问着。他卖力地记着笔记，不时地翻着纸张，写了一页又一页。有时他会说些诸如“请再给我一点时间，好让我写完这句”之类的话。
我只得强忍住不笑出声来。但是菲尔赫蒙老师一点都不笑。她的表情相当严肃谨慎，仿佛眼前的事情关乎国家安全似的。
随着保罗采访的继续进行，孩子们越来越感兴趣，他们的回答也越来越有深度了。我想，可能由于两年前保罗也是菲尔赫蒙老师的学生，他还临时穿插了几个问题。终于，他大功告成。他看起来劳累不堪，做的笔记已经用完了他所有的纸张和力气。但是他也感到很自豪。孩子们从头到尾都很投入，真是不可思议。
保罗站起身来。菲尔赫蒙老师握了握他那脏兮兮的小手，真诚地说：“保罗，非常感谢你选择我们班来做这个采访。”听起来，好像保罗有很多的选择似的。保罗要离去的时候，她又说：“哦，保罗，当你写好了之后，能不能给我拷贝一份留档啊？我会很感激的。”
我不知道保罗有没有根据他的记录写出一篇意义深刻的文章，至于菲尔赫蒙老师有没有收到那份拷贝就更不得而知了，但是，观看木偶戏——这也是一个非比寻常的经历——之后，我就琢磨起菲尔赫蒙老师这个人来了。在我眼里好笑的事情，她却很认真地对待，这就是为什么她是老师而却我不是的原因。她让一个很可能仅仅是例行公事的交流变成了个人成长过程中的重要时刻，不仅对保罗如此，对班上所有其他孩子也是如此。
后来，我得知菲尔赫蒙老师被人亲切地称为“内奥姆”①。杰瑞米幼儿园毕业后，她邀请我共进晚餐，这让我受宠若惊。至于我们崭露头角的小记者保罗，我不知道他近况如何，估计该申请上大学了吧。但是，有一件事却是肯定的，那就是他和我的儿子都很幸运，没有遭遇爱生气的墨里斯特老师。
——德比·科洛普曼①：“内奥姆”即Naomi，《圣经·旧约全书》中人物，该名字意为：美丽大方而又温柔顺从。
The Gift
One morning my oldest daughter, Rhonda, rushed in my front door. “Mom, the most wonderful thing just happened.”
I smiled, remembering Rhonda's enthusiasm as a young girl, when she would come barreling into our home with news of her day. Now, as a wife and mother of two, she could still energize a room.
“Good morning, Rhonda, and a good morning to you too, sweet pea,” I said, picking up my twoyearold granddaughter. “Let's sit and have coffee and cookies. Then you can tell me all about your news.” Turning around, I looked at my daughter. “Are you pregnant?”
“No, Mom,” Rhonda answered. Sitting with her coffee cup in hand, she sighed with excitement. “Mrs. Perkins, the director of Saint Francis School, told me this morning that an anonymous person is paying Greg's tuition. Mom, they're paying his tuition for the whole year.”
Rhonda's eyes filled with tears as she grabbed my hand. “Was it you, Mom? You and Dad?”
“No, I wish we could, but it wasn't us,” I said.
Rhonda and her husband, Gil, had both selected the role of educators for their careers. I remembered when, as newlyweds, they set off for their first teaching jobs, ready to change the world, one child at a time, if necessary.
After Rebekah was born, Rhonda and Gil decided to tighten their belts and live on one income. Rhonda gave up her paid teaching job and became a fulltime, stayathome mom, reserving her teaching for her own little ones.
This was great for their children but hard on their pocketbook. Greg showed signs of being a gifted child and could read at the age of three. Rhonda and Gil talked at length and decided to send him to a private preschool for two days a week. The school was expensive, but it offered great teachers with small classrooms and produced good results. Knowing they would have difficulty paying the tuition alone, they had requested a partial scholarship. The director assured them this was a common practice and that they had several alums who helped out from time to time. No one had dreamed someone would pay the whole amount of Greg's tuition.
Rhonda, still holding the note from the school in her hand, said. “I just wish I knew who was so generous.”
“Rhonda, I think that, whoever the benefactor is, it must be important to them to keep their identity private.”Giving her a hug, I continued, “Count your blessings. And someday you can do the same for someone else.”
“Mom, you're such a Pollyanna! But I sure would like to know. That's a lot of money. I wrote a thankyou note and asked Mrs. Perkins to see that the donor receives it.”
Several months later, near the end of the school year, Rhonda was dropping Rebekah off at my house to spend a couple of hours while she ran some quick errands. We said our goodbyes as Rhonda hunted through her purse for her misplaced keys.
“Shoot, I forgot to sign and return this,” she said, retrieving an envelope. Greg had brought home a permission slip to attend a field trip. When she opened the envelope, a small piece of pink paper fell to the floor.
“What's this?” I asked, picking up the paper and handing it to Rhonda.
Rhonda scanned the paper. “Mom, look,” she said as tears rolled down her face. “It was Christie, Christie Leeks. Someone in the Saint Francis office must have put this receipt in Greg's envelope by mistake.” Christie was making monthly payments of $120 for Greg's tuition.
Christie Leeks was a young girl who had been in Rhonda's first dance class at the high school where she had taught five years earlier. Christie had lived in the Methodist Home as a ward of the state. Rhonda and Gil had taken Christie and another student who lived at the foster home under their wings. They invited them to their home for Sunday dinners, baked them birthday cakes, counseled and loved them. After two years, Rhonda and Gil moved to another city and new jobs. They lost contact with the other student, who had moved out of the country, but stayed in touch with Christie over the years. Rhonda and Gil even traveled back to attend Christie's high school graduation and then helped her move into a college dorm.
“How can she pay for this?” Rhonda asked. “This has to be a hardship on her; I know she is only making student wages. We can't accept this. I have to call her and tell her to stop.”
“Rhonda, it's obviously important to Christie for you not to know. You can't tell her you found out her secret.”
A few months later, during Greg's summer vacation from school, Christie stopped by to visit and celebrate a belated birthday. That night, Rhonda and Christie sat up talking, while the rest of the household slept. Christie, about to graduate from college with honors, had met a special young man.
“I am so proud of you, Christie,” Rhonda said. “You have grown into a special young woman. I always knew you would, from the first day I saw you in class.”
“Mrs. Davidson, I want to show you something,” Christie said as she went to her overnight bag and retrieved her Bible. Opening it, she removed the thankyou note Rhonda and Gil had written to the anonymous contributor. “Would you read this, Mrs. Davidson?”
As Rhonda read the note aloud, she had to swallow the lump in her throat.
Rhonda read the last sentence...
We only hope that one day we can give to a child as you have so generously given to our child.
“Don't you know, Mrs. Davidson? I am that child. You and Mr. Davidson taught me and gave me so much. This was a small way I could say ‘Thank you.’”
I often reflect on this rewarding experience in my daughter's life and on Christie's generosity. I think of all the other students whose lives have been positively impacted by Rhonda and Gil, in ways these two young teachers will never know. With Christie, they were fortunate. Not only did they get to see the positive outcome of the life they touched, but they also saw their gift of compassion returned to them.
— Hattie Mae Ratliff
礼物
一天早上，我的大女儿朗达冲进了我家前门，喊道：“妈妈，你知道刚刚发生了什么不可思议的事吗？”
我笑了笑。朗达还是个小姑娘时就激情四射，她会冲进家里，宣布她每天的重要新闻。如今，已嫁为人妇且育有两个孩子的朗达，仍然可以用她的激情使整个房间都充满活力。“早上好，朗达。还有你，小豆豆。”我一边说着，一边抱起我两岁大的外孙女，“来，坐下喝杯咖啡，吃点点心吧。然后，再说说你的重要新闻。”我转过身来看了看朗达，“难道是你怀孕了？”“妈妈，那倒不是。”她手里拿着咖啡，激动地说着。“圣弗朗西斯学校校长柏金斯太太今天早上告诉我，一个不肯透露姓名的人支付了格雷格的学费。妈妈，这可是一整年的学费啊。”
朗达的眼中噙满泪花，她紧紧抓住我的手，“是你们吗，妈妈？是你和爸爸替我付的学费吗？”“不是，我倒是希望我们有能力替你付学费，但不是我们。”我说。
朗达和她丈夫吉尔都选择了教师职业。我还记得，他们新婚燕尔之时，就开始了第一次教学工作，那时的他们雄心勃勃地要改造世界。保守地说，一次至少可以改变一个孩子的命运。
丽贝卡出生后，朗达和吉尔决定勒紧裤腰带，仅靠一个人的收入生活。朗达放弃了教师工作，成了一位全职家庭主妇。在家里，她也教学，只不过教的是自己的孩子罢了。
这对孩子来说是好事，但却造成了他们的经济拮据。格雷格表现出一些天分，三岁时就识字了。朗达和吉尔讨论了许久，决定送他去一所私人幼儿园，每周去两天。学费虽很贵，但由优秀的老师小班授课，教学效果不错。由于付学费有困难，他们申请了部分奖学金。校长安慰他们说，这是很正常的事，有几个校友时常会帮忙。谁也没想到会有人支付格雷格所有的学费。
朗达的手里还握着学校的那张支票，说道：“我真想知道是谁这么慷慨。”“朗达，我想，不管这位好心人是谁，应对他们的身份保密。”我抱了抱她，继续说道，“把别人对你的帮助记在心底吧。有朝一日，你也可以为别人做同样的事。”“妈妈，你可真是个盲目乐观的人！我当然想知道啦。那可是一大笔钱呢。我写了一封感谢信，并让柏金斯太太一定转交给那位好心人。”
几个月之后，就在学年快结束的时候，朗达把丽贝卡送到我家来待几个小时，自己去忙点别的事。我们互相道别时，朗达翻着包找她的钥匙。她总是把钥匙随便放。“哎呀，我忘记把那封信签上名寄出去了。”她边说边拿出了个信封。那是格雷格带回来的一张审批函，凭此可以参加一次实地考察旅游。她打开信封时，一张粉色的纸片飘落在地。“这是什么？”我捡起纸片，交给朗达。
朗达看了一眼，“妈妈你看。”她说着说着眼泪就流了下来。“是克里斯蒂，克里斯蒂·里克斯。圣弗朗西斯学校的人一定是把这张收据错放到格雷格的信封里了。”原来是克里斯蒂一直在支付着格雷格每月120美元的学费。
五年前，朗达在一所高中教授她的第一堂舞蹈课，克里斯蒂·里克斯当时正好在她的班上。克里斯蒂作为受该州政府监护的对象住在卫理公会收容所里。朗达和吉尔一直对住在教会学校里的克里斯蒂和另一位同学提供庇护。星期天他们会请她们回家吃晚饭，给她们烤生日蛋糕，帮她们出出主意，给她们关爱。两年后，朗达和吉尔去了另一个城市工作。他们和另一个学生失去了联系，但仍然和克里斯蒂保持常年联系。他们甚至还回去参加了克里斯蒂的高中毕业典礼，并帮她搬进了大学宿舍。“她怎么可能付这么高的学费呢？”朗达问道。“这对她来说一定很困难；我知道她作为一个学生仅靠打工挣点钱。我们可不能接受。我得打电话给她让她别再这样做了。”“朗达，很明显克里斯蒂就是不想让你知道。你不能告诉她你发现了她的秘密。”
数月之后，在格雷格过暑假的时候，克里斯蒂顺路来拜访我们，并庆祝了一个迟到的生日。那天晚上，在别人睡觉的时候，朗达和克里斯蒂谈了许久。那时，正要从大学荣誉毕业的克里斯蒂遇到了一个特别的年轻人。“克里斯蒂，我真的很为你骄傲。”朗达说。“你已经成长为一个很出色的年轻人。从我在班上看到你的第一天起，我就知道你会的。”“戴维森老师，我想给你看点东西。”克里斯蒂一边说着一边从旅行袋里拿出了《圣经》。她打开书，抽出了朗达和吉尔写给匿名捐赠人的感谢条，说：“戴维森老师，您能读一下这个吗？”
朗达大声朗读着，克里斯蒂哽咽得说不出话来。
朗达读了最后一段：
我们衷心希望，有一天我们能像你们慷慨资助我们孩子一样去帮助另一个小孩。“难道您不知道吗，戴维森老师？我就是那个孩子。你和你先生不但教给了我知识，还给予了我这么大的帮助。我只能通过这种方式聊表谢意。”
我经常回想起我女儿生活中这段十分有意义的经历，还有克里斯蒂的慷慨行为。朗达和吉尔永远不会知道，他们对多少孩子的生活产生了积极的影响。幸好有克里斯蒂，使得他们不但看到了自己的行为对别人产生的积极影响，而且也由此得到了回报。
——哈蒂·梅·拉特里夫
Ant Bites
“〖〗Ow! Ow!” I shouted as I broke my jump rope rhythm and tangled my feet in the slack rope. “Something in my shoe is biting me,” I wailed.
The first graders waiting to jump and the two rope turners circled around me on the dirt playground. My teacher, Miss Bell, heard me and hurried over, leaving the other recess teacher in midconversation.
“It's still stinging me,” I cried as the circle of children opened for Miss Bell.
“Which foot is it?” she asked.
I stuck up my right foot as she stooped over to inspect it. Just then, feeling a new sting, I yelped in pain.
“Here. Let's take off your shoe,” instructed Miss Bell, squatting down to get the shoe.
Then, I remembered the holes in my socks. Welfare socks didn't last long. Holes in socks were a common thing for our family in the years following the Great Depression①. Shoes got fresh paper inserted every Saturday to cover the holes in their soles. But socks with holes were just accepted. Socks with holes in the heels got pulled down so the hole wouldn't show. Where there was a hole, there would soon be a blister. Every week as she washed our clothes, Mama would say, “Even if we're poor and our clothes are worn out, we can still be clean.”①注：the Great Depression: 经济大萧条，指美国20世纪20年代末30年代初发生的经济危机。
I began to cry from the pain in my foot, but I refused to let Miss Bell take off my shoe. I could not bear for her and the others to see the hole in my faded red sock.
“Come on, then. Let's go inside to the office.”
A trail of first graders followed after us until Miss Bell told them to stay on the playground. I did my best to curb my tears. Yet, each time the thing in my shoe stung me, I would let out a loud, “Oh, oh, oh!” Tears raced down my contorted face.
Mr. Stewart, the principal, rushed into his office.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
“Something is stinging her right foot, but she will not let me take off her shoe,” said Miss Bell.
Mr. Stewart lifted me onto his desk. “Let me take a look.” He just about had the shoe off when I saw the hole. I grabbed the shoe and pulled it on and held it. The stinging worsened the tighter I clasped the shoe.
“Why won't you let us take off your shoe?” Mr. Stewart asked as he looked from me to Miss Bell and back at me in puzzlement.
Miss Womble, the fifthgrade teacher, came into the office. “Can I help? I know her; she lives next door to me.”
“I suspect ants are in her shoes and stinging the living daylights out of her, but she won't let us take off her shoes,” related Miss Bell.
Miss Womble was a great neighbor. She had even played Annieover with us on occasion. She put both hands on my shaking shoulders and looked into my distressed, red eyes.
“Oh, yes,” she said, as if remembering a fact. “I had a bite from one of those ants. Did you know they are sock eaters? By the time I got my shoe off, that ant had eaten almost the entire bottom off my sock.” She nodded her head up and down as she looked at the other two adults. “Must be sockeater ants.”
They returned the nod, as if they, too, had been bitten by sockeating ants.
“Let me see here.” She freed my heel from the shoe. “Just what I thought. Those sock ants have eaten part of her sock.”
Miss Bell opened the medicine cabinet, got a cotton ball, and saturated it with alcohol. Miss Womble slipped off my shoe and sock and shook both of them over the gray trash bucket. Two red ants fell into the waiting container. A stray one ran for the wall, but Mr. Stewart's shoe stopped him.
My swollen foot throbbed. My stomach hurt. My head ached.
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