英语传记：Hands of My Father（节选１）
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英语朗诵：Hands of My Father 传记节选（视频 文字 手语）ZT
"Both sets of parents were dead set against our having children," my
father signed. "They thought a child of ours would be born deaf.
They were ignorant immigrants from the old country." His hands beat
the air angrily. "What the hell did they know? Anyway, they treated
us like children. Always. Even when we were adults ourselves. They
couldn't help it. We were deaf, and so we were helpless in their
minds. Like children. We would always be children to them. So we did
not listen to them, and we had you. They were surprised when they
saw how perfect you were. Nothing missing. A regular baby. A
'normal' baby in their eyes.
"Mother Sarah and I loved you from the first time we saw you. But
secretly some part of us wished you were born deaf."
Although I loved my father and mother, I could not imagine being
part of their deaf world. And I could not understand why even the
smallest secret part of them could wish such a fate for me.
"You were our first child," his hands explained. "We were deaf in a
hearing world. There was no one to tell us how to raise a hearing
child. We did not have the hearing language to ask. And hearing
people did not have our language to tell us. We were on our own.
Always. There was no one to help us. How were we to know what you
wanted, what you needed? How were we to know when you cried in the
dark? When you were hungry? Happy? Sad? When you had a pain in your
stomach?
"And how," he said, "would we tell you we loved you?"
My father paused. His hands were still, thoughtful.
"I was afraid I would not know you if you were a hearing baby. I
feared you would not know your deaf father."
Then he smiled. "Mother Sarah was not worried. She said she was your
mother. She would know you. She said you were the son from her body,
and you would know your mother. There was no need for mouth-speak.
No need for hand-speak.
"When we brought you home from the hospital, we arranged for Mother
Sarah's family to come to our apartment every Saturday afternoon.
'Urgent!' I wrote. 'You must come! Every week. Saturday.'
"They listened. They came from Coney Island every Saturday for all
of your first year of life. They never missed, all of them: Mother
Sarah's mother and father, and her younger sister and three younger
brothers. They ate like horses, but it was worth it."
"How boring that must have been for them," I signed, pressing my
finger to my nose as if to a grindstone wheel.
"We didn't care. I had a plan," he signed vigorously. "They always
came when you were sleeping. I made sure of that. Before making
themselves comfortable, I asked them to stand at the back of your
crib. Then they pounded on pots and pans I gave them. You heard a
big noise and snapped awake, and you began to wail. It was a
wonderful sight to see you cry so strongly at the heavy noise
sound."
"Wonderful?" I asked. "Wonderful for who? Now I know why I have
trouble sleeping some nights."
My father continued, ignoring my complaint.
"We celebrated. Mother Sarah served them tea and honey cake. When no
one was looking, your Hungarian grandfather, Max the Gypsy, slipped
booze into his tea from a silver flask he carried. As he sipped his
tea, he would add another shot. Soon his teacup was filled just with
whiskey, and he would sip and smile, smile and sip, all afternoon
long. 'Ah, thank God, Myron can hear,' he would mumble, as he took
another sip. Your grandmother, Celia, would look at him in her
tight-lipped way, like he was a c ockroach she had surprised when
turning on the kitchen light late at night. She always looked like
she wanted to step on him. No one seemed to notice this, but we deaf
see everything. I see more meaning in one blink of an eye than my
hearing brother and sisters hear in an hour-long conversation. They
understand nothing. The mouth speaks words they hear but teach them
nothing. I love my brother and sisters but they are not as smart as
me.
"No matter, that's not part of your hearing story. That's another
story."
My father's memories were so intense, and so tightly woven together
in his mind, that in the midst of telling one story, he would often
wander off into another one that rose to the surface almost as if it
had been bottled up all these years and, now that there was someone
to tell it to, had just worked itself free. When he did so, he would
catch himself and terminate the beginning of the new memory by
abruptly signing "another story." And then I knew that, somewhere
down the road, I would hear from him this "other story."
"On Sundays my mother, father, brother, and two sisters came down
from the Bronx. They did not trust Mother Sarah's family. They
brought their own pots and pans. Each one held a pot or a pan on
their lap during the two-hour, three-subway-ride trip from way up in
the Bronx to Kings Highway in Brooklyn. They practiced banging on
the pots and pans while the subway cars went careening through the
tunnels. The train's wheels made such a screeching sound that people
on the car barely noticed them. When they got off the subway, my
sisters and brother marched to our apartment house, still banging
the pots and pans. They looked like some ragtag army in a
Revolutionary War painting. As soon as they arrived at our
apartment, they hid behind the head of your bed and pounded away,
while they stomped their feet like a marching band. I felt the loud
noise through the soles of my feet. They had a nice rhythm. The
result was the same: you awoke immediately. Jumped, actually."
"This went on for a whole 'year?'" I asked.
"Yes. They thought your hearing might go away. Just as hearing for
me and Mother Sarah went away when we were young. Big mystery."
"How about our neighbors? All that banging and stomping, didn't they
mind?" I asked.
"What do you expect?" my father answered. "We had to know if your
hearing stayed with you. The neighbors threatened to call the
landlord. Have us evicted. Mother Sarah sweet-talked them out of it.
The notes flew fast and furious between them till they settled down.
Anyway, they thought you were a cute baby. They also wondered if you
could hear. They wondered if the deaf can have a hearing baby. We
were the only deaf people they knew. They had no idea of our deaf
ways."
Thinking for a minute, his hands added, striking each other sharply,
"It was 'hard' for Mother Sarah and me to figure out how to take
care of you. But we did. We learned how to tell when you cried at
night. You slept in your crib next to our bed when we brought you
home from the hospital. We kept a small light on all night. Mother
Sarah wore a ribbon attached to her wrist and to your sweet baby
foot. When you moved your foot, she would immediately awaken to see
the reason why. She still has that ribbon somewhere. Sign was your
first language. The first sign you learned was 'I love you.'
"That is a good sign. The best sign."
Myron Uhlberg - Hands of My Father
http://web.wenxuecity.com/BBSView.php?SubID=mysj&MsgID=77832
英语朗诵：Hands of My Father 传记节选（视频 文字 手语）ZT
"Both sets of parents were dead set against our having children," my
father signed. "They thought a child of ours would be born deaf.
They were ignorant immigrants from the old country." His hands beat
the air angrily. "What the hell did they know? Anyway, they treated
us like children. Always. Even when we were adults ourselves. They
couldn't help it. We were deaf, and so we were helpless in their
minds. Like children. We would always be children to them. So we did
not listen to them, and we had you. They were surprised when they
saw how perfect you were. Nothing missing. A regular baby. A
'normal' baby in their eyes.
"Mother Sarah and I loved you from the first time we saw you. But
secretly some part of us wished you were born deaf."
Although I loved my father and mother, I could not imagine being
part of their deaf world. And I could not understand why even the
smallest secret part of them could wish such a fate for me.
"You were our first child," his hands explained. "We were deaf in a
hearing world. There was no one to tell us how to raise a hearing
child. We did not have the hearing language to ask. And hearing
people did not have our language to tell us. We were on our own.
Always. There was no one to help us. How were we to know what you
wanted, what you needed? How were we to know when you cried in the
dark? When you were hungry? Happy? Sad? When you had a pain in your
stomach?
"And how," he said, "would we tell you we loved you?"
My father paused. His hands were still, thoughtful.
"I was afraid I would not know you if you were a hearing baby. I
feared you would not know your deaf father."
Then he smiled. "Mother Sarah was not worried. She said she was your
mother. She would know you. She said you were the son from her body,
and you would know your mother. There was no need for mouth-speak.
No need for hand-speak.
"When we brought you home from the hospital, we arranged for Mother
Sarah's family to come to our apartment every Saturday afternoon.
'Urgent!' I wrote. 'You must come! Every week. Saturday.'
"They listened. They came from Coney Island every Saturday for all
of your first year of life. They never missed, all of them: Mother
Sarah's mother and father, and her younger sister and three younger
brothers. They ate like horses, but it was worth it."
"How boring that must have been for them," I signed, pressing my
finger to my nose as if to a grindstone wheel.
"We didn't care. I had a plan," he signed vigorously. "They always
came when you were sleeping. I made sure of that. Before making
themselves comfortable, I asked them to stand at the back of your
crib. Then they pounded on pots and pans I gave them. You heard a
big noise and snapped awake, and you began to wail. It was a
wonderful sight to see you cry so strongly at the heavy noise
sound."
"Wonderful?" I asked. "Wonderful for who? Now I know why I have
trouble sleeping some nights."
My father continued, ignoring my complaint.
"We celebrated. Mother Sarah served them tea and honey cake. When no
one was looking, your Hungarian grandfather, Max the Gypsy, slipped
booze into his tea from a silver flask he carried. As he sipped his
tea, he would add another shot. Soon his teacup was filled just with
whiskey, and he would sip and smile, smile and sip, all afternoon
long. 'Ah, thank God, Myron can hear,' he would mumble, as he took
another sip. Your grandmother, Celia, would look at him in her
tight-lipped way, like he was a c ockroach she had surprised when
turning on the kitchen light late at night. She always looked like
she wanted to step on him. No one seemed to notice this, but we deaf
see everything. I see more meaning in one blink of an eye than my
hearing brother and sisters hear in an hour-long conversation. They
understand nothing. The mouth speaks words they hear but teach them
nothing. I love my brother and sisters but they are not as smart as
me.
"No matter, that's not part of your hearing story. That's another
story."
My father's memories were so intense, and so tightly woven together
in his mind, that in the midst of telling one story, he would often
wander off into another one that rose to the surface almost as if it
had been bottled up all these years and, now that there was someone
to tell it to, had just worked itself free. When he did so, he would
catch himself and terminate the beginning of the new memory by
abruptly signing "another story." And then I knew that, somewhere
down the road, I would hear from him this "other story."
"On Sundays my mother, father, brother, and two sisters came down
from the Bronx. They did not trust Mother Sarah's family. They
brought their own pots and pans. Each one held a pot or a pan on
their lap during the two-hour, three-subway-ride trip from way up in
the Bronx to Kings Highway in Brooklyn. They practiced banging on
the pots and pans while the subway cars went careening through the
tunnels. The train's wheels made such a screeching sound that people
on the car barely noticed them. When they got off the subway, my
sisters and brother marched to our apartment house, still banging
the pots and pans. They looked like some ragtag army in a
Revolutionary War painting. As soon as they arrived at our
apartment, they hid behind the head of your bed and pounded away,
while they stomped their feet like a marching band. I felt the loud
noise through the soles of my feet. They had a nice rhythm. The
result was the same: you awoke immediately. Jumped, actually."
"This went on for a whole 'year?'" I asked.
"Yes. They thought your hearing might go away. Just as hearing for
me and Mother Sarah went away when we were young. Big mystery."
"How about our neighbors? All that banging and stomping, didn't they
mind?" I asked.
"What do you expect?" my father answered. "We had to know if your
hearing stayed with you. The neighbors threatened to call the
landlord. Have us evicted. Mother Sarah sweet-talked them out of it.
The notes flew fast and furious between them till they settled down.
Anyway, they thought you were a cute baby. They also wondered if you
could hear. They wondered if the deaf can have a hearing baby. We
were the only deaf people they knew. They had no idea of our deaf
ways."
Thinking for a minute, his hands added, striking each other sharply,
"It was 'hard' for Mother Sarah and me to figure out how to take
care of you. But we did. We learned how to tell when you cried at
night. You slept in your crib next to our bed when we brought you
home from the hospital. We kept a small light on all night. Mother
Sarah wore a ribbon attached to her wrist and to your sweet baby
foot. When you moved your foot, she would immediately awaken to see
the reason why. She still has that ribbon somewhere. Sign was your
first language. The first sign you learned was 'I love you.'
"That is a good sign. The best sign."
Myron Uhlberg - Hands of My Father
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