Unit 5 - The Day Mother Cried
A mother and her son learn more from a moment of defeat than they ever could from a victory. Her example of never giving up gives him courage for the rest of his life.
The Day Mother Cried
Gerald Moore
Coming home from school that dark winter's day so long ago, I was filled with anticipation. I had a new issue of my favorite sports magazine tucked under my arm, and the house to myself. Dad was at work, my sister was away, and Mother wouldn't be home from her new job for an hour. I bounded up the steps, burst into the living room and flipped on a light.
I was shocked into stillness by what I saw. Mother, pulled into a tight ball with her face in her hands, sat at the far end of the couch. She was crying. I had never seen her cry.
I approached cautiously and touched her shoulder. "Mother?" I said "What's happened?"
She took a long breath and managed a weak smile. "It's nothing, really. Nothing important. Just that I'm going to lose this new job. I can't type fast enough."
"But you've only been there three days," I said. "You'll catch on." I was repeating a line she had spoken to me a hundred times when I was having trouble learning or doing something important to me.
"No." she said sadly. "I always said I could do anything I set my mind to, and I still think I can in most things. But I can't do this."
I felt helpless and out of place. At age 16 I still assumed Mother could do anything. Some years before, when we sold our ranch and moved to town, Mother had decided to open a day nursery. She had had no training, but that didn't stand in her way. She sent away for correspondence courses in child care, did the lessons and in six months formally qualified herself for the task. It wasn't long before she had a full enrollment and a waiting list. I accepted all this as a perfectly normal instance of Mother's ability.
But neither the nursery nor the motel my parents bought later had provided enough income to send my sister and me to college. In two years I would be ready for college. In three more my sister would want to go. Time was running out, and Mother was frantic for ways to save money. It was clear that Dad could do no more than he was doing already——farming 80 acres in addition to holding a fulltime job.
A few months after we'd sold the motel, Mother arrived home with a used typewriter. It skipped between certain letters and the keyboard was soft. At dinner that night I pronounced the machine a "piece of junk."
"That's all we can afford," mother said. "It's good enough to learn on." And from that day on, as soon as the table was cleared and the dishes were done, Mother would disappear into her sewing room to practice. The slow tap, tap, tap went on some nights until midnight.
It was nearly Christmas when I heard Mother got a job at the radio station. I was not the least bit surprised, or impressed. But she was ecstatic.
Monday, after her first day at work, I could see that the excitement was gone. Mother looked tired and drawn. I responded by ignoring her.
Tuesday, Dad made dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Mother stayed in her sewing room, practicing. "Is Mother all right?" I asked Dad.
"She's having a little trouble with her typing," he said. "She needs to practice. I think she'd appreciate it if we all helped out a bit more."
"I already do a lot," I said, immediately on guard.
"I know you do," Dad said evenly. "And you may have to do more. You might just remember that she is working primarily so you can go to college."
I honestly didn't care. I wished she would just forget the whole thing.
My shock and embarrassment at finding Mother in tears on Wednesday was a perfect index of how little I understood the pressures on her. Sitting beside her on the couch, I began very slowly to understand.
"I guess we all have to fail sometime," Mother said quietly. I could sense her pain and the tension of holding back the strong emotions that were interrupted by my arrival. Suddenly, something inside me turned. I reached out and put my arms around her.
She broke then. She put her face against my shoulder and sobbed. I held her close and didn't try to talk. I knew I was doing what I should, what I could, and that it was enough. In that moment, feeling Mother's back racked with emotion, I understood for the first time her vulnerability. She was still my mother, but she was something more: a person like me, capable of fear and hurt and failure. I could feel her pain as she must have felt mine on a thousand occasions when I had sought comfort in her arms.
A week later Mother took a job selling dry goods at half the salary the radio station had offered. "It's a job I can do," she said simply. But the evening practice sessions on the old green typewriter continued. I had a very different feeling now when I passed her door at night and heard her tapping away. I knew there was something more going on in there than a woman learning to type.
When I left for college two years later, Mother had an office job with better pay and more responsibility. I have to believe that in some strange way she learned as much from her moment of defeat as I did, because several years later, when I had finished school and proudly accepted a job as a newspaper reporter, she had already been a journalist with our hometown paper for six months.
The old green typewriter sits in my office now, unrepaired. It is a memento, but what it recalls for me is not quite what if recalled for Mother. When I'm having trouble with a story and think about giving up or when I start to feel sorry for myself and think things should be easier for me, I roll a piece of paper into that cranky old machine and type, word by painful word, just the way mother did. What I remember then is not her failure, but her courage, the courage to go ahead.
It's the best memento anyone ever gave me.
参考译文——妈哭的那天
从失败的一刻中，母亲和儿子收获了他们从成功中不曾收获到的。母亲永不放弃的精神给他此后的人生以很大的勇气。
妈哭的那天
杰拉尔德·默尔
在很久以前一个昏暗的冬天，我放学回家，心中充满了期待。我腋下夹着一期新的我最爱看的体育杂志，再者，家里没有别人打扰我。爹在上班，妹不在家。妈刚找到新工作，还得过一个小时才下班。我跳上台阶，冲进起居室，啪嗒一声打开电灯。
我被眼前的景象惊呆了。妈双手捂着脸，身子紧缩成一团，坐在长沙发的那一端哭泣着。我看见妈哭这还是第一次。
我小心地向她走去，轻轻拍她的肩膀。“妈，”我说，“怎么啦？”
妈深深吸了一口气，强作微笑。“没什么，真的。没有什么要紧的事。只是我这份新工作要丢了。我字打得不够快。”
“可你上班才三天，”我说。“你会熟练起来的。”我这是在重复她讲过上百次的一句话，每当我学习或做一件与自己关系重大的事情而遇到困难时，她总是这样跟我说的。
“不成，”妈黯然神伤地说。“过去我总是讲，只要我下决心，什么事都能干成。现在我仍然认为大多数的事我都能做。但打字这件事我干不了。”
我感到无能为力，而且十分尴尬。我虽然16岁了，但仍然以为妈什么都能干成。几年前，当我们卖掉农场，搬到城里住的时候，妈决定开办日托所。她过去没有受过这方面的训练，但这并不能阻碍她。她写信要求参加幼托函授课程，学习了六个月就正式获得从事这项工作的资格。不久她的日托所招生额满，而且还有不少小孩登记等着入托呢。我觉得凭妈的能力，办成这一切是理所当然的。
然而，无论是托儿所或是我父母后来购买的汽车旅馆都不能提供足够的收入供我妹妹和我上大学。两年后就该是我上大学的时候了。再过三年，妹妹也要上了。时间一天天过去，妈拼命想办法攒钱。很清楚，爹已尽了最大努力——除了一份全日工作之外，还耕种了80英亩地。
我们卖了汽车旅馆没几个月，妈搬回来一台旧打字机。这架打字机有时要跳字，键盘也很松。那天吃晚饭时，我把这台机器说成是“废物一件”。
“我们只买得起这样旧的，”妈说。“学打字用是够可以的了。”从那天起，餐桌一收拾，盘子一洗，妈马上到她的缝纫间去练习。有几天，那缓慢的嗒、嗒、嗒的声音一直持续到午夜。
临近圣诞节的时候，我听说妈在电台找到一份工作。我一点也不惊奇，也不觉得有什么特别，但妈却欣喜万分。
星期一，妈第一天上班回来，我发觉妈的高兴劲儿已经烟消云散。妈绷着脸，看上去很疲劳，我没对她作任何表示。
星期二，爹做晚饭，收拾厨房。妈呆在缝纫间练习打字。“妈还好吗？”我问爸爸。
“妈打字碰到点困难，”他说，“她需要练习。我想，如果我们在家里多帮一点忙，她会很感激的。”
“我已经做得不少了，”我马上警觉起来，说道。
“我知道你做得不少，”爹心平气和地说。“说不定你还得再多干一点。你要记住，她现在工作主要是为了能供你上大学。”
老实说，上不上大学我并不在乎。我真希望妈妈一点也不要把这事放在心上。
星期三，当发现妈哭时我所感到的震惊和窘迫，完全表明了我对妈所承受的压力是多么的不理解。我坐在她的身旁，慢慢开始理解了。
“我想我们都不免有失败的时候，”妈平静地说。我可以感觉到她的痛苦，也感觉到她在极力抑制着由于我闯进来而被打断的强烈情感的发泄。突然，我心里一酸，伸开双臂，把妈搂在怀里。
妈再也控制不住了。她把脸贴着我的肩膀，抽泣着。我紧紧抱着她，没有说话。我明白我是在做我应该做的和我所能做的，这就够了。妈非常激动，我感到她的背在颤抖。就在那一时刻，我第一次明白妈也有弱点。她还是我的妈，但又不仅如此：她和我一样也是一个普通的人，会害怕，会受到伤害，会遭到失败。我感觉到她的痛苦，就像我千百次在她怀里寻求安慰时，她感到我的痛苦一样。
一周过后，妈找到一个卖纺织品的工作，工资只有原先电台的一半。“这是一个我能胜任的工作，”她简单地说道。但在晚上，她继续在那台绿色的旧打字机上练习。如今，每当我在夜晚走过她的房门前，听着她那一刻不停的嗒、嗒的打字声时，我的感情与过去迥然不同了。我深知，在那个房间里进行着的绝不仅仅是一个妇女在学习打字。
两年后我上大学时，妈找到一份薪金比原来高但责任也比原来重的办公室工作。使我不得不相信的是，妈不可思议地从失败中学到的东西竟与我所学到的一样多。因为几年后，我大学毕业、自豪地受聘担任报纸记者时，她已在我们家乡的报社里当了六个月的记者了。
那台绿色旧打字机现在放在我的办公室里，至今没有修理过。它是一件纪念品。但它所勾起的我的回忆与妈的不尽相同。每当我写文章遇到困难想打退堂鼓时，或是自叹不走运时，我就往那台破旧的打字机里卷进一张纸，像妈当年一样，一个字一个字地吃力地打着。这时，我回忆起的不是妈的失败，而是她的勇气，她那一往无前的勇气。
这台打字机是我一生中得到的最好的纪念品。
参考资料：
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