大学英语精读第三版（第六册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——3B - The Ethics of Living Jim Crow（黑人的处世哲学）

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Unit 3B - The Ethics of Living Jim Crow

The Ethics of Living Jim Crow

Richard Wright

My first lesson in how to live as a Negro came when I was quite small. We were living in Arkansas. Our house stood behind the railroad tracks. Its skimpy yard was paved with black cinders. Nothing green ever grew in that yard. The only touch of green we could see was far away, beyond the tracks, over where the white folks lived. But cinders were good enough for me and I never missed the green growing things. And anyhow cinders were fine weapons. You could always have a nice hot war with huge black cinders. All you had to do was crouch behind the brick pillars of a house with your hands full of gritty ammunition. And the first woolly black head you saw pop out from behind another row of pillars was your target. You tried your very best to knock it off. It was great fun.

I never fully realized the appalling disadvantages of a cinder environment till one day the gang to which I belonged found itself engaged in a war with the white boys who lived beyond the tracks. As usual we laid down our cinder barrage, thinking that this would wipe the white boys out. But they replied with a steady bombardment of broken bottles. We doubled our cinder barrage, but they hid behind trees, hedges, and the sloping embankments of their lawns. Having no such fortifications, we retreated to the brick pillars of our homes. During the retreat a broken milk bottle caught me behind the ear, opening a deep gash which bled profusely. The sight of blood pouring over my face completely demoralized our ranks. My fellow-combatants left me standing paralyzed in the center of the yard, and scurried for their homes. A kind neighbor saw me and rushed me to a doctor, who took three stitches in my neck.

I sat brooding on my front steps, nursing my wound and waiting for my mother to come from work. I felt that a grave injustice had been done me. It was all right to throw cinders. The greatest harm a cinder could do was leave a bruise. But broken bottles were dangerous; they left you cut, bleeding, and helpless.

When night fell, my mother came from the white folks' kitchen. I raced down the street to meet her. I could just feel in my bones that she would understand. I knew she would tell me exactly what to do next time. I grabbed her hand and babbled out the whole story. She examined my wound, then slapped me.

"How come yuh didn't hide?" she asked me. "How come yuh always fighting?"

I was outraged and bawled. Between sobs I told her that I didn't have any trees or hedges to hide behind. There wasn't a thing I could have used as a trench. And you couldn't throw very far when you were hiding behind the brick pillars of a house. She grabbed a barrel stave, dragged me home, stripped me naked, and beat me till I had a fever of one hundred and two. She would smack my rump with the stave, and, while the skin was still smarting, impart to me gems of Jim Crow wisdom. I was never to throw cinders any more. I was never to fight any more wars. I was never, never, under any conditions, to fight white folks again. And they were absolutely right in clouting me with the broken milk bottle. Didn't I know she was working hard every day in the hot kitchens of the white folks to make money to take care of me? When was I ever going to learn to be a good boy? She couldn't be bothered with my fights. She finished by telling me that I ought to be thankful to God as long as I lived that they didn't kill me.

All that night I was delirious and could not sleep. Each time I closed my eyes I saw monstrous white faces suspended from the ceiling, leering at me.

From that time on, the charm of my cinder yard was gone. The green trees, the trimmed hedges, the cropped lawns grew very meaningful, became a symbol. Even today when I think of white folks, the hard, sharp outlines of white houses surrounded by trees, lawns, and hedges are present somewhere in the background of my mind. Through the years they grew into an overreaching symbol of fear.

参考译文——黑人的处世哲学

黑人的处世哲学

理查德·赖特

我很小的时候，就上了该如何做黑人的第一课。那时我们住在阿肯色州。我家位于铁路后面，空荡荡的后院是由黑煤渣铺成的，从未长过一草一木。我们仅能看到的一点绿色远在铁路另一边的白人居住区。不过对我来说，只要有煤渣就足够了，我从未感到过需要什么青枝绿叶，况且煤渣还是很好的武器呢。你可以随时用大块黑煤渣武装起来展开激烈的战斗。你只需手里握着大把渣石飞弹，蹲在房子的砖砌柱子背后。从另一排柱子后面第一个冒出来的毛茸茸的黑脑袋就是你要攻击的靶子。于是你奋力将其打掉。可真是好玩极了。

我从未真正意识到生活在满地煤渣的环境里有多么不利，直到有一天我们一帮人与住在铁路那边的一群白人男孩打开了仗，方才明白。与往常一样，我们把煤渣交织而成的火力网对准目标，以为这样就能全歼那伙白小子。没有想到他们竟用破玻璃瓶子不断地向我们回击。我们使用了加倍的煤渣弹，可是他们躲到了树丛、篱笆和草坪斜坡后面。我们没有这种防御工事，只好退到我们住屋的砖柱跟前。撤退途中，一只破牛奶瓶刚好击中我耳后，划开了一条很深的口子，流血不止。见我血流满面，我们队伍的士气一下子全垮了。战友们撇下我，一个个都溜回了家，留下我一人站在院子中央发呆。一位好心的邻居见状立即把我送到医院。医生在我颈上缝了三针。

我垂头丧气地坐在家门前的台阶上，一边小心地护着伤口，一边等着母亲干完活回家。我感到自己受到了莫大的委屈。扔煤渣其实没什么大不了，至多也不过给人留下一些青肿擦伤。可是破玻璃瓶就危险了，会割破你皮肉，使你流血，让你茫然不知所措。

直到夜幕降临，我母亲才离开白人家的厨房回来。我冲到街上奔跑着去迎接她。我从骨子里头感到她会理解我，而且会告诉我下次该怎么做。我一把抓住她的手，咿咿呀呀地把全部经过告诉了她。她检查了一下我的伤口，接着就重重地打了我一巴掌。

"你怎么不躲避?"她问我。"你为什么老是干仗?"

我气极了，禁不住放声大哭。我边哭泣边告诉她，我没有可以躲避的树木和篱笆，也没有可以藏身的壕沟。要是躲在砖柱子后面，那就扔不远了。她操起一块板条，把我拖回家中，剥光我的衣服，痛打了我一顿，直到我发起华氏102度高烧来。她总是用木板打我的屁股，趁我皮肉还在针刺般地疼痛时，她送给了我如何做一个逆来顺受的黑鬼的金玉良言。我千万不可再扔煤渣了，千万不可再干仗了，在任何情况下，都绝对不可再去跟白人干仗了。他们使劲向我掷破牛奶瓶也是绝对正确的。难道我不知道她整日在白人家闷热的厨房里辛辛苦苦干活就是为了挣钱养活我？我什么时候才能学会做个好孩子？她不能再为我跟人打斗操心了。末了她对我说，我该一辈子感谢上帝，没有让他们把我打死。

那一晚，我整夜恍恍惚惚，无法入睡。每当我闭上眼睛，就会看到恶魔般的白人面孔悬挂在天花板上，向我做着鬼脸。

从那时起，煤渣院子对我失去了吸引力。绿油油的树木，修剪过的篱笆和草坪渐渐生出一层新意，成了一种象征。直至今日，每当我想到白人时，那些四周绕着树木、草坪、篱笆的白色房子的鲜明刺眼的轮廓仍然会出现在我的脑海深处。经年累月，它们成了我摆脱不了的恐惧的象征。

Key Words:

environment [in'vaiərənmənt]

n. 环境，外界

appalling [ə'pɔ:liŋ]

adj. 令人震惊的，可怕的

动词appall

engaged [in'geidʒd]

adj. 忙碌的，使用中的，订婚了的

steady ['stedi]

adj. 稳定的，稳固的，坚定的