我们的国家: The Ignorance of Man (Some characters have some issues) Translation at bottomA Story by 李[A] A short story written in Chinese and English with a translation at the bottom. It tells of a tale of an immigrant facing ignorance in America: a common theme today as well.1st Short Story Ever Written
Living in the cities is tough. Although we have our own tight-knit community, we are always isolated from our outside world. That’s what America is like for us Chinese immigrants. We don’t refer to ourselves as “Chinese-American”, but rather as just “Chinese”. We don’t feel like Americans, because all America covets is the assimilation of us into a generic group " with people who have wanted us out since the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act.
＂大",吃饭了。＂ I was broken out of my trance as my mother called. After all, I was indulging on too many candies from the market. 妈妈做的饭是每天最好的事件。(美国人也喜欢'们中国饭。)Today we had fried rice: '米饭, and potatoes: 土豆。Yes, we are a poor family. We had recently moved from China during 毛泽东’s 三年大饥'。My forty year old father had been able to cleverly and covertly bring my mother and sister. Women usually stayed during this time when there was such a dearth of money: in hope that the men could expeditiously bring home money. We had been very fortunate that my mother and ten-year old sister 大水, could make it across. Although I was getting used to the days in this mysterious land, I was still quite ambivalent toward the ways of the United States. Everything was such an unorthodox anomaly: an aberration of what the mother country was like. All of a sudden, my mother shocked me out of my stream of consciousness. ＂大"，'今天去了学校。你明天开始上课。＂I skeptically stated, ＂妈妈，美国学校样'心里很不"心。＂She responded, ＂大"，你爸爸''每天工作十个多小-。帮助你的家人。好的教™是'们"一的方法'脱贫困。＂听到这么样的情况，'""'自己，'就努力学习。 The first day of school was exceedingly intriguing. As I was an alien to the social scene, and probably the only Chinese immigrant to the school, I felt truly alone for the first time. Throughout the day, many people presented me their middle fingers and pointed at me. Unfamiliarity inundated me hastily as I went from class to class. “What’s your name? Did they drop a coin in a bucket?”, “How many dogs do you eat Chink?”, and numerous other insults were juggernauts to my faith and culture I once held so high. I had pictured a moment where I would be at the top: academically superior, culturally infatuated with by fellow classmates, but all was a null relationship to my current situation. Even my economics teacher started admonishing my home country, and exalting the methods of the US in terms of economies. This was the time of the Red Scare after all. Finally, it was lunch time. We were so poor; my parents put me on the free lunch system at school. As I waited in line with people of only white and black skin, I felt out of place. 美国有白人''人。可是，在美国，'们是黄™的垃圾。On my tray, I found an unusual piece of stuff… It was a piece of soft bread, followed by some meat, followed by some bread. I would later figure out that such a piece of debris was known as a hamburger. I sat down on the ground: what we did at home since we couldn’t afford a table, and began my dangerous dissection. I heard laughs and points, snide remarks and mocking actions, yet I remained intact, oblivious to my surroundings. After lunch, we went back to class. English class, the one class I feared the most approached. As I entered the room, I was greeted by a peculiar-appearing woman (well, compared to the rest of the school). “Hello, I um Ms. Ivanov. ze new English teacher here,” she stated in a very thick Russian accent. I sat at the front of the room"a habit of someone needing extra help in such an area. As the bell rang, Ms. Ivanov addressed the class. “Gud Afternoon class. I um from ze Soviet Union. I moved here three years agu, after I completed my English degree in Moscow,” The class began snickering as she spoke. Ms. Ivanov’s cheerful mood suddenly clouded up. “Iz there anything wrung class?” One boy couldn’t control himself anymore as he shouted, “You and your Commie accent!” This resulted in the entire class laughing. Once the class calmed down, Ms. Ivanov calmly stated, “Socialize the rest ob class.” After the bell rang, I walked up to Ms. Ivanov, who was almost in tears. She began to speak. “Oh those Americans. Zhey don’t understand how I feel.” “Ms. Ivanov, I understand.” She looked at me with a questionable look: her eyelashes going up at an angle. Then she told me to take a seat. There was a silent, but blissful understanding between us: we were different, Communists, poor, had accents, alone, but most of all, misunderstood. Then, the ice was broken. “Tell me everything,” she stated. I ranted about the insults spoken by the children; I fumed toward the destruction of my cultural worth. I fulminated the disgusting flotsam consumed by the people here; I thundered about the cruelness of the children as I cried. Pathetic. I, sixteen years old, crying because I was bullied by sixteen year olds. Truly pathetic. “Da Hua,” she spoke"the first person to pronounce my name correctly. “Vee are ihn a vorld vith theese kind ob people. Zhere iz noshing you cun du, but show your culture und never let zhat fire ihnside youv die. Speak youv langvij, und be proud,” As difficult as it was to understand her English as it got thicker and thicker, an epiphany came toward me as I embraced her words. 每天还有很多人喜欢看'不高兴。每天人还'''。可是，'每天说国语；每天'吃中国饭。'每天读中文书。因为'这样做的，'的心，'的国家，'的文化，永远不死。 --------------------------- Translation: Our Home Country: The Ignorance of Man Living in the cities is tough. Although we have our own tight-knit community, we are always isolated from our outside world. That’s what America is like for us Chinese immigrants. We don’t refer to ourselves as “Chinese-American”, but rather as just “Chinese”. We don’t feel like Americans, because all America covets is the assimilation of us into a generic group " with people who have wanted us out since the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act. “Da Hua, time to eat.” I was broken out of my trance as my mother called. After all, I was indulging on too many candies from the market. The best thing every day, was her cooking. (Even Americans like Chinese food) Today we had fried rice: '米饭, and potatoes: 土豆。Yes, we are a poor family. We had recently moved from China during Mao ZeDong’s Great Famine. My forty year old father had been able to cleverly and covertly bring my mother and sister. Women usually stayed during this time when there was such a dearth of money: in hope that the men could expeditiously bring home money. We had been very fortunate that my mother and ten-year old sister Da Shui, could make it across. Although I was getting used to the days in this mysterious land, I was still quite ambivalent toward the ways of the United States. Everything was such an unorthodox anomaly: an aberration of what the mother country was like. All of a sudden, my mother shocked me out of my stream of consciousness. ＂Da Hua, today I went to the school. Tomorrow, you will start school.” I skeptically stated, ＂Mother, the ways of American schools makes me very insecure.” She responded, ＂Da Hua, your father and I work over ten hours every day. Help your family. A good education is our only path out of poverty.” Once I heard these phrases, I told myself, I will study hard. The first day of school was exceedingly intriguing. As I was an alien to the social scene, and probably the only Chinese immigrant to the school, I felt truly alone for the first time. Throughout the day, many people presented me their middle fingers and pointed at me. Unfamiliarity inundated me hastily as I went from class to class. “What’s your name? Did they drop a coin in a bucket?”, “How many dogs do you eat Chink?”, and numerous other insults were juggernauts to my faith and culture I once held so high. I had pictured a moment where I would be at the top: academically superior, culturally infatuated with by fellow classmates, but all was a null relationship to my current situation. Even my economics teacher started admonishing my home country, and exalting the methods of the US in terms of economies. This was the time of the Red Scare after all. Finally, it was lunch time. We were so poor; my parents put me on the free lunch system at school. As I waited in line with people of only white and black skin, I felt out of place. America has Whites and Blacks, but in America, Yellows are the trash.On my tray, I found an unusual piece of stuff… It was a piece of soft bread, followed by some meat, followed by some bread. I would later figure out that such a piece of debris was known as a hamburger. I sat down on the ground: what we did at home since we couldn’t afford a table, and began my dangerous dissection. I heard laughs and points, snide remarks and mocking actions, yet I remained intact, oblivious to my surroundings. After lunch, we went back to class. English class, the one class I feared the most approached. As I entered the room, I was greeted by a peculiar-appearing woman (well, compared to the rest of the school). “Hello, I um Ms. Ivanov. ze new English teacher here,” she stated in a very thick Russian accent. I sat at the front of the room"a habit of someone needing extra help in such an area. As the bell rang, Ms. Ivanov addressed the class. “Gud Afternoon class. I um from ze Soviet Union. I moved here three years agu, after I completed my English degree in Moscow,” The class began snickering as she spoke. Ms. Ivanov’s cheerful mood suddenly clouded up. “Iz there anything wrung class?” One boy couldn’t control himself anymore as he shouted, “You and your Commie accent!” This resulted in the entire class laughing. Once the class calmed down, Ms. Ivanov calmly stated, “Socialize the rest ob class.” After the bell rang, I walked up to Ms. Ivanov, who was almost in tears. She began to speak. “Oh those Americans. Zhey don’t understand how I feel.” “Ms. Ivanov, I understand.” She looked at me with a questionable look: her eyelashes going up at an angle. Then she told me to take a seat. There was a silent, but blissful understanding between us: we were different, Communists, poor, had accents, alone, but most of all, misunderstood. Then, the ice was broken. “Tell me everything,” she stated. I ranted about the insults spoken by the children; I fumed toward the destruction of my cultural worth. I fulminated the disgusting flotsam consumed by the people here; I thundered about the cruelness of the children as I cried. Pathetic. I, sixteen years old, crying because I was bullied by sixteen year olds. Truly pathetic. “Da Hua,” she spoke"the first person to pronounce my name correctly. “Vee are ihn a vorld vith theese kind ob people. Zhere iz noshing you cun du, but show your culture und never let zhat fire ihnside youv die. Speak youv langvij, und be proud,” As difficult as it was to understand her English as it got thicker and thicker, an epiphany came toward me as I embraced her words. Every day, there is still a plethora of people who enjoy it when I’m not happy. Every day, people still laugh at me. But, every day, I speak my mother tongue; every day, I eat Chinese food. Every day, I read Chinese books. Because I perform these actions, my heart, my country, my culture, will all never die. © 2011 李[A]Author's Note
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李[A]Somewhere, OHAboutHey! I'm A. (figure out the rest of the letters :P). Anyways, I'm a sixteen year old boy who normally doesn't write that much, but hey, I'm practicing vocabulary and writing skills at once so why not .. more..Writing
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