论文部分内容阅读
It was 6th May 2002, a busy Monday. Before I headed to work at 7:30am, I woke up my son. “Happy birthday, Pan Pan! Would you like to do something special as your birthday present?” It was his first birthday in Britain.
For a moment Pan Pan looked at me, not saying a word. Then in a tiny voice he said, “Mum, I don’t want anything. I just want you to lay down with me for a few minutes. Is that okay?”
I froze. My heart ached and tears 1)streamed down my face. I lay down and put my arm around my boy. Neither of us said a word.
Twelve years previously, when I was pregnant, I had dreamed of bringing him up with my passion for music, even though I am completely 2)incompetent at any kind of instrument; for art, although I was never good at any kind of drawing; for the traditional Chinese poems that I had 3)devoured as a teenager, even writing some myself. I dreamed of playing with him, of cooking for him; I dreamed of taking him to see the world, from a farmer’s market nearby my home, to the wide world—to pick different tree leaves, to eat different food, to walk around in different cultures. My boy was going to live on the world map, not just in a corner of it.
I bought four Chinese dictionaries and one English one to help me to choose a good name for him. Chinese is such a rich language—not to mention the additional 26 English letters—and I wanted my son’s name to have powerful energy and 4)imagery in both languages. In Chinese, Pan Pan means hope and wish. When you translate it into English, it means a figure that is half-human and half-god. That was how I saw my son. But when Pan Pan was about 18, at the Chinese embassy in London, the visa official asked Pan Pan: “Who gave you this uneducated name?” When I heard Pan Pan’s first cry, I promised my boy I would devote myself to giving him a happy life.
I worked hard as other Chinese mothers do. But I never realised that what he needed for his development was a mother who could give him the time he 5)craved as much as milk and sleep.
Lying there with Pan Pan I realised I had missed so much of my son’s childhood. Was it any different to how my mother had missed mine?
As a child, I used to believe I was an orphan because my mother gave me a life but had no time to love me. Exactly a month after I was born, I was sent away to live with my grandmother. And when I grew up, I moved away to university and we were living in different cities, different time zones—and, finally, different countries.
But I know how much I miss her, for I often dream of her. In the dream, she always wears the purple silk dress she had on in my first real-life memory of her, when I was five.
My grandmother took me to a railway station to meet her. “This is your mother: say ‘Mama’, not ‘Auntie’,” my grandmother told me, embarrassed. Wide-eyed and silent, I stared at the woman. Her eyes filled with tears, but she forced her face into a sad smile.
I felt the pain of it most keenly after I became a mother myself and experienced the 6)atavistic, 7)inescapable bond between a mother and her child. What could my mother have said, faced with a daughter who called her “Auntie”? And why didn’t I give Pan Pan the mother he needed?
I spent the rest of that 12th birthday with him—and many other days, as many as I could—8)cutting back on my work so I could play and travel with him. Very soon, he became a Westernised independent teenager with his own busy life. Now he can cook for me beautifully and cares about food as a Chinese man; he helps me with my English and computer as a Western man. But I miss the baby boy Pan Pan. Does he miss his tiny hands holding his mum’s fingers?
Once I asked my mother, on the phone, how long she thought it took Pan Pan to ask me to just be with him on his birthday. “That took him 12 years! He has been asking you since he was born,” my mum said quietly.
My heart nearly stopped. I had woken up from living like “a human factory” to being a real mother: I just hoped it was not too late.
那天是2002年5月6日，一个忙碌的星期一。早上7点30分上班前，我先把儿子叫醒：“盼盼，生日快乐！你想做些特别的事来庆祝自己的生日吗？”这是他在英国的第一个生日。
有那么一阵子，盼盼看着我，一言不发。然后他小声地说：“妈妈，我什么都不想要，我只想你躺下来陪我几分钟。可以吗？”
我顿时愣住了。我的心痛了起来，眼泪沿着脸颊往下流。我躺下来，用手臂搂着我的小男孩。我们俩一句话都没说。
十二年前，我怀孕的时候，我曾梦想用我对音乐的热情去培育他成长，虽然我对乐器一窍不通；我想用我对艺术的热情去培育他成长，尽管我从来都不太会画画；我想用我青少年时期沉醉于的中国传统诗歌的热情去培育他成长，我自己甚至还写过几首。我曾梦想与他一起玩乐，为他做饭。我梦想带着他去看看这个世界，从我家附近的农贸市场，到更广阔的天地——去拾掇不同的树叶，品尝不同的食物，游走于不同的文化之中。我孩子的生活将跨越整个世界，而非局限于世界地图上的一个小角落。
我买了四本中文字典和一本英文字典来帮助我为他选一个好名字。汉语是多么丰富的一种语言——更不用说那额外的26个英文字母了——我希望儿子的名字能够包含两种语言的强大活力和意境。在汉语里，“盼盼”意味着希望和祝愿。当你把它翻译成英文，意思就变成一个半神半人的形象。在我眼中，我儿子就是这样一个人物。然而，在盼盼大约18岁时，在伦敦的中国领事馆，签证官员问盼盼：“谁给你起了这个无知的名字？”当我听到盼盼的第一声哭声时，我为我的孩子许下承诺，我会不遗余力地给他带来幸福的生活。
我像其他的中国母亲一样努力工作。但是我从未意识到，对他的成长而言，他所需要的是一个能够给予他时间的母亲，这种渴望就像对牛奶和睡眠的渴求一般。
与盼盼躺在那里的时候，我意识到我错过了儿子如此多的童年时光。这与我母亲错过我的童年时光有什么不同吗？
在我小时候，我曾一度认为自己是一个孤儿，因为我的母亲虽给予我生命，却没有时间来爱我。我出生才刚好一个月，就被送去与奶奶一起生活。当我长大后，我又搬进大学里住。我们生活在不同的城市、不同的时区——最后，在不同的国家里。
但我知道我有多么想念她，因为我时常梦到她。在梦里，她总是穿着那条紫色的丝绸裙子，那是在我五岁时，关于母亲的初次记忆中她所穿的衣服。
我奶奶把我带到一个火车站去见她。“这是你的母亲。叫‘妈妈’，不要叫‘阿姨’，”我奶奶尴尬地告诉我。我瞪大眼睛，沉默地凝视着那位女士。她眼里噙满泪水，却强迫自己挤出一个悲伤的笑容。
在我自己成为母亲，并且经历过母亲与孩子之间那种与生俱来、不可逃避的关联后，我才最深切地体会到这种痛苦。面对叫她“阿姨”的女儿，我母亲还能说些什么呢？而我，为什么没有给盼盼一个他所需要的母亲？
我与盼盼度过他的第12个生日这一天剩下的时间——在往后的许多日子里，我都尽快地完成工作，争取陪他玩乐、外出旅游。很快地，他变成一个西化的独立青少年，也过上自己的忙碌生活。如今，他已经能为我烹饪美味佳肴，像中国男人一样热衷于美食；他像西方男人一样帮我学英语及电脑。但我仍然怀念小男孩盼盼……他是否也会怀念用自己的小手握住母亲的手指呢？
某次，我在电话中问我母亲，她觉得盼盼用了多长时间才开口叫我与他一起过生日。母亲平静地说：“他花了12年时间！他从一出生就喊着要你陪他一起过生日。”
我的心几乎停住了。我惊醒过来，从活得像“一台人肉机器”变回一个真正的母亲——我只希望一切都不会太晚。
For a moment Pan Pan looked at me, not saying a word. Then in a tiny voice he said, “Mum, I don’t want anything. I just want you to lay down with me for a few minutes. Is that okay?”
I froze. My heart ached and tears 1)streamed down my face. I lay down and put my arm around my boy. Neither of us said a word.
Twelve years previously, when I was pregnant, I had dreamed of bringing him up with my passion for music, even though I am completely 2)incompetent at any kind of instrument; for art, although I was never good at any kind of drawing; for the traditional Chinese poems that I had 3)devoured as a teenager, even writing some myself. I dreamed of playing with him, of cooking for him; I dreamed of taking him to see the world, from a farmer’s market nearby my home, to the wide world—to pick different tree leaves, to eat different food, to walk around in different cultures. My boy was going to live on the world map, not just in a corner of it.
I bought four Chinese dictionaries and one English one to help me to choose a good name for him. Chinese is such a rich language—not to mention the additional 26 English letters—and I wanted my son’s name to have powerful energy and 4)imagery in both languages. In Chinese, Pan Pan means hope and wish. When you translate it into English, it means a figure that is half-human and half-god. That was how I saw my son. But when Pan Pan was about 18, at the Chinese embassy in London, the visa official asked Pan Pan: “Who gave you this uneducated name?” When I heard Pan Pan’s first cry, I promised my boy I would devote myself to giving him a happy life.
I worked hard as other Chinese mothers do. But I never realised that what he needed for his development was a mother who could give him the time he 5)craved as much as milk and sleep.
Lying there with Pan Pan I realised I had missed so much of my son’s childhood. Was it any different to how my mother had missed mine?
As a child, I used to believe I was an orphan because my mother gave me a life but had no time to love me. Exactly a month after I was born, I was sent away to live with my grandmother. And when I grew up, I moved away to university and we were living in different cities, different time zones—and, finally, different countries.
But I know how much I miss her, for I often dream of her. In the dream, she always wears the purple silk dress she had on in my first real-life memory of her, when I was five.
My grandmother took me to a railway station to meet her. “This is your mother: say ‘Mama’, not ‘Auntie’,” my grandmother told me, embarrassed. Wide-eyed and silent, I stared at the woman. Her eyes filled with tears, but she forced her face into a sad smile.
I felt the pain of it most keenly after I became a mother myself and experienced the 6)atavistic, 7)inescapable bond between a mother and her child. What could my mother have said, faced with a daughter who called her “Auntie”? And why didn’t I give Pan Pan the mother he needed?
I spent the rest of that 12th birthday with him—and many other days, as many as I could—8)cutting back on my work so I could play and travel with him. Very soon, he became a Westernised independent teenager with his own busy life. Now he can cook for me beautifully and cares about food as a Chinese man; he helps me with my English and computer as a Western man. But I miss the baby boy Pan Pan. Does he miss his tiny hands holding his mum’s fingers?
Once I asked my mother, on the phone, how long she thought it took Pan Pan to ask me to just be with him on his birthday. “That took him 12 years! He has been asking you since he was born,” my mum said quietly.
My heart nearly stopped. I had woken up from living like “a human factory” to being a real mother: I just hoped it was not too late.
那天是2002年5月6日，一个忙碌的星期一。早上7点30分上班前，我先把儿子叫醒：“盼盼，生日快乐！你想做些特别的事来庆祝自己的生日吗？”这是他在英国的第一个生日。
有那么一阵子，盼盼看着我，一言不发。然后他小声地说：“妈妈，我什么都不想要，我只想你躺下来陪我几分钟。可以吗？”
我顿时愣住了。我的心痛了起来，眼泪沿着脸颊往下流。我躺下来，用手臂搂着我的小男孩。我们俩一句话都没说。
十二年前，我怀孕的时候，我曾梦想用我对音乐的热情去培育他成长，虽然我对乐器一窍不通；我想用我对艺术的热情去培育他成长，尽管我从来都不太会画画；我想用我青少年时期沉醉于的中国传统诗歌的热情去培育他成长，我自己甚至还写过几首。我曾梦想与他一起玩乐，为他做饭。我梦想带着他去看看这个世界，从我家附近的农贸市场，到更广阔的天地——去拾掇不同的树叶，品尝不同的食物，游走于不同的文化之中。我孩子的生活将跨越整个世界，而非局限于世界地图上的一个小角落。
我买了四本中文字典和一本英文字典来帮助我为他选一个好名字。汉语是多么丰富的一种语言——更不用说那额外的26个英文字母了——我希望儿子的名字能够包含两种语言的强大活力和意境。在汉语里，“盼盼”意味着希望和祝愿。当你把它翻译成英文，意思就变成一个半神半人的形象。在我眼中，我儿子就是这样一个人物。然而，在盼盼大约18岁时，在伦敦的中国领事馆，签证官员问盼盼：“谁给你起了这个无知的名字？”当我听到盼盼的第一声哭声时，我为我的孩子许下承诺，我会不遗余力地给他带来幸福的生活。
我像其他的中国母亲一样努力工作。但是我从未意识到，对他的成长而言，他所需要的是一个能够给予他时间的母亲，这种渴望就像对牛奶和睡眠的渴求一般。
与盼盼躺在那里的时候，我意识到我错过了儿子如此多的童年时光。这与我母亲错过我的童年时光有什么不同吗？
在我小时候，我曾一度认为自己是一个孤儿，因为我的母亲虽给予我生命，却没有时间来爱我。我出生才刚好一个月，就被送去与奶奶一起生活。当我长大后，我又搬进大学里住。我们生活在不同的城市、不同的时区——最后，在不同的国家里。
但我知道我有多么想念她，因为我时常梦到她。在梦里，她总是穿着那条紫色的丝绸裙子，那是在我五岁时，关于母亲的初次记忆中她所穿的衣服。
我奶奶把我带到一个火车站去见她。“这是你的母亲。叫‘妈妈’，不要叫‘阿姨’，”我奶奶尴尬地告诉我。我瞪大眼睛，沉默地凝视着那位女士。她眼里噙满泪水，却强迫自己挤出一个悲伤的笑容。
在我自己成为母亲，并且经历过母亲与孩子之间那种与生俱来、不可逃避的关联后，我才最深切地体会到这种痛苦。面对叫她“阿姨”的女儿，我母亲还能说些什么呢？而我，为什么没有给盼盼一个他所需要的母亲？
我与盼盼度过他的第12个生日这一天剩下的时间——在往后的许多日子里，我都尽快地完成工作，争取陪他玩乐、外出旅游。很快地，他变成一个西化的独立青少年，也过上自己的忙碌生活。如今，他已经能为我烹饪美味佳肴，像中国男人一样热衷于美食；他像西方男人一样帮我学英语及电脑。但我仍然怀念小男孩盼盼……他是否也会怀念用自己的小手握住母亲的手指呢？
某次，我在电话中问我母亲，她觉得盼盼用了多长时间才开口叫我与他一起过生日。母亲平静地说：“他花了12年时间！他从一出生就喊着要你陪他一起过生日。”
我的心几乎停住了。我惊醒过来，从活得像“一台人肉机器”变回一个真正的母亲——我只希望一切都不会太晚。