Once, he arrived early and made it to the front door. I stammered nervously as I introduced him to Mother, who was blending bergamot and ylang-ylang, clicking her fingers to test the proportions. She said hello but her fingers kept pulsing. When Charles looked at me as if to ask why, Mother explained that God was speaking through her fingers. “Yesterday I tested that I’d get a migraine today if I didn’t have a bath in lavender,” she said. “I took the bath and guess what? No headache!”
有一次，他提前到了，来到了前门。把他介绍给母亲时，我紧张到结巴。她正在混合佛手柑和依兰精油，打着响指测试比例。她说了声“你好”，但手指还在不停地跳动。当查尔斯看着我，好像在问为什么时，母亲解释说上帝正在通过她的手指传话。“昨天我测试过，如果今天不洗薰衣草浴，我就会偏头痛。”她说，“我洗了，你猜怎么着？没有头痛！”
I couldn’t reconcile his world with mine so I separated them. Every evening I watched for his red jeep from my window, and when it appeared on the highway I ran for the door. By the time he’d bumped up the hill I’d be waiting on the lawn, and before he could get out I’d be in the jeep, arguing with him about my seatbelt. (He refused to drive unless I wore one.)
我无法协调我的世界和他的世界，所以我将它们分开。每天晚上我都在窗边张望他那辆红色吉普车，车一出现在公路上，我就跑向门口。等他开上山坡，我已经在草坪上等着了。不等他出来，我就坐进吉普车，和他为安全带的事争吵。（除非我系上安全带，否则他拒绝开车。）
Charles was my first friend from that other world, the one my father had tried to protect me from. He was conventional in all the ways and for all the reasons my father despised conventionality: he talked about football and popular bands more than the End of Days; he loved everything about high school; he went to church, but like most Mormons, if he was ill, he was as likely to call a doctor as a Mormon priest.
查尔斯是我第一个来自另一个世界的朋友，那个父亲曾竭力让我远离的世界。他在各方面都很传统，而父亲对这种传统嗤之以鼻：他谈论足球和流行乐队，而不是世界末日；他热爱高中生活的一切；他虽然去教堂，但和大多数摩门教徒一样，如果他生病了，更倾向于去看医生。
“Doctors can’t cure a migraine before it happens,” Dad chimed in, “but the Lord can!”
“医生可不能阻止偏头痛发作，”爸爸插嘴说，“但上帝能！”
“Like what?”
“什么样？”
As we walked to his jeep, Charles said, “Does your house always smell like that?”
我们朝他的吉普车走去时，查尔斯说：“你家闻上去总是那样吗？”
“Like rotted plants.”
“像腐烂的植物。”
I shrugged.
我耸了耸肩。
Dad said I was becoming “uppity.” He didn’t like that I rushed home from the junkyard the moment the work was finished, or that I removed every trace of grease before going out with Charles. He knew I’d rather be bagging groceries at Stokes than driving the loader in Blackfoot, the dusty town an hour north where Dad was building a milking barn. It bothered him, knowing I wanted to be in another place, dressed like someone else.
爸爸说我变得“自命不凡”。他不喜欢我一干完活儿就匆忙离开废料场往家赶，也不喜欢我在和查尔斯外出之前把所有油污的痕迹都洗掉。他知道，我宁愿在斯托克斯商店包装杂货，也不愿去布莱克富特开装载机。布莱克富特是北部一小时路程的地方一个尘土飞扬的小镇，爸爸在那里建造牛奶仓库。他知道我想去别的地方，想穿得和别人一样，这让他颇为恼火。
“You must have smelled it,” he said. “It was strong. I’ve smelled it before. On you. You always smell of it. Hell, I probably do, too, now.” He sniffed his shirt. I was quiet. I hadn’t smelled anything.
“你一定闻到了，”他说，“味道浓烈。我以前闻到过。你身上一直有这股味道。见鬼，现在我身上可能也有这个味儿了。”他嗅了嗅衬衫。我很安静。我什么都没闻到。
On the site in Blackfoot, he dreamed up strange tasks for me to do, as if he thought my doing them would remind me who I was. Once, when we were thirty feet in the air, scrambling on the purlins of the unfinished roof, not wearing harnesses because we never wore them, Dad realized that he’d left his chalk line on the other side of the building. “Fetch me that chalk line, Tara,” he said. I mapped the trip. I’d need to jump from purlin to purlin, about fifteen of them, spaced four feet apart, to get the chalk, then the same number back. It was exactly the sort of order from Dad that was usually met with Shawn saying, “She’s not doing that.”
在布莱克富特镇的工地，他给我安排了一些奇怪的任务，好像他觉得做这些工作就会让我记起自己是谁。有一次，我们正悬在三十英尺的高空，爬上尚未完工的屋檩，没有系安全绳，因为我们从来不系。爸爸想起他将粉笔线落在了另一边。“把粉笔线给我拿来，塔拉。”他说。我估摸了一下行程。我需要翻过一根根檩条——大概有十五根，每两条间距四英尺——才能拿到粉笔线，然后原路返回，还得走过那些檩条。通常肖恩听见父亲这样的命令，会说：“别让她做那个。”
That was how Dad and Shawn became comrades, even if they only agreed on one thing: that my brush with education had made me uppity, and that what I needed was to be dragged through time. Fixed, anchored to a former version of myself.
就这样爸爸和肖恩成了同志，尽管他们只在一件事上达成了共识：上学让我变得自命不凡，我需要被慢慢拉回从前，被调教一番，变回过去的样子。
“You can fetch it,” Shawn said. “Unless your fancy school and fancy boyfriend have made you too good for it.” His features hardened in a way that was both new and familiar.
“你自己能拿，”肖恩说，“除非你那了不起的学校和了不起的男朋友让你觉得自己太优秀，干不了这个。”他表情僵硬，看上去既陌生又熟悉。
Shawn had a gift for language, for using it to define others. He began searching through his repertoire of nicknames. “Wench” was his favorite for a few weeks. “Wench, fetch me a grinding wheel,” he’d shout, or “Raise the boom, Wench!” Then he’d search my face for a reaction. He never found one. Next he tried “Wilbur.” Because I ate so much, he said. “That’s some pig,” he’d shout with a whistle when I bent over to fit a screw or check a measurement.
肖恩有一种语言天赋，那就是擅长给别人起外号。他开始从他的词汇库里给我起绰号。几个星期以来，“少妇”一直是他的最爱。“少妇，给我拿个砂轮来。”他叫道。或是说：“把吊杆抬起来，少妇！”然后他会看我脸上有何反应。他从没发现我有什么反应。他用的下一个词是“威尔伯”[8]，他说那是因为我吃得太多了。“真是头好猪。”我弯下腰拧螺丝或检查尺寸时，他吹起口哨大叫道。【注：[8]Wilbur，童话《夏洛的网》的主角小猪的名字。】
“Shawn, will you run me over in the forklift?”
“肖恩，你能用叉车把我运过去吗？”
I shimmied the length of a purlin, which took me to the framing beam at the barn’s edge. This was more dangerous in one sense — if I fell to the right, there would be no purlins to catch me — but the framing beam was thicker, and I could walk it like a tightrope.
我摇摇晃晃地上了一根檩条，来到仓库边缘的框架梁上。从某种意义上来说这样更危险——如果我倒向右侧，没有檩条接着——但框架梁很粗，我可以像走钢丝一样走过去。
The next night: “You going to dinner? Don’t get between Wilbur and her food. Won’t be nothin’ left of you but a splat on the pavement.”
下一晚，他说：“你们要去吃饭吗？别拦着威尔伯吃东西。她会把你扑倒在路面上，吃得一点儿都不剩。”
Shawn took to lingering outside after the crew had finished for the day. I suspect he wanted to be near the driveway when Charles drove up it. He seemed to be forever changing the oil in his truck. The first night he was out there, I ran out and jumped into the jeep before he could say a word. The next night he was quicker on the draw. “Isn’t Tara beautiful?” he shouted to Charles. “Eyes like a fish and she’s nearly as smart as one.” It was an old taunt, blunted by overuse. He must have known I wouldn’t react on the site so he’d saved it, hoping that in front of Charles it might still have sting.
小工队结束了一天的工作后，肖恩开始在外面逗留。我怀疑他是想趁查尔斯开车过来时靠近车道。他总是装作在给自己的卡车更换机油。他在外面的第一晚，我跑出去，不等他说一个字便跳上吉普车。第二晚，他出手更迅速。“塔拉很美对吗？”他对查尔斯喊道，“眼睛像鱼一样，她几乎和鱼一样聪明。”这是一句嘲讽的老话，用了太多次，我都麻木了。他一定知道在工地说这句话我不会有任何反应，所以他偏当着查尔斯的面说，希望能刺痛我。
Charles never responded. We entered into an unspoken agreement to begin our evenings the moment the mountain disappeared in the rearview mirror. In the universe we explored together there were gas stations and movie theaters; there were cars dotting the highway like trinkets, full of people laughing or honking, always waving, because this was a small town and everybody knew Charles; there were dirt roads dusted white with chalk, canals the color of beef stew, and endless wheat fields glowing bronze. But there was no Buck’s Peak.
查尔斯从不理会他的话。我们达成了一项秘而不宣的协议，一旦山从后视镜上消失，我们的夜晚就正式开始。我们共同探索的世界里有加油站和电影院；高速公路上到处都是汽车，像小饰品一样点缀着路面，车上满载着欢笑着、按着喇叭的人，他们总是向我们挥手，因为这座小镇上大家都认识查尔斯。那里有灰白色扬尘的土路，有炖牛肉一般颜色的运河，还有一望无际的闪光的金色麦田。但那里没有巴克峰。
I shouted to Shawn when the purlins were clean. He appeared from behind an I-beam and raised his welding shield. When he saw me, his face broke into a wide smile. “Our Nigger’s back!” he said.
檩条洗干净后，我呼唤肖恩。他举着焊接护罩，从一根工字梁现身。一看到我，他脸上绽开灿烂的笑容。“我们的黑鬼回来了！”他说。
It was a hot day, and I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead. My hairband broke. I didn’t have a spare. The wind swept down the mountain, blowing strands in my eyes, and I reached across my face and brushed them away. My hands were black with grease, and each stroke left a dark smudge.
那一天很热，我擦了擦额头上的汗珠。我的发箍断了，我没有多余的。风从山上刮过来，将几缕头发吹进眼睛，我便伸手拂过脸上的头发。我的双手漆黑，沾满油渍，每次摆弄头发都留下一道黑色的污痕。
During the day, Buck’s Peak was all there was — that and the site in Blackfoot. Shawn and I spent the better part of a week making purlins to finish the barn roof. We used a machine the size of a mobile home to press them into a Z shape, then we attached wire brushes to grinders and blasted away the rust so they could be painted. When the paint was dry we stacked them next to the shop, but within a day or two the wind from the peak had covered them in black dust, which turned to grime when it mixed with the oils on the iron. Shawn said they had to be washed before they could be loaded, so I fetched a rag and a bucket of water.
白天的生活只有巴克峰和布莱克富特的工地。我和肖恩一个星期大部分的时间都在制作檩条，来建成仓库屋顶。我们用一台移动房屋大小的机器将它们压成Z形，然后把钢丝刷附在磨床上磨掉上面的锈，这样就可以上漆了。油漆一干，我们便将它们堆放在车间旁，但不过一两天，山顶吹来的风就让它们蒙上一层黑灰，灰和铁上的油混在一起，变成了污垢。肖恩说在安装前必须先把它们清洗干净，所以我拿来一块抹布和一桶水。
Then the world had turned upside down: I had entered a university, where I’d wandered into an auditorium and listened, eyes wide, mind buzzing, to lectures on American history. The professor was Dr. Richard Kimball, and he had a resonant, contemplative voice. I knew about slavery; I’d heard Dad talk about it, and I’d read about it in Dad’s favorite book on the American founding. I had read that slaves in colonial times were happier and more free than their masters, because the masters were burdened with the cost of their care. That had made sense to me.
接着世界发生了天翻地覆的变化：我进入一所大学，在那里我漫步走进一间礼堂，听了一场关于美国历史的讲座，它让我睁大双眼，思绪万千。讲课的教授是理查德·金伯尔博士，他声音洪亮，引人深思。我对奴隶制略知一二；我听爸爸谈起过，也在爸爸最喜欢的关于美国建国的书中读到过。我读到过，殖民时期的奴隶比他们的主人更幸福、更自由，因为主人还要负担照顾他们的费用。我当时觉得颇有道理。
The summer shawn and I had worked the Shear, there’d been an afternoon when I’d wiped the sweat from my face so many times that, by the time we quit for supper, my nose and cheeks had been black. That was the first time Shawn called me “Nigger.” The word was suprising but not unfamiliar. I’d heard Dad use it, so in one sense I knew what it meant. But in another sense, I didn’t understand it as meaning anything at all. I’d only ever seen one black person, a little girl, the adoptive daughter of a family at church. Dad obviously hadn’t meant her.
那年夏天我和肖恩一起操纵大剪刀。有一天下午，由于我多次擦拭脸上的汗，等到我们歇工吃晚饭时，我的鼻子和脸颊全黑了。那是肖恩第一次叫我“黑鬼”。我很惊讶，但并不感到陌生。我听爸爸用过这个词，所以从某种意义上来说我知道它的意思。但从另一种意义上，我完全不理解它的含义。我只在教堂见过一个黑人，是个小女孩，某户人家的养女。爸爸显然不是在说她。
Shawn had called me Nigger that entire summer: “Nigger, run and fetch those C-clamps!” or “It’s time for lunch, Nigger!” It had never given me a moment’s pause.
整个夏天肖恩都叫我黑鬼：“黑鬼，去把C形夹钳给我拿来！”或是：“该吃午饭了，黑鬼！”这个称呼从未让我有过片刻的踌躇不安。
The day Dr. Kimball lectured on slavery, he filled the overhead screen with a charcoal sketch of a slave market. The screen was large; as in a movie theater it dominated the room. The sketch was chaotic. Women stood, naked or half naked, and chained, while men circled them. The projector clacked. The next image was a photograph, black and white and blurred with age. Faded and overexposed, the image is iconic. In it a man sits, stripped above the waist, exposing for the camera a map of raised, crisscrossing scars. The flesh hardly looks like flesh, from what has been done to it.
金伯尔博士讲授奴隶制那天，他头顶的屏幕上是一幅关于奴隶市场的炭笔素描。屏幕很大，就像电影院的屏幕一样，占据了整个房间。画上是一片混乱的场面。女人们站着，全裸或半裸，被锁链锁着，被男人们团团围住。投影机咔嗒一声，切换到下一张黑白照片，照片因为年代久远而有些模糊不清。褪色和过度曝光，让这张照片很有象征性。照片上，一个人面对镜头坐着，上身赤裸，露出地图般纵横交错的凸起的伤疤。遭受的凌辱让他身上的肉看上去不再像肉。
I saw many more images in the coming weeks. I’d heard of the Great Depression years before when I’d played Annie, but the slides of men in hats and long coats lined up in front of soup kitchens were new to me. When Dr. Kimball lectured on World War II, the screen showed rows of fighter planes interspersed with the skeletal remains of bombed cities. There were faces mixed in — FDR, Hitler, Stalin. Then World War II faded with the lights of the projector.
接下来的几周，我见到了更多的照片。几年前我扮演安妮时就听说过经济大萧条，但幻灯片上戴着帽子、穿着长外套、排着长队站在施粥所前的人们还是让我感到新鲜。金伯尔博士讲到第二次世界大战的时候，屏幕上出现了一排排战斗机，散布在被炸毁的城市的残骸上。还有很多面孔混在一起——罗斯福、希特勒、斯大林。接着第二次世界大战随着投影仪的灯光而褪色。
The next time I entered the auditorium there were new faces on the screen and they were black. There hadn’t been a black face on that screen — at least none that I remembered — since the lectures on slavery. I’d forgotten about them, these other Americans who were foreign to me. I had not tried to imagine the end of slavery: surely the call of justice had been heard by all, and the issue had been resolved.
下一次我走进礼堂时，屏幕上出现了许多新面孔，他们都是黑人。自从那次关于奴隶制的讲座后，屏幕上就再没出现过黑人面孔——至少我不记得有过。我已经忘记了他们，这些美国人对我来说是外国人。我从没试着想象奴隶制的终结：毫无疑问，正义的呼声广为人知，这个问题已经得到解决。
This was my state of mind when Dr. Kimball began to lecture on something called the civil rights movement. A date appeared on the screen: 1963. I figured there’d been a mistake. I recalled that the Emancipation Proclamation had been issued in 1863. I couldn’t account for that hundred years, so I assumed it was a typo. I copied the date into my notes with a question mark, but as more photographs flashed across the screen, it became clear which century the professor meant. The photos were black and white but their subjects were modern — vibrant, well defined. They were not dry stills from another era; they captured movement. Marches. Police. Firefighters turning hoses on young men.
金伯尔博士开始讲授民权运动时，我就是这样的心态。屏幕上出现了一个年份：一九六三。我想肯定是弄错了。我记得《奴隶解放宣言》[9]是一八六三年颁布的。我无法解释这一百年间发生了什么，所以我觉得那是一个输入错误。我把日期抄在笔记上，加了一个问号，但随着屏幕上闪现更多的照片，教授所指的是哪个世纪变得清晰起来。它们虽然是黑白照片，但主题是现代的——栩栩如生，意义明确。它们不是来自另一个时代干巴巴的静物照，它们捕捉到了运动的瞬间。游行。警察。消防队员将水管对准年轻人。【注：[9]时任美国总统林肯于1862年9月颁布《奴隶解放宣言》，规定从1863年1月1日起美国各州奴隶应被视为自由人。】
Her image was replaced by another, of a black boy in a white shirt, tie and round-brimmed hat. I didn’t hear his story. I was still wondering at Rosa Parks, and how someone could steal a bus seat. Then the image was of a corpse and I heard Dr. Kimball say, “They pulled his body from the river.”
她的照片换成另一个人的，一个身穿白衬衫的黑人男孩，系着领带，戴一顶圆边帽。我没有听他的故事。我还在想罗莎·帕克斯，怎么会有人去偷公共汽车的座位。接着图片切换成一具尸体，我听到金伯尔博士说：“他们把他的尸体从河里拖了出来。”
Dr. Kimball recited names I’d never heard. He began with Rosa Parks. An image appeared of a policeman pressing a woman’s finger into an ink sponge. Dr. Kimball said she’d taken a seat on a bus. I understood him as saying she had stolen the seat, although it seemed an odd thing to steal.
金伯尔博士列举了一串我从未听说过的名字。他从罗莎·帕克斯[10]开始讲。一幅画面显示，一名警察将一个妇女的手指按进一块墨水海绵。金伯尔博士说她在一辆公共汽车上落座。我把他的话理解成了她“偷了座位”[11]，尽管这听上去是一种奇怪的偷窃。【注：[10]Rosa Parks（1913－2005），美国民权运动领袖，因拒绝在亚拉巴马州蒙哥马利市的一辆公共汽车上给一名白人男子让座，从而引发了全国民权运动。[11]原文中的“take a seat”，有“落座”“拿了一个座位”之意。】
There was a date beneath the image: 1955. I realized that Mother had been four years old in 1955, and with that realization, the distance between me and Emmett Till collapsed. My proximity to this murdered boy could be measured in the lives of people I knew. The calculation was not made with reference to vast historical or geological shifts — the fall of civilizations, the erosion of mountains. It was measured in the wrinkling of human flesh. In the lines on my mother’s face.
照片下面有一个年份：一九五五。我意识到一九五五年母亲四岁了，这种意识让我和艾米特·提尔[12]之间的距离轰然倒塌。我与这个被害男孩的距离可以以我所认识的人的年岁来衡量。这种衡量方法并不以宏大的历史事件或地质变迁——文明的堕落、山脉的侵蚀——为参照，而是以人的皱纹，以我母亲脸上的皱纹为参照。【注：[12]Emmett Till（1941－1955），即上文提到的照片中的男孩，十四岁时因朝白人妇女吹口哨而被殴打致死，白人凶手却被判无罪。】
The next name was Martin Luther King Jr. I had never seen his face before, or heard his name, and it was several minutes before I understood that Dr. Kimball didn’t mean Martin Luther, who I had heard of. It took several more minutes for me to connect the name with the image on the screen — of a dark-skinned man standing in front of a white marble temple and surrounded by a vast crowd. I had only just understood who he was and why he was speaking when I was told he had been murdered. I was still ignorant enough to be surprised.
下一个名字是马丁·路德·金。我以前从未见过他的脸，也从未听过他的名字，过了几分钟我才明白金伯尔博士说的并不是我听说过的马丁·路德。我花了几分钟才将名字和屏幕上的图像联系起来——一名皮肤黝黑的男子站在一座白色大理石殿前，被一大群人簇拥着。我刚弄明白他是谁，刚了解到他为什么在那里发表演说，便被告知他被人谋杀了。我仍然那么无知，以至于为此震惊不已。
“Our nigger’s back!”
“我们的黑鬼回来了！”
I don’t know what Shawn saw on my face — whether it was shock, anger or a vacant expression. Whatever it was, he was delighted by it. He’d found a vulnerability, a tender spot. It was too late to feign indifference.
我不知道肖恩在我的脸上看到了什么——是震惊、愤怒还是茫然的表情。不管是什么，他都为此感到高兴。他终于发现了一个弱点，一个痛处。再假装漠不关心已经太迟了。
For the rest of the afternoon — for the rest of the summer — I was Nigger. I’d answered to it a thousand times before with indifference. If anything, I’d been amused and thought Shawn was clever. Now it made me want to gag him. Or sit him down with a history book, as long as it wasn’t the one Dad still kept in the living room, under the framed copy of the Constitution.
整个下午以及接下来的暑假，我都是黑鬼。以前的一千次，我都无动于衷。如果有任何反应，我也只是被逗乐了，觉得肖恩聪明。现在我想堵住他的嘴。或者让他坐下来给他一本历史书，只要不是父亲放在起居室里裱好的美国宪法复印件下面的那本。
“Don’t call me that,” I said. “You don’t know what it means.”
“别那么叫我，”我说，“你不知道那个词是什么意思。”
“Sure I do,” he said. “You’ve got black all over your face, like a nigger!”
“我当然知道，”他说，“你脸上全黑了，像个黑鬼。”
I did not think of my brother as that person; I doubt I will ever think of him that way. But something had shifted nonetheless. I had started on a path of awareness, had perceived something elemental about my brother, my father, myself. I had discerned the ways in which we had been sculpted by a tradition given to us by others, a tradition of which we were either willfully or accidentally ignorant. I had begun to understand that we had lent our voices to a discourse whose sole purpose was to dehumanize and brutalize others — because nurturing that discourse was easier, because retaining power always feels like the way forward.
我觉得哥哥不是那种人；我想我永远都不会那样看待他。但无论如何，有些事情还是发生了变化。我开始了一段觉醒之路，对哥哥，对父亲，以及对我自己有了一些基本的认识。我已觉察出我们是如何被别人给予我们的传统所塑造，而这个传统我们有意或无意地忽视了。我开始明白，我们为一种话语发声，这种话语的唯一目的是丧失人性和残酷地对待他人——因为培养这种话语更容易，因为保有权力总是让人感觉在前进。
I couldn’t articulate how the name made me feel. Shawn had meant it to humiliate me, to lock me in time, into an old idea of myself. But far from fixing me in place, that word transported me. Every time he said it –“Hey Nigger, raise the boom” or “Fetch me a level, Nigger”– I returned to the university, to that auditorium, where I had watched human history unfold and wondered at my place in it. The stories of Emmett Till, Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King were called to my mind every time Shawn shouted, “Nigger, move to the next row.” I saw their faces superimposed on every purlin Shawn welded into place that summer, so that by the end of it, I had finally begun to grasp something that should have been immediately apparent: that someone had opposed the great march toward equality; someone had been the person from whom freedom had to be wrested.
我说不清这个称呼给我什么感受。肖恩这样做是想羞辱我，把我锁在过去，困在过去的自我中。但这个词并未让我就范，反而将我送往别外。每次他说“嘿，黑鬼，开起吊杆”，或是“给我拿个水平仪，黑鬼”，我就仿佛回到了大学，回到了那间礼堂——我窥见人类的历史并思索我在其中的位置的地方。每次肖恩大喊“黑鬼，挪到下一排去”，我就想起罗莎·帕克斯、艾米特·提尔和马丁·路德·金的事迹。那个夏天，我看到他们的脸浮现在每一根肖恩焊接的檩条上，于是最后，我终于明白过来一个本来显而易见的事实：有的人反对平等的大潮；有的人必须从某些人那里夺取自由。
I could not have articulated this, not as I sweated through those searing afternoons in the forklift. I did not have the language I have now. But I understood this one fact: that a thousand times I had been called Nigger, and laughed, and now I could not laugh. The word and the way Shawn said it hadn’t changed; only my ears were different. They no longer heard the jingle of a joke in it. What they heard was a signal, a call through time, which was answered with a mounting conviction: that never again would I allow myself to be made a foot soldier in a conflict I did not understand.
在那些在叉车里度过的汗流浃背的炎热的下午，我无法清楚地表述出这些。那时的我还未掌握现在的语言。但我明白了一个事实：我曾一千次被叫黑鬼，以前我笑过，现在我笑不出来了。这个词没有变，肖恩说出它的方式也没有变，只是我的耳朵变了。它们听到的不再是其中的玩笑。它们听见的是一个信号，一种穿越时间的召唤，得到的回应是一种越来越坚定的信念：我再也不允许自己在一场我并不理解的冲突中首当其冲。
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