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大学英语精读 UNIT 4 课后阅读

The Ethics Of Living Jim Crow
by 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 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 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 you didn’t hide?”she asked me.“How come you always fighting?”
I was outraged, and bawled. Between sobs I told her that I didn’t have any trees or hedges to hid 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 heat me till I had a fever of one hundred and two. She would smack my rump with the stave, and, while the skin wa

s 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 my 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.


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