《英文小说与电影》课程教学资源（书籍文献）The Joy Luck Club

address," she says. “We say that a certain party, your mother, want to meet another certain partyAnd this party write back to us. They are your sisters, Jing-mei."My sisters, I repeat to myself, saying these two words together for the first time.Auntie An-mei is holding a sheet of paper as thin as wrapping tissue. In perfectly straightvertical rows I see Chinese characters written in blue fountain-pen ink A word is smudged. Atear? I take the letter with shaking hands, marveling at how smart my sisters must be to be able toread and write Chinese.The aunties are all smiling at me, as though I had been a dying person who has nowmiraculously recovered. Auntie Ying is handing me another envelope. Inside is a check made outto June Woo for $1,200. I can't believe it.My sisters are sending me money?" I ask.“No, no," says Auntie Lin with her mock exasperated voice.“Every year we save our mahjong winnings for big banquet at fancy restaurant. Most times your mother win, so most is hermoney. We add just a little, so you can go Hong Kong, take a train to Shanghai, see your sisters.Besides, we all getting too rich, too fat." she pats her stomach for proof."See my sisters," I say numbly. I am awed by this prospect, trying to imagine what I wouldsee. And I am embarrassed by the end-of-the-year-banquet lie my aunties have told to mask theirgenerosity. I am crying now, sobbing and laughing at the same time, seeing but not understandingthis loyalty to my mother."You must see your sisters and tell them about your mother's death," says Auntie Ying. “Butmost important, you must tell them about her life. The mother they did not know, they must nowknow."“"See my sisters, tell them about my mother," I say, nodding. “What will I say? What can I tellthem about my mother? I don't know anything. She was my mother."The aunties are looking at me as ifI had become crazy right before their eyes."Not know your own mother?" cries Auntie An-mei with disbelief. “How can you say? Yourmother is in your bones!Tell them stories of your family here. How she became success," offers Auntie Lin."Tell them stories she told you, lessons she taught, what you know about her mind that hasbecome your mind," says Auntie Ying.You mother very smart lady.""I hear more choruses of "Tell them, tell them' as each Auntie frantically tries to think whatshould be passed on.“Her kindness."“Her smartness

address,” she says. “We say that a certain party, your mother, want to meet another certain party. And this party write back to us. They are your sisters, Jing-mei.” My sisters, I repeat to myself, saying these two words together for the first time. Auntie An-mei is holding a sheet of paper as thin as wrapping tissue. In perfectly straight vertical rows I see Chinese characters written in blue fountain-pen ink. A word is smudged. A tear? I take the letter with shaking hands, marveling at how smart my sisters must be to be able to read and write Chinese. The aunties are all smiling at me, as though I had been a dying person who has now miraculously recovered. Auntie Ying is handing me another envelope. Inside is a check made out to June Woo for $1,200. I can’t believe it. “My sisters are sending me money?” I ask. “No, no,” says Auntie Lin with her mock exasperated voice. “Every year we save our mah jong winnings for big banquet at fancy restaurant. Most times your mother win, so most is her money. We add just a little, so you can go Hong Kong, take a train to Shanghai, see your sisters. Besides, we all getting too rich, too fat.” she pats her stomach for proof. “See my sisters,” I say numbly. I am awed by this prospect, trying to imagine what I would see. And I am embarrassed by the end-of-the-year-banquet lie my aunties have told to mask their generosity. I am crying now, sobbing and laughing at the same time, seeing but not understanding this loyalty to my mother. “You must see your sisters and tell them about your mother’s death,” says Auntie Ying. “But most important, you must tell them about her life. The mother they did not know, they must now know.” “See my sisters, tell them about my mother,” I say, nodding. “What will I say? What can I tell them about my mother? I don’t know anything. She was my mother.” The aunties are looking at me as if I had become crazy right before their eyes. “Not know your own mother?” cries Auntie An-mei with disbelief. “How can you say? Your mother is in your bones!” “Tell them stories of your family here. How she became success,” offers Auntie Lin. “Tell them stories she told you, lessons she taught, what you know about her mind that has become your mind,” says Auntie Ying. “You mother very smart lady.” I hear more choruses of “Tell them, tell them” as each Auntie frantically tries to think what should be passed on. “Her kindness.” “Her smartness

An-Mei HsuScarWhen I was a young girl in China, my grandmother told me my mother was a ghost. This did noimean my mother was dead. In those days, a ghost was anything we were forbidden to talk about.So I knew Popo wanted me to forget my mother on purpose, and this is how I came to remembelnothing of her. The life that I knew began in the large house in Ningpo with the cold hallways andtall stairs. This was my uncle and auntie's family house, where I lived with Popo and my littlebrother.But I often heard stories of a ghost who tried to take children away, especially strong-willedlittle girls who were disobedient. Many times Popo said aloud to all who could hear that mybrother and I had fallen out of the bowels of a stupid goose, two eggs that nobody wanted, not evengood enough to crack over rice porridge. She said this so that the ghosts would not steal us away.Soyousee,toPopowewerealsoveryprecious.All my life, Popo scared me. I became even more scared when she grew sick. This was ir1923, when I was nine years old. Popo had swollen up like an overripe squash, so full her fleshhad gone soft and rotten with a bad smell. She would call me into her room with the terrible stinkand tell me stories. “An-mei," she said, calling me by my school name. “Listen carefully." She toldme stories I could not understand.One was about a greedy girl whose belly grew fatter and fatter. This girl poisoned herselfafter refusing to say whose child she carried. When the monks cut open her body, they found insidea large white wintermelon.“if you are greedy, what is inside you is what makes you always hungry," said PopoAnother time, Popo told me about a girl who refused to listen to her elders. One day this badgirl shook her head so vigorously to refuse her auntie's simple request that a little white ball fellfrom her ear and out poured all her brains, as clear as chicken broth.“"Your own thoughts are so busy swimming inside that everything else gets pushed out," Popotold me.Right before Popo became so sick she could no longer speak, she pulled me close and talkedto me about my mother.“Never say her name, she warned. “To say her name is to spit on yourfather's grave

An-Mei Hsu Scar When I was a young girl in China, my grandmother told me my mother was a ghost. This did not mean my mother was dead. In those days, a ghost was anything we were forbidden to talk about. So I knew Popo wanted me to forget my mother on purpose, and this is how I came to remember nothing of her. The life that I knew began in the large house in Ningpo with the cold hallways and tall stairs. This was my uncle and auntie’s family house, where I lived with Popo and my little brother. But I often heard stories of a ghost who tried to take children away, especially strong-willed little girls who were disobedient. Many times Popo said aloud to all who could hear that my brother and I had fallen out of the bowels of a stupid goose, two eggs that nobody wanted, not even good enough to crack over rice porridge. She said this so that the ghosts would not steal us away. So you see, to Popo we were also very precious. All my life, Popo scared me. I became even more scared when she grew sick. This was in 1923, when I was nine years old. Popo had swollen up like an overripe squash, so full her flesh had gone soft and rotten with a bad smell. She would call me into her room with the terrible stink and tell me stories. “An-mei,” she said, calling me by my school name. “Listen carefully.” She told me stories I could not understand. One was about a greedy girl whose belly grew fatter and fatter. This girl poisoned herself after refusing to say whose child she carried. When the monks cut open her body, they found inside a large white winter melon. “If you are greedy, what is inside you is what makes you always hungry,” said Popo. Another time, Popo told me about a girl who refused to listen to her elders. One day this bad girl shook her head so vigorously to refuse her auntie’s simple request that a little white ball fell from her ear and out poured all her brains, as clear as chicken broth. “Your own thoughts are so busy swimming inside that everything else gets pushed out,” Popo told me. Right before Popo became so sick she could no longer speak, she pulled me close and talked to me about my mother. “Never say her name,” she warned. “To say her name is to spit on your father’s grave

The only father I knew was a big painting that hung in the main hall. He was a largeunsmiling man, unhappy to be so still on the wall. His restless eyes followed me around the house.Even from my room at the end of the hall, I could see my father's watching eyes. Popo said hewatched me for any signs of disrespect. So sometimes, when I had thrown pebbles at otheichildren at school, or had lost a book through carelessness, I would quickly walk by my father witha know-nothing look and hide in a corner of my room where he could not see my face.I felt our house was so unhappy, but my little brother did not seem to think so. He rode hisbicycle through the courtyard, chasing chickens and other children, laughing over which onesshrieked the loudest. Inside the quiet house, he jumped up and down on Uncle and Auntie's bestfeather sofas when they were away visiting village friends.But even my brother's happiness went away. One hot summer day when Popo was alreadyvery sick, we stood outside watching a village funeral procession marching by our courtyard. Justas it passed our gate, the heavy framed picture of the dead man toppled from its stand and fell tothe dusty ground. An old lady screamed and fainted. My brother laughed and Auntie slapped him.My auntie, who had a very bad temper with children, told him he had no shou, no respect forancestors or family, just like our mother. Auntie had a tongue like hungry scissors eating silk clothSo when my brother gave her a sour look, Auntie said our mother was so thoughtless she had flednorth in a big hurry, without taking the dowry furniture from her marriage to my father, withoutbringing her ten pairs of silver chopsticks, without paying respect to my father's grave and those ofour ancestors. When my brother accused Auntie of frightening our mother away, Auntie shoutedthat our mother had married a man named Wu Tsing who already had a wife, two concubines, andotherbad children.And when my brother shouted that Auntie was a talking chicken without a head, she pushedmy brother against the gate and spat on his face."You throw strong words at me, but you are nothing," Auntie said. “You are the son of amother who has so little respect she has become ni, a traitor to our ancestors. She is so beneathothers that even the devil must look down to see her."That is when I began to understand the stories Popo taught me, the lessons I had to learn foimy mother. “"When you lose your face, An-mei," Popo often said, “it is like dropping your necklacedown a well. The only way you can get it back is to fall in after it."Now I could imagine my mother, a thoughtless woman who laughed and shook her head, whodipped her chopsticksmanytimes toeatanother pieceof sweetfruit, happytobefree ofPopo,herunhappy husband on the wall, and her two disobedient children. I felt unlucky that she was mymother and unlucky that she had left us. These were the thoughts I had while hiding in the corner oimy room where my father could not watch me.CI was sitting at the top of the stairs when she arrived. I knew it was my mother even though I hadseen her in all my memory. She stood just inside the doorway so that her face became a darkshadow. She was much taller than my auntie, almost as tall as my uncle. She looked strange, too,like the missionary ladies at our school who were insolent and bossy in their too-tall shoes

The only father I knew was a big painting that hung in the main hall. He was a large, unsmiling man, unhappy to be so still on the wall. His restless eyes followed me around the house. Even from my room at the end of the hall, I could see my father’s watching eyes. Popo said he watched me for any signs of disrespect. So sometimes, when I had thrown pebbles at other children at school, or had lost a book through carelessness, I would quickly walk by my father with a know-nothing look and hide in a corner of my room where he could not see my face. I felt our house was so unhappy, but my little brother did not seem to think so. He rode his bicycle through the courtyard, chasing chickens and other children, laughing over which ones shrieked the loudest. Inside the quiet house, he jumped up and down on Uncle and Auntie’s best feather sofas when they were away visiting village friends. But even my brother’s happiness went away. One hot summer day when Popo was already very sick, we stood outside watching a village funeral procession marching by our courtyard. Just as it passed our gate, the heavy framed picture of the dead man toppled from its stand and fell to the dusty ground. An old lady screamed and fainted. My brother laughed and Auntie slapped him. My auntie, who had a very bad temper with children, told him he had no shou, no respect for ancestors or family, just like our mother. Auntie had a tongue like hungry scissors eating silk cloth. So when my brother gave her a sour look, Auntie said our mother was so thoughtless she had fled north in a big hurry, without taking the dowry furniture from her marriage to my father, without bringing her ten pairs of silver chopsticks, without paying respect to my father’s grave and those of our ancestors. When my brother accused Auntie of frightening our mother away, Auntie shouted that our mother had married a man named Wu Tsing who already had a wife, two concubines, and other bad children. And when my brother shouted that Auntie was a talking chicken without a head, she pushed my brother against the gate and spat on his face. “You throw strong words at me, but you are nothing,” Auntie said. “You are the son of a mother who has so little respect she has become ni, a traitor to our ancestors. She is so beneath others that even the devil must look down to see her.” That is when I began to understand the stories Popo taught me, the lessons I had to learn for my mother. “When you lose your face, An-mei,” Popo often said, “it is like dropping your necklace down a well. The only way you can get it back is to fall in after it.” Now I could imagine my mother, a thoughtless woman who laughed and shook her head, who dipped her chopsticks many times to eat another piece of sweet fruit, happy to be free of Popo, her unhappy husband on the wall, and her two disobedient children. I felt unlucky that she was my mother and unlucky that she had left us. These were the thoughts I had while hiding in the corner of my room where my father could not watch me. I was sitting at the top of the stairs when she arrived. I knew it was my mother even though I had seen her in all my memory. She stood just inside the doorway so that her face became a dark shadow. She was much taller than my auntie, almost as tall as my uncle. She looked strange, too, like the missionary ladies at our school who were insolent and bossy in their too-tall shoes

foreign clothes, and short hair.My auntie quickly looked away and did not call her by name or offer her tea. An old servanthurried away with a displeased look I tried to keep very still, but my heart felt like cricketsscratching to get out of a cage. My mother must have heard, because she looked up. And when shedid, I saw my own face looking back at me. Eyes that stayed wide open and saw too muchIn Popo's room my auntie protested, “Too late, too late," as my mother approached the bedBut this did not stop my mother."Come back, stay here, murmured my mother to Popo. “Nuyer is here. Your daughter isback." Popo's eyes were open, but now her mind ran in many different directions, not staying longenough to see anything. If Popo's mind had been clear she would have raised her two arms andflung my mother out of the room.I watched my mother, seeing her for the first time, this pretty woman with her white skin andoval face, not too round like Auntie's or sharp like Popo's. I saw that she had a long white neck.just like the goose that had laid me. That she seemed to float back and forth like a ghost, dippingcool cloths to lay on Popo's bloated face. As she peered into Popo's eyes, she clucked softworried sounds. I watched her carefully, yet it was her voice that confused me, a familiar soundfrom a forgotten dream.When I returned to my room later that afternoon, she was there, standing tall. And because Iremember Popo told me not to speak her name, I stood there, mute. She took my hand and led me tothe settee. And then she also sat down as though we had done this every day.My mother began to loosen my braids and brush my hair with long sweeping strokes“"An-mei, you have been a good daughter?" she asked, smiling a secret look.I looked at her with my know-nothing face, but inside I was trembling. I was the girl whosebelly held a colorless winter melon.“"An-mei, you know who I am," she said with a small scold in her voice. This time I did notlook for fear my head would burst and my brains would dribble out of my ears.She stopped brushing, And then I could feel her long smooth fingers rubbing and searchingunder my chin, finding the spot that was my smooth-neck scar. As she rubbed this spot, I becamevery still. It was as though she were rubbing the memory back into my skin. And then her handdropped and she began to cry, wrapping her hands around her own neck. She cried with a wailingvoice that was so sad. And then I remembered the dream with my mother's voice.I was four years old. My chin was just above the dinner table, and I could see my baby brothelsitting on Popo's lap, crying with an angry face. I could hear voices praising a steaming dark soupbrought to the table, voices murmuring politely, “Ching! Ching?"Please, eat!And then the talking stopped. My uncle rose from his chair. Everyone turned to look at thedoor, where a tall woman stood. I was the only one who spoke

foreign clothes, and short hair. My auntie quickly looked away and did not call her by name or offer her tea. An old servant hurried away with a displeased look. I tried to keep very still, but my heart felt like crickets scratching to get out of a cage. My mother must have heard, because she looked up. And when she did, I saw my own face looking back at me. Eyes that stayed wide open and saw too much. In Popo’s room my auntie protested, “Too late, too late,” as my mother approached the bed. But this did not stop my mother. “Come back, stay here,” murmured my mother to Popo. “Nuyer is here. Your daughter is back.” Popo’s eyes were open, but now her mind ran in many different directions, not staying long enough to see anything. If Popo’s mind had been clear she would have raised her two arms and flung my mother out of the room. I watched my mother, seeing her for the first time, this pretty woman with her white skin and oval face, not too round like Auntie’s or sharp like Popo’s. I saw that she had a long white neck, just like the goose that had laid me. That she seemed to float back and forth like a ghost, dipping cool cloths to lay on Popo’s bloated face. As she peered into Popo’s eyes, she clucked soft worried sounds. I watched her carefully, yet it was her voice that confused me, a familiar sound from a forgotten dream. When I returned to my room later that afternoon, she was there, standing tall. And because I remember Popo told me not to speak her name, I stood there, mute. She took my hand and led me to the settee. And then she also sat down as though we had done this every day. My mother began to loosen my braids and brush my hair with long sweeping strokes. “An-mei, you have been a good daughter?” she asked, smiling a secret look. I looked at her with my know-nothing face, but inside I was trembling. I was the girl whose belly held a colorless winter melon. “An-mei, you know who I am,” she said with a small scold in her voice. This time I did not look for fear my head would burst and my brains would dribble out of my ears. She stopped brushing. And then I could feel her long smooth fingers rubbing and searching under my chin, finding the spot that was my smooth-neck scar. As she rubbed this spot, I became very still. It was as though she were rubbing the memory back into my skin. And then her hand dropped and she began to cry, wrapping her hands around her own neck. She cried with a wailing voice that was so sad. And then I remembered the dream with my mother’s voice. I was four years old. My chin was just above the dinner table, and I could see my baby brother sitting on Popo’s lap, crying with an angry face. I could hear voices praising a steaming dark soup brought to the table, voices murmuring politely, “Ching! Ching!”—Please, eat! And then the talking stopped. My uncle rose from his chair. Everyone turned to look at the door, where a tall woman stood. I was the only one who spoke

《英文小说与电影》课程教学资源（书籍文献）The Joy Luck Club - Amy Tan