花猫教育网

新视野大学英语_新视野大学英语4读写教程课文unit 8 What Does It Really Mean to G

新视野大学英语_新视野大学英语4读写教程课文unit 8 What Does It Really Mean to G

Section A:
Slavery Gave Me Nothing to Lose
I remember the very day that I became black. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a black town. The only white people I knew passed through the town going to or coming from Orlando, Florida. The native whites rode dusty horses, and the northern tourists traveled down the sandy village road in automobiles. The town knew the Southerners and never stopped chewing sugar cane when they passed. But the Northerners were something else again. They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The bold would come outside to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village.
The front deck might seem a frightening place for the rest of the town, but it was a front row seat for me. My favorite place was on top of the gatepost. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn't mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I'd wave at them and when they returned my wave, I would say a few words of greeting. Usually the automobile or the horse paused at this, and after a strange exchange of greetings, I would probably "go a piece of the way" with them, as we say in farthest Florida, and follow them down the road a bit. If one of my family happened to come to the front of the house in time to see me, of course the conversation would be rudely broken off.
During this period, white people differed from black to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me "speak pieces" and sing and wanted to see me dance, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing these things, which seemed strange to me for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop. Only they didn't know it. The colored people gave no coins. They disapproved of any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the country — everybody's Zora.
But changes came to the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville as Zora. When I got off the riverboat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It seemed that I had suffered a huge change. I was not Zora of Eatonville any more; I was now a little black girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a permanent brown — like the best shoe polish, guaranteed not to rub nor run.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is something sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible war that made me an American instead of a slave said "On the line!" The period following the Civil War said "Get set!"; and the generation before me said "Go!" Like a foot race, I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the middle to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think, to know, that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the audience not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.
I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of that small village, Eatonville. For instance, I can sit in a restaurant with a white person. We enter chatting about any little things that we have in common and the white man would sit calmly in his seat, listening to me with interest.
At certain times I have no race, I am me. But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of mixed items propped up against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a pile of small things both valuable and worthless. Bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since decayed away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still with a little smell. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the pile it held — so much like the piles in the other bags, could they be emptied, that all might be combined and mixed in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place — who knows?

英语学习

Section A:
Slavery Gave Me Nothing to Lose
I remember the very day that I became black. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a black town. The only white people I knew passed through the town going to or coming from Orlando, Florida. The native whites rode dusty horses, and the northern tourists traveled down the sandy village road in automobiles. The town knew the Southerners and never stopped chewing sugar cane when they passed. But the Northerners were something else again. They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The bold would come outside to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village.
The front deck might seem a frightening place for the rest of the town, but it was a front row seat for me. My favorite place was on top of the gatepost. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn't mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I'd wave at them and when they returned my wave, I would say a few words of greeting. Usually the automobile or the horse paused at this, and after a strange exchange of greetings, I would probably "go a piece of the way" with them, as we say in farthest Florida, and follow them down the road a bit. If one of my family happened to come to the front of the house in time to see me, of course the conversation would be rudely broken off.
During this period, white people differed from black to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me "speak pieces" and sing and wanted to see me dance, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing these things, which seemed strange to me for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop. Only they didn't know it. The colored people gave no coins. They disapproved of any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the country — everybody's Zora.
But changes came to the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville as Zora. When I got off the riverboat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It seemed that I had suffered a huge change. I was not Zora of Eatonville any more; I was now a little black girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a permanent brown — like the best shoe polish, guaranteed not to rub nor run.
Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is something sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible war that made me an American instead of a slave said "On the line!" The period following the Civil War said "Get set!"; and the generation before me said "Go!" Like a foot race, I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the middle to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think, to know, that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the audience not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.
I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of that small village, Eatonville. For instance, I can sit in a restaurant with a white person. We enter chatting about any little things that we have in common and the white man would sit calmly in his seat, listening to me with interest.
At certain times I have no race, I am me. But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of mixed items propped up against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a pile of small things both valuable and worthless. Bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since decayed away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still with a little smell. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the pile it held — so much like the piles in the other bags, could they be emptied, that all might be combined and mixed in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place — who knows?

英语学习

Section B:
Why Are Women Afraid of Wrinkles
When I casually mentioned to a colleague that I was looking into skin cream that claimed to beat back the destruction that comes with age, her worries poured out. A month ago, she told me, she had suddenly noticed wrinkles all over her face. Fingering her beautiful but finely-lined features, she explained that, although she knew that her discovery had more to do with the shock resulting from the sudden end of a six-year relationship than early ageing, she just had to do something about it.
Giving her the painful facts concerning her chance to renew herself, I told her I thought the claims of such miracle cures were ridiculous. Despite my remarks, however, she begged to know where she could get the treatments I had mentioned. When it comes to beauty who wants to know the truth?
Our ability to believe what we want to has, in the past, made life easy for the beauty industry. Fuelled by the immense value attached to youth, it has made millions out of vacant promises of renewing faces and bodies. To give skin care scientific authority, beauty counters have now stolen a thin covering of respectability from the hospital clinic. Sales staff in white coats "diagnose" skin types on "computers" and blind customers with the science of damaged molecules and DNA repair. Providing the "drugs" for this game, the industry has created new skin therapies which, they say, don't just sit on the surface but actually interact with the cells.
Is this really just a harmless game, though? The increasingly exaggerated claims made by manufacturers about their products' ability to get rid of wrinkles have worried doctors. The advertisements declare that active ingredients stimulate cells deep in the skin's layers to divide, so replacing old cells and effectively renewing the skin.
If these claims are true, could the effects be harmful? If normal cells can be stimulated to divide, then abnormal ones could also be prompted to multiply, so causing or accelerating skin cancer. A new arrival on the anti-wrinkle front claims to be a more natural way to avoid those terrible lines. As a pill rather than a cream, Imedeen works from the inside out, providing the skin with nutritional and chemical support to encourage the body's own self-repairing process.
First developed in Scandinavia, it contains extracts of fish, marine plants, and shrimp shells, which provide a formula including proteins, minerals, and vitamins. According to a published study, visible improvements appear in the skin texture after two or three months of treatment. The skin is softer, smoother, wrinkles decrease but are not eliminated, and marks and fine brown lines disappear.
One woman admits she was doubtful until she tried Imedeen herself. Women, she believes, should take responsibility for the natural balance of their body chemistry. Careful care of the body chemistry, she says, not only improves looks but also enhances energy processes and even expands awareness and mental function. Imedeen fits this concept by providing for the skin's needs. But can shrimp shells really do the trick with wrinkles?
Offering a more scientific interpretation, Brian Newman, a British surgeon who has studied Imedeen, explains that the compound has a specific action as food is digested, preventing the destruction of essential proteins in the diet and allowing them to be absorbed in a state more easily utilized by the skin.
On the other hand, a different doctor who specializes in the study of the skin is unimpressed by the data and questions the methods used in the study. In addition, the medical journal in which the study of Imedeen is published is a "pay" journal — one in which any studies can be published for a fee. According to the doctor, any attempt to play by the medical world's rules of research has been a failure.
Such controversy is familiar ground to Brian Newman, who used a type of oil from flowers for years before it was generally accepted. In no way discouraged, he insists the most important point to establish is that Imedeen actually works.
Ultimately, however, the real issue is why we are so afraid of wrinkles in the first place. Sadly, youth and beauty have become the currency of our society, buying popularity and opportunity. The value of age and experience is denied, and women in particular feel the threat that the visible changes of ageing bring. According to one psychological expert, when men gain a little gray hair, their appeal often increases because, for them, age implies power, success, wealth, and position. But as a woman's power is still strongly perceived to be tied up with the ability to bear children, ageing demonstrates to the world her decline, her uselessness for her primary function. Wrinkles are symbolic of the decline of her ability to reproduce.
Until we appreciate the true value of age, it is difficult to do anything but panic when the signs of it emerge. While the media continues to show men of all ages alongside young, smooth-skinned women as a vision of success, women will go on investing in pots of worthless rubbish. Let's see more mature, wrinkled women in attractive, successful, happy roles and let's see men fighting to be with them.

英语学习

Section C:
What Does It Really Mean to Grow Old
In my late fifties, and then my sixties, I heard, "I can't believe you're that old. You don't look that old." At first that felt like praise. Then I became a bit uneasy. It reminded me of early pre-feminist days when I was complimented by some men for being "smarter", and "more independent" than those "other" women.
Slowly other experiences began to accumulate, reminding me of a real change in my life status.
First, I moved. And while I found easy acceptance among older people in the community, when younger people talked to me they invariably would say something like, "You remind me of my grandmother." Grandmother?! I felt like I had been given a label and my position lowered somehow.
Recently, I have, in fact, become a grandmother. I found most young friends expected me — automatically — to "be" a certain way. Many of those expectations were in accord with what I felt. Some were not. I did not instantly fall in love with my grandson. I was much more drawn to my daughter and what she was experiencing. I must admit that I am now a devoted grandmother, but being put in a particular category about that bothered me, as though all of my reactions could be known in advance and belonged to the general group "grandmother" rather than to me.
I lost some money recently through bad judgment and suddenly had the realization that I would never be able to replace it. I do not have enough time left to be able to earn that money again.
I looked in the mirror and saw lots of wrinkles. I had a hard time fitting that outward me with the me inside. I felt like the same person, but outside I looked different. I checked into a face lift, with much unease. What a piece of marketing took place in that doctor's office! He told me he would make me less strange to myself. I would look more like I felt! I became frightened by the whole process. Who was I then? This face? What I felt like inside? How come the two images were not connected? My own ageism told me that how I looked outside was ugly. But I felt the same inside, not ugly at all.
Finally, death entered my life as a direct reality. My oldest friend died of cancer three years ago. My father died two years ago after what turned out to be needless surgery. Another close friend died last month after a year of struggling with cancer. My mother is dying slowly and painfully after suffering a massive stroke. The realization hit me that I can expect this kind of personal contact with death to occur with greater and greater frequency.
Not just my age, but life itself was telling me that I was becoming an older/old woman!
Think of all the adjectives that are most disrespectful in our society. They are all part of the ageist description of old women: useless, powerless, complaining, sick, weak, conservative, rigid, helpless, unproductive, wrinkled, ugly, unattractive, and on and on.
How did this happen, this picture of old women? To understand this phenomenon we must look at our society's insistence that women are only valuable when they are attractive and useful to men. Women spend their lives accepting the idea that to be beautiful one must be young, and only beauty saves one from being discarded. Women's survival, both physical and psychological, has been linked to their ability to please men. It is small wonder that the prospect of growing old is frightening to women. By denying our ageing, we hope to escape the penalties placed upon growing old.
Old people are sent off to their own prisons. Frequently they will say they like it better. But who would not when, to be with younger people is so often to be invisible, to be treated as irrelevant, and sometimes even as disgusting.
We have systematically looked down on old women, kept them out of productive life, judged them primarily in terms of failing capacities and functions, and then found them pitiful. We have put old women in nursing "homes" with absolutely no intellectual stimulation, isolated from human warmth and contact, and then condemned them for losing their mental abilities. We have disrespected and disregarded old women, and then dismissed them as uninteresting. We have made old women invisible so that we do not have to confront our society's myths about what makes life valuable or dying painful.
Having done that, we then attribute to the process of ageing per se all the evils we see and fear about growing old. It is not ageing that is awful, nor whatever physical problems may accompany ageing. What is awful is how society treats old women and their problems. To the degree that we accept and allow such treatment we buy the ageist assumptions that permit this treatment.
What then does it really mean to grow old? For me, first of all, to be old is to be myself. No matter how society may classify me as invisible and powerless, I exist. I am a person, a sexual being, a person who struggles, for whom there are important issues to explore, new things to learn, challenges to meet, beginnings to make, risks to take, endings to think about. Even though some of my options are reduced, there are new paths ahead.

英语学习
赞 ()
分享到:更多 ()
留言与评论(共有 0 条评论)
   
验证码:

 

精彩评论:

 

© 2016 花猫教育网 | 版权 所有 / | 本站专注中小学生K12教育资源,有小学生语文,数学,英语作文,初中生英语辅导资料,课件、教案、试题、教学计划、教学总结等学习指导资料,网课视频资料 | 钓鱼 seo 发簪 UFO