Father’s Son 父親的兒子

It was one of those excruciatingly cold New England mornings in 1964. A four-day-old snow had turned to ice as it pressed against my bedroom window. In my twelve-year-old sleepings I staggered through the dark hallway into the bathroom, hearing the truck’s engine idling audibly outside.

Peering out, I saw his figure—a dark shadow moving against the white background—his breath clouding the air when he exhaled5). I heard his work boots crunching the hard snow with his giant steps. I saw his dark face hidden beneath a knit cap, the upturned coat collar, the woolen scarf wrapped around his neck and chin. One gloved hand guided the ice scraper across the truck’s windshield; the other brushed the shavings like a crystal beard from the truck’s old weathered face.

Daddy. Moving with a quick purpose, driven by a commitment6) and a responsibility taught him thirty-five years earlier in Depression-era7) Georgia. Daddy. A silent gladiator who was stepping once more into the hostile arena8) of the day’s battle. Daddy. Awake while the rest of the world slept. And as he slid behind the steering wheel, driving carefully from the driveway onto the street, the truck was swallowed up9) by dawn’s dimness. As I returned to the warmth of my blankets—in my own bed, in my own room—I knew I could go back to sleep, to dream, because Daddy was outside facing the cold.

Throughout the many junior-and senior-high mornings I watched my father go to work, I never told him how that vision affected me. I simply wondered at his ability to do what he did: keeping the kitchen filled with food, making the payments on my music lesson covering the car insurance so I could drive during my senior year, piling the Christmas gifts beneath the tree, taking me to Boston to buy new clothe dragging me to church on Sunday driving me to visit college campuses on his day off, kissing and teasing my mother in the living room, and nodding off10) in his easy chair in the middle of a sentence. Perhaps it was because these scenes seemed so ordinary that I never spoke of them, never weighed them beyond my own selfish adolescent needs.

And then at college, away from him—when his presence became merely the voice over the phone during weekend calls or the name scribbled11) at the bottom of the weekly letter stuffed with a ten-dollar bill—I thought other men were more significant than Daddy. Those men who taught my classes in polysyllabic12) word wrote articles in journals and explained complex philosophies and theorems. Daddy never did any of that—he couldn’t with only a high school education. My hero worship made me a disciple to Ivy League scholars who ignited my dormant13) ideas and dead men whose names were printed on book cover buildings and the currency I hungered to possess.

Then, as I traveled to Europe in my later college year I realized I had seen more, had traveled farther and had achieved greater distinctions than Daddy ever had. I was filled with a sense of self-importance, puffed up14) with grad-school grants and deluded15) with degrees and accolades16) assigned to my name.

Then, I entered the formidable17) arena—the job, the relationship the creditor the pressures and the indignities of racial politics. As I reached my late twentie I looked forward to returning home, talking with Daddy, sharing a ball game, watching an old Western on television, drinking a beer, listening to a story about his childhood days in Georgia and hearing his warm, fulfilling laughter. I rediscovered Daddy again—not as a boy in awe, but with respect as a man. And I realized a truth that I could not articulate18) as a child—Daddy was always there for me. Unlike the professor the book the celebrity heroe the mentor he was always there. He was my father, a man who committed himself to a thankless job in a society that had written him off19) with statistics and stereotypes.

When I reached my early thirtie when I became a father myself, I saw my own father with greater clarity. As I awoke in the early morning hour compromised my want dealt with insults and worked overtime in order to give my son his own room—with his own bed and his own dreams—I realized I was able to do those things because my father had done them for me.

And now, at age forty-seven, when I spend precious moments with my own thirteen-year-old son, when we spend fleeting moments together at a movie, on a basketball court, in church or on the highway, I wonder what he thinks of me. At what point will I slip away from his world of important men, and will there be a point when he’ll return to me with a nod of understanding? How will he measure my weaknesses and strength my flaws and distinction my nightmares and dreams? Will he claim me in the name of love and respect?

Sometimes the simple lessons are the most difficult to teach. Sometimes the most essential truths are the most difficult to learn. I hope my son will one day cherish all the lessons and truths that have flowed to him, through me, from his grandfather. And as my son grows older, I believe that he, too, will measure his steps by the strides20) I have made for him, just as I have achieved my goals because of the strides my father has made for me. When my son does thi perhaps he will feel the same pride and fulfillment that I do when I say, “I am my father’s son.”
　　那是1964年新英格蘭一個冷得叫人受不了的早晨。四天前下的一場雪已結成了冰,緊緊地貼在我臥室的窗戶上。12歲的我,睡意蒙眬,跌跌撞撞地穿過昏暗的過道去上衛(wèi)生間時,聽見外面?zhèn)鱽砜ㄜ囈媛÷〉目辙D聲。

　　凝視窗外,我看見了他的身影——白色的背景下一個黑影在移動,他呼出的熱氣把周圍的空氣變成了霧蒙蒙的一片。我聽見他的工作靴隨著他巨人般的步伐將堅硬的冰雪踩得嘎吱作響,看見他黝黑的臉藏在一頂編織帽下面,衣領豎了起來,羊毛圍巾把脖子和下巴裹得嚴嚴實實。他一只手戴著手套,操縱著刮冰器在刮卡車擋風玻璃上的冰;另一只手則像刮胡須一樣,將那些晶瑩剔透的銀須般的冰花從卡車那張飽經(jīng)滄桑的“臉”上一一刷掉。

　　這就是老爸, 在35年前大蕭條時期的佐治亞,他學會了一種義務和責任,這種義務和責任驅使他說干就干,從不拖泥帶水。老爸,一名沉默寡言的角斗士,又一次走進了“殺機四伏”的競技場,為一日的生計奮力搏斗。這就是老爸,世人皆睡時唯他獨醒。他哧溜一下坐到方向盤前,小心翼翼地駛出自家車道,往街上開去,卡車淹沒在了黎明的朦朧中。等我回到自己的房間,爬上自己的床,鉆進暖洋洋的毯子時,我知道我又可以倒頭大睡,安然做夢了,因為有老爸在外面迎戰(zhàn)嚴寒。

　　上初中和高中那會兒,好多個早晨,我都是這樣看著父親去上班的。那幕情景讓我深受觸動,但我從未將自己的感觸告訴過他。我只是暗自好奇,他何以能做到那一切:從未讓廚房里缺過吃的;出錢供我學音樂;給汽車上保險,確保我高三能夠開車上學;在圣誕樹下堆滿圣誕禮物;帶我去波士頓買新衣服;禮拜日拽著我上教堂去做禮拜;休息日開車陪我逛大學校園;在起居室里吻我母親,哄她開心;說著說著話就迷迷瞪瞪地在自己的休閑椅上睡著了。也許就是因為這些場景顯得是那樣的普通和尋常,我才從來沒有提起過它們。除了琢磨自己那點年輕人自私的需求,我也從未仔細掂量過它們于我的意義何在。

　　后來上了大學,不在他身邊了——只是在周末的電話里才能聽到他的聲音,或者在每周夾著一張十美元鈔票的來信的信尾才能見到他潦草的簽名——我覺得別的男人都比老爸強。那些男人在課堂上用復雜的詞匯對我們諄諄教誨,為雜志撰寫文章,還會解釋五花八門的哲學和復雜的原理。那樣的事情,老爸一件也沒干過——他只念過高中,干不了。我的英雄觀令我拜倒在那些喚醒了我潛在思想的常春藤名牌大學的學者腳下,令我對那些大名印在書皮上、建筑物上以及我求之若渴的鈔票上的死人肅然起敬。

　　再后來,大學的后幾年,我游學去了歐洲,覺得自己的見識比老爸多了,到過的地方比老爸遠了,名氣比老爸大了。我渾身上下透出一股自命不凡的勁兒,因為拿了研究生院的獎學金而趾高氣揚,錯以為署著我名字的學位和榮譽就能證明我很能干。

　　再后來,我進入了令人生畏的競技場——沒完沒了的工作、復雜的人際關系、各種各樣的債權人、方方面面的壓力以及種族政治的侮辱讓我應接不暇,難以招架。到了二十七八歲后,我開始盼望回到家里,跟老爸聊聊天,玩玩球,看看電視上的老西部片,喝喝啤酒,聽他講講他童年時代在佐治亞的故事,聽他那爽朗開懷的笑聲。我重新認識了老爸——少了一個小男孩兒的敬畏,多了一個七尺男兒的敬重。我認識到了一條兒時難以道出的真理——老爸無時無刻不在為我著想。不像那些教授、書本、導師、大名鼎鼎的英雄們,他總是有求必應。他是我的父親,一個將自己的一生獻給了社會上一份無人領情的工作的人,而那個社會憑借著統(tǒng)計數(shù)據(jù)和各種成見早已將他歸入無足輕重之輩。

　　三十出頭的時候,我自己也身為人父了,這時,我才對自己的父親有了更清晰的認識。能為了給兒子一個屬于他自己的房間——有著他自己的床和他自己的夢想的房間——我天不亮就起床,放棄自己的需要,忍氣吞聲,加班加點。我覺得我之所以能做到這些,是因為我的父親曾為我做過這些事。

　　現(xiàn)在,我四十有七了,每當我跟自己13歲的兒子度過寶貴的時光,跟他一起看電影、打籃球、做禮拜或者在公路上兜風來打發(fā)那如梭的光陰時,我都在想自己在他眼里是個什么樣的形象。我何時會從他那份“舉足輕重的男人”名單上被清除掉?會有他理解我、首肯我并回到我身邊的那一天嗎?他會怎樣評價我的弱點與長處,缺陷與特長,夢魘與夢想?他會以愛和敬重的名義認我這個父親嗎?

　　有時候,簡單的課程是最難教的;有時候,最基本的道理是最難學的。我希望我的兒子有朝一日能珍惜經(jīng)由我從他爺爺那兒承襲下來的所有教訓和真理。而隨著我兒子的一天天長大,我相信他也會以我為他確定的前進步伐來調整自己的步伐,正像我因為我父親為我確定的前進步伐而實現(xiàn)了各種目標一樣。等我兒子做到這一點時,或許他就會和我一樣倍感欣慰,不無自豪地說:“我是我父親的兒子。”