It was one of those excruciatingly2) 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 sleepines I staggered3) through the dark hallway into the bathroom, hearing the truck’s engine idling4) audibly outside.

那是1964年新英格兰一个冷得叫人受不了的早晨。四天前下的一场雪已结成了冰,紧紧地贴在我卧室的窗户上。12岁的我,睡意蒙眬,跌跌撞撞地穿过昏暗的过道去上卫生间时,听见外面传来卡车引擎隆隆的空转声。

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 crunching¹ the hard snow with his giant steps. I saw his dark face hidden beneath a knit cap, the upturned coat collar, the woolen² 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.

凝视窗外,我看见了他的身影——白色的背景下一个黑影在移动,他呼出的热气把周围的空气变成了雾蒙蒙的一片。我听见他的工作靴随着他巨人般的步伐将坚硬的冰雪踩得嘎吱作响,看见他黝黑的脸藏在一顶编织帽下面,衣领竖了起来,羊毛围巾把脖子和下巴裹得严严实实。他一只手戴着手套,操纵着刮冰器在刮卡车挡风玻璃上的冰;另一只手则像刮胡须一样,将那些晶莹剔透的银须般的冰花从卡车那张饱经沧桑的“脸”上一一刷掉。

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 steering³ 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.

这就是老爸, 在35年前大萧条时期的佐治亚,他学会了一种义务和责任,这种义务和责任驱使他说干就干,从不拖泥带水。老爸,一名沉默寡言的角斗士,又一次走进了“杀机四伏”的竞技场,为一日的生计奋力搏斗。这就是老爸,世人皆睡时唯他独醒。他哧溜一下坐到方向盘前,小心翼翼地驶出自家车道,往街上开去,卡车淹没在了黎明的朦胧中。等我回到自己的房间,爬上自己的床,钻进暖洋洋的毯子时,我知道我又可以倒头大睡,安然做梦了,因为有老爸在外面迎战严寒。

Throughout the many junior-and senior-high mornings I watched my father go to work, I never told him how that vision affected⁴ 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 spoke⁵ of them, never weighed them beyond my own selfish adolescent needs.

上初中和高中那会儿,好多个早晨,我都是这样看着父亲去上班的。那幕情景让我深受触动,但我从未将自己的感触告诉过他。我只是暗自好奇,他何以能做到那一切:从未让厨房里缺过吃的;出钱供我学音乐;给汽车上保险,确保我高三能够开车上学;在圣诞树下堆满圣诞礼物;带我去波士顿买新衣服;礼拜日拽着我上教堂去做礼拜;休息日开车陪我逛大学校园;在起居室里吻我母亲,哄她开心;说着说着话就迷迷瞪瞪地在自己的休闲椅上睡着了。也许就是因为这些场景显得是那样的普通和寻常,我才从来没有提起过它们。除了琢磨自己那点年轻人自私的需求,我也从未仔细掂量过它们于我的意义何在。

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 disciple⁶ to Ivy⁷ 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.

后来上了大学,不在他身边了——只是在周末的电话里才能听到他的声音,或者在每周夹着一张十美元钞票的来信的信尾才能见到他潦草的签名——我觉得别的男人都比老爸强。那些男人在课堂上用复杂的词汇对我们谆谆教诲,为杂志撰写文章,还会解释五花八门的哲学和复杂的原理。那样的事情,老爸一件也没干过——他只念过高中,干不了。我的英雄观令我拜倒在那些唤醒了我潜在思想的常春藤名牌大学的学者脚下,令我对那些大名印在书皮上、建筑物上以及我求之若渴的钞票上的死人肃然起敬。

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, puffed⁸ up14) with grad-school grants and deluded15) with degrees and accolades16) assigned to my name.

再后来,大学的后几年,我游学去了欧洲,觉得自己的见识比老爸多了,到过的地方比老爸远了,名气比老爸大了。我浑身上下透出一股自命不凡的劲儿,因为拿了研究生院的奖学金而趾高气扬,错以为署着我名字的学位和荣誉就能证明我很能干。

Then, I entered the formidable17) arena—the job, the relationship the creditor⁹ the pressures and the indignities¹⁰ 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 awe¹¹, 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 celebrity¹² heroe the mentor¹³ 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 stereotypes¹⁴.

再后来,我进入了令人生畏的竞技场——没完没了的工作、复杂的人际关系、各种各样的债权人、方方面面的压力以及种族政治的侮辱让我应接不暇,难以招架。到了二十七八岁后,我开始盼望回到家里,跟老爸聊聊天,玩玩球,看看电视上的老西部片,喝喝啤酒,听他讲讲他童年时代在佐治亚的故事,听他那爽朗开怀的笑声。我重新认识了老爸——少了一个小男孩儿的敬畏,多了一个七尺男儿的敬重。我认识到了一条儿时难以道出的真理——老爸无时无刻不在为我着想。不像那些教授、书本、导师、大名鼎鼎的英雄们,他总是有求必应。他是我的父亲,一个将自己的一生献给了社会上一份无人领情的工作的人,而那个社会凭借着统计数据和各种成见早已将他归入无足轻重之辈。

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 overtime¹⁵ 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.

三十出头的时候,我自己也身为人父了,这时,我才对自己的父亲有了更清晰的认识。能为了给儿子一个属于他自己的房间——有着他自己的床和他自己的梦想的房间——我天不亮就起床,放弃自己的需要,忍气吞声,加班加点。我觉得我之所以能做到这些,是因为我的父亲曾为我做过这些事。

And now, at age forty-seven, when I spend precious moments with my own thirteen-year-old son, when we spend fleeting¹⁶ 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?

现在,我四十有七了,每当我跟自己13岁的儿子度过宝贵的时光,跟他一起看电影、打篮球、做礼拜或者在公路上兜风来打发那如梭的光阴时,我都在想自己在他眼里是个什么样的形象。我何时会从他那份“举足轻重的男人”名单上被清除掉?会有他理解我、首肯我并回到我身边的那一天吗?他会怎样评价我的弱点与长处,缺陷与特长,梦魇与梦想?他会以爱和敬重的名义认我这个父亲吗?

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.”

有时候,简单的课程是最难教的;有时候,最基本的道理是最难学的。我希望我的儿子有朝一日能珍惜经由我从他爷爷那儿承袭下来的所有教训和真理。而随着我儿子的一天天长大,我相信他也会以我为他确定的前进步伐来调整自己的步伐,正像我因为我父亲为我确定的前进步伐而实现了各种目标一样。等我儿子做到这一点时,或许他就会和我一样倍感欣慰,不无自豪地说:“我是我父亲的儿子。”