老妈玩推特以后

By+Mya+Guarnieri+译/程天淇

When my mom started following me on Twitter, I felt a bit like a teenager who couldnt get any privacy. After I tweeted a friend to say that his brother was unusually handsome, she chimed in, writing, “Oh, he is cute.” I deleted the tweet and kept it strictly professional after that.

But the change she made recently to her profile was even more jarring. She added one word, putting it right at the beginning of her self-description: artist.

I knew that my mom had gone to art school when she was young. I also knew that shed dropped out. A single watercolor was all that remained of her life as a painter. It showed a woman with long, flowing hair standing in the rain, trying, unsuccessfully, to hold petals in the cupped palms of her hands. The picture was hung in our study in a plain, silver frame.

Id always admired the piece. But Id viewed it as the youthful work of a dilettante, of someone who liked going to galleries and museums but who wasnt a true artist.

My first response to my mothers update was guilt. What else had I missed about my mother? I studied her tweets. And then another surprise: I do love Savannah.

My whole childhood in Gainesville, Florida, I listened to her wax poetic about “the city”—her native New York. “I should have never left the city,” she said, as we puttered along in our battered, blue Ford Pinto.

Sitting at my computer in Israel, I wondered when Mom had embraced the South. I wondered if wed be closer if I didnt live half way around the world. I tried to remember the last time wed asked each other questions that went beyond the superficial details of our lives.

Thered been hints that we didnt know each other very well anymore. When Mom came to visit me in Israel in 2008, she brought me a pink sweater. I do not wear pink under any circumstances.

This summer, when I visited the States, I made a confession to my mom: Yes, I go out for a jog once in a while, but I dont enjoy it. Mother-daughter runs were the core of our relationship during my teenage years. She didnt take the news well—she continued to protest. “But you told me once you wished you hadnt quit...” she said, on Skype.

So I e-mailed my mom, asking her about the update to her Twitter profile. I worried that this admission of how little I knew about her life would hurt her feelings. But I asked myself what would trouble her more—that I didnt know? Or that I didnt ask? I hit “send”.

Mom is usually a little slow to respond. But, this time, I got a reply the same day.

“Ive been feeling very frustrated creatively for quite some time, since I no longer do design for a living...Ive been searching for a creative outlet for a few years. And Ive been quite interested in rug hooking. I attend a class once a week. Its mostly older women. I enjoy just sitting there hooking while listening to them chit-chat.”

This didnt jibe with the image I had of my mom. Shed been a New Yorker—impatient, walk fast, talk fast. Who was this woman who sat quietly, hooking rugs, listening to the ladies around her? I struggled to picture it.

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She went on, explaining that her new hobby had led her to some realizations of her own. Mom had had a strained relationship with her stepmother, who passed away recently. When shed gone to New York to console my grandfather, guess what Mom noticed on their shelves? Books on rug hooking. Theyd had more in common than theyd known.

“You know, when I was young, I kept these little notebooks. I wrote everything down. I wanted to be a writer, too. Like you,” Mom added.

Our pictures of each other need updating. But, I realize, we know each others core, some essence that stands still, unmoved by time. Yes, the adult me cant stand pink. But I always wanted to be a writer.

I tapped out a quick e-mail asking Mom, “Whats all this about loving Savannah? What about New York? Do you still want to move back to the city someday?”

当妈妈开始在推特上“关注”我时，我感觉自己变得有点儿像十几岁的孩子，一点隐私都没有了。有一次，我给一个朋友发了一条推文，说他的哥哥真是帅呆了，之后妈妈便“插话”进来，写道：“哇，他真的很可爱。”于是我删掉了这条推文，从此在推特上只谈正事。

最近妈妈对自己的个人信息作了更改。这么一改，我更感到惊讶了。就在自我描述的开头，她加了一个词：艺术家。

我知道妈妈年轻的时候上过艺术学校。我还知道她没毕业就辍学了。绘画生涯留给她的所有念想，就只有一幅水彩画。画上，一位长发飘飘的女子站在雨中，徒劳地试图用双手接住片片花瓣。画就挂在我们家的书房里，镶了一个朴素的银色画框。

我一直很欣赏这幅画。但我也一直认为这只是业余艺术爱好者的早期作品罢了。这些人喜欢逛美术馆、博物馆，但并不是真正的艺术家。

看到妈妈的更新，我的第一反应是内疚。关于妈妈的生活，我还错过了别的什么吗？我仔细浏览了她的推文。然后，又一条推文让我很惊讶：我真的很爱萨凡纳。

我的童年是在佛罗里达州的盖恩斯维尔度过的。整个童年岁月里我都在听她满怀诗意地描述“那个城市”——她的家乡纽约。“我压根就不该离开那个城市。”每次当我们坐着家里那辆破旧的蓝色福特平托车去闲逛时，她总会这么说。

如今，身在以色列的我，坐在电脑前，很好奇妈妈从什么时候开始从心底接受了南方的生活。我想知道如果我们不是像现在这样隔着半个地球，彼此是不是会更亲近一些。我努力回忆，除了谈论无关紧要的生活琐事，我们上一次询问彼此“有深度”的问题是什么时候的事了？

其实，一直都有迹象表明我们母女俩不再了解彼此。2008年，妈妈来以色列看我，她给我带了一件粉红色的毛衣。我不穿粉红色的衣服，任何情况下都不穿。

今年夏天，我回了一趟美国。我向妈妈坦白：没错，我是偶尔出去慢跑，但我并不喜欢这项运动。在我十几岁的时候，母女一起跑步是维系我们关系的核心纽带。听说我不喜欢跑步，妈妈有点难以接受。她在Skype上继续向我抗议：“但你曾经跟我说过，你真希望自己当时没有退出……”

于是我给妈妈写了封电邮，问她推特上个人信息更新的事情。我有点担心，像这样承认我对她的生活知之甚少，会不会伤害她的感情。但我又扪心自问，究竟哪一样会让她更烦恼：是我对她的生活一无所知，还是连问都不问？我点了“发送”。

妈妈的回复通常都有一点滞后。不过这一次，我当天就收到了她的回信。

“自从不再做设计工作以来，我一直都很沮丧，觉得自己不再有创造力……这几年，我一直在寻找一个可以发挥自己创意的途径。最近，我喜欢上了手工地毯钩编。我上了一个手工地毯钩编班，一周一次课。班里大部分是年纪较大的女性。我很喜欢坐在那儿，一边钩地毯，一边听她们闲唠家常。”

这完全不是我心目中妈妈的样子。她之前一直是个典型的纽约人——没什么耐心，走路风风火火，说话语速很快。现在，这个安静地坐在那里一边钩地毯，一边听身边的妇人们闲聊的女人是谁？我努力在脑海中勾勒那幅画面。

她继续向我解释说，她的这个新爱好也让她对自己有了一些新的认识。妈妈以前和她的继母关系比较紧张。她继母最近去世了，妈妈去了趟纽约，去安慰我的外祖父。猜猜妈妈在他们家的书架上看到了什么？关于地毯钩编的书。其实，她俩之间有很多共同点，只是她们不知道而已。

“你知道吗？我年轻的时候，有好多小笔记本。我把什么都记在本子上。我那时也想成为一名作家，和你一样。”妈妈又说。

是的，我们对彼此的了解需要不断更新。但我也意识到，我们了解彼此的本质——某种岿然伫立于心中的最根本的东西，它不会因时间的流逝而动摇。是的，长大后的我不能忍受粉红色。但是，我一直想成为一名作家。

我立刻敲了一封电邮给妈妈，问她：“你说爱萨凡纳是怎么回事？那纽约呢？你还希望有一天能搬回去吗？”

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