那些年，父亲教我的那些事

2017-06-01ByJoannaNovak

新东方英语 2017年6期

By+Joanna+Novak

對于有女儿的父亲来说，女儿永远是自己的掌上明珠，是自己终其一生拼尽全力都要守护的公主。有的父亲对女儿极尽宠溺、呵护，真的将女儿当作公主对待;但也有一些父亲会用自己独特的方式去教导女儿，向女儿传授自己的生活智慧，将女儿培养成一个坚强、独立的人。

For the past few years， Ive had a tumultuous1） relationship with Facebook. A few days ago， I was reminded why.

I was at a campus fitness center， on a spinning bike， pedaling my way through a 45-minute routine. Despite the general flailing2） quality of my workout， I sweated， got breathless， and achieved a mental state of honed motivation. Maybe it was the inspirational poster taped to the otherwise-blank wall my bike faced： A mans long， brown forearm palms a ruddy basketball. Superimposed over the image are the words “Winners never quit and quitters never win.”

We have Vince Lombardi3） to thank for this kick-in-the-pants4） of a sentence—and as I slowed my pedaling， I felt like Id already won. So it wasnt QUITTING when I looked at my phone and checked Facebook—thats what I told myself. What was quitting was me abandoning the bike as I started to read the post of an acquaintance， a woman who had that day lost her dad.

“I didnt expect to have such a short time with him，” the woman admitted. News like this always wrecks me， but this womans loss hit me more personally： Her father and mine share the same first name. Id rather not mention that name. After all， one of the reasons Ive long been freaked out about Facebook is because I was raised—by my parents， but especially by my dad—to be a private person.

How does THAT work for a writer？ Not super well. And yet， surely Vince Lombardi has applicable wisdom： “The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have.” Ive been fortunate enough to develop the confidence to believe that what I have is my mind and my voice， and for that I need to thank my dad.

Hes alive and well， I should add， but hey—theres a fair chance he might not read this. Im pretty sure a part of him still wishes Id done something involving math. I have a solid suspicion that he only finds my writing when my mom shows it to him—and thats okay.

When I was a kid， I saw other dads. They were everywhere， wearing Hawaiian shirts and mustaches， carrying wallets and drinking beers. On television， they gave stumbling advice or flaunted5） their comic ineptitude at the flames of the charcoal grill. Sitcom dads got teased by wives and taunted6） by children until the moment of crisis， and fatherly advice was proffered like Bactine7） for a skinned knee. It hurts but its good.

The dads I met in real life wore shirts and mustaches， too， but they also wore red vests and headdresses8）. My dad was one of them. For ten years， he and I participated in a program called Indian Princesses. We went on campouts where we practiced archery， paddled aluminum canoes， and climbed rock towers with names like Mount Wood. We had nicknames， too， like “Singing Bird” and “Screaming Eagle.” That was me and my dad， the quietest members of the “Arapaho9） tribe.”

To tell you the truth， I envied the other girls with their jouncy10） dads. The other Arapaho dads were outgoing and funny. I envied girls with braggy dads who boasted of their daughters accuracy at the rifle range; girls with lenient11） dads， who let their daughters fork tunnels through mess hall mashed potatoes.

Im not sure when the envying wore off， but one year it did， like a puddle12） on hot asphalt13）， gone in an instant. Instead of wanting a dad who treated me like a princess， I became grateful for the way my father held me to a higher standard.

Thats what it felt like， anyhow， when it was just the two of us in a canoe， paddling down the Rock River. Rowing is hard， and its especially hard when youre a twelve-year-old girl who cant even do a push-up. Other canoes ferried groups of four： Two dads and two daughters so the Princesses wouldnt have to do the grunt work. In our vessel， it was just Screaming Eagle and me.

My friends waved as they passed us by. I could hear them singing. My hands were already blistering14）; they smarted15） when I repositioned them on the oars. But even though we were perpetually getting lodged16） in rocks， the prow17） of our canoe smacking18） into sand and silt19）， even though our journey down the river took twice the time of the other Arapahos and sometimes we heard nothing but the sound of our paddles slapping the water， an invisible fish leaping， my dad and I were steering that boat together， fueled by the cans of Diet Soda hed stashed20） in the pockets of his windbreaker.

Winners never quit and quitters never win： My dad taught me there are so many ways to win every day. Winning is a personal matrix， the little choices that add up to character. Of course winning is reaching the top of Mount Wood before anyone else， but winning is also dealing with wet dock shoes when your daughter cant get the hang of21） placing just the blade—and not the oars shaft—in the water. Winning is being together in the canoe.

Winning， my father taught me， is using one plate instead of two， is drinking the mornings cold coffee instead of buying a Starbucks in the middle of the afternoon. Winning isnt not procrastinating22）—winning is staying up all night when you have a project or a report due the next day， when you have a deadline， when you have the stamina23） to think a little harder. Winning， my dad taught me， is thinking， thinking not only in an intellectual context， but thinking about the person you want to be in this world.

There are all kinds of facts I could tell you about my father， but none of those would begin to explain why I feel closest to him in my family. He may know the least about me： I would be ashamed， for instance， if he knew how much money Id spent on clothes， purses， even books—after all， I learned as a teenager， CDs were a waste. “What are you going to do with those？” my dad would ask me when I filled an under-the-bed plastic storage container with music. I was incredulous then—and incredulous again， last year， when I returned to my parents house and dumped all those CDs at Goodwill24）.

He doesnt know my darkest secrets and， on the surface， we have so little in common. He likes ribs; I like tuna tartare. He likes “cocoa mocho frappuccinos”; I like espresso and water. He likes his half-acre of lawn; I like city blocks. And yet when we talk on the phone， we can spend an hour comparing our dogs， our weather， and our jobs， and I marvel that two people can feel so close.

What， then， is that space between the rivers bottom and the froth the canoe leaves in its wake on the surface？ If neither our secrets nor our affinities bind me and my father， what does？ Somehow， that mysterious something seems bigger， and though Im not a math person like my dad， Im certain the middle darkness of a river encompasses its greatest area.

Fathers Day is coming and I cant not think about how lucky I am to have the Dad I do. I want to honor our relationship—as quiet and indefinable as it might be—while hes around to hear it. Yes， Im thankful for his wisdom and quirks， grateful for everything hes taught me about the world. But Im also glad for everything he hasnt taught me. He hasnt taught me to be dependent on men; he hasnt taught me to see myself as an enemy or a princess—in fact， by seeing me as a person with a mind and a heart rather than as a woman， hes taught me to look past some of the most biological parts of myself.

Hes the sort of understated person who cant be summed up in a Lombardi-ism. Hes not a coach or a champ， a jock25） or geek. Hes the quiet， goofy， introspective， dog-loving man who taught me to guard myself and my privacy， to honor my thoughts—and the man who grants me the courage to give all that away.

過去几年中，我和脸书的关系时好时坏。几天前，我意识到了其中的原因。

我当时在一个校园健身中心里，骑在一辆动感单车上，正在进行一项时长45分钟的例行训练。虽然我骑车骑得手忙脚乱，却还是满身大汗，气喘吁吁，达到了一种斗志勃发的精神状态。或许这要多谢我对面的墙上不是空白一片，而是贴了张励志海报：一位男性用长长的棕色小臂揽着一只红棕色的篮球。图上写着“成功者从不半途而废，半途而废的人永远不会成功”。

这种当头棒喝型的警句要归功于文斯·隆巴迪。而当我逐渐放慢蹬车速度，我感觉自己已经算是成功了。所以当我掏出手机看脸书时，并不算是半途而废——我这么安慰自己。真正的半途而废要从我停下单车训练，开始阅读一位女性朋友的帖子开始。发帖那天，她的父亲离世了。

“没想到我和他共处的时间会这么短。”她承认道。这种事情总是让我觉得很难过，但是这位女性朋友痛失亲人的经历尤其让我感同身受：她的父亲和我的父亲同名。我在此就不提这个名字了。毕竟，长久以来，脸书让我觉得不安的原因之一就是，我从小就被教育——被我的父母，尤其是我的父親教育——要成为一个珍视隐私的人。

一个作家能够做到这一点吗？没办法做得特别好。但是，文斯·隆巴迪自然也有应景的名言：“衡量我们是什么样的人，要看我们利用自己所拥有的东西都做了什么。”我很幸运地建立起自信心，自认我所拥有的是我的头脑和我的声音，而这份自信的获得要归功于我的父亲。

必须要加一句，我的父亲尚在人世，身体安康，但是，很有可能，他不会读到本篇文章。我很确信他还是有些希望我能在数学方面有所作为。我强烈怀疑只有当我母亲把我的文章拿给他看时，他才会发现我写的文章——但我并不介意。

在我小时候，我观察过别人的父亲。他们随处可见，身着夏威夷花衬衫，留着八字胡，带着皮夹，喝着啤酒。在电视上，他们拙嘴笨舌地提出建议，或者在碳烤架的火焰旁洋洋得意地展示他们令人忍俊不禁的笨拙姿态。情景喜剧里的爸爸们平日里被妻子揶揄，被子女嘲笑，但一到危机时刻，却总能提出慈父的建议，就像为擦破皮的膝盖喷急救喷雾一样。疼是疼，但效果立竿见影。

我在真实生活中遇见的父亲们也有穿衬衫、留八字胡的时候，但是他们也有穿红色马甲、戴印第安头饰的时候。我父亲就是其中一员。在长达十年的时间里，他和我参加了一个叫“印第安公主”的项目。我们外出露营，在那里练习射箭，划铝制独木舟，爬名为“木头峰”的岩石山。我们还有外号呢，比如“鸣鸟”和“啸鹰”，分别指我和我父亲——整个“阿拉帕霍部落”里最安静的两个成员。

说实话，我羡慕过其他的女孩子，因为她们的父亲更活跃。“阿拉帕霍部落”里其他的父亲外向又有趣。我羡慕那些有个会夸夸其谈的父亲的女孩，她们的父亲会在射击场炫耀自己的女儿射得有多准;我羡慕那些有个更宽容的父亲的女孩，她们的父亲会允许自己的女儿用叉子在食堂供应的土豆泥里划来划去。

我不确定这种羡慕是何时消失的，但是有一年，它不见了，像是炙热柏油路上的一汪水一样，突然就消失了。我不再想要一个把我当公主对待的父亲，而是开始感激我的父亲以更高的标准要求我。

至少，在我们要划桨沿洛克河漂流而下，而独木舟上就只有我们两人时，我是这么感觉的。划船很难，对于一个连俯卧撑都做不起来的12岁小女孩而言尤为如此。其他的独木舟上有四个人：两个爸爸和两个女儿，这样一来，小公主们就不用干这枯燥无味的苦活儿了。而在我们船上，就只有“啸鹰”和我。

我的朋友们在行经我们身边时会冲我挥手。我能听见他们在唱歌。我的手上已经起了水泡;当我换个姿势握桨时，就觉得水泡生疼。虽然我们不断地被卡在岩石间，虽然我们独木舟的船头会陷进沙子和淤泥里，虽然比起其他“阿拉帕霍部落”的成员，我们要花两倍的时间才能完成顺流而下的行程，而且有时候我们周围静得只能听见自己的划桨声，还有鱼儿在我们看不见的地方跃出水面的声音，但是，父亲和我还是齐心协力地驾船前行，喝着他塞在防风夹克口袋里的罐装无糖苏打汽水来补充能量。

成功者从不半途而废，半途而废的人永远不会成功：我的父亲教导我，有很多种方法可以让我在每一天都获得成功。成功是一个因人而异的矩阵，每一个小小的选择会积累成一个人的品性。在所有人之前抵达木头峰的峰顶当然算是成功，不过就算你的女儿完全搞不懂是要把桨叶而非桨柄放进水里，能穿着打湿的船鞋坚持下来也是成功。成功就是一起在独木舟里划完整个旅程。

我的父亲教导我，所谓成功，就是能用一个盘子的时候不要浪费用两个;是要把早上剩的冷咖啡喝掉，而不要在下午三四点时去星巴克再买咖啡。成功不是战胜拖延症——成功是当你第二天有一个项目或一篇报告要完成时，当你有一个截止日期要赶时，当你有耐力再仔细想想时，就去熬个通宵。我的父亲教导我，所谓成功，就是去思考，不仅是智力层面的思考，还要想想看你想要在这个世界上成为怎样的人。

关于我的父亲，我有各种各样的事情可以讲，但这些事情都解释不了为什么在整个家庭中我与他最亲近。他可能对我的事知道得最少：如果他知道我在衣服、钱包甚至书籍上花了多少钱的话，我可能会羞愧难当——毕竟，当我还是个青少年时，我从他那了解到，买CD是一种浪费。“你买这些打算怎么处理呢？”当我在床底下的塑料收纳盒里装满了音乐光碟，我父亲这样问道。我当时觉得他问了一个荒唐的问题——直到去年我回到爸妈家，把所有的CD都送去旧货商店，才发觉是自己做了荒唐的事。

父亲对我最深处的秘密一无所知，而且在表面上看来，我们的相同点少之又少。他喜欢肋排，而我喜欢鲔鱼塔塔。他喜欢可可摩卡法布奇诺，而我喜欢蒸馏咖啡和水。他喜欢他的那半亩草坪，而我喜欢城市街区。但是，当我们在电话里聊天的时候，我们却可以花一个小时比较各自的狗、各自的天气和各自的工作，我惊叹于两个人可以感觉如此亲近。

那么，在河流底部和河面上独木舟划过留下的泡沫之间，到底有着什么？如果我和父亲之间既不靠秘密，也不靠喜好联系在一起，那靠的是什么呢？不知为何，这种神秘的东西似乎变大了，虽然我不像父亲那样精通数学，但我确定河底与河面之间的混沌区域包含河流最大的那部分。

父亲节就要到了，我为有这样的父亲而倍感幸运。我想要趁着父亲还能听到，赞扬一下我们之间的关系——虽然我们的关系可能静默无言，又难以言表。是的，我感谢他的智慧和古怪，感激他教会我有关这个世界的一切。但是我也感激他没有教给我的事情。他没有教我要依靠男人;他没有教我把自己看成自己的敌人或是一位公主。事实上，他把我看作一个有头脑也有心灵的人，而不仅仅是一个女人，这让我学会不受大部分生理特性的限制。

他是那种低调的人，没办法用隆巴迪式的格言所概括。他不是教练，也不是冠军，不是壮汉，也不是呆子。他是个话不多、傻里傻气、内向又爱狗的男人，他教会我要保护我自己和我的隐私，要尊重自己的想法——是他给了我勇气，去把这些想法都表达出来。

1. tumultuous [tju??m?lt???s] adj. 動乱的，

杂乱的

2. flail [fle?l] vi. （四肢）有力地挥动

3. Vince Lombardi：文斯·隆巴迪（1913～1970），美国最成功、最受尊敬的橄榄球教练之一

4. kick-in-the-pants：（出乎意料的）责备，口头指责批评（旨在使他人有所醒悟，改进言行）

5. flaunt [fl??nt] vt. 炫耀，夸耀

6. taunt [t??nt] vt. 嘲笑

7. Bactine：拜尔公司出产的伤口急救喷雾剂

8. 此处指参加“印第安公主”项目时所穿的美式印第安马甲和所佩戴的印第安头饰。

9. Arapaho：阿拉帕霍人，北美印第安人的一族

10. jouncy [?d?a?nsi] adj. 摇晃的