English Original
When my father came home, there was laughter—rollicking, rolling laughter. He was strong and handsome; his thick, black, wavy hair fell into his black, laughing eyes. When he kissed me, I pushed his bristled mustache from my tender skin. His hands, thick and squared off at the tips, smelled of the sweet horsehair at the upholstery factory. His fingernails carried the cotton lint he used to stuff sofas.
He signed his name, Benjamin, but no one called him that. I called him Daddy Ben. People who could hear called him Benny.
My father, like my mother, was deaf, so I grew up living in two worlds: our private world and the "hearing" world outside. I was on intimate terms with silence and the language of silence.
My mother was born deaf, and so, I thought, was my father. Then one day he mentioned that he had not always been deaf.
"You weren't? How did you become deaf?" my hands asked.
"I was sick, a long time. Ask Grandma," he replied.
When Grandma Lizzie came to our apartment, I rushed to her, demanding an answer. She said, "Spinal meningitis," and told how my father had been stricken with the disease when he was two. As he approached school age, his hearing diminished until there was none, not even the memory of sound.
He was a bright child, but his intelligence was locked away. Without normal speech at the age when children begin to play with syllables and sounds, my father was separated from his own wit. His other senses did become more acute with time. But he never recovered from early verbal neglect. He could not read a book page by page. The flowing language, line after line, chapter after chapter, was too difficult to sustain. At times the written word confounded him more than the lips he strained to read.
Even so, Daddy Ben was undefeated. He transformed pain into humor. "It is better to laugh at life," he'd say. "It makes easier a hard time."
I began to understand what he meant one evening when my mother gave me money to phone a message to my father at the small upholstery shop where he had found temporary work. I went to a pay phone and dialed the number.
"I have a message for Mr. Sidransky," I told the man who answered.
"I don't know any Mr. Sidransky." The man was annoyed.
"His first name is Ben. He is my father."
"Listen, girlie, I don't have time for this. I'm busy."
"He's deaf," I explained.
"Oh, you mean the Dummy. Why didn't you say that before?"
I don't remember the rest of that conversation. All I remember is the word dummy.
I had heard my parents described as deaf-and-dumb all through my childhood. I always took pains to explain that although they were deaf, they were not dumb, nor were they mute.
"Why do you let your boss call you Dummy?" I asked my father the next day.
He shrugged. "It is easier for them. They remember me."
I was enraged. "You are not a dummy. You are a smart man. Tell them your name is Benjamin."
He smiled wanly. "It is all right. I know I am not dummy, that is enough." He spoke of the men with benevolence, forbearing their disdain when they called him Dummy or too roughly poked his shoulder for attention. In a world of fools, locked in stillness, he was pleased with himself. But I was not.
Dummy. I traced the hateful word on soot-laden cars and erased it with a swipe of my hand. I wrote it in my notebook, tore out the page and crumpled the defamation into a ball.
My father saw my anger. "Don't worry," he said. "I will improve my mind every day. I will learn new words, and you, Ruth, are my teacher. You are my dictionary."
I hugged him.
From that moment, the anger and shame that had coursed through me crystallized into resolve. I was determined that no one would call my father by that name again. I read the dictionary every night, absorbing language, and taught the words to my father. He was insatiable. He and I had purpose. Our minds melded in study.
In this way, my father awakened my own thirst for language.
"I tell you," he signed, then pulled his chair closer to mine. "Language is alive, like a person, like a river; always change, always new words. Not need to speak to know language." He knew language in a way I never will. It danced from his soul.
His primary passion was clear thinking and comprehension. When I was in doubt about a concept that I was teaching him, he said, "You must ask the teacher again. Must be clear."
The sign for the word clear is revealing. The tips of the fingers of each hand are closed, forming a small circle; the two circles join as the fingers touch, and then the hands are opened wide, permitting light to enter. It is a sign of illumination.
Knowledge alone was not what my father sought. It was the process, not the product, that thrilled him. He taught me the art of questioning. If I didn't understand a teacher's response, he assumed I had asked my question wrong. "You smarter than teacher," he said. "Ask another question. Make sure teacher knows what you ask."
And so I became skilled at communication. I questioned my teachers until I understood every facet of their teaching. It made no difference if the teacher was masterful or inept; each had a gift for me. Week after week, I learned whatever was set before me in class and taught my father whatever I could.
When I couldn't answer his inquiry at the most fundamental level, I promised to search for the answer until I could satisfy his wonder. "Now I understand," he would sign.
Then one day there was a betrayal of my dreams. My father told me, "It is not important for girls to go to university. I work hard. I am tired. Now you must work, help support the family."
I looked at him, not caring, not understanding the burdens he carried. I could have shouted, "I want to go to university. I want to be somebody." But I turned without a word and ran away. I stayed at my friend Julia's until night fell.
My mother came looking for me.
"He does not understand," I said. "I want to learn. I want to be a teacher."
"We will explain all to your father," she signed. "He is sorry."
As we walked slowly down the street, my father came toward us. He signed solemnly. "Do not be angry at Ben. I love you, daughter Ruth. You will go to university. I will go with you. You will teach me."
My university years were wonderful. When I came home, my father, still demanding a questioning mind, would say, "What did you ask professor today?"
He would shake his head at all the books—in the hall, on coffee tables, by the kitchen sink.
"So many books. Too hard to read," he'd sign. "Tell me, who is the best writer in world?"
I signed an opening paragraph of Mark Twain's, word for word. He watched my hands until his concentration flagged.
"Too many words, falling everywhere, like rocks coming down mountains. You explain better."
Defeated, I dropped my eyes. Then he said with his fingers in the air, decreasing the space between his thumb and forefinger. "Next time we read thin book, I sure to understand every word." His grin was huge. He made me laugh.
One afternoon I rushed home overjoyed. "I won a prize, Mamma," I signed. "I earned a gold key for my university work; Phi Beta Kappa." I spelled each Greek letter for her.
Our eyes met in a long smile. "You worked hard many years," she signed. "I proud of you." She took my face in her hands and kissed me.
The moment my father opened the door, my mother, unable to contain her pleasure, pulled him into the living room. "Ben, I have a surprise."
"I'll take off coat, hat."
"No wait. I tell you now. Ruth has Phi Beta Kappa."
"Funny words. What are you saying, Mary?"
"They are letters of the Greek alphabet," I interjected. "It is the name of an honor society for the best students in university."
He made the connection and shouted with his harsh voice and sweeping hands. "We have good luck! Tell me again how to spell the honor-club words."
Once more I spelled the letters, and he etched them into his hand. Sitting on the sofa, he pulled me down to him and took me by the shoulders with both hands. In halting oral words he said, "Congratulations to daughter Ruth."
We laughed, and he stroked my head in blessing. "Now I'll take off my coat. Mamma, get some wine. We'll thank God and honor our daughter."
It was only then that I realized I did not teach my father. He taught me. It was he who had engaged me in the conquest of language. It was he who told me to be direct, to be watchful, to listen with my eyes and to ask with my mouth. From his silence, my father taught me the true power of speech.
中文翻译
父亲回家时，总会带来笑声——欢快、爽朗的笑声。他强壮英俊，浓密乌黑的卷发垂落在他含笑的黑眼睛上。他吻我时，我会把他硬硬的胡须从我娇嫩的皮肤上推开。他粗壮、指尖方正的手上，带着软垫家具厂里甜丝丝的马鬃味。他的指甲缝里嵌着他用来填充沙发的棉绒。
他签的名字是本杰明，但没人那么叫他。我叫他本爸爸。能听见的人叫他本尼。
我的父亲和母亲一样，都是聋人。因此，我成长在两个世界里：我们私密的世界和外面“能听见”的世界。我与寂静和寂静的语言亲密无间。
我母亲天生失聪，我以为父亲也是。后来有一天，他提到他并非一直听不见。
“你不是？那你怎么聋的？”我用双手问道。
“我病了，病了很久。问奶奶吧，”他回答。
当莉齐奶奶来我们家时，我冲到她面前要答案。她说：“脊髓膜炎。”并讲述了父亲两岁时如何患上这种病。到他快上学时，他的听力逐渐减退，直到完全消失，连声音的记忆也没有了。
他是个聪明的孩子，但他的智慧被锁住了。在孩子们开始咿呀学语的年纪，他却无法正常说话，这让他与自己的才智隔绝了。他的其他感官确实随着时间变得更加敏锐。但他从未从早期的语言忽视中恢复过来。他无法逐页阅读一本书。那流动的语言，一行行，一章章，对他来说太难持续理解了。有时，书面文字比他要费力解读的唇语更让他困惑。
即便如此，本爸爸从未被打败。他将痛苦转化为幽默。“最好笑对人生，”他常说。“这能让艰难的时刻好过些。”
一天晚上，我开始明白他的意思。母亲给我钱，让我打电话给在一家小软垫家具店打零工的父亲传个口信。我去了一个付费电话亭，拨通了号码。
“我有个口信要带给西德兰斯基先生，”我对接电话的人说。
“我不认识什么西德兰斯基先生，”那人不耐烦地说。
“他叫本。他是我父亲。”
“听着，小姑娘，我没时间跟你耗。我忙着呢。”
“他是聋人，”我解释道。
“哦，你说那个哑巴啊。怎么不早说？”
我不记得那次通话的其余内容了。我只记得“哑巴”这个词。
整个童年，我都听到人们把我的父母描述为“聋哑人”。我总是费力地解释，他们虽然聋，但并不哑，也不是不会说话。
“你为什么让你的老板叫你哑巴？”第二天我问父亲。
他耸耸肩。“对他们来说更容易。他们记得住我。”
我愤怒了。“你不是哑巴。你是个聪明人。告诉他们你叫本杰明。”
他淡淡地笑了笑。“没关系。我知道我不是哑巴，这就够了。”他带着善意谈论那些人，容忍着他们叫他哑巴或为了引起他注意而粗鲁地戳他肩膀时的轻蔑。在一个充满傻瓜的世界里，被困于寂静之中，他却对自己感到满意。但我不满意。
哑巴。 我在布满煤灰的汽车上描画这个可恨的词，然后用手一抹擦掉它。我把它写在笔记本上，撕下那页纸，把诽谤揉成一团。
父亲看到了我的愤怒。“别担心，”他说。“我会每天提升我的头脑。我会学习新词，而你，露丝，就是我的老师。你是我的词典。”
我拥抱了他。
从那一刻起，在我心中奔流的愤怒和羞耻凝结成了决心。我下定决心，绝不让任何人再用那个名字称呼我的父亲。我每晚阅读词典，吸收语言，然后把单词教给父亲。他求知若渴。我们有了目标。我们的思想在学习中融合。
就这样，父亲唤醒了我自己对语言的渴望。
“我告诉你，”他用手语说，然后把椅子拉近我的。“语言是活的，像一个人，像一条河；总是在变，总有新词。不需要说话也能懂语言。”他以一种我永远无法企及的方式理解语言。语言从他的灵魂中舞动而出。
他首要的热情是清晰的思维和理解。当我对我教他的某个概念有疑问时，他会说：“你必须再去问老师。必须弄清楚。”
“清楚”这个词的手势很有启发性。每只手的指尖并拢，形成一个小圈；两个圈在指尖相触时连接，然后双手大大张开，让光进入。这是一个启迪的手势。
父亲寻求的不仅仅是知识本身。让他兴奋的是过程，而非结果。他教会了我提问的艺术。如果我不理解老师的回答，他会认为是我问错了问题。“你比老师聪明，”他说。“再问一个问题。确保老师明白你问的是什么。”
于是我变得善于沟通。我追问老师，直到理解他们教学的每一个方面。无论老师是技艺精湛还是能力不足，这都没有区别；每个人都能给我一些东西。一周又一周，我学习课堂上布置的一切，并尽我所能教给父亲。
当我无法在最基本的层面上回答他的询问时，我承诺会寻找答案，直到满足他的好奇。“现在我明白了，”他会用手语说。
后来有一天，我的梦想遭到了背叛。父亲告诉我：“女孩子上大学不重要。我工作很辛苦。我累了。现在你必须工作，帮忙养家。”
我看着他，不在乎，也不理解他背负的重担。我本可以大喊：“我想上大学。我想成为有出息的人。”但我一言不发地转身跑开了。我在朋友朱莉娅家待到夜幕降临。
母亲来找我。
“他不理解，”我说。“我想学习。我想当老师。”
“我们会向你父亲解释一切的，”她用手语说。“他很抱歉。”
当我们慢慢走在街上时，父亲朝我们走来。他严肃地用手语说：“别生本的气。我爱你，女儿露丝。你会去上大学的。我会和你一起去。你会教我。”
我的大学时光非常美好。我回家时，父亲依然要求我保持提问的头脑，他会说：“你今天问了教授什么问题？”
他会对着所有的书摇头——走廊里的、咖啡桌上的、厨房水槽边的。
“这么多书。太难读了，”他会用手语说。“告诉我，谁是世界上最好的作家？”
我逐字逐句地用手语打出马克·吐温的一个开篇段落。他看着我的手，直到他的注意力开始涣散。
“太多词了，到处都是，像山石滚落。你解释得更好。”
我败下阵来，垂下眼睛。然后他用手指在空中比划，缩小拇指和食指之间的距离。“下次我们读薄一点的书，我肯定能看懂每个词。”他咧嘴大笑，让我也笑了起来。
一天下午，我兴高采烈地冲回家。“我得奖了，妈妈，”我用手语说。“我因为大学表现获得了一把金钥匙；是斐陶斐荣誉学会的。”我给她拼出每个希腊字母。
我们相视而笑，笑容久久不散。“你努力了很多年，”她用手语说。“我为你骄傲。”她双手捧住我的脸，吻了我。
父亲一开门，母亲就按捺不住喜悦，把他拉进客厅。“本，有个惊喜。”
“我先脱外套，摘帽子。”
“别等。我现在就告诉你。露丝进了斐陶斐。”
“奇怪的词。你在说什么，玛丽？”
“那是希腊字母，”我插嘴道。“是大学里最优秀学生的荣誉学会的名字。”
他明白了过来，用他粗哑的声音和挥舞的双手喊道：“我们真走运！再告诉我一次怎么拼那个荣誉俱乐部的词。”
我又拼了一遍字母，他把它们刻在手上。他坐在沙发上，把我拉到他身边，双手抓住我的肩膀。他用断断续续的口语说道：“祝贺女儿露丝。”
我们笑了，他祝福般地抚摸着我的头。“现在我去脱外套。妈妈，拿点酒来。我们要感谢上帝，并为我们女儿庆祝。”
直到那时，我才意识到，不是我教了父亲。是他教了我。是他引导我征服了语言。是他告诉我，要直接，要留心，用眼睛去听，用嘴巴去问。从他的寂静中，父亲教会了我言语的真正力量。