Girl at Dawn
Every great era arrives quietly.
–Sanjian Laoye
A daughter is a quilted coat her mother wears in winter.
–Chinese saying
I am no bird, and no net ensnares me.
–Jane Eyre
“每一个伟大的时代都是悄悄降临的。”--三剑老爷
“女儿是母亲在冬天穿的棉袄。 --中国俗话
“我不是一只小鸟，没有网子可以把我笼住。“ ---简爱
Chapter ONE (1)
SCARED OF THE AMERICAN
SLAPPING FOURTH’S FACE
I stand in the narrow hallway, ready to electrocute my hair. VeVe puts the iron comb on the rack by the door just so I won’t leave the house without having straightened my hair. I pick up the cord of the iron comb and plug it into the socket. Randomly grabbing a strand of my hair and pulling it until it hurts, I sink the teeth of the comb—so hot it gives off a metallic smell—into the curls. Unhesitatingly I move the comb down the length of my hair, all the way to my back. In the power of the 220 volt electricity, the curls give in and slowly unfurl. Then another strand of hair. Every single curl must all be electrocuted, until there’s no evidence I’ve had curls at all. Every now and then, the hot comb gets stuck and the hair is toasted brown and instantly spirals into tight circles, like a wounded snake curls itself in. This, I cut off entirely with scissors. At such times, I imagine a real executioner and wonder if he experiences the same mixed feelings of vengeance, pity, regret, and shame that I feel when he ends the life of the condemned in the electric chair.
第一章 （1）
害怕那个美国人
扇四儿一个耳光
In the mirror next to the rack on the wall, I watch myself transform. Between curly and straight hair, I split into two different persons. Sometimes, one is the disguise of the other; sometimes, one is disgusted by the other; and still sometimes, one is the other’s protector. Other times, they are indifferent to each other. I don’t know which one I prefer. What’s worse is that I don’t know which one is the real me, or closer to who I am. Worse still, I’m not even sure if they are me at all.
No doubt, however, the curls are mine, as I was born with them, which is unusual for a Chinese. It is my bad luck, VeVe tells me. My other feature unusual for a Chinese are my eyes. Normally big and dark eyes are considered pretty, but mine are lodged in their sockets so deeply that they are half hidden under my eyebrows. VeVe says that they make her think of two bottomless water wells—she doesn’t say whether she likes the wells or not. SanNe tells me that my eyes look just like those black coal balls piled up outside her house in winter.
在架子旁边的镜子里，我看着自己转换。在鬈发和直发中间，我被劈成了两个不同的人。有时，一个是另一个的伪装；有时一个会鄙视另一个；还有时一个是另一个的保护者； 也有时候这两个会彼此漠然。 我不知道哪一个是我， 也不知道我更倾向于哪一个，甚至连是不是真正的我都不知道。不过， 头发里的圈是我的， 生来就有。微微说这是我的不幸。另一个不幸是我的眼睛， 深深的陷进眼窝里， 躲藏在黑眉毛下面。 微微说那是两个见不到底的水井。院子里的三奶说我的又黑又大的眼睛远一点看去像两个黑煤球。
All that to say I look too much like a Hui. VeVe started to straighten my hair when I was a baby. “If your hair is straight, no one will think you are a Hui,” she always says. And I believe her—nothing could be worse than being considered Hui.
The Hui Muslims live on the city’s west side in rundown, low-roofed bungalows with white-washed exteriors forever smeared with graffiti. They typically have curly hair, with big noses and deep-set eyes. Although they speak Chinese, they look so different that they might as well be foreigners. Most of them make a living by running small family businesses, such as grocery stores and craft shops. Their children, in shabby clothes, often dirty-faced, sell roasted peanuts or watermelon seeds on the street, especially on a stone bridge in their living quarters. “Roasted peanuts for ten cents!”
I believe that my Hui looks are the reason that VeVe never praises my appearance. No matter how other people say I’m “pretty” and “exotic” “like fresh water lilies,” VeVe’s words are what matters. She herself is a beauty known to the neighborhood and beyond. People on the streets do double takes to look at her. She has long, upward-slanted “phoenix eyes” and willow-leaf eyebrows. Her nose and mouth are well-defined and delicate. She is a walking version of the noble beauties in the Chinese gong-bi paintings. The only features I share with her are fair skin and the watermelon-shape of our faces.
我的不幸在于我长得像个回民。 在我很小时， 微微就开始想各种办法掩藏我的圈发。 “你的头发直了就没人以为你是回民了。”好像被认为是回民是一件最不幸的事。
这里的回民集中住在市里一个比较简陋的地带。矮矮的，长年失修的房子。外面的白墙上总有乱涂，乱画着什么东西。有些人也称他们穆斯林。他们的鼻子比较大。眼睛也是深凹下去的。尽管他们说中文，他们的外表就像外国人。他们大部分好象是以做小买卖为生的。他们的孩子们穿着破烂的衣服在大街上或他们邻里的石桥上叫卖烤花生和炒瓜子。有一对穆斯林老夫妇每天推着小木车埋羊头肉，羊肚， 和羊蹄在街上叫卖。
我不在乎自己长得是否像回民。 我在乎的是为此微微从来没有说过我长得好看。不管别人怎样夸我 “漂亮，”“秀气，” “洋气，”我只相信微微的话。 她是邻里和周围补店 菜市公认的美人， 走在街上也会有人回头看她。 她的五感很精致，细长的风眼稍稍往上挑，好象那些仕女画里的美女都是比着她画的， 艳丽而脱俗。我知道自己长得不如妈妈美； 只有我的皮肤和瓜子脸型是她的。
From the hallway, I steal a glance at VeVe. She’s toying with the ink stone in her hand, her eyes far away. Slowly, she begins to rub the stone on the inkwell. The ink should be ready within minutes, but she doesn’t seem to be aware of it. She keeps grinding, faster and faster, as if possessed.
My curls have upset her. For the first time, it occurs to me that her anguish over my hair goes beyond the curls. It’s one of the many mysteries of her I may or may never find out.
As I tilt my head to iron my hair, my eyes fall on the family photos on the wall, inevitably gazing at the one on the side. The photo is small, hung on the edge of the cluster of photos like an afterthought. My father—or whom I insist to be my father—stands alone inside the simple, ill-fitting frame. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been obsessed with this picture, looking for resemblance between him and me. He has small, squinting eyes on his dark, square face, whereas my eyes are big and shaped like an apricot seed, or so others tell me. His nose is flared; his mouth is pulled slightly downward on the side, which gives him a sad expression. The only resemblance between us is the raven blackness of our hair, though his is straight. My father’s photo is small, but his image is huge in my mind. VeVe avoids talking about him. The only thing I know is that he was a renowned doctor who died from a rare illness when I was two. I’ve always had the inkling that he is still alive somewhere. As I grow older, that feeling grows stronger. Once VeVe became angry when I would not stop asking about him and said, “You must forget him. It's just you and me.” I knew then that VeVe was hiding the truth about my father from me, as she does so many other things. How do I even know if the man in the photo is indeed my father?
But he is, I always assure myself in the end.
--to be continued
厌倦了整天给头发上电刑，这几天我找了一个偷懒的办法： 把头发拽直盘在后脑上， 再用几十个卡子固定住， 这样头发里的圈就不明显了。 微微看到后皱了皱眉头， 但没有说什莫。刚才从外面回来，我的头发松开了。一圈儿一圈儿的伸展到我的肩膀。微微立刻注意到。她当时正在桌边研墨， 盯着我，眼睛像东北 狼一般犀利。
我现在瞥一眼微微。她在漫无目的的把玩手里的魔石。我意识到她的苦楚远远超越了我头发里的圈圈。这成了她的秘密之一，我也许会，也许不会揭开。
我一歪头正好看见了墙上的照片。我看到的第一个总是我的爸爸。他的照片挂在边上一个最不起眼的地方。好像微微事后想起来的，或者，故意的不让人注意他，想把他藏起来。那是仅有的一张爸爸的照片，没有他和我和微微一起的照片。爸爸孤零零地站在一个简单的扭扭歪歪的镜框里。
从小我就被爸爸的照片着迷，困惑。一直在找他和我的相似之处。他的眉毛很浓。但是他的眼睛很小。而我的眼睛很大，杏仁儿形状。他的嘴角稍稍往下斜， 使他的表情有点悲哀。给我稍微有点希望的是他的头发和我的一样乌黑。 爸爸的照片虽然小。他的形象在我的心里却很巨大。其它的我就不知道了。微微总是避讳谈到他。我一直有一个感觉，爸爸仍然活着，在什么地方。我越长大，这个感觉越强烈。有一次在我不停地问爸爸的时候，微微生气的说，“忘掉他吧，他反正不跟我们在一起，只有你和我。你认也得认，不认也得认。”我明白微微是在瞒我。好多事情她都瞒着我。连照片中这个人是我的爸爸我也不能确信啊。
但最终我老是告诉自己， 是的， 他就是我爸爸。
Still grinding ink, VeVe has fallen into a trance; she seems locked in a place only she knows, and she will stay there until she is spent. This is the image of her I’ve known since childhood. She pours the ink into an empty milk bottle so she can grind more. Later, as always, I will empty the ink in the bottle, or bottles. She will need them again. And again.
As soon as every curl in my hair has yielded to the heat, I pull the electric comb out of the wall and sneak out. VeVe won’t notice I’m gone before I make it back.
此刻，微微仍然在研墨，好像落进了一个赌咒。好像被锁进了一个只有他她自己知道的地方。她要在那里呆下去，直到精疲力尽。她的这个形象是我从小就熟悉的。 她把没墨汁倒进空奶瓶里。之后我会把墨倒出来，把奶瓶收好，我知道她还会再需要的。
我头发里最后一个圈在高热里屈服了。我把电梳子从墙里拔出来。趁微微没注意，我悄悄的打开门走了出去。也许微微注意到以前我已经回来了。
--待续