Ashamed or Proud? | 羞耻还是自豪?

---"Ashamed or Proud?", Malaysia, 2015.2 | 《羞耻还是自豪》摄于马来西亚

—“Ashamed or Proud?”, Malaysia, 2015.2 | 《羞耻还是自豪》摄于马来西亚

 

Why would we feel ashamed when we haven’t done anything wrong? For being poor? For being born in a poor family? For being born a tiny creature in a poor family? 
我们没有做错事,为什么会感到羞耻呢?因为贫穷?因为出生在一个贫穷的家庭?因为与生俱来我们就是个不起眼的弱小生物?
"Weirdos". Malaysia, 2015.2 | 《怪人》摄于马来西亚

“Weirdos”. Malaysia, 2015.2 | 《怪人》摄于马来西亚

These are half of the pieces of feedback I received on my last article Bumps. They are categorized into two groups: Westerners & Easterners.
 

以下是来自读者对上篇文章《颠簸》所作反馈的一半内容,分为两部分:西方人和东方人。

 

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-Westerners 西方人-

 

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Interestingly, more women feel vulnerable in silence than men. More interestingly, we don’t even hear these stories from men. Believable or unbelievable? There are far more true stories to write than fantasies to create.

有趣的是,与男性相比,更多女性在沉默中感到脆弱。更有趣的是,我们甚至很少从男人那听到类似《颠簸》的故事。可信还是难以置信?我们的身边有那么多真实的故事可以写,却有那么多人绞尽脑汁去创造一些遥远的幻想。为什么?

 

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-Easterners 东方人-

 

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捕获

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From being ashamed to being proud, is like a revolutionary moment of fearlessness.

从羞耻到自豪,像是一个无畏的革命性的冲锋时刻。

 

Note: To build a mutual Literature & Art community, Heather has now opened her personal channel (WeChat ID: Heather69) to her fans, who are following HeathersChamber. No cheaters!

备注由于时间和精力有限,为了建立一个互敬互惠的文学艺术圈子,阿太特向已关注此公众号的粉丝们分享她的个人微信号:Heather69 。骗子勿扰!

 

Last article 上一篇:  Bumps | 颠簸

 

About Heather Cai:

Heather Cover

Heather is the daughter of a subsistence rice farmer from Fujian Province, China. She tells stories from her experience as one of the poorest. She writes her dream to share with the world, a very personal place. She has now written two English literary novels and is looking to being published in the UK. Her passion is a splendid cocktail or milkshake of word, image, music and art. She likes collecting books, DVDs, papers, stones, shells and leaves. She desires for all forms of natural beauty. She is currently teaching kids chess in Shanghai and serving as Sergeant-at-arms (SAA) for Shanghai Leadership Toastmasters Club.

Copyright © 2018-2019 Heather Cai. All Rights Reserved. 所有版权归作者所有!

 


 

Follow HeathersChamber for more original poems, essays, prose, drawings and pictures

关注阿太的密室,订阅更多原创诗歌、散文、随笔、画画和图片

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大学城 | A Square Well In College

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—All my early Chinese writings are buried in this notebook, including a Chinese novel without a “happy” ending and this prose written on November 30th, 2008. 

—所有早期汉语作品都埋在这里了,今天挖出来分享一下08年汶川大地震发生后,个人对时间、生命和梦想的萌萌领悟。

 

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—海南琼台师范大学(旧校区),摄于2011年5月 

—No camera, no smart phone, no pics to share before 2010. This photo of my campus in Hainan Island was taken in May 2011. 

 

穿过一片田地,沿着一条公路,渐渐地,宽阔的道路,耸起的高楼,闲散的人流,就在这片黄土山坡上的大学城中,一一映入眼帘。

不论何时何地,我都喜欢凝望大学城的天空。很多时候,它是那么的澄澈,明净;湛蓝湛蓝的,飘着几朵雪白的云。看着看着,感觉好像在某个起风的冬日,喝下一口热乎乎的薄荷茶,清清的,爽爽的,叫人心旷神怡,从头到脚都是新的。

 

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—Photo taken in Haikou, May 2011 | 图片摄于海口,2011.5

 

但是,它也有黯然失色的时候。只是,它不像那些城市污染的天空,那般浑浊。没有太阳出现的天空,是灰色的,阴暗的,寂寞的,无奈的;犹如蒙上了一层神秘的黑面纱,时不时地露出一缕神色不定的日光。

有好几个黄昏,大学城的天空异常美丽壮观,仿佛海平线上的夕阳,火红火红的一片,斜照在宿舍楼的某个高处。我定定地望着它,那扣人心弦的一幕,好似盛开在丛林中一朵艳丽夺目的山茶花。

恍过神来,和朋友一起出去散散步,吹吹风,大学城的夜景一样迷人。尤其是那条“美食街”:人们买的买,卖的卖,摆的摆,逛的逛;拥挤的过道只容得下一个人,繁忙的景象一到这个时候,几乎都不曾休闲过。同学们三三两两,成群结队的,蜂拥而至。一波走了,另一波又来了。只有我这双呆滞的目光停留在来来往往的人群中,总想摸索点什么。

 

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—Photo taken in Sanya, May 2011 | 图片摄于三亚,2011.5

 

渐渐地,天要更衣了。披上一层时而明朗,时而朦胧,时而暗淡的月光。笼罩在人来人往的人流中,拖出一条条忽长忽短、若隐若现的影子。我总觉得,人好小,影子好长,好模糊,甚至怀疑那地上的影子到底是不是自己的。

我很不确定。一个人踱着细碎的脚步漫不经心地朝宿舍的方向走去。

大学城的宿舍,像一个古色古香的四合院。你看着对面的人,对面的人也在看着你;无劲,无聊;闭塞的氛围,只有一个小门口可以出去透透气,一个四围的天窗可以看看天。怎么,就像是坐井观天?

 

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—Photo taken in Sanya, May 2011 | 图片摄于三亚,2011.5

 

夜渐渐深了,人却静不下来。从前,一楼地男生有个专门的乐队,其中一个男生挽着一部吉他,深情地哼着一道道青春挽歌,流出一丝丝校园纯情,夹杂着一抹抹绵绵哀伤,隔如一层淡淡的红豆香。

汶川大地震发生后的一个夜晚,大伙手捧一根根蜡烛,烛光一晃一晃的,像是一盆水在阳光的照耀下,反射在墙壁上,形成一道触目惊心的光和影。生命的脆弱,在光和影的荡漾中不断跳跃,挣扎。一旦将毛巾轻轻地放入水中,缓缓地浸湿,那个跳动的影子便渐渐地消失,渐渐地不见了。留给人的只有一抹忧伤的记忆。心也慢慢地往下沉,深入生命的漩涡。但我们都知道,祈祷完了,还得记得祝福明天。

 

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—Photo taken in Sanya, May 2011 | 图片摄于三亚,2011.5

 

夜很深很深,人也很静很静的时候,只有不眠的昆虫在鸣叫,偶尔有情侣在调情。但更多的是,野性的呼唤!人心惶惶的我,总会在噩梦中被惊醒。

天刚破晓,回荡在大学城的上空,几乎每天都是同样的几个调。而我每次都会在这样的背景音乐中,心揪得好痛好痛。不管那音乐的调调是喜是悲,节奏是快是慢,我的心都是悬着的。躺,躺不下;坐,坐不住;傻傻的,发着呆;时间,就这样在一阵冥想中悄悄地流逝了。于是,我再也不敢躺,不敢坐,不去发呆,也不愿去想。洗刷完之后,粗粗的整理一下书本,就匆匆地往食堂奔去了。

那是头一回,我在冥冥之中感到时间的仓促,生命的短暂。我想,是时候该做点该做的事了。

 

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—Photo taken in Sanya, May 2011 | 图片摄于三亚,2011.5

 

在这片蓝蓝的天空下,在这个小小的大学城中,我曾深深地感触到人情的冷漠和疏远,世俗的讥讽,官僚的腐败,思想的堕落,人性的腐化。未来等待我的是残酷的面试,“由衷”的失业。我一直在想,在苦苦地思想着,到底要干什么好。到底要往哪去放飞我的梦想?

 

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—Photo taken on the ship back to Shenzhen, May 2011 | 图片摄于回深圳的轮船上,2011.5

 

庆幸的是,身边还有位知心朋友,可以倾诉倾诉。虽然,我们的思想大不相同,甚至相反,但不冲突。她让我在茫茫之中大彻大悟:要做就做一个“思想着”的人,而不是一个单纯的“冥想者”。


Follow HeathersChamber for more original poems, essays, prose, drawings and pictures

关注阿太的密室,订阅更多原创诗歌、散文、随笔、画画和图片

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Count On Writing#3

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There is such a thing as good writing, and there is such a thing as bad writing. Learn

the difference. Strain to produce the former whilst accepting that you will, much of the time, 

produce the latter. As you grow in confidence, you’ll know which bits to throw away and which 

to keep and work on. Be shamelessly elitist in your pursuit of excellence. Writing is not a 

democratic activity; only you can know whether you’re doing what you are here to do. Read a 

lot, write a lot and don’t listen to any post-modern oaf who tells you that, after all, 

no-one can say whether Stieg Larsson is ‘better’ than Shakespeare.

                                                                   — Paul Kingsnorth

 

Drawing#43: The Gambler

The Gambler

The Gambler

No comment.


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

Drawing#42: The Sense of Time

The Sense of Time

The Sense of Time

No comment.

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

Drawing#41: The Double

The Double

The Double

No comment.

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

Drawing#40: The Scar

The Scar

The Scar

No comment.

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

Drawing#39: The Man With The Shadow

The Man With The Shadow

The Man With The Shadow

No comment.

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

Drawing#38: Zombie

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What’s left in you, if you are framed as a slave?

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading

Drawing#37: Death

psbLUAD5KE4

No comment.

 


From now on, I’ll post my drawings weekly, or maybe twice a week. To share the below auto-biographic stories, I’ll keep being creative, transforming my thoughts into words and images.

I started school when I was ten. In primary school, there was no lessons other than Maths and Chinese. The rest were merely reading on your own and doing homework. So basically, I had to skip the rest of the classes to do housework or farmwork. And the teacher used charcoal to write on the wooden board. Not to mention that I never owned any proper paper. One evening after dinner, I invited my best playmate to visit my room. We sat up on the bed face to face, looking into each other. Then we came up with an idea to draw each other’s face. So we used the back page of my Chinese and Math books, which were blank and white. In the end, we looked again and again at the drawings, laughing with pride. Too bad, soon the pictures faded away naturally. Now the drawn face has become vague, but the memory of my very first drawing with a pencil is still vivid. Continue reading