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新视野大学英语_新视野大学英语2读写教程课文unit 5 Stop Spoiling Your Children

新视野大学英语_新视野大学英语2读写教程课文unit 5 Stop Spoiling Your Children

新视野大学英语读写教程第二册课文unit5

英语学习

Section A

Pre-reading Activities

First Listening

Please listen to a short passage carefully and prepare to answer some questions.

Second Listening

Listen to the tape again. Then answer the following questions with your own experiences.

1) Who are the characters in this story and what is their relationship to each other?

2) What are the effects of smoking?

3) What does “victory” mean in this story?

Weeping for My Smoking Daughter

My daughter smokes. While she is doing her homework, her feet on the bench in front of her and her calculator clicking out answers to her geometry problems, I am looking at the half-empty package of Camels tossed carelessly close at hand. I pick them up, take them into the kitchen, where the light is better, and study them — they're filtered, for which I am grateful. My heart feels terrible. I want to weep. In fact, I do weep a little, standing there by the stove holding one of the instruments, so white, so precisely rolled, that could cause my daughter's death. When she smoked Marlboros and Players I hardened myself against feeling so bad; nobody I knew ever smoked these brands.

She doesn't know this, but it was Camels that my father, her grandfather, smoked. But before he smoked cigarettes made by manufacturers — when he was very young and very poor, with glowing eyes — he smoked Prince Albert tobacco in cigarettes he rolled himself. I remember the bright-red tobacco tin, with a picture of Queen Victoria's partner, Prince Albert, dressed in a black dress coat and carrying a cane.

By the late forties and early fifties no one rolled his own anymore (and few women smoked) in my hometown of Eatonton, Georgia. The tobacco industry, coupled with Hollywood movies in which both male and female heroes smoked like chimneys, completely won over people like my father, who were hopelessly hooked by cigarettes. He never looked as fashionable as Prince Albert, though; he continued to look like a poor, overweight, hard working colored man with too large a family, black, with a very white cigarette stuck in his mouth.

I do not remember when he started to cough. Perhaps it was unnoticeable at first, a little coughing in the morning as he lit his first cigarette upon getting out of bed. By the time I was sixteen, my daughter's age, his breath was a wheeze, embarrassing to hear; he could not climb stairs without resting every third or fourth step. It was not unusual for him to cough for an hour.

My father died from "the poor man's friend", pneumonia, one hard winter when his lung illnesses had left him low. I doubt he had much lung left at all, after coughing for so many years. He had so little breath that, during his last years, he was always leaning on something. I remembered once, at a family reunion, when my daughter was two, that my father picked her up for a minute — long enough for me to photograph them — but the effort was obvious. Near the very end of his life, and largely because he had no more lungs, he quit smoking. He gained a couple of pounds, but by then he was so slim that no one noticed.

When I travel to Third World countries I see many people like my father and daughter. There are large advertisement signs directed at them both: the tough, confident or fashionable older man, the beautiful, "worldly" young woman, both dragging away. In these poor countries, as in American inner cities and on reservations, money that should be spent for food goes instead to the tobacco companies; over time, people starve themselves of both food and air, effectively weakening and hooking their children, eventually killing themselves. I read in the newspaper and in my gardening magazine that the ends of cigarettes are so poisonous that if a baby swallows one, it is likely to die, and that the boiled water from a bunch of them makes an effective insecticide.

There is a deep hurt that I feel as a mother. Some days it is a feeling of uselessness. I remember how carefully I ate when I was pregnant, how patiently I taught my daughter how to cross a street safely. For what, I sometimes wonder; so that she can struggle to breathe through most of her life feeling half her strength, and then die of self-poisoning, as her grandfather did?

There is a quotation from a battered women's shelter that I especially like: "Peace on earth begins at home." I believe everything does. I think of a quotation for people trying to stop smoking: "Every home is a no smoking zone." Smoking is a form of self-battering that also batters those who must sit by, occasionally joke or complain, and helplessly watch. I realize now that as a child I sat by, through the years, and literally watched my father kill himself: surely one such victory in my family, for the prosperous leaders who own the tobacco companies, is enough.

新视野大学英语读写教程第二册课文unit5

英语学习

Section A

Pre-reading Activities

First Listening

Please listen to a short passage carefully and prepare to answer some questions.

Second Listening

Listen to the tape again. Then answer the following questions with your own experiences.

1) Who are the characters in this story and what is their relationship to each other?

2) What are the effects of smoking?

3) What does “victory” mean in this story?

Weeping for My Smoking Daughter

My daughter smokes. While she is doing her homework, her feet on the bench in front of her and her calculator clicking out answers to her geometry problems, I am looking at the half-empty package of Camels tossed carelessly close at hand. I pick them up, take them into the kitchen, where the light is better, and study them — they're filtered, for which I am grateful. My heart feels terrible. I want to weep. In fact, I do weep a little, standing there by the stove holding one of the instruments, so white, so precisely rolled, that could cause my daughter's death. When she smoked Marlboros and Players I hardened myself against feeling so bad; nobody I knew ever smoked these brands.

She doesn't know this, but it was Camels that my father, her grandfather, smoked. But before he smoked cigarettes made by manufacturers — when he was very young and very poor, with glowing eyes — he smoked Prince Albert tobacco in cigarettes he rolled himself. I remember the bright-red tobacco tin, with a picture of Queen Victoria's partner, Prince Albert, dressed in a black dress coat and carrying a cane.

By the late forties and early fifties no one rolled his own anymore (and few women smoked) in my hometown of Eatonton, Georgia. The tobacco industry, coupled with Hollywood movies in which both male and female heroes smoked like chimneys, completely won over people like my father, who were hopelessly hooked by cigarettes. He never looked as fashionable as Prince Albert, though; he continued to look like a poor, overweight, hard working colored man with too large a family, black, with a very white cigarette stuck in his mouth.

I do not remember when he started to cough. Perhaps it was unnoticeable at first, a little coughing in the morning as he lit his first cigarette upon getting out of bed. By the time I was sixteen, my daughter's age, his breath was a wheeze, embarrassing to hear; he could not climb stairs without resting every third or fourth step. It was not unusual for him to cough for an hour.

My father died from "the poor man's friend", pneumonia, one hard winter when his lung illnesses had left him low. I doubt he had much lung left at all, after coughing for so many years. He had so little breath that, during his last years, he was always leaning on something. I remembered once, at a family reunion, when my daughter was two, that my father picked her up for a minute — long enough for me to photograph them — but the effort was obvious. Near the very end of his life, and largely because he had no more lungs, he quit smoking. He gained a couple of pounds, but by then he was so slim that no one noticed.

When I travel to Third World countries I see many people like my father and daughter. There are large advertisement signs directed at them both: the tough, confident or fashionable older man, the beautiful, "worldly" young woman, both dragging away. In these poor countries, as in American inner cities and on reservations, money that should be spent for food goes instead to the tobacco companies; over time, people starve themselves of both food and air, effectively weakening and hooking their children, eventually killing themselves. I read in the newspaper and in my gardening magazine that the ends of cigarettes are so poisonous that if a baby swallows one, it is likely to die, and that the boiled water from a bunch of them makes an effective insecticide.

There is a deep hurt that I feel as a mother. Some days it is a feeling of uselessness. I remember how carefully I ate when I was pregnant, how patiently I taught my daughter how to cross a street safely. For what, I sometimes wonder; so that she can struggle to breathe through most of her life feeling half her strength, and then die of self-poisoning, as her grandfather did?

There is a quotation from a battered women's shelter that I especially like: "Peace on earth begins at home." I believe everything does. I think of a quotation for people trying to stop smoking: "Every home is a no smoking zone." Smoking is a form of self-battering that also batters those who must sit by, occasionally joke or complain, and helplessly watch. I realize now that as a child I sat by, through the years, and literally watched my father kill himself: surely one such victory in my family, for the prosperous leaders who own the tobacco companies, is enough.

Section B

英语学习

Stop Spoiling Your Children

While traveling for various speaking appointments, I frequently stay overnight in the home of a family and am assigned to one of the children's bedrooms. In it, I often find so many toys that there's almost no room — even for my small lavatory or toilet kit. And the closet is usually so tightly packed with clothes that I can barely squeeze in my jacket.

I'm not complaining, only making a point. I think the tendency to give children too many toys and clothes is quite common in American families. I think in far too many families not only do children come to take their parents' generosity for granted, but also the effects of this can actually be somewhat harmful to children.

Why do parents give their children too much, or give them things they can't afford? I believe there are several reasons.

One fairly common reason is that parents spoil their children out of a sense of guilt. Parents who both hold down full-time jobs may feel guilty about the amount of time they spend away from their children and, as accommodation for being away so much, may attempt to compensate by showering them with material possessions.

Other parents provide too much because they want their children to have everything they had while growing up, along with those things they pined for but didn't get. Still others are afraid to say no to their children's endless requests for toys for fear that their children will infer they are unloved or will be made fun of if they don't obtain the same toys their friends have.

Spoiling a child also happens when parents are unable to stand up to their children's unreasonable demands. Such parents fluctuate between saying no and giving in — but neither response seems satisfactory to them. If they refuse a request, they immediately feel a wave of regret for having been so strict or ungenerous. If they give in, they feel regret and resentment over having been too easy. This kind of variability not only loosens the parents' ability to set limits, it also sours the parent-child relationship to some degree, robbing parents and their children of some of the happiness and mutual respect that is present in healthy families.

But spoiling children with material things does little to reduce parental guilt (since parents never feel they've given enough), nor does it make children feel more loved (for what children really desire is parents' time and attention). Instead, the effects of providing too much can be harmful. Children may, to some degree, become greedy, selfish, ungrateful and insensitive to the needs and feelings of others, beginning with their parents. When children are given too much, it undermines their respect for their parents. In fact, the children begin to sense that a parent's unlimited generosity is not right. The contradiction as a result may be that these children, conversely, will push further, unconsciously hoping that, if they push too hard, they will force their parents into setting limitations.

Also, spoiled children are not as challenged to be more creative in their play as children with fewer toys. They have fewer opportunities to learn the value of money, and have less experience in learning to deal with delay in satisfaction, when every requested object is given on demand.

The real purpose of this discussion is not to tell parents how much or how little to give to their children. Rather, my intention is to help those parents who have already sensed that they might be spoiling their children but don't know how to stop.

Sometimes you may feel uncertain about whether to give in to many of your children's requests. That doesn't mean you can't change. First, you should try to determine what makes you submit or feel guilty. Then, even if you haven't uncovered the reason, you should begin to make firm decisions and practice responding to your children's requests in a prompt, definite manner.

Once you turn over a new leaf, you can't expect to change completely right away. You are bound to fluctuate at times. The key is to be satisfied with gradual improvement, expecting and accepting the occasional slips that come with any change. And even after you are handling these decisions in a firmer and more confident manner, you can't expect your children to respond immediately. For a while they'll keep on applying the old pressures that used to work so well. But they'll eventually come to respect your decisions once they learn that nagging and arguing no longer work. In the end, both you and your children will be happier for it.

Section C

英语学习

What Is in Larry's Mind?

The day my son Larry started kindergarten(幼儿园) he gave up trousers with bibs(围嘴)and began wearing blue jeans with a belt. I watched him go off the first morning with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that a stage of my life was ended. My nursery-school(托儿所)child with the sweet voice was replaced with a confident character in long trousers, who forgot to stop at the corner and wave good-bye to me.

He came home the same way, the front door flying open, his cap on the floor, and the voice, suddenly rough, shouting, "Isn't anybody here?"

At lunch he spoke impolitely(不礼貌地)to his father, spilled his baby sister's milk, and remarked that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain(滥用上帝的名义).

"How was school today?" I asked, acting very casual.

"All right," he said.

"Did you learn anything?" his father asked.

Larry regarded his father coldly. "I didn't learn nothing," he said.

"Anything." I said. "Didn't learn anything."

"The teacher spanked(打)a boy, though." Larry said, while eating his bread and butter. "For being fresh," he added, with his mouth full.

"What did he do?" I asked. "Who was it?"

Larry thought. "It was Charles," he said. "He was fresh. The teacher spanked him and made him stand in a corner. He was awfully(非常)fresh."

"What did he do?" I asked again, but Larry slid off his chair, took a cookie(饼干), and left, while his father was still saying. "See here, young man."

The third day — it was Wednesday of the first week — Charles banged a see-saw (翘翘板)on to the head of a little girl and made her bleed, and the teacher made him stay inside all during morning break. Thursday Charles had to stand in a corner during story-time because he kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday Charles could not use the blackboard because he threw chalk.

On Friday of that week things were back to normal. "You know what Charles did today?" Larry demanded at the dinner table, in a voice slightly amazed. "He told a little girl to say a word and she said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and Charles laughed."

"What word?" his father asked unwisely, and Larry said, "I'll have to whisper it to you; it's so bad." He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and Larry whispered joyfully. His father's eyes grew larger.

"Did Charles tell the little girl to say that?" he asked in a serious tone.

"She said it twice," Larry said. "Charles told her to say it twice."

"What happened to Charles?" my husband asked.

"Nothing," Larry said. "He was passing out the crayons(蜡笔)."

Monday morning Charles forgot about the little girl and said the bad word himself three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw chalk.

Then it was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and I wanted very much to meet Charles's mother.

My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the P.T.A. meeting. "Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting," he said. "I want to get a look at her."

"If only she's there," I said in hope.

"She'll be there," my husband said. "I don't see how they could hold a P.T.A. meeting without Charles's mother."

At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable mother's face, trying to determine which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked stressed enough to me. No one stood up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been acting. No one mentioned Charles.

After the meeting I identified and sought out Larry's kindergarten teacher. She had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of cake. We were cautious as we moved toward one another, and smiled.

"I've been so anxious to meet you," I said. "I'm Larry's mother."

"We're all so interested in Larry," she said.

"Well, he certainly likes kindergarten," I said. "He talks about it all the time."

"We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so," she said rigidly, "but now he's a fine little helper. With occasional mistakes, of course."

"Larry usually adjusts very quickly," I said. "I suppose this time it's Charles's influence."

"Charles?"

"Yes," I said, laughing, "you must have your hands full in that kindergarten with Charles."

"Charles?" she said. "We don't have any Charles in the kindergarten."

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