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我不愿做女孩儿我不愿做女孩儿 王扶 如果你生就了是女孩儿,却长得很不像女孩儿的样,比如个子太高,脚太大,皮肤太黑,等等; 如果你是一个女孩儿,却生在一个全体都盼望生男孩儿的家庭里,你的命运恐怕就应该用另外两个字来代替——倒霉! 我,就是这么个倒尽了霉的女孩儿。 公平地说,妈妈算对我最好的,尽管因为生了我这个女孩儿,她遭尽了全家人的白眼。首先是父亲的。爸爸对妈妈从来就谈不上爱,只不过凑合生活罢了。用大人的话说,就是“过日子”。妈妈也盼生个儿子,来缓和一下这个“维持会”的紧张局面。没想到,儿子没生却偏偏生了个不像女儿的女儿...

我不愿做女孩儿
我不愿做女孩儿 王扶 如果你生就了是女孩儿,却长得很不像女孩儿的样,比如个子太高,脚太大,皮肤太黑,等等; 如果你是一个女孩儿,却生在一个全体都盼望生男孩儿的家庭里,你的命运恐怕就应该用另外两个字来代替——倒霉! 我,就是这么个倒尽了霉的女孩儿。 公平地说,妈妈算对我最好的,尽管因为生了我这个女孩儿,她遭尽了全家人的白眼。首先是父亲的。爸爸对妈妈从来就谈不上爱,只不过凑合生活罢了。用大人的话说,就是“过日子”。妈妈也盼生个儿子,来缓和一下这个“维持会”的紧张局面。没想到,儿子没生却偏偏生了个不像女儿的女儿。这下儿,连爷爷奶奶也和爸爸构成了统一战线,极力主张爸爸和妈妈离婚。 妈妈姓马,她要我姓了她的姓,给我取名一个“力”字。妈说她盼我永远有力量,去争一口气。 我从来最怕爸爸,在家里爸爸很少说话,而一说话又是那么冷得让人发抖。等我渐渐懂事的时候,我在对他的怕中又添上了一丝恨。我恨他对妈妈的无情,我恨他对我的冷酷,而且我也恨他是跟我、跟妈妈不一样的男人。 幸好爷爷奶奶不和我们住在一起,不然,我们家就更别有一分钟的安生了。 每次奶奶来看爸爸的时候,见到我第一句话总是说:“瞧那傻大个儿,又黑又粗的蠢相!”还忘不了冷笑一声。说实在的,从小我就讨厌这个满脸横纹、刀削似的鼻子的老太婆。她每来我家一次,准会撺掇得爸爸和妈妈又有一场好吵。在我小小的心灵中,她就像童话里那个老妖婆。尤其她姓韦,我就总想到她长着一条长长的尾巴。所以我从不叫她奶奶,只暗暗地叫她老妖婆。 我越怕长个儿,我的个儿长得越快。我家对面是体育馆,每年都有教练到我们小学来挑“苗子”。大概都瞅上我这“傻大个儿”了,每年都有人来动员我去打篮球啦,排球啦,网球啦……说实在的,我最怕体育。每年我门门功课都是优,唯独体育,能闹个及格就不错了。妈说我是用米汤喂大的,自小缺乏营养闹的。不管怎么说,反正从小学到中学,没有一个体育老师喜欢我。 “马力,怎么搞的,长跑竟慢了一分钟。白长这么长的腿啊!”小学体育老师惋惜地说。 “马力,亏你长了一米七的大个子,连一米秆儿你都跳不过去!”中学体育老师生气地说。 妈说我上幼儿园中班时,有一次早晨去送我,临下车,让售票员喊住了:“喂,多高了还不买票!”妈一急竟掏不出钱来了。而都在赶着上班的车上人,一片埋怨、嘲讽。气得妈都差点晕倒。从那时起,妈就给我买了张月票,挂在脖子上,我觉得挺好玩。可现在又有谁知道我这个高个子的苦恼呢。 “唉,谁让你是个女孩儿哩。男孩子要能长一米八五才够‘份儿’哩!”妈妈常常感叹地说。 是啊,就因为我是个女孩儿,而女孩儿长过一米七仿佛就是罪过。那些找对象的条件之一不就是要求男的身高在一米八以上嘛!难道长在他们身上就是美,而长在我们身上就是丑,是傻,是蠢么?我偏不服这口气。过去怕自己太高,总是穿平底鞋,弯腰屈背,最大限度地收缩自己。 有一次上体育课,我和我们班的方珠珠一起跑五十米,我们俩同样跑了九秒七,老师却说:“方珠珠:及格。马力:不及格。” 我大惑不解,问老师:“我和方珠珠是同时到达终点的……” “是的,你身高一米七还多,方珠珠身高不足一米六,要求怎么能一样呢?”老师冷冷地说。我知道教学大纲上可没有这样的 规定 关于下班后关闭电源的规定党章中关于入党时间的规定公务员考核规定下载规定办法文件下载宁波关于闷顶的规定 ,我也知道体育老师一向不喜欢我。说什么也没用,今年的“三好”又因为体育而“拉吹”了。可从此,我却直起了腰挺起了胸,坡跟鞋也穿上了。总之,我再也不以自己的身高为羞耻了。这是上帝造的,管别人怎么说! 自打上了中学,我年年仅仅由于体育而当不了三好学生,但我有信心凭自己的本事去考上重点高中。 果然,我的考分过重点高中录取分数线有十分之多呢。但是,我却没被录取。妈妈托人去打听原因,回答是:一,马力是外校生,取分标准增加十分;二,马力是女生,取分标准比男生增加十分。 妈妈流泪了:“唉,谁叫你是个女孩子呢!” 我却一点眼泪也流不出来。我真想向上帝大喊一声:“我不愿做女孩儿!”但我只觉得喉咙发干,什么声音也发不出来。 我只好继续留在本校上高中,也只好继续受那体育老师的治了。谁让我是个女孩儿呢! 上高中时,年级成立吉它小组。要知道,我从小酷爱音乐,但从未敢奢望买个吉它。在家中,我妈的经济是绝无自由的,所以这事只好硬着头皮问爸爸。我天天在鼓勇气,也天天在观察爸爸的脸色。这天吃晚饭时,别人送了爸爸一瓶好酒,爸的脸色有阴转多云的迹象。我大着胆子请求说: “爸爸,我们年级成立了个吉它小组,我想参加……” “重点都考不上,还有脸胡闹!”爸爸一下子把我噎了回去。 “孩子想买个吉它,我看……”妈婉转地选择着字眼替我求情。 “吉它?”多云渐渐转阴,“吉它是男孩子的乐器,姑娘家谁玩这个!”爸爸的脸色终于全阴了。我气得一摔筷子,大声说: “乐器还分什么男女!我就是要买吉它。以后我不再吃早饭,省下钱来买!”没等爸爸回过味儿来,我已跑出门外。我决定先找我的同桌好友李小芬去借钱买,以后再慢慢还她。 113路汽车大约又是半天没来了,所以非常挤。我因心里有事,就随着人群挤了上去。我前边的一个小伙子把旁边的一位老太太推了一把,险些使老太太摔下车去。等关上车门,那老太太瞅瞅小伙子,又瞅瞅我,竟冲着我来了: “我说,你那么大的姑娘了,也不害臊,推我老年人,缺德不缺德!”我开始没理会她在说什么,但突然发现周围的人有的直瞪我,有的干脆就冲我说: “嘿,说你呢,装什么蒜!” “女孩子家还这么没教养!” …… 我才知道老太太是在数叨我。我想来想去,总觉得自己没责任,但我却怎么也张不开口来辩解。这回可真的因为我是个女孩子,而不会吵架。 下了车,说不出的委屈和沉重 死死地压在我的心头,但我却流不出眼泪来。我妈常常哭,而我却从来不哭。妈说眼泪都让她流干了,所以女儿不会流泪了。奶奶说我“心狠”,爷爷说我“缺乏人性”。他们都说:“没见过女孩子不爱哭的。” 高中快毕业时,爸爸终于和妈妈离了婚。爸爸当然不会要我。我也当然要和妈妈一起过。 还有一年就高中毕业了。我面临着一个选择志愿的问题。本来我对宇航、导弹、卫星……这些迷人的领域有着特殊的爱好。但是当我提出走自己喜爱的路时,不想却遭到了全家的极力反对。 “女孩子怎么能学这个!”大舅舅说。他是搞导弹的。 “女孩子绝不能干这个!”大姨父说。他是搞人造卫星的。 “女孩子天生是学文科的。”二舅舅说。他是搞原子能的。 “女孩子……” 最后一张反对票是妈妈投的。按照我的个性,我是会违背所有人的愿望,坚决走自己喜爱的路的。但是看到妈妈那未老先衰的脸,看到她那因流泪过多而浮肿的双眼,我忽然感到,她为我吃了多少苦啊,只因为我是个女孩儿! 我软化了,我被母亲那颗永远充满了爱而又从来缺少爱的心软化了。我终于决定按照母亲的愿望,报考中文系。 过去虽说我每门功课都很好,但从心眼儿里我是喜欢理科的。如今,我既已决定弃理从文,那就要重新来认真地对待这个“文”了。 起先,我偷偷地写诗,后来我又写起小说来。我把这些诗和小说一次次地投寄给报纸杂志,我一次又一次地得到的是退稿。 在我的个性中,似乎有种叛逆的因素,越是退稿,我越是要写,要投寄/有一次我写了一篇小说《我不愿做女孩儿》,刚要寄给一家刊物,被妈妈看到了。她看完小说已是泪流满面,但什么也没有说,只是拿起笔来把“马力”两个字改成了“马丽”。 稿子就这么寄出去了。我依旧和以往一样,准备接受退稿。没想到,不知何处幸运竟肯降临到我的头上来。一个月以后我接到 通知 关于发布提成方案的通知关于xx通知关于成立公司筹建组的通知关于红头文件的使用公开通知关于计发全勤奖的通知 说:小说被采用了。我说不出有多么高兴,搂着妈妈又跳又笑。 祸不单行,但福也并非不双至。真是吉星高照,几个月以后编辑部竟然通知我去领奖。原来我那篇小说被评了优秀作品。 发奖大会的那天,我起得特别早,其实我兴奋得一夜也没睡着。我想:这回总算给妈妈、给我,不,给所有的女孩儿争了口气。 妈妈更是一夜未睡,为我赶制了一件漂亮的连衣裙。 早晨妈妈用尽心思打扮我。穿戴好了一照镜子,我才发现,我全然没有一点“傻大黑粗”的丑相,相反的,我竟十分美丽。修长的身材穿上这件轻柔的淡紫色的连衣裙,不是自我欣赏,还真称得上“婀娜多姿”呢! 大会始终在热烈的气氛中进行。我得到了一张奖状和有生以来第一次自己挣的钱——奖金,心中充满了圣洁的激动。一位编辑老师热情地向我祝贺。他是个大约四十多岁的男同志, 自我介绍 自我介绍100字ppt自我介绍模板入职应聘自我介绍模板职场自我介绍医院面试自我介绍 说,他是我那篇小说的责任编辑。我立刻对他产生了一种崇敬和感激之情。 编辑老师笑眯眯地告诉我:“本来你这篇是绝评不上的。后来因为要增加女作者的比例,经过我极力推荐,才算评上了。” “您怎么就知道我是女——的呢?” “虽然我们没有见过面,但,马丽,是个多么漂亮的名字啊!”言下之意,它是只能属于女性的。那么“马力”本该属于男性了?上帝是多么会开玩笑啊! 多少天来的兴奋,多少圣洁的欢欣,不知为什么这时竟化成了一块又脏又冷的冰。在这充满火一样热情的会堂里,我只感到冷。我像逃一样地溜了出来。 我逃回了家。一进门,我的眼泪就像泉水一样涌流下来。从不哭泣的我,第一次嚎啕大哭起来。 我闷得喘不过气来,猛地奔到阳台上,对着天空,对着金色的太阳,对着上帝(假如真有上帝的话),拼尽全力高喊道: “我不愿做女孩儿!” I Hate Being a Girl Wang Fu Tr. by Liu Shicong If you’re born a girl, but don’t look like a girl – you’re too large, your feet are oversized, and your skin is took dark – If you’re a girl like that, and born to a family desperate for a boy – well, I’m afraid your destiny can even be designated with two words – bad luck. I am such a girl with the worst of all possible luck. To be fair, Mother has been very good to me, though she had been treated with the utmost contempt because of giving birth to me. The contempt came first from Father. He had never shown anything resembling love – they had made do with each other. In grown-ups’ terms “they had passed their time from one day to the next”. Mother had hoped to have a boy, too, thinking it might ease the tension in her precarious marriage. Instead, she had a girl, and one who wasn’t even much of a girl. As a result, even my grandparents formed a united front with my father, urging him to get a divorce. Mother’s family name was Ma – “Horse”. She decided that I should take her family name, and called me Li – Power, as my given name. She said she expected me to be a forceful woman, and make a good showing in the world. Father had been most scary to me. He rarely spoke when he was home, and once he did his words were so cold as to make me shiver. As I grew old enough to understand things, my fear of him was tinged with a thin edge of hate. I hated him for his lack of love for Mother, and for his coldness to me. I hated him for being a man, so different from Mother and me. It was a good thing my grandparents didn’t live with us, or there would never have been a moment’s peace in the household. When Grandma came to visit Father, the first words out of her mouth were always the same: “Look at that stupid oaf of a girl, how dark and rough she is!” She never failed to punctuate this observation with a cold laugh. To tell the truth, from my earliest childhood I disliked this old woman, with her wrinkled face whittled nose. Every time she came, she was sure to provoke my parents into quarreling. In my innocence she was like a witch from a folk tale. Her family name, Wei, sounded like the wei that means “tail”, and I imagined her hiding a long tail under her clothes. I never called her Grandma. I whispered “witch” behind her back, instead. The more I worried about growing tall, the faster I grew. Opposite my home was a gymnasium, and every year coaches would visit our school to scout young athletes. It seemed they always had their eye on me, the oaf. People approached me each year to try and talk me into playing basketball, volleyball or tennis. Yet athletics were my biggest dread. In every other course at school, my performance was excellent. When it came to physical education, if I even passed I was delighted. Mother claimed my ineptitude was the result of my childhood diet – too much low nutritious rice gruel. Whatever the reason, not one of my gym teachers like me, from primary school on. “Ma Li! How did you manage to be one minute slower in the long distance run? You have got your long legs for nothing!” My primary gym teacher was terribly sorry for me. “Ma Li! You have the luck to be 1.70 meters. Why can’t you jump even one?” My middle school gym teacher was infuriated. One morning, when I was in the kingdergarten, Mother was taking me there by bus. As we got off, the conductor stopped us and shouted: “Don’t you think that kid’s big enough to buy a ticket?” Mother was so flustered that she fumbled getting money out of her purse. The other passengers, who were racing the clock to their jobs, sneered at us and complained loudly. Mother got so mad she almost fainted. She bought monthly tickets for me after that, and hung them around my neck on strings. I thought that was fun, but who could understand the misery that a big lout of a girl like me would feel? Mother would sigh, with deep emotion. “Why did you have to be a girl? For a boy, he’s not even smart enough unless he’s at least 1.85m.” Ah, but I was a girl. And if she grows to be over 1.70m, a girl might as well be a criminal. Wasn’t one of the preconditions required of a boyfriend that he had to be at least 1.80m? Why should height look good on them and ugly, silly and stupid on us? I never really accepted that. For fear of looking too tall, I took to wearing flats and hunching over, trying as best I could shrink. I ran the 50-meter dash with my classmate Fang Zhuzhu in gym once, and both of us came in at 9.7 seconds. “Fang Zhuzhu, pass,” the teacher declared, “Ma Li, fail.” “But why? We both finished at the same time …” I had to protest. “Yes, but Fang Zhuzhu is less than 1.60m, and you are over 1.70. How can we set the same standard for both?” The teacher spoke in icy tones. There was no such regulation on the syllabus, I knew, but I also knew how much this teacher resented me. No point in my saying any more. So that year my chance for the “Three-Honour Student” title was ruined by my failure in gym. But from that day forward I stood up straight. I lifted my chest. I even started wearing wedge-shoes. I stopped being ashamed of my size. If God intended me to be this size, what could anyone else have to say about it? Sports failure prevented me from holding the “Three-Honour Student” title all through middle school. But I was certain my academic ability would get me into a key senior high school. And sure enough, my test score was ten points above the acceptance standard. But I wasn’t taken by the key school. Mother found out why, through some connection: For one thing, Ma Li didn’t graduate from that middle school. Her score would have to exceed the standard by ten points. And as a girl, the score had to be another ten points higher than the boys’ standard, anyway. Mother wept bitterly. “Ai, this is what it means to be a girl.” But I had no tears to shed. All I wanted to do was to shout at God “Why do I have to be a girl?” But my throat grew dry, and I couldn’t utter a sound. I was forced to go back under the control of the same gym teacher. What else could I do, being a girl? While I was in senior high, a guitar group was organized in my grade. I’d been wild for music since I was a little kid, but up until now I’d never dared to dream of buying the instrument. Naturally, Mother had no control over the household finances, so I had to force myself to ask Father. I tried for days to muster my courage. Scrupulously I monitored his moods. Then one day someone gave him a bottle of good wine. After supper, his cloudy face appeared to brighten. I rallied my nerve and spoke in what I thought was a persuasive tone. “My grade’s putting together a guitar group and I’d like to join, Dad.” “Can’t manage to get into a key school, yet still you have the face to want play around.” He shot me down point blank. “She only wants a guitar. I should think --” Mother intervened, tactfully schoosing the right words. “The guitar,” he said with a dark look, “is a boy’s instrument. Who ever heard of a girl with a guitar?” His face was overcast with clouds again. I got so mad that I threw my chopsticks on the table and shouted at him: “So even musical instruments are divided into his and hers, eh! Well, I’m going to buy a guitar anyway. I’ll pay for it with my breakfast money.” I was out of the house before he could take in what I’d said. I was going to borrow the money from my friend and desk-mate Li Xiaofen, and pay her back a little at a time. The No. 113 bus must have been delayed because it was fully packed. Distracted as I was, I just drifted on board along with the mob. In front of me, a young man gave a rough shove to the old woman beside him, and she nearly fell off the bus. The door slammed, and she looked first at him then at me and flared up: “I must say! To Think a hulk of a girl like you is not ashamed to push an old woman around. Disgraceful!” I paid no attention at first, but then I saw the people around were all staring and some began shouting at me. “Hey, she’s talking to you! Don’t pretend you don’t hear.” “Who brought you up?” Not until then did I realize that the old woman was scolding me. But no matter how I looked at it, I knew I was not at fault. And yet somehow I could not open my mouth to defend myself. And there it was: I was a female who couldn’t even quarrel right. I got off the bus feeling unspeakably wronged and heavy of heart. But I didn’t cry. My mother often cried – I never did. Sometimes she said that she had shed all the tears for both of us, and there were no tears left for me. Grandma commented that my heart was hard. Grandpa said that I was inhuman. They both observed: “What a girl! She cannot cry!” At last, when I’d almost finished high school, my parents were divorced. Father, of course, didn’t want me to live with him, and I obviously preferred staying with Mother anyway. But I would graduate in another year, and I was faced with decisions about what to study after that. I’d been fascinated by space navigation, missiles and satellites. When I mentioned the field I would love to go into, I was opposed by my entire family. My mother’s brother was in missile research and development. “How could a girl even think of getting into that?” was his response. Another uncle, who worked with satellites, said, “Absolutely not a field for girls.” “Liberal arts is the only natural field for girls,” yet another uncle said. This one was in the field of atomic energy. Ah, girls, girls, girls – However, the final veto came from Mother. Being the kind of personality that I was, I might have gone ahead against everyone’s wishes. I might have followed my own path. But when I looked at Mother’s face, so much older than her years, and when I saw her eyes swollen with tears, I realized how she had suffered, just because I was a girl. I weakened, softened by my mother’s ever-lasting love that had never been reciprocated with love. In the end, I decided to enroll in the Chinese department, following my mother’s wish. Science had absorbed me most, though I had excelled in all subjects at school. Since I decided to give up science for liberal arts, I should take it seriously as I started all over again. Privately, I started to write poetry. Then I began to try fiction. Again and again I sent out my work, but the manuscripts always came back. In my personality there seemed to be a rebellious element. The more I was rejected, the more determined I became to be published. Once I wrote one story called “I Hate Being A Girl”. My Mother noticed it before I could mail it. After she had read it her eyes were filled with tears. She picked up a pen and, without saying a word, changed my signature from Ma Li – Horse the Powerful to Ma Li – Horse the Beautiful. I then let the story go out that way. I expected the usual rejection. But out of the blue, good fortune struck – a month later, I was informed that my story had been accepted for publication. Words couldn’t express my happiness – I threw my arms around my mother and jumped up and down like a child. Misfortunes don’t come singly, but my good fortunes came one after another. A few months after that, I got another letter inviting me to an awards ceremony. My story had won a prize. The day I was to receive my award, I got up very early. I was too excited to sleep the night before. At last, I had achieved something for myself, for my mother – for all women, I thought. Mother had stay up all night finishing a lovely dress for me. She helped me to dress up and when I was ready and walked to the mirror, I found my reflection was not at all oafish and rough. Instead, I was very presentable. Draped in the soft lavender dress, I could even be called graceful. It didn’t seem self-indulgent to think so. The mood at the award ceremony was jovial and warm. The exhilaration I felt when I was presented with the certificate and the prize money was almost holy. An editor, a man in his forties, congratulated me warmly. He introduced himself, saying he was the one who’d handled my story. Admiration and gratitude swept through me. “Originally,” he said, with a smile, “your story was far below that standard. But then we realized we hadn’t enough women writers. Your piece was included on my strong recommendation.” “But how did you know I was female?” “Even though I had never met you, well, Ma Li is a beautiful name, after all.” The implication was that it could only be the name of a woman. So – then Ma Li – Horse the Powerful – had to be the name of a man. How God must have enjoyed this joke he was playing with me! The elation that had carried me through the past few months, and the holy felicity, froze like polluted ice. Though the hall still radiated warmth and fellowship, I was chilled to the bone. I slipped away and ran as if someone were chasing me. The moment I got home and into my room, I burst into tears. Horse the Powerful, who never cried, now sobbed like an infant. The room seemed to smother me. I shot out onto the balcony, and shouted toward Heaven, the golden sun and God (If there was God.) at the top of my voice – “I HATE BEING A GIRL!”
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