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w关键词：grandfather/爷爷，Korea/韩国，name/名字 |
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w目录：Family/亲情 |
w话题：亲情，爷爷 |
w类型：记叙文 |
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w难度级别：
初级 |
w词汇要求：900 |
w文章词数：460
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[ 生 词 可 拖 选 或 双 击 ] |
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He pushed it
toward me.
“For me?” I asked.
他把它推到我这里。
“给我的吗？”我问道。 |
My
Korean name（II）
我的朝鲜名字(下)
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作者：Leonard Chang [美国] |
来源：www.highlightskids.com |
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日期：2008-4-13 |
责编：Emma |
(Illustrated by Eujin Kim Neilan)
One day I was watching him draw
lines on the paper. He looked up and said,
“You.” I was surprised. Another
English word.
“Me,” I said.
He smiled, his face wrinkling.
“You,” he said again. “Won Chul.”
“Me,” I said. “Won Chul is my
middle name.”
He nodded and dipped his brush in
the inkstone, shaking off some of the extra ink. “You,” he said.
“Won Chul.”
“I know my middle name,” I said,
getting annoyed.
He talked to me in Korean again
for a long time, then motioned for me to come closer.
I walked to him. He smelled like
mothballs and fish.
He drew some stick figures
overlapping each other, swirling his brush easily, quickly.
“Won,” he said, pointing.
He drew another figure, this time
going slowly. The brush made a swish sound on the thin rice
paper. He pointed to this second figure and said, “Chul.”
Bringing me nearer so that I could study the picture, he said,
“Won Chul. You.”
“That’s my name?”
He nodded. “Won Chul.”
“That looks neat,” I said.
He pushed it toward me.
“For me?” I asked.
“For Won Chul,” he said.
My mother later told me that this
was hanja, a special Korean way of writing using the Chinese
alphabet. This was the hanja version of my Korean name. She
said, “Your grandfather was once a famous artist. All the people
in his town wanted him to draw their names.”
“Wow,” I said, holding the rice
paper carefully.
“You know what your name means,
don’t you?” she said. “It means ‘Wise One.’ Do you remember?”
“I remember,” I said. I held up
my Korean name to the light, the paper so thin it glowed.
Not too long after that my
grandfather went to a nursing home, and during the next summer
he died while I was away at camp. My father turned the attic
into a storage room. Now it's filled with dusty boxes of old
clothes and shoes and old furniture.
I still have the drawing of my
Korean name. My mother had it framed for me, and it hangs in my
room right now. I wonder what my grandfather used to tell me
those afternoons when he spoke in Korean, going on and on in
this strange language that I never learned. Maybe he was telling
me stories. Maybe he was telling me about his life in Korea.
Sometimes, if I go up into the
attic and listen very carefully, I can almost hear his voice
rising and falling, telling me stories I don't understand. I can
almost see him in the corner, hunched over, listening to his
radio and fanning himself. I can see him swishing his brush over
the rice paper, and then pointing to me, telling me my own name.
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