打字奏鳴曲

By Pamela A.Lewis

Shortly after I graduated from junior high school in 1968， my mother began repeating her mantra：“Learn to type， and doors will open for you， Pam.” It was nearly Pavlovian. Anything remotely connected to typing—an image of a typewriter， hearing the word “type”—could elicit this statement from her， often accompanied with finger-wagging and a small yet audible “humpf！” I would respond with a sighed “Yes， Mom” or， when out of her view， a much-practiced eye roll.

“學(xué)打字，”身為移民的母親催促我說，“這是一種美國技能。”

When my mother and father came from Guyana to the United States， she brought her memories， photos， and a recipe on yellowing paper for rum fruitcake. She also brought her sewing and cosmetology skills. Sewing secured her a full-time job as a finisher in New Yorks garment district， and cosmetology garnered extra money from occasional hairdressing work.

Typing was not on her résumé. To her， it was an essential “American skill.” That meant it was up to me， her American-born child， to learn to type. She raised the stakes considerably when， the summer after I graduated from junior high， she gave me a burnt sienna Olivetti portable typewriter for my birthday. “Thanks， Mom， but I cant type，” I gently reminded her.

“Thats going to change，” she answered， also gently.“Soon.” Mom was a woman of her word. “Soon” arrived just one week later， when we took the bus to ever-busy Steinway Street in the New York City neighborhood of Long Island City to the Crown Business Institute， which was tucked in among the shops. Besides typing， the institute offered classes in stenography， bookkeeping， and other office skills. My mother practically pushed me through the door.

Inside， my eye fell on rows of students typing in front of bulky Smith-Corona or Royal typewriters. Each was curved purposefully over a spiral-bound typing practice book. Beginners picked their way around their keyboard while more accomplished typists performed dazzling digital feats， producing the machines distinctive clackityclacking music.

I was as impressed as I was skeptical that I would ever achieve such proficiency. But before I could utter a protest， my mother had enrolled me for six weeks of typing lessons. Now there was no turning back. Every weekday morning I reported to Crown for lessons that began at 10 oclock； by noon we were finished， after which I went home， fingers aching from the stiff manual machines.

As the lessons progressed， Mom began to show me a side of herself that I had never seen. The usually mildmannered woman morphed into a drill sergeant who made me practice my typing strokes over and over until Im sure that even my Olivetti was begging for mercy.

“Do this row again，” shed order. “No TV until you improve your spacing.” Shed add. Who is this woman？ I wondered， and what had she done with my mom？ Someone who purportedly knew zilch about typing had become an expert， seemingly overnight. Mom wanted me to succeed， and to make that happen she studied my typing practice book， memorizing the keyboard， the techniques， and the various exercises. She did everything short of typing them herself.

As she had done when I was learning to play the piano （except this time there was no metronome）， my mother prodded me when I became lax in my practicing， encouraged and comforted me when I struggled or wanted to give up. When I became fatigued and frustrated， she hauled out her well-worn but still effective typing-can-opendoors dictum， and I would set my gaze like a flint on the practice book， making music on my Olivetti portable.

Sharing space in an old file folder with my high school and college diplomas is the certificate I received from the Crown Business Institute attesting to my successful completion of the typing course， which had culminated in an aptitude test. When I first showed it to my mother， decades ago， it was only the second time I had ever seen her cry.

Mom was right. Many doors did open for me once Id become as confident and fleet-fingered as those students Id marveled at that first day I reluctantly arrived at Crown. My life would have been markedly different had Mom not insisted on my learning to type at a relatively young age and while she was able to help me. I mastered the typewriter， but the key to my success was the woman who pushed me through one door so future doors could open. That old and faded certificate is just as much hers as it is mine.

1968年我初中畢業(yè)后不久，母親就開始嘮叨她的咒語：“學(xué)打字，門就會為你打開，帕姆?！边@幾乎成了一種條件反射。任何與打字有絲毫聯(lián)系的東西——看到打字機(jī)圖片，聽到“打字”這個詞——都能從她身上引出這句話，還經(jīng)常伴隨著她的手指擺動和一個微小但清晰可辨的“哼”聲。我就會唉聲嘆氣地回應(yīng)：“好的，媽媽”，或在她看不到我時給她一個熟練的白眼 。

當(dāng)我的母親和父親從圭亞那來到美國時，她帶來了自己的記憶、照片和寫在黃紙上的朗姆酒水果蛋糕配方。她還帶來了縫紉和美容技能?？p紉技能使她在紐約服裝區(qū)獲得了一份精整工的全職工作，美容術(shù)也使她從偶爾的美發(fā)工作中賺些外快。

打字并不在她的簡歷上。對她來說，這是一項(xiàng)基本的“美國技能”。那就意味著學(xué)習(xí)打字則要取決于我這個她在美國生下的孩子。在我初中畢業(yè)后的那個夏天，她送給我一臺深褐色的奧利維蒂便攜式打字機(jī)作為我的生日禮物，這極大地提高了她的賭注?！爸x謝，媽媽，但我不會打字，”我溫柔地提醒她。

“這會改變的，”她也溫柔地回答?！昂芸??！眿寢屖莻€守信的人?！昂芸臁本驮谝恢芎髞淼搅?，當(dāng)時我們乘公共汽車去了紐約長島市內(nèi)繁忙的斯坦韋街，皇冠商學(xué)院就隱匿于那些商店中間。除了打字，學(xué)院還開設(shè)速記、簿記和其他辦公技能的課程。事實(shí)上，是我母親敦促我開門走了進(jìn)去。

在里面，我的目光落到了正在笨重的史密斯-科羅娜或皇家打字機(jī)前打字的一排學(xué)生身上。每個學(xué)生都刻意彎腰對著一本螺旋裝訂的打字練習(xí)本。初學(xué)者小心翼翼地環(huán)繞著他們的鍵盤，而更熟練的打字員則做著令人眼花繚亂的數(shù)字技藝表演，讓打字機(jī)發(fā)出了獨(dú)特的嗒嗒響的樂聲。

我大受觸動，同時也懷疑自己能否也達(dá)到這樣的熟練程度。但在我提出抗議之前，母親已為我報名上六個星期的打字課?，F(xiàn)在沒有回頭路了。每個工作日的早晨，我都去皇冠商學(xué)院參加10點(diǎn)開始的課程；直到中午下課后回家，起身離開那些難操作的手動打字機(jī)時我的手指已是疼痛難忍。

隨著課程的開展，媽媽開始向我展示她那我從未見過的一面。這個平時溫文爾雅的女士搖身一變成為一名訓(xùn)練中士，她讓我一遍又一遍地練習(xí)打字的動作，直到我確信連我那臺奧利維蒂打字機(jī)都在乞求她的憐憫。

“把這排再打一遍，”她命令道，然后補(bǔ)充說“在你改進(jìn)字/行間距之前不要看電視。”我想知道這個女人是誰？她的所作所為怎么一點(diǎn)兒都不像我媽媽？據(jù)稱對打字一無所知的人成了專家，似乎也是一夜之間的事情。媽媽希望我成功，為了實(shí)現(xiàn)這一點(diǎn)，她研究了我的打字練習(xí)本，記住了鍵盤、技巧和各種練習(xí)方法。除了親自打字外，她什么都做了。

就像她在我學(xué)彈鋼琴時做的那樣（除了這次沒有節(jié)拍器），當(dāng)我練習(xí)稍有松懈時，母親就會激勵我，當(dāng)我掙扎或想放棄時，她就會鼓勵并安慰我。當(dāng)我感到疲憊和沮喪時，她就搬出她那老生常談但仍然有效的“打字可以為你開一扇門”的名言，這樣一來，我就會打起精神專注地盯著練習(xí)本，讓我的手提奧利維蒂打字機(jī)奏響樂曲。

在一個舊文件夾的共享空間中，與我的高中和大學(xué)文憑放在一起的是我從皇冠商學(xué)院獲得的結(jié)業(yè)證書，這表明我成功修完了打字課程，并順利通過了能力測試。幾十年前當(dāng)我第一次把它展示給母親時，母親哭了，這是我第二次看到她這樣。

媽媽說的沒錯。我還記得第一天自己不情愿地到皇冠商學(xué)院后，對那里學(xué)生的自信和指法嫻熟深感驚奇，一旦我變得和他們一樣時，確實(shí)有許多扇門為我打開了。如果不是媽媽在我還很年輕而且在她還能幫助我時堅(jiān)持要我學(xué)打字，我的生活可能會與現(xiàn)在大相徑庭。我精通了打字，但我成功的關(guān)鍵在于這樣一位女性，她激勵我推開了一扇門，這樣未來的很多扇門就可以打開了。那張褪色的舊結(jié)業(yè)證書表明媽媽的付出并不比我的少。