原文
You learn an instrument when you are 6, performing whenever a guest comes around.
You learn poetry when you are 7, memorizing lines that will take you decades to appreciate.
You are told to be the best, even though you know you can’t always be the best.
You are put into a school, and from then on you feel you shoulder a grave expectation.
Your teacher calls your parents because of your falling grades.
Your mother yells at you while your father stays silent.
You catch your mother weeping and decide to do your best.
You stay up late to prep for the entrance exam to junior high. Your mother comes in and gives you a glass of warm milk. She does this every night. You realize you’ve never told her you love her. You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You see the white creeping into her hair. It stings you.
You get into High school. You fall in love. Your teachers are all against it but you don’t care. You know it’s going to be forever.
You break your heart.
You study all day and all night, complaining about Gaokao while writing your 3rd practice exam for the day.
You feel like you’re going to die from the stress.
You don’t.
You go off to university, maybe somewhere far away.
Your parents see you off.
You feel lonely and lost. And for the first time, you appreciate the stress of Gaokao, the camaraderie forged in that fire will be memories for life.
You rarely come home, busy with your own stuff. Even on the phone it’s hard to find things to say. But you try your best when it’s Chinese New Year.
You see your relatives. They comment on how tall you’ve grown.
You don’t recognize half of them, but they seem keen on knowing every detail about you: Have you found somebody yet? Do you have a job? How much does it pay?
You remember this road, but was that store always there?
You get nervous butterflies when you’re finally about to enter your old home. Huh, so the old poets had a point after all.
Your mother is in the kitchen. Your father is drinking tea on the balcony. They look older. You don’t mention it. They rush to greet you, asking about your life. You’re fine, you say. You’re fine, you’re fine.
You eat as much as you could, but your parents tell you to eat more. You’re not used to this much affection. You don’t know how to react.
You notice your mother washing the dishes. You get up to help.
You are back in your old room, on your computer late into the night. You hear someone step in. A glass of warm milk is put on your table. You feel something rupture.
You wait until she leaves the room, lean back and stare up into the sky…
You’ve grown up.
And unfortunately, that’s all I can say for now, since I’m 20 myself. I could write more but it won’t be real. (Not that this is, but it should be relatable to most).
But being Chinese is much like being anything else. You laugh when you’re happy. You cry when you’re sad. You sometimes feel like you can’t go on, but then you notice in the horizon, the clouds washing over the sunset, like the cold winter waves over the beaches of summer. And you realize how beautiful it all is and you pick yourself up and move on.
感触
今天吃饭的时候刷 quora 看到了这个回答，感触良多。看到 *Your mother comes in and gives you a glass of warm milk. She does this every night. * 的时候就想起了归有光的《项脊轩志》里的 娘以指叩门扉曰：‘儿寒乎？欲食乎？’。每每看到类似的句子的时候，总是头皮发麻，有一种难以诉说的情绪萦绕在心头，大抵世上除了母亲不会再有人如此能照顾孩子了吧。
妪，先大母婢也，乳二世，先妣（bǐ）抚之甚厚。室西连于中闺，先妣尝一至。妪每谓余（予）曰：“某所，而母立于兹。”妪又曰：“汝姊（zǐ）在吾怀，呱呱（gū）而泣；娘以指叩门扉曰：‘儿寒乎？欲食乎？’吾从板外相为应答。”语未毕， 余泣，妪亦泣。余自束发，读书轩中，一日，大母过余曰：“吾儿，久不见若影，何竟日默默在此，大类女郎也？”比去，以手阖门，自语曰：“吾家读书久不效，儿之成，则可待乎！”顷之，持一象笏（hù）至，曰：“此吾祖太常公宣德间执此以朝，他日汝当用之！”瞻顾遗迹，如在昨日，令人长号不自禁。