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I sat brooding on my front steps, nursing my wound and waiting for my mother to come fromwork. I felt that a grave injustice had been done me. It was all right to throw cinders. The greatest harm a cinder could do was leave a bruise. But broken bottles were dangerous; they left you cut, bleeding, and helpless.
我垂头丧气地坐在家门前的台阶上，一边小心地护着伤口，一边等着母亲干完活回家。我感到自己受到了莫大的委屈。扔煤渣其实没什么大不了，至多也不过给人留下一些青肿擦伤。可是破玻璃瓶就危险了，会割破你皮肉，使你流血，让你茫然不知所措。
When night fell, my mother came from the white folks' kitchen. I raced down the street to meet her. I could just feel in my bones that she would understand. I knew she would tell me exactly what to do next time. I grabbed her hand and babbled out the whole story. She examined my wound, then slapped me.
直到夜幕降临，我母亲才离开白人家的厨房回来。我冲到街上奔跑着去迎接她。我从骨子里头感到她会理解我，而且会告诉我下次该怎么做。我一把抓住她的手，咿咿呀呀地把全部经过告诉了她。她检查了一下我的伤口，接着就重重地打了我一巴掌。
"How come yuh didn't hide?" she asked me. "How come yuh aways fighting?"
"你怎么不躲避?"她问我。"你为什么老是干仗?"
I was outraged and bawled. Between sobs I told her that I didn't have any trees or hedges to hide behind. There wasn't a thing I could have used as a trench. And you couldn't throw very far when you were hiding behind the brick pillars of a house. She grabbed a barrel stave, dragged me home, stripped me naked, and beat me till I had a fever of one hundred and two. She would smack my rump with the stave, and, while the skin was still smarting, impart to me gems of Jim Crow wisdom. I was never to throw cinders any more. I was never to fight any more wars. I was never, never, under any conditions, to fight white folks again. And they were absolutely right in clouting me with the broken milk bottle. Didn't I know she was working hard every day in the hot kitchens of the white folks to make money to take care of me? When was I ever going to learn to be a good boy? She couldn't be bothered with my fights. She finished by telling me that I ought to be thankful to God as long as I lived that they didn't kill me.
我气极了，禁不住放声大哭。我边哭泣边告诉她，我没有可以躲避的树木和篱笆，也没有可以藏身的壕沟。要是躲在砖柱子后面，那就扔不远了。她操起一块板条，把我拖回家中，剥光我的衣服，痛打了我一顿，直到我发起华氏102度高烧来。她总是用木板打我的屁股，趁我皮肉还在针刺般地疼痛时，她送给了我如何做一个逆来顺受的黑鬼的金玉良言。我千万不可再扔煤渣了，千万不可再干仗了，在任何情况下，都绝对不可再去跟白人干仗了。他们使劲向我掷破牛奶瓶也是绝对正确的。难道我不知道她整日在白人家闷热的厨房里辛辛苦苦干活就是为了挣钱养活我？我什么时候才能学会做个好孩子？她不能再为我跟人打斗操心了。末了她对我说，我该一辈子感谢上帝，没有让他们把我打死。
All that night I was delirious and could not sleep. Each time I closed my eyes I saw monstrous white faces suspended from the ceiling, leering at me.
那一晚，我整夜恍恍惚惚，无法入睡。每当我闭上眼睛，就会看到恶魔般的白人面孔悬挂在天花板上，向我做着鬼脸。
From that time on, the charm of my cinder yard was gone. The green trees, the trimmed hedges, the cropped lawns grew very meaningful, became a symbol. Even today when I think of white folks, the hard, sharp outlines of white houses surrounded by trees, lawns, and hedges are present somewhere in the background of my mind. Through the years they grew into an overreaching symbol of fear.
从那时起，煤渣院子对我失去了吸引力。绿油油的树木，修剪过的篱笆和草坪渐渐生出一层新意，成了一种象征。直至今日，每当我想到白人时，那些四周绕着树木、草坪、篱笆的白色房子的鲜明刺眼的轮廓仍然会出现在我的脑海深处。经年累月，它们成了我摆脱不了的恐惧的象征。
