To Remember in America

2026年2月6日

上世紀(jì)70年代，我在北京上幼兒園時(shí)，有一位老師似乎從折磨孩子中獲得了無(wú)窮無(wú)盡的樂(lè)趣。每次游戲時(shí)間，她都會(huì)提前把某個(gè)孩子罰站——因?yàn)樗翱闯觥蹦呛⒆蛹磳⒄{(diào)皮搗蛋。而她的懲罰方式堪稱“獨(dú)創(chuàng)”：孩子既不能站著，也不能坐著，只能蹲著，就像在用露天茅廁一樣。我常常就是那個(gè)孩子，因?yàn)樗X(jué)得我聰明得“過(guò)了頭”。有一次，她把手比成手槍抵住我的頭，說(shuō)：“砰?！?/p>

但那還不是最糟的。她上小學(xué)五年級(jí)的兒子，常在午休時(shí)來(lái)我們幼兒園。他母親會(huì)坐在午睡室門口織毛衣，而那個(gè)男孩——在我們四歲孩子眼里簡(jiǎn)直像個(gè)巨人——?jiǎng)t拿著一把錘子在床鋪間來(lái)回踱步，威脅說(shuō)誰(shuí)要是敢動(dòng)一下或發(fā)出一點(diǎn)聲音，就砸碎他的腦袋。每次那個(gè)可怕的男孩進(jìn)來(lái)，我都會(huì)隔著床欄，緊緊握住旁邊小床上那個(gè)男孩的手，嚇得動(dòng)彈不得。

幾十年后，我回北京探望母親，竟在路上遇見(jiàn)了那位老師。如今她已是個(gè)虛弱的老婦人，正朝我們走來(lái)。母親告訴我，她經(jīng)常打聽(tīng)我的近況，讓我打個(gè)招呼。我斷然拒絕。當(dāng)她和母親寒暄時(shí)，我轉(zhuǎn)過(guò)身去背對(duì)著她。事后母親責(zé)備我太無(wú)禮。我解釋說(shuō)，這個(gè)女人很邪惡，當(dāng)年虐待過(guò)我們這些孩子。母親卻以她一貫的篤定語(yǔ)氣說(shuō)：“這不可能是真的。你們當(dāng)時(shí)為什么不告訴家長(zhǎng)？其他老師為什么沒(méi)阻止她？”見(jiàn)我沉默不語(yǔ)，她便斷定我們那時(shí)一定太淘氣，并引用了一句俗語(yǔ)：“可憐之人，必有可恨之處?！?/p>

每天早上上學(xué)路上，我都會(huì)哭。但一個(gè)四歲的孩子，哪懂得如何表達(dá)自己的恐懼與痛苦？幼兒園里還有其他大人，卻似乎沒(méi)人覺(jué)得那位老師的做法有何不妥（也許即便家長(zhǎng)知道，也不會(huì)覺(jué)得有什么問(wèn)題）。他們都從這位老師的管教中獲益——我們變得乖順、易于管理。

生活在今天的美國(guó)，讓我想起了那所幼兒園：那種肆虐的暴政；那些像拿錘子的男孩一樣，因?yàn)榭梢詾樗麨槎烈馄哿锜o(wú)辜者的男人；還有那些像我母親一樣的人，堅(jiān)稱“這不可能是真的，生活不會(huì)那么糟糕”；如果壞事發(fā)生了，一定是你自己的問(wèn)題；別惹事；保持希望吧——中期選舉時(shí)會(huì)好轉(zhuǎn)的，四年后會(huì)變好的，總有一天會(huì)好起來(lái)的。

一位住在倫敦的朋友提到，最近她總聽(tīng)到一句令人費(fèi)解的話：“這不是美國(guó)，這不是我們的樣子?！钡@就是美國(guó)，這就是生活，這就是人類的行為方式。美國(guó)例外論救不了我們。我和朋友們現(xiàn)在出門前都會(huì)確保手機(jī)電量充足——必要時(shí)可以錄像取證。這雖只是微小之舉，卻也并非毫無(wú)風(fēng)險(xiǎn)。

我不知道當(dāng)年在幼兒園里和我手拉手的那個(gè)小男孩，是否還記得我們共同經(jīng)歷過(guò)的恐懼。那時(shí)他被視作“遲鈍”，而我曾多次為他挺身而出，惹了不少麻煩。后來(lái)上了小學(xué)，我不再能保護(hù)他，他遭受了更多欺凌和虐待。五十年過(guò)去了，如今我能為他做的，唯有銘記——正如當(dāng)年他握住我的手，給予我那一點(diǎn)點(diǎn)卻至關(guān)重要的慰藉。

To Remember in America

Yiyun Li

When I was at nursery school in Beijing in the 1970s, there was a teacher who seemed to find tireless pleasure in tormenting the children. At playtime, she would pre-emptively put a child on a time out, as she could see that the child was heading into mischief. And her punishment – an ingenious invention – was that the child could not stand or sit but had to squat as though using an open-air toilet. I was often that child, as she thought I was too smart for my own good. She once put her hand into the shape of a pistol to my head and said: bang.

But that was not the worst. Her son, who was in fifth grade at the nearby elementary school, would visit us on his lunch break. His mother would sit at the entrance of the nap room, knitting, while the boy – who looked like a giant to us four-year-olds – would walk around with a hammer, threatening to bash our skulls in if anyone dared to move or make a sound. Every time the teacher’s monstrous son came in, I would hold hands through the bedrail with the boy in the cot next to mine, paralysed by fear.

Decades later, visiting my mother in Beijing, I saw the teacher, by now a frail old woman, walking toward us. My mother told me that the teacher often asked about me and that I should greet her. Absolutely not, I said, and turned my back to the woman when she exchanged greetings with my mother, who afterwards chastised me for being rude. I explained that the woman was evil and had abused us as children. My mother said, with her usual certainty: ‘That can’t be true. Why didn’t you or the other children tell the parents? Why didn’t the other teachers stop her?’ When I didn’t reply, she concluded that we were simply too naughty and went on to quote a proverb that anyone who finds himself in a pitiful situation must harbour something worth hating.

I cried every morning on the way to nursery school, but few four-year-olds would know how to articulate their terror and misery. There were other adults at the school, but none of them seemed to find the teacher’s practice unacceptable (and perhaps the parents, had they known, would not have done either). All of them must have benefited from the teacher’s regime – we were obedient, easily manageable.

Living in today’s America reminds me of that nursery school. The reigning tyranny; the men who brutalise the innocent – like the boy with the hammer – because they can; the people who, like my mother, say this can’t be true, life can’t be that terrible; if bad things happen, you are the problem; do not provoke; keep up the hope; things will be better – by the midterms, in four years, some day.

A friend in London talks about the mystifying phrase she keeps hearing these days: ‘This is not America, this is not who we are.’ But this is America, this is life, and this is how human beings behave. American exceptionalism will not save us. My friends and I have all made sure that our phones are fully charged when we leave the house – to record if necessary, a small act, though not entirely risk free.

I don’t know if the little boy who held hands with me at nursery school remembers the terror we lived through. He was considered ‘backward’, and I got into plenty of trouble fighting for him. He was later mistreated and bullied at elementary school, where I was no longer able to protect him. Fifty years on, remembering is the only thing I can do for him, as he once offered me a tiny and essential comfort by holding my hand.

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