| 1. | shabby |
| 2. | hoarse |
| 3. | depression |
| 4. | conviction |
| 5. | acquaintance |
| 6. | interviewee |
Mr. Fox was a tall and thin black man in his sixties, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. He had hard brown hair with a lot of gray, which showed his age.
I explained the reason I had come to visit him. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions about your experience during the Great Depression.” As I was saying this, Mr. Fox looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes as if he had been taking himself back to the 1930s. Opening his eyes, he said, “OK, go ahead.” He spoke slowly in his deep, hoarse voice.
I was then an undergraduate student majoring in American Studies. I had chosen this major because I was interested in my roots. As my coursework, Thad to interview three black Americans who had experienced the Great Depression in order to investigate what kind of period the Depression had been for black people. I had prepared a set of questions I wanted to ask Mr. Fox, but it seemed too awkward to put a written questionnaire in front of this old man. So I had decided to let our conversation flow as naturally as possible. After a couple of exchanges, I asked a question about his family. Mr. Fox didn’t respond immediately. He lit a cigarette and cleared his throat while smoking. Then he started to tell his story slowly. Looking into his face and listening to his voice, I was suddenly struck by something. I realized that there was a shadow of my face in his face, and there was an echo of my voice in his voice. I was convinced that he must be the father who had deserted me when I was still young.
This man, sitting in front of me without knowing who I was, was my roots I had long been searching for in my mind. My conviction became the truth when he admitted that he had had a family in Mobile, Alabama, which he abandoned a long time ago. I was about to say, “Dad, I’m your…” but somehow I held back. Instead of accusing him of what he had done to me, I forgave him in my heart. When I looked past him to the drifting clouds through the window, I realized that my father was a poor man who had gone to the city seeking a living, but who had failed in the city. This man in front of me must remain Mr. Fox, just an acquaintance who happened to be one of my interviewees.
| 1. | When I knocked on the door, Mr. Fox quickly responded, “Come on in.” He didn’t even ask who it was. I opened the door, and he looked at me closely and greeted me with a toothless smile, inviting me to sit on the shabby sofa. Since Mr. Fox was my next-door neighbor in the same apartment complex, we had known each other. Mr. Fox was a tall and thin black man in his sixties, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. He had hard brown hair with a lot of gray, which showed his age. I explained the reason I had come to visit him. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions about your experience during the Great Depression.” As I was saying this, Mr. Fox looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes as if he had been taking himself back to the 1930s. Opening his eyes, he said, “OK, go ahead.” He spoke slowly in his deep, hoarse voice. |
| 2. | I was then an undergraduate student majoring in American Studies. I had chosen this major because I was interested in my roots. As my coursework, Thad to interview three black Americans who had experienced the Great Depression in order to investigate what kind of period the Depression had been for black people. I had prepared a set of questions I wanted to ask Mr. Fox, but it seemed too awkward to put a written questionnaire in front of this old man. So I had decided to let our conversation flow as naturally as possible. After a couple of exchanges, I asked a question about his family. Mr. Fox didn’t respond immediately. He lit a cigarette and cleared his throat while smoking. Then he started to tell his story slowly. Looking into his face and listening to his voice, I was suddenly struck by something. I realized that there was a shadow of my face in his face, and there was an echo of my voice in his voice. I was convinced that he must be the father who had deserted me when I was still young. |
| 3. | This man, sitting in front of me without knowing who I was, was my roots I had long been searching for in my mind. My conviction became the truth when he admitted that he had had a family in Mobile, Alabama, which he abandoned a long time ago. I was about to say, “Dad, I’m your…” but somehow I held back. Instead of accusing him of what he had done to me, I forgave him in my heart. When I looked past him to the drifting clouds through the window, I realized that my father was a poor man who had gone to the city seeking a living, but who had failed in the city. This man in front of me must remain Mr. Fox, just an acquaintance who happened to be one of my interviewees. |
| 1: | What did you think about the story? |
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| 2: | What is the main point of the story? |
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| 3: | What is your favorite part? |
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| 4: | What is your favorite expression in the story? |
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