现代大学英语精读第二版（第四册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——10B - None of This Is Fair（毫无公平可言）

Unit 10B - None of This Is Fair

None of This Is Fair

Richard Rodriguez

My plan to become a professor of English—my ambition during long years in college at Stanford, then in graduate school at Columbia and Berkeley—was complicated by feelings of embarrassment and guilt. So many times I would see other Mexican-Americans and know we were alike only in race. And yet, simply because our race was the same, I was, during the last years of my schooling, the beneficiary of their situation. Affirmative Action programs had made it all possible. The disadvantages of others permitted my promotion; the absence of many Mexican-Americans from academic life allowed my designation as a "minority student."

For me opportunities had been extravagant. There were fellowships, summer research grants, and teaching assistantships. After only two years in graduate school, I was offered teaching jobs by several colleges. Invitations to Washington conferences arrived and I had the chance to travel abroad as a "Mexican-American representative." The benefits were often, however, too gaudy to please. In three published essays, in conversations with teachers, in letters to politicians and at conferences, I worried the issue of Affirmative Action. Often I proposed contradictory opinions. Though consistent was the admission that—because of an early, excellent education—I was no longer a principle victim of racism or any other social oppression . I said that but still I continued to indicate on application for financial aid that I was a Hispanic-American. It didn't really occur to me to say anything else, or to leave the question unanswered.

Thus I complied with and encouraged the odd bureaucratic logic of Affirmative Action. I let government officials treat the disadvantaged condition of many Mexican-Americans with my advancement. Each fall my presence was noted by Health, Education and Welfare Department statisticians. As I pursued advanced literary studies and learned the skill of reading Spenser and Wordsworth and Emerson, I would hear myself numbered among the culturally disadvantaged. Still, silent, I didn't object.

But the irony cut deep. And guilt would not be evaded by averting my glance when I confronted a face like my own in a crowd. By late 1975, nearing the completion of my graduate studies at Berkeley, I was so wary of the benefits of Affirmative Action that I feared my inevitable success as an applicant for a teaching position. The months of fall—traditionally that time of academic job-searching—passed without my applying to a single school. When one of my professors chanced to learn this in late November, he was astonished, then furious. He yelled at me: Did I think that because I was a minority student jobs would just come looking for me? What was I thinking? Did I realize that he and several other faculty members had already written letters on my behalf? Was I going to start acting like some other minority students he had known? They struggled for success and then when it was almost within reach, grew strangely afraid and let it pass. Was that it? Was I determined to fail?

I did not respond to his questions. I didn't want to admit to him, and thus to myself, the reason I delayed.

I merely agreed to write to several schools. (In my letter I wrote: "I cannot claim to represent disadvantaged Mexican-Americans. The very fact that I am in a position to apply for this job should make that clear.") After two or three days, there were telegrams and phone calls, invitations to interviews, then airplane trips. A blur of faces and the murmur of their soft questions. And, over someone's shoulder, the sight of campus buildings shadowing pictures I had seen years before when I leafed through Ivy League catalogues with great expectations. At the end of each visit, interviewers would smile and wonder if I had any questions. A few times I quietly wondered what advantage my race had given me over other applicants. But that was an impossible question for them to answer without embarrassing me. Quickly, several persons insisted that my ethnic identity had given me no more than a "foot inside the door": at most, I had a "slight edge" over other applicants. "We just looked at your dossier with extra care and we liked what we saw. There was never any question of having to alter our standards. You can be certain of that."

In the early part of January, offers arrived on stiffly elegant stationery. Most schools promised terms appropriate for any new assistant professor. A few made matters worse—and almost more tempting—by offering more: the use of university housing; an unusually larger starting salary; a reduced teaching schedule. As the stack of letters mounted, my hesitation increased. I started calling department chairmen to ask for another week, then 10 more days—"more time to reach a decision"—to avoid the decision I would need to make.

At school, meantime, some students hadn't received a single job offer. One man, probably the best student in the department, did not even get a request for his dossier. He and I met outside a classroom one day and he asked about my opportunities. He seemed happy for me. Faculty members beamed. They said they had expected it. "After all, not many schools are going to pass up getting a Chicano with a PhD in Renaissance literature," somebody said, laughing. Friends wanted to know which of the offers I was going to accept. But I couldn't make up my mind. February came and I was running out of time and excuses. (One chairman guessed my delay was bargaining ploy and increased his offer with each of my calls.) I had to promise a decision by the 10th; the 12th at the very latest.

On the 18th of February, late in the afternoon, I was in the office I shared with several other teaching assistants. Another graduate was sitting across the room at his desk. When I got up to leave, he looked over to say in an uneventful voice that he had some big news. He had finally decided to accept a position at a faraway university. It was not a job he especially wanted, he admitted. But he had to take it because there hadn't been any other offers. He felt trapped, and depressed, since his job would separate him from his young daughter.

I tried to encourage him by remarking that he was lucky at least to have found a job. So many others hadn't been able to get anything. But before I finished speaking I realized that I had said the wrong thing. And I anticipated his next question.

"What are your plans?" he wanted to know. "Is it true you've gotten an offer from Yale?"

I said that it was. "Only, I still haven't made up my mind."

He stared at me as I put on my jacket. And smiling, then unsmiling, he asked if I knew that he too had written to Yale. In his case, however, no one had bothered to acknowledge his letter with even a postcard. What did I think of that?

He gave me no time to answer.

"Damn!" he said sharply and his chair rasped the floor as he pushed himself back. Suddenly, It was to me that he was complaining. "It's just not right, Richard. None of this is fair. You've done some good work, but so have I. I'll bet our records are just about equal. But when we look for jobs this year, it's a different story. You get all of the breaks.''

To evade his criticism, I wanted to side with him. I was about to admit the injustice of Affirmative Action. But he went on, his voice hard with accusation. "It's all very simple this year. You're a Chicano. And I am a Jew. That's the only real difference between us."

His words stung me: there was nothing he was telling me that I didn't know. I had admitted everything already. But to hear someone else say these things, and in such an accusing tone, was suddenly hard to take. In a deceptively calm voice, I responded that he had simplified the whole issue. The phrases came like bubbles to the tip of my tongue: "new blood"; "the importance of cultural diversity"; "the goal of racial integration." These were all the arguments I had proposed several years ago—and had long since abandoned. Of course the offers were unjustifiable. I knew that. All I was saying amounted to a frantic self-defense. I tried to find an end to a sentence. My voice faltered to a stop.

"Yeah, sure," he said. "I've heard all that before. Nothing you say really changes the fact that Affirmative Action is unfair. You see that, don't you? There isn't any way for me to compete with you. Once there were quotas to keep my parents out of certain schools; now there are quotas to get you in and the effect on me is the same as it was for them."

I listened to every word he spoke. But my mind was really on something else. I knew at that moment that I would reject all of the offers. I stood there silently surprised by what an easy conclusion it was. Having prepared for so many years to teach, having trained myself to do nothing else, I had hesitated out of practical fear. But now that it was made, the decision came with relief. I immediately knew I had made the right choice.

My colleague continued talking and I realized that he was simply right. Affirmative Action programs are unfair to white students. But as I listened to him assert his rights, I thought of the seriously disadvantaged. How different they were from white, middle-class students who come armed with the testimony of their grades and aptitude scores and self-confidence to complain about the unequal treatment they now receive. I listened to them. I do not want to be careless about what they say. Their rights are important to protect. But inevitably when I hear them or their lawyers, I think about the most seriously disadvantaged, not simply Mexican-Americans, but of all those who do not ever imagine themselves going to college or becoming doctors: white, black, brown. Always poor. Silent. They are not plaintiffs before the court or against the misdirection of Affirmative Action. They lack the confidence (my confidence!) to assume their right to a good education. They lack the confidence and skills a good primary and secondary education provides and which are prerequisites for informed public life. They remain silent.

The debate drones on and surrounds them in stillness. They are distant, faraway figures like the boys I have seen peering down from freeway overpasses in some other part of town.

参考译文——毫无公平可言

毫无公平可言

理査德•罗德里格斯

我要成为一名英语教授的人生规划早就当我在斯坦福大学以及随后在哥伦比亚大学和加州大学伯克利分校研究生院读书时就形成了，却因为尴尬和愧疚之感而变得复杂。很多次我看见其他墨西哥裔美国人，我知道我们只是在种族上一样。然而，仅仅因为我们种族相同，在我求学生涯的最后几年，我成为了他们的状况的受益者。平权法案使得这一切成为可能——他人的弱势使我的提升成为可能；学术界中没有多少墨西哥裔美国人，这使得我被指定为“少数群体学生”成为可能。

对我而言，机会是非常多的，包括奖学金、夏季研究补助金和助教的职位。在研究生院待了仅两年后，便有好几所大学向我提供教学岗位。我被邀请去参加华盛顿会议，并得到以“墨西哥裔美国人代表”的身份去国外旅游的机会。然而，这些优待往往华而不实，我无法因此而高兴起来。在三篇发表的论文中，在和老师的谈话中，在写给政客的信中以及在会议中，我都提到了对平权法案的忧虑。通常我都提出反对意见。我一直认为，因为早期良好的教育，我不再是种族歧视或者其他社会压迫的受害者。虽然我嘴上那样说，但在申请经济资助时我仍然继续暗示我是西班牙裔美国人。我从来没有想过说其他的内容或者对这个问题不予回答。

因此，我遵从并鼓励平权法案古怪而官僚的逻辑。我让政府官员以我的进步来对待大多数墨西哥裔美国人的弱势状况。每年秋天，我的存在都会引起卫生部、教育部和福利部统计员们的注意。当我致力于高级文学研究并学习斯宾塞、华兹华斯以及爱默生作品的阅读技巧时，我闻知自己被计入文化弱势群体。我依然保持沉默，不予反对。

但是这种讽刺越来越深。当我在人群中面对像我一样的脸庞时，我会转移自己的目光，而这并不能消除我的愧疚感。1975年末，我在加州大学伯克利分校的研究生学习即将结束，我对平权法案所带来的益处十分瞥惕，以至于我害怕自己在申请教师职位时必然会成功。那年秋天的几个月——通常是寻找学术性工作的时期——我并未申请任何一个学校的教师工作。11月末，当我的一位教授偶然知道这件事时，他非常震惊，随之感到愤怒。他朝我大吼：是不是我觉得因为自己是个少数群体的学生，工作就会自己找上门来？我在想什么？我有没有意识到他和其他几个老师已经为我写了推荐信？我要表现得像他所知道的其他少数群体学生一样吗？他们努力奋斗寻求成功，然而却在几乎靠近成功的时候，莫名地害怕，然后让成功溜走。是那样吗？我下定决心要失败吗？

我并未回答他的问题。我不想向他、也不想向自己承认我拖延的理由。

我只是同意了会给几个学校写信。（在信里我写道：“我不会声称自己代表弱势的墨西哥裔美国人。事实是，我有能力申请这份工作，这点需要明确。”）两三天后，我便收到通知面试的电报、电话和邀请函，然后便是飞机旅程。再就是一片模糊的脸庞以及他们并不太难的问题的低语声。然后，越过某个人的肩膀，我看到校园中隐映的建筑的画面，这种画面我曾在多年前满怀希望地快速翻阅常青藤学校目录时见过。在每次面试的最后，面试者都会微笑着问我是否有问题要问。有几次我轻声地问，相对于其他申请者，我的种族带给了我什么优势。但是，如果他们回答起来，那是一个不可能不使我尴尬的问题。很快，几个人便坚持说我的种族身份只不过让我“一只脚踏入了大门”而已；至多，我只比其他申请者有“略微的优势”。“我们只是在看你的档案时额外留意了一下，我们喜欢我们所看到的。绝对不存在改变我们的标准的问题。你可以确信这一点。”

在一月份的早些时候，我收到了写在坚挺而优美的信纸上的工作邀约。大多数学校都允诺了适合任何新助理教授的条款。一部分学校让事情变得更糟——提供的条件更优越——它们提供得更多：可使用学校住房；非比寻常的高额起薪；缩减的教学计划。随着信函越来越多，我越来越踌躇不安。我开始打电话让系主任们再多给我一周的时间，然后是十多天——“更多的时间来做决定”——以逃避我需要做的决定。

此时，在学校，一些学生并未得到任何工作邀约。有位学生，大概是系里最好的学生，他甚至未得到一个要他的档案的请求。有一天，我和他在一个教室外面遇见了，他问起我的那些机会。看起来他为我感到高兴。教职工们也满面笑容。他们说他们早就预料到了会是这样。“毕竟，很少有学校会拒绝一位拥有文艺复兴文学博士学位的奇卡诺人（墨西哥裔美国人),”有个人笑着说。朋友们想知道我会接受哪个学校的邀约。但是我无法做决定。二月份来了，我用尽了时间和借口。（有位系主任以为我的拖延是讨价还价的策略，便在我每次打电话时都增加了他的邀约筹码。）我不得不许诺会在10号前做出决定；最晚是12号。

2月18号傍晚，我在和其他几位助教合用的办公室里，另一位毕业生正坐在房间另一侧的桌子旁。当我要起身离开时，他看了过来，用平淡的声音说他有条重大新闻。他最终决定接受一个很远的大学提供的职位。他承认这并不是他特别想要的工作。但是他不得不接受，因为他并没有其他的工作邀约。他感到自己陷入困境，很沮丧，因为他的工作，他不得不和自己幼小的女儿分离。

我试图鼓励他，说至少他很幸运地找到了一份工作。有那么多学生什么都没能找到。但是在我结束自己的话之前，我就意识到自己说错了话。而且，我预料到了他的下一个问题。

“你是怎么打算的？”他想知道。“你得到了耶鲁大学的邀约，这是真的吗？”

我说是的。“只是，我还没有做决定。”

当我穿上自己的夹克的时候，他盯着我看。先是笑着，然后不笑了。他问我是否知道他也给耶鲁大学写了求职信。可是，没有人费心去告知他的信已经被收到，他甚至连告知的明信片都没收到。我怎么想那件事？

他没有给我时间回答。

“可恶！”他尖声说道，他往后移动时，椅子和地面发出刺耳的刮擦声。突然，他开始向我抱怨。“这事不对头，理查德。这毫无公平可言。你表现很优秀，但我也是。我敢打赌我们的履历基本差不多。但是今年我们找工作时,情况完全不同。你得到了所有的机会。”

为了逃避他的指责，我想支持他的看法。我要承认平权法案的不公平。但是他一直说着，他的声音严厉而充满谴责。“今年的情况很简单。你是奇卡诺人（墨西哥裔美国人)，而我是个犹太人。这才是我们之间唯一的真正区别。”

他的话刺痛了我：他所告诉我的我都知道。我已经承认了这一切。但是听到其他人说这些事情，并以这样谴责的语调，突然让我很难接受。我用装出来的平静的声音回应他,说他简化了整个问题。那些词语就像泡沫般跳到我的舌尖上：“新生力量”，“文化多元化的重要性”，“种族融合的目标”。这些都是我几年前提出的观点——很早之前就被摒弃了。这些工作邀约当然不公平。我知道的。我所说的那些只不过是慌乱的自我防卫。我试着结束自己的话。我的声音颤抖着停止了。

“对，当然，”他说，“那些我以前就听过了。你所说的并未真正改变平权法案是不公平的这个事实。你知道的，不是吗？我根本就没办法和你竞争。曾经因为限额使我的父母不能上某些学校；如今因为限额让你可以去某些学校工作，这对我的影响与当时对他们的影响是相同的。”

我听着他说的每个字，但是我的思绪其实在其他事情上。在那一刻我知道我要拒绝所有的工作邀约。我站在那里沉默了，惊叹于这个结论竟如此简单。我为做老师准备了那么多年，一直在培养自己做一名老师，却因为实际的恐惧而一直犹豫。如今我终于下了决心，欣慰地做出了决定。我当即就知道自己做了正确的选择。

我的同事继续说着，我知道他是对的。平权法案项目对白人学生是不公平的。然而当我听着他主张自己的权利时，我想起了那些严重的弱势群体。中产阶级的白人学生们拿着成绩证明和能力倾向测试分数抱怨着他们现在所受到的不公平待遇，那些弱势群体与他们是多么的不同。我听着他们的话。我不想对他们所说的漠不关心。他们的权利很重要，需要保护。但是当我听着他们或他们的律师说的时候，我不可避免地想起了那些最弱势的群体，不仅仅是墨西哥裔美国人，而是所有那些从未想过自己会上大学或者成为博士的人们：白人、黑人、棕色人种。他们一直贫穷着，沉默着。他们并不是法庭前或反对平权法案误用的控诉者。他们缺少去取得接受良好教育的权利的自信心（我的自信心）。他们缺少好的小学和初中教育提供的自信心和技能，这些是知晓公众生活的先决条件。他们只能保持沉默。

他们在喋喋不休的争论中保持沉默。他们是来自远处的身影，就像我从高速公路立交桥上眯着眼往下看所看到的城里其他地区的男孩们。

Key Words:

bureaucratic [bjuə.rəu'krætik]

adj. 官僚的，繁文缛节的

dossier ['dɔsi.ei]

n. 档案材料，人事材料，记录文件，记录，卷宗

renaissance [rə'neisəns]

n. 文艺复兴，再生

accusation [.ækju'zeiʃən]

n. 控告，指控，非难

testimony ['testiməni]

n. 证明，证据

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