WHEN I READ OF THE TROUBLE in Palis

WHEN I READ OF THE TROUBLE in Palisades Park, New Jersey, over the proliferation of Korean-language signs along its main commercial strip, I unexpectedly sympathized with the frustrations, resentments, and fears of the longtime residents. They clearly felt alienated and even unwelcome in a vital part of their community. The town, like seven others in New Jersey, has passed laws requiring that half of any commercial sign in a foreign language be in English.

Now I certainly would never tolerate any exclusionary ideas about who could rightfully settle and belong in the town. But having been raised in a Korean immigrant family, I saw every day the exacting price and power of language, especially with my mother, who was an outsider in an English-only world. In the first years we lived in America, my mother could speak only the most basic English, and she often encountered great difficulty whenever she went out.

We live in New Rochelle, New York, in the early seventies, and most of the local businesses were run by the descendants of immigrants who, generations ago, had come to the suburbs from New York City. Proudly dotting Main Street and North Avenue were Italian pastry and cheese shops, Jewish tailors and cleaners, and Polish and German butchers and bakers. If my mother's marketing couldn't wait until the weekend, when my father had free time, she would often hold off until I came home from school to buy the groceries.

Though I was only six or seven years old, she insisted that I go out shopping with her and my younger sister. I mostly loathed the task, partly because it meant I couldn't spend the afternoon off playing catch with my friends but also because I knew our errands would inevitably lead to an awkward scene, and that I would have to speak up to help my mother.

I was just learning the language myself, but I was a quick study, as children are with new tongues. I had spent kindergarten in almost complete silence, hearing only the high nasality of my teacher and comprehending little but cranky wails and cries of my classmates. But soon, seemingly mere months later, I had already become a terrible ham and mimic, and I would crack up my father with impressions of teachers, his friends, and even himself. My mother scolded me for aping his speech, and the one time I attempted to make light of hers I rated a roundhouse smack on my bottom.

For her, the English language was not very funny. It usually meant trouble and a good dose of shame, and sometimes real hurt. Although she had a good reading knowledge of the language from university classes in South Korea, she had never practiced actual conversation. So in America she used English flash cards and phrase books and watched television with us kids. And she faithfully carried a pocket workbook illustrated with stick-figure people and compound sentences to be filled in.

But none of it seemed to do her much good. Staying mostly at home to care for us, she didn't have many chances to try out sundry words and phrases. When she did, say, at the window of the post office, her readied speech would stall, freeze, sometimes altogether collapse.

One day was unusually harrowing. We ventured downtown in the new Ford County Squire my father had bought her, an enormous station wagon that seemed as long --- and deft --- as an ocean liner. We were shopping for a special meal for guests visiting that weekend, and my mother had heard that a particular butcher carried fresh oxtails, which she needed for a traditional soup.

We'd never been inside the shop, but my mother would pause before its window, which was always lined with whole hams, crown roasts, and ropes of plump handmade sausages. She greatly esteemed the bounty with her eyes, and my sister and I did also, but despite our desirous cries she'd turn us away and instead buy the packaged links at the Finast supermarket, where she felt comfortable looking them over and could easily spot the price. And, of course, not have to talk.

But that day she was resolved. The butcher store was crowded, and as we stepped inside the door jingled a welcome. No one seemed to notice. We waited for some time, and people who entered after us were now being served. Finally an old woman nudged my mother and waved a little ticket, which we hadn't taken. We patiently waited again, until one of the beefy men behind the glass display hollered our number.

My mother pulled us forward and began searching the cases, but the oxtails were nowhere to be found. The man, his big arms crossed, sharply said, "Come on, lady, whaddya want?" This unnerved her, and she somehow blurted the Korean word for oxtail, soggori.

The butcher looked as if my mother had put something sour in his mouth, and he glanced back at the lighted board and called the next number.

Before I knew it, she had rushed us outside and back in the wagon, which she had double-parked because of the crowd. She was furious, almost vibrating with fear and grief, and I could see she was about to cry.

She wanted to go back inside, but now the driver of the car we were blocking wanted to pull out. She was shooing us away. My mother, who had just earned her driver's license, started furiously working the pedals. But in her haste she must have flooded the engine, for it wouldn't turn over. The driver started honking and then another car began honking as well, and soon it seemed the entire street was shrieking at us.

In the following years, my mother grew steadily more comfortable with English. In Korean she could be fiery, stern, deeply funny, and ironic, in English just slightly less so. If she was never quite fluent, she gained enough confidence to make herself clearly known to anyone, and particularly to me.

Five years ago she died of cancer, and some months after we buried her I found myself in the driveway of my father's house, washing her sedan. I liked taking care of her things; it made me feel close to her. While I was cleaning out the glove compartment, I found her pocket English workbook, the one with the silly illustrations. I hadn't seen it in nearly twenty years. The yellowed pages were brittle and dog-eared. She had fashioned a plain paper wrapping for it, and I wondered whether she meant to protect the book or hide it.

I don't doubt that she would have appreciated doing the family shopping on the new Broad Avenue of Palisades Park. But I like to think, too, that she would have understood those who now complain about the Korean-only signs.

I wonder what these same people would have done if they had seen my mother studying her English workbook --- or lost in a store. Would they have nodded gently at her? Would they have lent a kind word?

Now I certainly would never tolerate any exclusionary ideas about who could rightfully settle and belong in the town. But having been raised in a Korean immigrant family, I saw every day the exacting price and power of language, especially with my mother, who was an outsider in an English-only world. In the first years we lived in America, my mother could speak only the most basic English, and she often encountered great difficulty whenever she went out.

We live in New Rochelle, New York, in the early seventies, and most of the local businesses were run by the descendants of immigrants who, generations ago, had come to the suburbs from New York City. Proudly dotting Main Street and North Avenue were Italian pastry and cheese shops, Jewish tailors and cleaners, and Polish and German butchers and bakers. If my mother's marketing couldn't wait until the weekend, when my father had free time, she would often hold off until I came home from school to buy the groceries.

Though I was only six or seven years old, she insisted that I go out shopping with her and my younger sister. I mostly loathed the task, partly because it meant I couldn't spend the afternoon off playing catch with my friends but also because I knew our errands would inevitably lead to an awkward scene, and that I would have to speak up to help my mother.

I was just learning the language myself, but I was a quick study, as children are with new tongues. I had spent kindergarten in almost complete silence, hearing only the high nasality of my teacher and comprehending little but cranky wails and cries of my classmates. But soon, seemingly mere months later, I had already become a terrible ham and mimic, and I would crack up my father with impressions of teachers, his friends, and even himself. My mother scolded me for aping his speech, and the one time I attempted to make light of hers I rated a roundhouse smack on my bottom.

For her, the English language was not very funny. It usually meant trouble and a good dose of shame, and sometimes real hurt. Although she had a good reading knowledge of the language from university classes in South Korea, she had never practiced actual conversation. So in America she used English flash cards and phrase books and watched television with us kids. And she faithfully carried a pocket workbook illustrated with stick-figure people and compound sentences to be filled in.

But none of it seemed to do her much good. Staying mostly at home to care for us, she didn't have many chances to try out sundry words and phrases. When she did, say, at the window of the post office, her readied speech would stall, freeze, sometimes altogether collapse.

One day was unusually harrowing. We ventured downtown in the new Ford County Squire my father had bought her, an enormous station wagon that seemed as long --- and deft --- as an ocean liner. We were shopping for a special meal for guests visiting that weekend, and my mother had heard that a particular butcher carried fresh oxtails, which she needed for a traditional soup.

We'd never been inside the shop, but my mother would pause before its window, which was always lined with whole hams, crown roasts, and ropes of plump handmade sausages. She greatly esteemed the bounty with her eyes, and my sister and I did also, but despite our desirous cries she'd turn us away and instead buy the packaged links at the Finast supermarket, where she felt comfortable looking them over and could easily spot the price. And, of course, not have to talk.

But that day she was resolved. The butcher store was crowded, and as we stepped inside the door jingled a welcome. No one seemed to notice. We waited for some time, and people who entered after us were now being served. Finally an old woman nudged my mother and waved a little ticket, which we hadn't taken. We patiently waited again, until one of the beefy men behind the glass display hollered our number.

My mother pulled us forward and began searching the cases, but the oxtails were nowhere to be found. The man, his big arms crossed, sharply said, "Come on, lady, whaddya want?" This unnerved her, and she somehow blurted the Korean word for oxtail, soggori.

The butcher looked as if my mother had put something sour in his mouth, and he glanced back at the lighted board and called the next number.

Before I knew it, she had rushed us outside and back in the wagon, which she had double-parked because of the crowd. She was furious, almost vibrating with fear and grief, and I could see she was about to cry.

She wanted to go back inside, but now the driver of the car we were blocking wanted to pull out. She was shooing us away. My mother, who had just earned her driver's license, started furiously working the pedals. But in her haste she must have flooded the engine, for it wouldn't turn over. The driver started honking and then another car began honking as well, and soon it seemed the entire street was shrieking at us.

In the following years, my mother grew steadily more comfortable with English. In Korean she could be fiery, stern, deeply funny, and ironic, in English just slightly less so. If she was never quite fluent, she gained enough confidence to make herself clearly known to anyone, and particularly to me.

Five years ago she died of cancer, and some months after we buried her I found myself in the driveway of my father's house, washing her sedan. I liked taking care of her things; it made me feel close to her. While I was cleaning out the glove compartment, I found her pocket English workbook, the one with the silly illustrations. I hadn't seen it in nearly twenty years. The yellowed pages were brittle and dog-eared. She had fashioned a plain paper wrapping for it, and I wondered whether she meant to protect the book or hide it.

I don't doubt that she would have appreciated doing the family shopping on the new Broad Avenue of Palisades Park. But I like to think, too, that she would have understood those who now complain about the Korean-only signs.

I wonder what these same people would have done if they had seen my mother studying her English workbook --- or lost in a store. Would they have nodded gently at her? Would they have lent a kind word?

0/5000

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ผลลัพธ์ (ไทย) 1: [สำเนา]

คัดลอก!

WHEN I READ OF THE TROUBLE in Palisades Park, New Jersey, over the proliferation of Korean-language signs along its main commercial strip, I unexpectedly sympathized with the frustrations, resentments, and fears of the longtime residents. They clearly felt alienated and even unwelcome in a vital part of their community. The town, like seven others in New Jersey, has passed laws requiring that half of any commercial sign in a foreign language be in English.Now I certainly would never tolerate any exclusionary ideas about who could rightfully settle and belong in the town. But having been raised in a Korean immigrant family, I saw every day the exacting price and power of language, especially with my mother, who was an outsider in an English-only world. In the first years we lived in America, my mother could speak only the most basic English, and she often encountered great difficulty whenever she went out.We live in New Rochelle, New York, in the early seventies, and most of the local businesses were run by the descendants of immigrants who, generations ago, had come to the suburbs from New York City. Proudly dotting Main Street and North Avenue were Italian pastry and cheese shops, Jewish tailors and cleaners, and Polish and German butchers and bakers. If my mother's marketing couldn't wait until the weekend, when my father had free time, she would often hold off until I came home from school to buy the groceries.Though I was only six or seven years old, she insisted that I go out shopping with her and my younger sister. I mostly loathed the task, partly because it meant I couldn't spend the afternoon off playing catch with my friends but also because I knew our errands would inevitably lead to an awkward scene, and that I would have to speak up to help my mother.I was just learning the language myself, but I was a quick study, as children are with new tongues. I had spent kindergarten in almost complete silence, hearing only the high nasality of my teacher and comprehending little but cranky wails and cries of my classmates. But soon, seemingly mere months later, I had already become a terrible ham and mimic, and I would crack up my father with impressions of teachers, his friends, and even himself. My mother scolded me for aping his speech, and the one time I attempted to make light of hers I rated a roundhouse smack on my bottom.For her, the English language was not very funny. It usually meant trouble and a good dose of shame, and sometimes real hurt. Although she had a good reading knowledge of the language from university classes in South Korea, she had never practiced actual conversation. So in America she used English flash cards and phrase books and watched television with us kids. And she faithfully carried a pocket workbook illustrated with stick-figure people and compound sentences to be filled in.But none of it seemed to do her much good. Staying mostly at home to care for us, she didn't have many chances to try out sundry words and phrases. When she did, say, at the window of the post office, her readied speech would stall, freeze, sometimes altogether collapse.One day was unusually harrowing. We ventured downtown in the new Ford County Squire my father had bought her, an enormous station wagon that seemed as long --- and deft --- as an ocean liner. We were shopping for a special meal for guests visiting that weekend, and my mother had heard that a particular butcher carried fresh oxtails, which she needed for a traditional soup.We'd never been inside the shop, but my mother would pause before its window, which was always lined with whole hams, crown roasts, and ropes of plump handmade sausages. She greatly esteemed the bounty with her eyes, and my sister and I did also, but despite our desirous cries she'd turn us away and instead buy the packaged links at the Finast supermarket, where she felt comfortable looking them over and could easily spot the price. And, of course, not have to talk.But that day she was resolved. The butcher store was crowded, and as we stepped inside the door jingled a welcome. No one seemed to notice. We waited for some time, and people who entered after us were now being served. Finally an old woman nudged my mother and waved a little ticket, which we hadn't taken. We patiently waited again, until one of the beefy men behind the glass display hollered our number.My mother pulled us forward and began searching the cases, but the oxtails were nowhere to be found. The man, his big arms crossed, sharply said, "Come on, lady, whaddya want?" This unnerved her, and she somehow blurted the Korean word for oxtail, soggori.The butcher looked as if my mother had put something sour in his mouth, and he glanced back at the lighted board and called the next number.Before I knew it, she had rushed us outside and back in the wagon, which she had double-parked because of the crowd. She was furious, almost vibrating with fear and grief, and I could see she was about to cry.She wanted to go back inside, but now the driver of the car we were blocking wanted to pull out. She was shooing us away. My mother, who had just earned her driver's license, started furiously working the pedals. But in her haste she must have flooded the engine, for it wouldn't turn over. The driver started honking and then another car began honking as well, and soon it seemed the entire street was shrieking at us.In the following years, my mother grew steadily more comfortable with English. In Korean she could be fiery, stern, deeply funny, and ironic, in English just slightly less so. If she was never quite fluent, she gained enough confidence to make herself clearly known to anyone, and particularly to me.Five years ago she died of cancer, and some months after we buried her I found myself in the driveway of my father's house, washing her sedan. I liked taking care of her things; it made me feel close to her. While I was cleaning out the glove compartment, I found her pocket English workbook, the one with the silly illustrations. I hadn't seen it in nearly twenty years. The yellowed pages were brittle and dog-eared. She had fashioned a plain paper wrapping for it, and I wondered whether she meant to protect the book or hide it.I don't doubt that she would have appreciated doing the family shopping on the new Broad Avenue of Palisades Park. But I like to think, too, that she would have understood those who now complain about the Korean-only signs.I wonder what these same people would have done if they had seen my mother studying her English workbook --- or lost in a store. Would they have nodded gently at her? Would they have lent a kind word?

การแปล กรุณารอสักครู่..

ผลลัพธ์ (ไทย) 2:[สำเนา]

คัดลอก!

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ผลลัพธ์ (ไทย) 3:[สำเนา]

คัดลอก!

เมื่อผมได้อ่านปัญหาใน Palisades Park , New Jersey , การแพร่กระจายของภาษาเกาหลีป้ายตามแถบเชิงพาณิชย์ของหลัก ฉันก็เห็นใจกับความผิดหวัง ความไม่พอใจ และความหวาดกลัวของชาวบ้าน ที่คบกันมานาน พวกเขารู้สึกได้อย่างชัดเจน และไม่เบื่อหน่าย แม้จะเป็นส่วนสําคัญของชุมชนของตน เมืองเช่นเจ็ดคนอื่น ๆ ในนิวเจอร์ซี่ย์ได้ผ่านกฎหมายให้ครึ่งหนึ่งของเครื่องหมายทางการค้าในภาษาต่างประเทศเป็นภาษาอังกฤษ

ตอนนี้ผมจะไม่ยอมให้มีวรรณะความคิดเกี่ยวกับที่ชอบธรรมะและอยู่ในเมือง แต่ได้รับการเลี้ยงดูในครอบครัวคนเกาหลี ผมเห็นทุกวันราคาที่เข้มงวดและพลังของภาษา โดยเฉพาะกับคุณแม่ ที่เป็นคนนอกในโลกภาษาอังกฤษในช่วงปีแรกเราอยู่อเมริกา แม่ของฉันพูดได้เพียงพื้นฐานที่สุดภาษาอังกฤษ และเธอมักจะพบปัญหามาก เมื่อใดก็ตามที่เธอออกไป

เราอาศัยอยู่ในนิวยอร์กในยุคก่อน และส่วนใหญ่ของธุรกิจท้องถิ่นที่ดำเนินการโดยลูกหลานของผู้อพยพที่รุ่นก่อน ๆ ถึงชานเมืองจากนิวยอร์กภูมิใจ dotting ถนน North Avenue และมีขนมอิตาเลียนชีสร้านค้า ช่างตัดเสื้อชาวยิวและทำความสะอาด และโปแลนด์ และเยอรมัน และเนื้อขนม ถ้าการตลาดของแม่ไม่รอจนถึงสุดสัปดาห์ เมื่อพ่อผมมีเวลาว่าง เธอมักจะถือออกจนกว่าฉันกลับจากโรงเรียนเพื่อมาซื้อของ

แม้ว่าผมเป็นเพียงหกหรือเจ็ดปีเธออยากให้ฉันออกไปซื้อของกับเธอและน้องสาวของฉัน ส่วนใหญ่ฉันเกลียดงาน ส่วนหนึ่งเป็นเพราะมันหมายความว่าฉันไม่สามารถใช้เวลาช่วงบ่ายไปเล่นไล่จับกับเพื่อนๆ แต่ก็เพราะรู้ว่าธุระของเราก็ย่อมนำไปสู่ฉากที่อึดอัด และที่ผมจะต้องพูดเพื่อช่วยแม่ของฉัน

ฉันก็แค่เรียนภาษาเหมือนกัน แต่ผมเป็น ศึกษาด่วนเป็นเด็กมีภาษาแปลกๆใหม่ ฉันได้ใช้เวลาอนุบาลเกือบสมบูรณ์เงียบ ได้ยินเพียงสูง nasality ครูของฉันและพบน้อย แต่หงุดหงิดและร้องไห้ระงมของเพื่อนร่วมชั้นเรียนของฉัน แต่อีกไม่นาน เพียงปรากฏอยู่สองเดือนต่อมา ผมมีอยู่แล้วเป็นแฮมที่น่ากลัวและเลียนแบบ และผมจะส่งพ่อกับความประทับใจของครู เพื่อน และแม้แต่ตัวเองแม่ด่าผม aping คำพูดของเขาและเป็นครั้งแรกที่ฉันพยายามที่จะทำให้แสงของเธอฉันสูงสุดเหวี่ยงตบบนล่าง

เธอ ภาษาอังกฤษก็ไม่ได้ตลกมาก มันมักจะหมายถึงปัญหาและปริมาณที่ดีของความอัปยศ และบางครั้งจริงเจ็บ ถึงแม้ว่าเธอจะมีการอ่านความรู้ที่ดีของภาษาจากชั้นเรียนที่มหาวิทยาลัยในเกาหลี

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การสนับสนุนเครื่องมือแปลภาษา: กรีก, กันนาดา, กาลิเชียน, คลิงออน, คอร์สิกา, คาซัค, คาตาลัน, คินยารวันดา, คีร์กิซ, คุชราต, จอร์เจีย, จีน, จีนดั้งเดิม, ชวา, ชิเชวา, ซามัว, ซีบัวโน, ซุนดา, ซูลู, ญี่ปุ่น, ดัตช์, ตรวจหาภาษา, ตุรกี, ทมิฬ, ทาจิก, ทาทาร์, นอร์เวย์, บอสเนีย, บัลแกเรีย, บาสก์, ปัญจาป, ฝรั่งเศส, พาชตู, ฟริเชียน, ฟินแลนด์, ฟิลิปปินส์, ภาษาอินโดนีเซี, มองโกเลีย, มัลทีส, มาซีโดเนีย, มาราฐี, มาลากาซี, มาลายาลัม, มาเลย์, ม้ง, ยิดดิช, ยูเครน, รัสเซีย, ละติน, ลักเซมเบิร์ก, ลัตเวีย, ลาว, ลิทัวเนีย, สวาฮิลี, สวีเดน, สิงหล, สินธี, สเปน, สโลวัก, สโลวีเนีย, อังกฤษ, อัมฮาริก, อาร์เซอร์ไบจัน, อาร์เมเนีย, อาหรับ, อิกโบ, อิตาลี, อุยกูร์, อุสเบกิสถาน, อูรดู, ฮังการี, ฮัวซา, ฮาวาย, ฮินดี, ฮีบรู, เกลิกสกอต, เกาหลี, เขมร, เคิร์ด, เช็ก, เซอร์เบียน, เซโซโท, เดนมาร์ก, เตลูกู, เติร์กเมน, เนปาล, เบงกอล, เบลารุส, เปอร์เซีย, เมารี, เมียนมา (พม่า), เยอรมัน, เวลส์, เวียดนาม, เอสเปอแรนโต, เอสโทเนีย, เฮติครีโอล, แอฟริกา, แอลเบเนีย, โคซา, โครเอเชีย, โชนา, โซมาลี, โปรตุเกส, โปแลนด์, โยรูบา, โรมาเนีย, โอเดีย (โอริยา), ไทย, ไอซ์แลนด์, ไอร์แลนด์, การแปลภาษา.